October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Even now, as my fingers
Turn incised in time,
As my eyes fall upon
The dusting of artificial
Sweetener some careless
Hand forgot, I wonder
On the involute silence
Of empty space.
A never
Silent silence. Bespotted
Always with the stigmata
Of an omnipresent hum.
This hum is not unlike
The hum of industry
But for its source— its source
Lies hidden deep in the earth,
Or perhaps it originates
In my very skull.
This hum, this ceaseless
Murmuring, I think at times
To be existence itself
Sighing without end.
From here I can almost see
The opening doors and feet
And hands descending like
Locusts. Foreknowledge needs
Not prophesy. And I hear,
Now as then, the lingering hum
Deafening always and louder
Only in silence.
by Dan Pizappi
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
So Long
When Chet’s going cold
turkey, can’t work
long solos, his trio must
rescue the slack
as Chet stalls and paces
and instead of resting
places his horn
on the barstool.
Spinning the seat
he watches soft light
ricochets off the brass
and a dim glow
of accusation play
roulette on his face,
Arm twitching
for the trumpet, he drags
long on a cigarette
before hoisting his horn
He closes his eyes,
brailles the brass,
as wandering lyrics
perch restlessly
on his tongue.
“Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little…”
Pistons like syringe plungers
shake him. Death jerking
horn to mouth, he blows and blows,
blows clear of wives, lovers
and children: clear of himself.
Lost in applause Chet wonders
how long art based on Taps
can last; he traces his lucky
vein, dwells on the spitty air
streams tricked into music,
tastes the words:
“Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little.”
by Thomas Michael McDade
Omelet
The man who did twelve
years says he has two
Honorables covering eight
and a Medical Discharge
for the rest that does not
state a reason but he’ll tattle
after a minute or so gabbing
that booze graced most
of his sailor days—
take that, jump ship,
use some imagination.
A mongrel in the corner stares
at him head tilted quizzically.
Civilian-wise, he’s been
DUI convicted five times
and he’ll proudly name
states, cities, fines
and incarcerations.
All that aside, he’s been doing
pretty well, dry a couple of months
but a reunion revealed
that tipsy on memories is likely
to diminish per shipmate arrival.
No Taps or Reveille,
morning delivered him
animated and unwinding
amid strong urging to enjoy
the three-egg cheese omelet
dwarfing his plate.
Managing a bite, he halts and cuts
to his first liberty in the Philippines.
Holding up three fingers he says
Count them! All mine for a week!
My harem fought over rights
to little ole me,
butterfly knives settled
each day’s first possession!
Dangerous shit, he adds,
glancing at a pistol hanging
off a the host’s rifle rack
like a stepchild
and no one disagrees.
Many attempts to top that
account fail but a couple
of guys are too busy to compete
fashioning joints and tobacco
smokes using nifty rolling devices.
The Mongrel is named Jesse
and she barks her two-cents worth
and more as if all these sea and terra
firma tales pale against what
she could gush concerning
her existence before
adoption discharged her
honorably from a shelter.
A hunk of omelet overboard
passes for gourmet
among this howling dog
pound of a crew.
by Thomas Michael McDade
McDade is a former computer programmer living in Monroe, CT with his wife, no kids, no pets. He did two hitches in the U.S. Navy. He’s been most recently pulished in New Maps.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
The human voice,
a peculiar instrument
badly played by most
can produce beauty,
making us wonder
why so many
assault fragile ears.
by Gary Beck
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
You need not fear the cold much longer;
the seasons of the world are changing,
they are structures collapsing
and will be gone by midnight
as if by tidal wave.
You see, the walls keeping things apart,
they won’t hold much longer.
Soon the sun will come to warm our bodies
ceaselessly year-round,
thus causing oceans of missed pleasure
to announce their presence
greeting us
tasting of winter
and smelling of soap.
They’ll begin by kissing our necks and nipples
and lap and lap against the shore,
returning ever steadily–
and yet, between sun and burning sand
there is space unlimited to grow.
by Jessica Lieberman
Jessica is currently studying poetry at Kenyon College. She has studied under Daniel Mark Epstein, Thomas Hawks, and Jennifer Clarvoe. She works as an intern for the Kenyon Review.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
The Missing Poet’s Lounge
In memoriam Weldon Kees and Lew Welch
In the missing poets’ lounge, a sad man
Tickles the piano, key by cold key,
Thinking, all the time, of his escape plan.
He spreads his long fingers into a fan,
Drops a chord, exhales smoke. He wants to see
What he’s missing. Poet’s lounge, young sad men
Looking too cool. One watched since he began
Playing. He snapped his fingers far too quickly,
Thinking in double time. He had his own plan
For getting out, he knew. The second hand
Ticks loud. He strikes a note. Could all these be
Missing poets? The lounge seemed sad. Each man
Speaking only to themselves as they scanned
The room. Alone, each one was sure that he,
Alone, was thinking up some escape plan.
He trills a slow riff. He stops and stands.
He bows. The faces tell him he is free
Of the missing poet’s lounge. This sad man’s
Thinking all the time. His escape is planned.
by Mark J. Mitchell
A Literary Myth
A dry pen
rolls down the table.
It teeters, momently,
on the edge
then falls
turning gymnastically
and lands point
down in the carpet
exactly like
a sword in a stone.
by Mark J. Mitchell
Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places,Hunger Enough, and Line Drives. His chapbook, Three Visitors will be published by Negative Capability Press later this year and his novels, The Magic War and Knight Prisoner will be published in the coming months. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster. Currently he’s seeking gainful employment since poets are born and not paid.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
But did he find the tribe
spat out of rock
below the cousin clouds
with sounding conch shells
between their ears?
They feed on everything:
metals, birdsong, saffron,
until what’s out and in
seem twin and one
like the dance of lesser
and greater dreamtime.
Social as termites,
they raise tower upon
tower, projecting
a blind, spiral god;
vicious as hornets,
they cultivate venoms and
enemies to die of them.
There’s less blood
painting and head polo
than their fathers knew.
Customs evolve as
killing grows easier.
They’d almost rather
track evil spirits
to their inmost cells,
corner them in forests.
Their stories tell both
of gates and pits,
how one can seem
much like the other.
Armed with a language
they speak forward slowly,
liable to lies
and misconstructions,
tending at times
toward the grotesque,
but hopeful at last
of their waiting name.
by James Fowler
James Fowler teaches literature at the University of Central Arkansas. His poems have appeared in such journals as Poetry Quarterly, Rockhurst Review, The Hot Air Quarterly, Amoskeag, and Parting Gifts.
