Grackles and Lace

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.

Falling Clouds

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

— 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.

Alex Greenberg, two poems

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.

Sarah Ghoshal

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

Joe Quinn

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.”

Cliff Weber: Featured author

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

the red line at midnight

on the subway

a middle-aged man

with scraggly grey hair

taps us on the shoulder

to show us a handwritten sign

which says,

I am deaf

please help if you can,

to some extent

causing a younger man behind us

to yell,

he ain’t deaf

he can talk

I’ve heard him

don’t fall for it,

also to some extent

so I shake off the beggar

and say, sorry, in the process

which he may

or may not have heard

the subway is always full of characters

and as each peculiar moment passes

under flickering fluorescents

another one is conceived

and soon it shall breathe life

for all us late night travelers to see

and occasionally

eye contact is shared

and held

between fellow strangers

only to remain held

as images

and preconceptions

unravel in the mind of two

cherish all of these moments

even the dancing man

selling sticky incense which smells of medicine

for they are real

and unflattering

and isn’t that what we love most?

half*mad

We move toward the mirage

with legs doused in sand

and sleeves rolled up into our armpits.

But it’s there—

oh, I can see it.

Shimmering in the golden haze

like the sine waves of air

behind a bbq pit.

Drench the coals in kerosene

and drop a match on the grill

so we can watch the flames jut towards the heavens

mimicking the sharp tips of the wooden fence

looming in the background.

The mirage is there

that much I promise.

And though our throats are dry

and lips chapped

and hands scaly with dead skin

those shimmering waves of air

are calling my name

beckoning me with curled fingers.

Can’t you hear?

You have to listen closely

for sometimes the whispers

are louder than the rest.

looking for what

Should we start?

What should we do?

Should we stop?

What should we do?

What are we looking for?

What are you looking for?

Why are you looking at me?

I don’t have the answer

and neither do you.

Does this overall lack of clarity

surprise you?

Welcome to the maze.

The infinitely

                   twisting

                                           maze

       of                     tomorrow

                                              and the beast

                                                                    of

                           yesterday.

Forget your trail of bread crumbs

for it has already been devoured.

mr. demille

Enough of science and art;

close up on purple stains & pale smoke,

the smiling Descent of Winter

and a woe weathered halfgone moon.

Close up on the flight of a human soul

surmounted by black and white heroes of the past—

life suspended between familiar blank fields

and rueful skies.

Close up on the uniform of intellect,

an insect’s unseen calm

and the skin of a ripe plum

colored blue from the languorous light of the sea.

When we’re able to outshine the pageantry of fear

those towering tombs with swiveling eyes

appear barren

as they are and have forever been.

victory

Phil Collins belts out his cheesy vocals

that echo through our kingdom

our 80s palace perched atop the hills of purity

the elevated ridges that lie above a fog of dissipating honesty.

Facades and lies and masks that hide the soul have no place in our

paradise of vulnerability—our sanctuary of truth and beauty and

childish courage that swims through the succulent veins of soldiers

hoisting loaded rifles with glimmering bayonets leading the way.

a collision of sorts

I was buying a cheap 40 oz.

with my dog in tow

when a young homeless man came up behind us

he was blond and tan

but his eyes were darty and distant

and immediately I knew

all of my change would be his

why?

I don’t know

because my pain runs deep with them

every single one

but I can’t give it all away

I can’t empty my wallet

at the drop of a frown

no matter how much I want to

so I restrain

I dissect

and I second guess

but always

every goddamn time

I’m left with a sickness in the pit of my stomach

that nags

and tugs

and tries to suffocate my happiness

but I won’t let it because I can’t bear to think of myself in such a

hollow position surrounded by such hollow souls with slicked back

hair and crisp lapels and legs that are trained to migrate away from

the uneasy stare of misfortune

hell no

I can’t let it eat me alive

I’m too weak

so I donate when I can

as often as I can

and attempt to move on

because I have to

but every now and then

one of the wounded come limping up

and try to pet my dog

but he’s growling

and I wonder why

but maybe he’s just scared

maybe we’re all scared

so I look at the wounded soul

and I don’t care what he’s done

for I’ll never know

and I don’t care why he did it

for I’ll never know

and I hand him all of my change

and walk away before his thank you reaches my ears

a walk up hillhurst

people pack inside the coffee shop

with their computers

and notepads

and wandering eyes

pretending to be infinitely important

and endlessly perplex

when all they actually want is to be seen

and to be comforted

by a group of strangers

who share the same insecurity

because those wandering eyes

aren’t meant to ward anyone off

or protect precious work

they’re lonely invitations

to a disappointing party

an empty beachside mansion

with the host asleep on the couch

watered down whiskey still in hand

so I get my coffee to go

and find a nearby bus bench

where I can write alone

until an old man

holding two bags of groceries in each hand

takes the open seat to my left

as I finish my poem

a nice walk can invigorate the mind

and inspire tired knees

but on my way back

I see a cat sitting on a windowsill

who pays no attention to me as I pass

entirely unaffected by my presence

I guess I don’t mean anything to him

but he means something to me

— Cliff Weber

Cliff Weber is 26 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books and two chapbooks, all of which can be purchased on lulu.com and in select bookstores. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes, and Burningword, among others. He will begin the Creative Writing program at USC in the fall of 2013. Follow his blog, Word Meds (www.wordmeds.la), for your daily dose of literature.