October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
1. A Steinbeck Aha
Peering upward from the apogee
of infinite soaring mirrors
I watch you stray far off course.
Thus is produced an aha moment
as luck exits the equation.
You’re exposed like a water lily
that floats on thick firmament.
I fix my focus on
your dusty gray work shirt
as you stoop to pull chickweed
from ever widening cracks
in the pavement.
A bitter wind whips waves—
the lights of Seaside
cauterize Monterey Bay.
2. Transmogrified
He was kept after school
due to acute insubordination.
He fought substantiation,
a train at the roundhouse
getting loaded with coal.
He weathered transmigration
across riven continents
to make a stand as a race
that in time gained ground.
He tossed formulas down
crevices of secret canyons,
learned his lessons
devoid of impressions.
In accordance his teacher
made him recite ABCs
backwards endlessly.
3. Hat Trick
My shoulders pressed firmly
against the back wall
of McFly’s nightclub
on Saturday night.
Capitalist ESPN beams
Giants battling Dodgers.
Budweiser ubiquitous,
the assembly salubrious,
will reach fever pitch
once music commences.
Then a commercial:
the black bear
bounces a basketball
between its hind legs
like a Harlem Globetrotter.
The best mudder won
the Derby this afternoon.
Subway cars ramble,
rattle in my ears
like bulletproof cobras.
Predatory
There are quite enough scallywags
and false prophets among us
to swindle any god
out of every drop of blood.
We evidence ostentatious laissez faire
connoisseurs of exotic wines and fruits
along the palatine boardwalks
that span massive galaxies.
Surrounded by scoundrels, would-be
devils and and ghouls we’d just as well
skedaddle, lest lay black tracks
while evaporating in a vapor trail.
Resonance is tested as resistance
evinced by the rooster’s boisterous
cock-a-doodle on a dim chilly morning
when coastal fog gives up the ghost.
— Thomas Piekarski
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Dream On
Crisp blue dress shirt, matching tie, black over the calf socks; that’s it?
“What do you think you’re doing, Davis? Get some pants on right now.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” I reply calmly, “I think this is one of those really weird dreams brought on by frustrations with my work situation, coupled with some unresolved sexual issues.” I don’t know where the heck that came from. It sounded like I was quoting lines from an article that would be found in one of those cheap tabloids at the grocery store checkout.
“One of us sure as hell better be dreaming or you might be looking for a new job,” he snorted.
Just then, Jennifer, one of my co-workers, walked up to us without a stitch of clothing on.
“I’ll take it from here, Mr. Paine, you see, this is my dream. Come along with me, Bill, I need some help getting some things from the supply room.”
Mr. Paine stomped off. Or rather, he tried to stomp off. It’s hard to stomp when you’re wearing flip-flops.
The Audition
Casting sent too many again. I’ve got parts for three extras and they send ten actors. I haven’t got time to audition each one. I’m getting too old for this. So, I’ll sift and winnow.
“Okay, who wants to go to bed with me tonight?”
Three hands shoot up.
“You three can leave. Next time try to keep your hormones under control. Alright, moving right along, who likes jelly donuts?”
Two hands slowly snake into the air.
“Good, you’re Cashier One and you’re Cashier Two.”
“Geez Louise,” a frustrated whisper drifts from the back.
“That’s it; you’re Irate Customer. We’re done here.”
— Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is a retired from the University of Wisconsin-Benefits Office. He has been a voracious reader for almost 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now also a voracious writer.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
He passes the old place daily,
The abandoned mill where his grandfather
Worked, made his livelihood
And sense of his life, making wood
Products, until the job went elsewhere.
He thinks about the old man now,
Several times a day sometimes.
His own father checked out early,
Disappeared, followed a dream
That didn’t include family.
His grandfather took him in,
Raised him best he could.
Good years, no matter what,
No one could take that away.
Now, his grandfather dead,
He’s on his own at thirty-eight,
On the road five days a week,
Selling party favors, cheap trinkets
Made in Thailand and China.
Party hats and blowers, confetti,
Candles that won’t blow out,
Napkins and plates with clown motifs.
Crap, every last bit of it,
All made by little kids worked numb,
Who never wear party hats.
He passes the old mill now.
He’s popping pills to stay awake,
Other pills to stay sane and numb.
He rolls down the window to smell
The field, the creek, the old mill,
He wants to scream but he’s too tired.
He’s already late for his appointments.
Venders depend on him, his party favors.
Many celebrations await.
by Christopher Woods
Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. His published works include a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. He conducts creative writing workshops in Houston at The Women’s Institute. His photographs have appeared in many journals, with photo essays published in GLASGOW REVIEW, PUBLIC REPUBLIC, DEEP SOUTH and NARRATIVE MAGAZINE, among others. He has completed a darkly comedic novel, HEARTS IN THE DARK, about a sociopathic radio talk-show host. His photography can be seen in his online gallery – http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The Western Hemisphere is asleep
with one great eye cocked open
fastened to the burning stars that used
to guide women and men to their future
and at first glance one may mistake
it for dead and not be far wrong
the body collapsed in front of a barren
library huddled under incalculable layers
of coarse blankets and buffalo hides, with
one prehistoric hand trust bravely forth
clutching an ash stick that looks more
suited for fertility rituals than walking
a cigar burns incongruously out the
side of the fertile mouth with lips
that bloom like wild mustard through concrete
and just to the north the obscene mustache
cured by the smoke and in danger of
catching fire itself or disappearing
and the beard, a dangerous whirl of knotted
wool and shadows is littered with objects
gathered off the street, flecks of leaves
and black earth, dried and brittle remains
of lottery tickets, chards of shell and bone
pages torn ruefully from literary magazines
some still smoldering as if recently issued
from a smoke stack, and if you look deeper
an underground canopy teeming with dark
insectile faces, a cosmos of imaginary life
and death, ten thousand years of tearful
wondering, bald eagle feathers, discarded
rattlesnake skins petrified by the vacuous
terror and loneliness in the one good eye.
by Stephen Moore
Steve Moore formally studied theoretical physics and abstract mathematics but now has no time for such nonsense. Since college, he has wandered restlessly about North America and Europe, and has lived in such disreputable places as Liverpool, England; Carrboro, North Carolina and most recently Carrollton, Georgia where he currently resides with his family. He is a now full-time student of urban planning and father of two precocious kids. His free time is spent working on his poetry, short fiction and long unfinished novel. His poem, ‘Love in the Time of Vinyl Siding’ was recently published in the 2013 edition of Eclectic, the Arts and Literary Magazine of the University of West Georgia. His short story, ‘Incident at Oscuro’, appeared in The Fabulist’s 2010 anthology, and his poem, ‘The Bride’, was one of the winning entries in the 2009 Cardiff Academy International Poetry Contest.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
This Door was locked by David Berkowitz
The pig tooth hangs from a vintage nail
the scissors cut and paste Tempe, Arizona
job for a cubicle cowboy
makes one detestable,
numbers never dialed
written on stained Post-It notes
she called me an asshole
and I call her dead
no cigarettes
plenty of blue pills
sweep the memories
under the bed
the sand warps under midnight pressure
unpaid bills
by the
people under the stairs
stare at a spider
watch a meteorite shower at 5 a.m.
don’t have a drink
you can’t afford it
go anyways
charge it
pay later
who fucking cares
do I have anything to live for anymore…
while contemplating,
I can’t answer that dad,
I can’t answer that mom,
I can’t answer that stranger in the gas station.
Me and the Darkness and 40oz’s of Freedom
I was walking home drunk down Moreland Avenue around five in the morning. I didn’t have any money for a cab and I had no one to call. I heard footsteps behind me for quite a while and looked back occasionally and saw someone walking behind me. I finally got paranoid enough that when I saw a small brick wall next to the sidewalk I was walking down I casually sat down and lit a cigarette hoping that the person behind me would walk past me and leave me the hell alone so I could walk in drunken inspired peace. An older black man approached me as I sat there on the small brick wall. He asked me how I was doing. I said “pretty good, but this fucking walk is killing me.” He didn’t say anything and just reached into his jacket and pulled out a scratched and faded gold wristwatch. He asked if I would give him five bucks for it. I said “what the fuck” and reached into my pants and pulled out a crisp five dollar bill and handed it to him. He said “hell yeah buddy, now I can get a drink” He handed me the watch and I put the scratched and faded gold watch on my right hand and finished stumbling home. I noticed the next day that it didn’t even work and it smelled funny.
Clean Bugs, Dirty Carpet
Me and the wife were sitting around the living room after we finished our TV dinners. It was the usual Hungry Man roast beef with mashed potatoes and corn with a brownie for desert. The wife was flipping through endless channels when she stopped upon the local cable access channel. They were flashing pictures of recent guys arrested for soliciting prostitutes in the county, trying to embarrass them or some shit. I had a mouth full of a potatoes and corn when I saw my drunken mug shot from last week flash across the TV screen.
Brett Stout is a 33-year-old writer and artist. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He writes while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He published his first novel of prose and poetry entitled “Lab Rat Manifesto” in 2007.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
I drive a car
of irreplaceable parts
going south.
I crawl out of town at night,
a girl with a limp on my arm,
not knowing which belt
or hose is cracked,
leaking like a fistful
of fluids.
The headlights reach down
where the pavement
is supposed to be.
I have a feel for the tires
as they pitch
into the shoulder.
Then slowly guide them out and away
from the deeper ditch below,
hot with toxic runoff.
If a computer can get a virus,
then my car has asthma.
It gets winded at stoplights
like a chain smoker
who just finished sprinting uphill
to the hospital.
There is nothing my car needs
that isn’t lying
out somewhere on the dark road ahead,
at a gas station or rest stop
filled up with strangers like us.
We live one mile at a time
on boiled coffee and canned meat,
nursing overheated engine blocks
to speed our planned obsolescence.
by Greg Jensen
Greg Jensen has worked with homeless adults living with mental illness and addiction problems for the past seventeen years. In addition to being a poet, he is a dad, husband, and avid bicyclist who works on the Seattle’s original Skid Road.
