Dosage

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

The physician fired my father

For insubordination.

Dad couldn’t regulate the dosage

Or himself.

He is hibernating in his room,

Eyes closed and face turned.

Suspended and silent,

Deep in thought.

— David S. Drabkin

The Life We Live

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.

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