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. 

Sarah Marchant: five poems

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

Joey

at the mercy of my feelings

in the palm of your hand

you’ve got me.

headlights float outside my window

like UFOs or the goat-drawn

chariots of Norse gods.

I’ll spell these figment cuddles

and kisses into stars

imploding, melting at my fingertips.

this has happened too many

times and my smile has found its crease,

but there are too few promises left

to group like marbles,

rolling in the bottom of a bucket.

Polite Love Notes

The wind whips, whistling

outside my window. Dirty laundry

strewn across the bed,

my thoughts of you

sprawling over every spare surface.

The chill of January

draws to a close and here

I am, my imagination

drawing you close, closer.

Kissing ghost lips,

wishing beyond wishes,

pronouncing every “please”

as clearly as I can

because my hopes are climbing

out of my chest

onto this page, a canvas,

whatever they can reach

ever writing and rewriting

the poem that keeps you near me.

My Heart Thrums Like the Radio

Happy is hard to hold,

fling a rope and do your best

to tie it up tidy

take the flood captive.

But you unwound the spark,

tapping a rhythm

amid the ordinary colors

a dance of pulses and pearls.

Stealing Kisses in An Art Gallery

Dropping I love yous like candy pieces

licking up scraps of affection

whenever they are spared.

Glorying in the sound of

my own name, eyes closed in

reverence, basking in

the thickest fog and prettiest paint.

Stow the memories, the needless nostalgia,

for this moment has me lighter than air.

Cold Calligraphy

Something delicate,

something I could understand

like pink petals cascading

settling soft on pale skin –

blonde hair,

glimmering eyes.

Not anything like this cold –

a girl carving sentences,

her friends to fragments,

herself to pieces.

I would hold her but for all

the edges. But for

my wounds being cut

just as fresh, just as cleanly.

— Sarah Lucille Marchant (twitter.com/flutterpulse)

The Urban Legend of the Video Nasty

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

My Mother is a video nasty,

a  lurid analog nightmare

transcribed with bloody fingers

onto VHS, shoved in a thin

cardboard box with age lines like soggy skin,

then sealed in urban legends:

tight, taught cellophane.  

They speak of it in whispers on

discussion boards.

How the tracking is off on every copy,

EVERY copy.  There is a gnarly buzz

scratching through the opening credits.

The last 15 minutes are legendary.

She removes her face with her finger nails,

pulls it off like a thin rubbery plastic.

A secret face, white 

microwaves of intense mockery,

focused as a lighthouse beam.

Papi dies the hard way, the Clive Barker way.

Hangers like hooks, fish hooks,

tear him asunder.

He is hunks of raw, red steak.

Ribs flower from 

torso as marrow oozes like a thick pollen.

This is an important shot, the commenters say,

the reconfiguring of his sex.  KubrickFurry asserts

Ann’s monstrous feminine is conservative.  RandallFlag 

retorts there is a lacanian message obscured by this corpse

flower:  the trauma of child abuse embodied by the real.

I am dodging face suns, hauling ass through the

barbed chain bramble that was my home.

Avatars debate over impossible architecture: men and women 

sparring with verbal chainsaws as I run through

a five and a half minute hallway, chased by a faceless medusa

in a dream of jagged ambien singed into the glass eye of a

Kodak camera. 

No one understands the ending.

They say I have to live,

fight my sister in the sequel.

They say the irrational is the milieu of cult films.

I say burn every copy of this ring virus.

Smash it.

Crush it.

Never let your mother watch it.

— David Arroyo

Kansas in the Corner

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

look at old kansas in the corner

everyone laughs

they always do

stared into the sun for too long

went blind went crazy

went way too fast on icy roads

and drinks to dowse a burning mistake

he says –

i remember the black and white days

back in goodland

the spencer girls in tight cotton dresses

                  walking back from church

                  in the sweet heat of summer

shutters slapping the old henderson house

most nights i could hear them

before you were born

the sky was sepia

you’re hearing ghosts – old kansas in the corner

he sits slouching with a bible and a bell

the old man knocks one  back and spins faster

                  in the world of whiskey

he says –

i dug the earth for fifty years

i’m a fifth generation to plow these fields

but the crop is thin these days

the red plains yawn under the  new sun

like beasts yoked for labor

— Kevin McCoy

The Wars That One Can Not Win

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

“Therefore put away all filthiness and rank growth of wickedness

and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save

your souls.  (James 1:21 RSV)

I scratched, pinched, bit my way through today

as if I didn’t come from a long line of God fearing folk

but from Darwin’s monkeys being provoked with pokes of fun

by human aliens all safe on the other side of the hellish cage.

I dug a deep trench hiding safely behind garbage bags of self pity

then started a sunrise war with my defenseless family,

went on to battle an army of co-workers until lunch hour found me

picking fights with unarmed cashiers, shoppers, fruit vendors,

with noses lifted so high in the air they could probably

identify by smell the flowers in heaven but not tell me..

I missed when I tried to kick a snarling dog

on the leash of a snarling man both of whom barked

at me with mouthfuls of long, white teeth, crooked

like the interlacing necks of hungry trumpeter swans

I saw later while sitting on the bench but didn’t care to feed.

Beating it home, I blasted the horn, shook a mean finger

at a gang of elementary kids playing dodge ball in the street

then couldn’t find a song on the car radio that

didn’t fill me up with great big foul irritation.

Saying prayers while I brush my teeth and my husband snores

I ask God why he gave me the burden of so much anger today

even though I know He didn’t, will mercifully forgive and help me

once I  accept the blame, humbly drop to my knees to pick up

the empty cartridges of my wicked weapons of words and deeds,

that I pray have left no permanent wounds in the lives of others.

All that I have won today is a flag of guilt slapping me in the face

with the filth of my own hands; a flag at half staff with it’s metal pole

jammed deep into the shallow ground of my soul.           

— Carol A. Oberg

During her writing career Carol has published widely with Blue Mountain Arts, Inc., was one of three featured poets (10 works) in Ancient Paths, issue 16, and has also published with Carcinogenic Poetry, The Avocet, Extract(s), and in the fall issue of The Fourth River (Chatham University). This poem was first published in Ancient Paths in 2010 and was nominated for a Pushcart Award.