October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
You are young,
You always want to run.
feet would rather resist friction,
tugging beneath
the soles of your shoes,
than to compromise;
With resistance.
a constant battle,
throughout your youth;
You are disillusioned,
you want to travel faster,
than the sonic booms.
The electricity glistens;
You get older,
Feet start to develop
an appreciation for friction,
You gradually ease off;
The ignition,
had an epiphany
don’t need to sprint,
into the ground,
that will inevitably,
force you under.
Retrace your steps,
drawing every line in reverse,
want to reclaim youth?
It’s alluding you.
advanced so far in life
yet the waves
still succeed each other,
and the projections in the skies,
still creep until they meet their demise.
ask yourself, a paramount question,
“Why did I run so much?
when my skin was smooth,
when life didn’t feel so fragile?”
You start to notice things,
How the sun gleams
in the summertime;
how the flowers bloom,
blissfully,
An aesthetic marvel.
you utter,
It’s the process of human nature,
mathematically calculated;
into the circle of life,
but even so,
before you realize it,
your heart rapidly skips,
before you turned to dark,
so why the realization abruptly
why wait until eternal
condensation?
when trying to formulate
constellations in your head
until you realize that you are finally dead.
— Chris Ozog
Christopher Micolay Ozog is a twenty-one year old aspiring author and poet residing in the college educated town of Ann Arbor Michigan. Chris was Raised by two dedicated polish immigrants who once fought for their freedom in a movement that was proclaimed; “The Polish Movement Of Solidarity” during the height of the countries communism in the early to mid 1980’s. Chris has stated that he draws a substantial amount of his influence of poetry and literature from his parents who instill in him a diligent mindset. His parents put a strong emphasis on the value of literature and education which has stuck with him throughout his years of life. His affinity for the music, particularly of indie rock, can be seen in his poetry as he has drawn extensively from lyricism of that genre as well as Rap. He cites his top influences as Matthew Caws from Nada Surf, famed rapper K’naan, Michael Jackson, and rapper brother ali. He is also a fan of literature admires the workmanship of J.D. Salinger. He celebrates his Birthday On December 6ht, 1991.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Deep in summer drought, most songbirds have split,
maybe flew north to the lake country.
One skittish cardinal flits about in the shrubs
protecting her nest, but the rest have left.
The pair of catbirds that chirped liltingly
in a halting sequence of whistles and whines
in the dogwoods and pines all through June
became restless after the fourth of July, mewed
menacingly for a few days, then hit the road.
Now a flock of glossy black grackles rules the yard,
iridescent, boorish, raucously chucking and reedie-eeking,
thrashing at the bird feeder, scattering seeds,
splashing wildly in the bird bath, bullying
chickadees, finches, chipmunks, and squirrels.
Yet across the parched yards, ditches, and fields
of tawny straw, march wispy armies of Queen Anne’s Lace,
undaunted by dry heat, nourished on adversity,
swaying delicately, chanting–blessed are the meek for they
shall adorn the mass graves of the human race.
— Jerry McGinley
Jerry’s work has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies. He is currently working on his sixth book, tentatively titled “Lake Redemption.” It will be a collection of stories and poems.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Today, the clouds fell,
and a crow built his brown nest
high on an oak’s branch,
beneath the fresh, pink mountain,
which faded with the sunset.
— Shawn Jolley
Shawn Jolley is an up-and-coming author currently studying creative writing at Utah Valley University. Aside from writing, he enjoys making his wife smile, and falling in love with new stories.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
In Air
I remember how easy it is
to be swiped from the world
like an ant from a page.
Traversing the third line–
flowers are blooming everywhere–
and then falling,
like the wings of a bird in glide,
I remember
how inappropriate it can be.
But I never quite knew
what went through the ant’s mind
as it was catapulting into the
frantic whiskers of grass
and I don’t quite know what
will go through mine
when I’m resting in a chair
one day
and my book flips facedown
a page before the end.
When You Gave Me All Your Books
for Julia
Steadying my weight over the cold, olive shelf,
I cleared the toy rabbits. The books and small stack
of quarters from off your picture.
I was careful not to feel your face with my
middle finger, not to punch in your dimples
like the plastic of a water bottle.
There were three of us behind the ripe orange
of the frame and my head slumbered its way
to your shoulder. All skin & cloth, cheek & bone.
Your hair, which had tumbled its soft auburn
onto my arm during the time of the picture,
now cropped out my left half.
But I understood: it was hard for you
to talk about things like cheese and show off
all thirty-two of your teeth at the same time.
I noticed our nice clothes,
how our smiles displayed the same, contrived happiness
as those people who spend hours awake at night,
ruminating on some rapture
so that by the time their eyes do close,
their mouths are already anchored in a heavy & dumb smile.
All the while, I was listening at my desk
for the brilliant sounds you’d make
and then forget early the next morning.
— Alex Greenberg
Alex Greenberg is a 14 year old aspiring poet. His work can be found in the November issue of the Louisville Review, in issue 17 of the Literary Bohemian, in the upcoming issue of Cuckoo Quarterly, in the upcoming issue of Spinning Jenny, and as runners-up in challenges 1 and 2 of the Cape Farewell Poetry Competition. He has won a gold key in the Scholastic Arts and Writings Awards and was named a Foyle Young Poet of 2012.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Love at the Roller Rink
I can’t wait to get you on the floor and watch the wheels roll effortlessly, skipless, perfectly in sync with the music, beats that remind us of summertime in Jersey, the scent of sweat mingled with a popularity contest. The wood shines.
At the far side of the room, a gaggle of girls stands in a skewed circle, each of them laughing, looking to the girls on each side of them to see what their reactions might be. One of them, in green, looks helplessly to the side in an effort to find something to talk about.
I watch it happen. A sidelong glance. A click on the left side of his head, almost audible, telling him to turn around. The nervousness emanating off of her as he turns, his one eye catches her, a rope appears from air and wraps itself around their waists, pulling them against one another like tragedy.
How to Make a Million Dollars
Hire an accountant.
Wear fitted suits.
Kiss ass.
Read books, lots of books about stocks and investments and faraway places and war.
Don’t ever borrow money from anyone, not even if you’re so drunk the strippers look like wives and your wallet’s warm but dry.
Wrap everything up in a bow with curly ribbons, paper and flair.
Sit in a quiet room in a cliché place that smells like cedar and mold and actually think about thinking then practicing then doing then … folding the newspaper in a huff by the bus, smelling the roasting nuts on the corner, Christmas and desperation in a small, Plexiglas and metal box near Penn Station, wishing to hell you could go home.
Remember birthdays.
Follow the dollar down the hallway and into the elevator and up to the roof and high above everyone you know until you are looking down on them with small eyes, not really able to see what they’re doing, or the fact that their faces are frozen in fear.
Follow your wife down the car lane in the left lane near the other lane in front of the bowling lane in the back.
Eat noodles and baklava and pork.
Come up with an idea that no one can dispute, no one can heckle, no one can wonder why, no one can visualize, but that everyone needs more than companionship and air.
Hashtag Justice
Justice for him and for animals and for bugs that don’t fall into the sidewalk crack fast enough. For slammed backdoors and hurt feelings. For the way the phantom felt when you couldn’t see her. For uneaten, homemade rhubarb pie. For jealousy and tarnished, golden crowns. Justice for the abstract, the untouchable, the hopeful invisibility that comes with emotion and fear.
And for you, man, they’ll prescribe a serious cocktail of overwhelming guilt and public outrage. The mob will knock over your Christmas reindeer. But it’s too late for him.
It happened to ten people yesterday when we weren’t looking, when I had my nose in a book or my hands in my purse or my feet in the sand. We didn’t see it because we were living.
It could all be simple like the answers of children. He chose that jacket based on the weather. You heard something that wasn’t there, imagined a world that exists only in places that don’t exist, imagined horns and hooves and bright, bright red skin. Pop.
— Sarah Ghoshal
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
doctor no
1. “escape addiction,”
the doctor says,
I wait out the pause
the dot dot dot
(three little indians, no feathers)
before I ask “how?”
“you misunderstand,” he replies,
“that’s the diagnosis”
2. “Nurse Scalpel?”
“Yes Doctor?”
“prepare yourself…”
[a painted nail
takes the pulse
the color,
a thin layer,
really just a cover,
on which we judge
this pornographic literature
(and we HOWL)]
3. “lycanthropy,”
the doctor says
the moon is liquid
the moon is a peephole
on indeterminate skin,
the watching animals
claw together
loose change
4. at some point
in american history
there was a mass vaccination
against imagination
we were spoon-fed
warm bits of plastic
blister packs
about wounded hearts
(are you safe
up on your hook,
behind your barcode armor?
we hear the squeaks,
from a distance ,
rats on christmas eve
are we the gifts
or the teeth? and,
how do you ever sleep?)
5. “ugly duckling syndrome”
he says
turns his head and coughs
and pisses in my water
(I shaved this morning
so in the mugshot I wouldn’t
look like a lamb to the slaughter)
small town murder
1. you are
a small town murder mystery
and you don’t know why
“don’t touch they body,” they say
but all the fingerprints
stack into a photograph
of a shifting desert seen static
2. we went to church
to interview witnesses
they held their tongues
like leather leashes
pulled taut by rabid hearts
(“this is the blood
this is the body”
this is the aural wallpaper
in the room where
they’ve painted themselves
into corners
with the rudimentary tools
of sunlight and stained glass)
3. we touched the body
found a map cut into the skin
the cartographer: the broken mirror
rumor suggests
it leads to the fountain of youth
rumor goes
that she faced that full length photograph
and tried to shake herself awake
4. we went
about the anthill
looking for witnesses
but all the secrets are kept
behind each white picket fence
every outward semblance
of a smile
(the grass is always greener
when treated with chemicals)
5. this is the blood
this is the body
you are
and you don’t know why
(you’re young
but you’ve been dying
a long time)
mars
1. in the beginning
god opened his crayon box
like a missile silo in the middle of nowhere
used all the blue for the sky
all the green for the earth
all the black for the hearts
the brown for the dirt
(left us with just the red and
and a rusted sharpener)
“in school today
we learned “mars” as a verb
we learned of class
separation
the science inside us
that fights and creates the energy
we harness in our self-destruction”
(the cliques, the clicks, the boom)
(in the beginning mars
was the god
of war)
2. she calls it a map
of the first place she lost
control and/of memory
once it all made sense but
once is never enough
the presents leave paper cuts as we grow up
the present feels like a sad song
in the movie credits, all the black and all the names
and just one voice screaming
she wears a razor on a silver chain
around the vase of her throat
flowered once but no
longer honey
-suckle(the smallest part torn out
for the littlest bit of sweetness)
3. and maybe it’s just training wheels
cause baby it’s all down hill
from here(hold on)
“a self-centered elizabeth bathory
in a claw-foot bathtub
razor like a sliver of a moon
in the sky of her blue hand”
-quote the private eyes in the police report
and the black and white photographs
show the slashes as silver linings
a clouded girl who rained
but watched it evaporate
4. in the beginning
mars
was habitable
(she called it a map
of the first place
she lost)
— Joe Quinn
Joe Quinn is a 33 year old poet living in Kentucky. Author of four previous collections, all available at stores.lulu.com/welcomehomeironlung, the most recent collection entitled “escape artist.”
