July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
I remember my childhood
late nights with my Father
talking for hours
more Him
than Me.
I miss those nights
spending time like
its your last two
dimes.
The urgency of the morals
told in a confession of
one Man’s life, intent
to create a Man of a
Son.
The details always blur
as if it mattered anyway
the story of a young Man
is always the
Wanderer.
The last we spoke
it was of your
Peace in Life
as we drank wine
at the tops of trees
lighting the stars
at Night.
I recall the strangest thing
as I was doing my wandering
just after the sun went down
I completely stopped, unaware
of the purpose for such a feeling;
an uneasy glow from my soul.
The Night turned to a
new dark I’d never seen
I imagine my subconscious
beaming like a dream;
my heart falling asleep.
a feeling so Pure
that it takes years
to feel anything
again.
My passion has suffered,
and my apologies are genuine
Father, what is a Man
once his wandering has
reached its end?
by Michael Golden
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Tick chicken, snapped bones with the marrow sucked out. America with stained lips, grinning. Florida tries to pull herself off the mainland, drifting into the Atlantic. A constellation falls from its proper place and collapses in the mind of Jupiter, lightning crushes a skull. We beat each-other with blunt objects and then fall forward into prisons where penance is expected but never given. Prisons are revolving until each prisoner reeks of freedom, makes the jailbird’s skin crawl. My limb departs like a parent. My skin unhinges like breakdown. I am six and stealing pencils to build fires, lead poison bloom. I am crossing over the border where the lockers hum and the dogs explode. A scissor cuts a sound from the air, like a chunk of flesh, it is cooked in a skillet until the pitch is golden and crispy. On a plate the sound is not thunder. On a table the sound is crashing into the porcelain beneath it, cracking the heirloom, ruining the dinner, bleeding into the cloth an orange stain.
by Sam Eliot
What Hunger Causes previously published in the Writebloody Press anthology, Aim for the Head.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
made the Snow in the
Mountain grow, and that
very graceful heart-shape vine
with heart-shaped leaves,
I believed called
Choke Weed
A delicate rose leaned
pink petals as in disbelief,
toward an unknown weed
with leaves the size of
dinner plates
by Carol Smallwood
Carol Smallwood co-edited (Molly Peacock, foreword) Women on Poetry: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing by Successful Women Poets (McFarland, 2012). Her poetry received a 2011 Pushcart nomination. Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing, with The Writer’s Chronicle editor as foreword writer is from (Key Publishing House, 2012)
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
It happens sometimes
That I look up at the clock
Just when the second hand
Pauses between one tick
And another
So that everything seems to stand still
In that moment
And I have enough time
To wonder
If the clock has not stopped.
It is amazing how much
Can go through your mind
From one second to the next.
And while clearly
A life cannot be lived
In such a pause,
Requiring time
To stretch itself out,
Memory can,
Requiring no more
Than a spark of light
To give a sign
That contains the whole.
by Fred Skolnik
The Second Hand was first published in Oak Bend Review, vol. 1, Issue 4, Jan.-Feb. 2009. Fred Skolnik’s novel The Other Shore (Aqueous Books) has recently appeared and I have published stories in TriQuarterly, Minnetonka Review, Los Angeles Review, Prism Review, Gargoyle, Literary House Review, Words & Images, Third Coast, Polluto, Underground Voices, etc.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
deviant melody
I am a silver tongued devil
laughing shaman
thief of fire
provocateur
oracle of the absent present
conscience of the exception
wildflower seed
deviant melody
original voice
deep within this sacred body hidden
song ecstatic
irrational
erotic
whispering incantations
seductions
into every sleepy ear
pied piper of the delta tribes
uplifter of nightmare scenarios
nomadic madmen
defiant minstrel marauders of the unsaid
forever questing vigilant vagabond
serenading desert solitary
wandering exile in a garden of mortal flowers
agile dancer leaping precipices of abysmal absurdity
primordial pain pleasure principle
ancient lover of the infinite intimate
embracing prisoners fleeing the wilderness of echoes
dharma drums
anorexic idealists
anemic moralists
mummified dadaists
sterile surrealists
post modern hypochondriacs
mourning the death of an imaginary god
mama’s got dementia
rage in absentia
papa’s dead dead in his grave
cheap thrill hedonists
spotlight hooligans
mainstream hoopla
literary lickspittles
midair cliche collisions
parallel uni verses
carnage on the rampage page
whirling carousel of the damned
mama’s got dementia
rage in absentia
papa’s dead dead in his grave
gold diggers
fast cars
venus mars
bourgeois barbies
hollywood harpies
airbrushed mongrels
frozen souls in starched armani
low-rise high rollers
pussy-whipped sons of nuns
happy-go-lucky crucifix airheads
cult of celebrity spit lists
retro roulette
age of pimps
whores
sycophants
bores
drunken sailors on a ship of fools
mama’s got dementia
rage in absentia
papa’s dead dead in his grave
facelift jehova
botox redeemer
saintly psychosis
pious neurosis
priestly lust
ashes dust
pope opium with an epistle in his pants
ride ride cardinal jekyll
bishop hyde
parsifal awaits you
sporting anna sui eyeliner
christian dior rouges brilliant lipstick
sipping dom perignon at the grail castle after hours bar
mama’s got dementia
rage in absentia
papa’s dead dead in his grave
hell is for liars
no vacancy today
blink of an eye
madness reigns supreme
but look! look who’s dancing in the inferno!
holy rimbaud!
saddle the sabbath
gallop across satori savannahs
forget yesterday
remember tomorrow
french kiss buddha in his canary yellow
perched on eggshell blue
celebrate
celebrate
celebrate fate you irreverent few
forever creating the always new
mama’s got dementia
rage in absentia
papa’s dead dead in his grave
by Jovan Vuksanovich
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
the 4 x 4 post was askew
a leaning tower of pisa
the sign was half unhinged
a victim of the recent winds
or a prankster who didnít finish the job
it dangled in the breeze on this
very late afternoon nearly evening
the last spears of sunlight gleaming
my friend bob used to call it the
tall shadow hour
he produced an oscar winning film
built a house in the hollywood hills for
the woman he loved
with waterfalls and a dance studio enshrined in mirrors
but she left him anyway
and he moved faraway
the sign said for sale
3 bedroom charmer
sunrise realty
ask for steve
the house looked neglected
a shadow of what it once was or
could have been
owners without funds to pay for
curb appeal
it was a sign of the times
depression foreclosure ruined lives
a sign of desperation
but along the front fence
the wisteria was in bloom
glorious explosion of lavender
a vine prevails in spite of
bankruptcy greed crimes against humanity
and the light at this hour is daring
the house will not sell
for the buyers are just as broke as
the seller
the bank will take it back
the family will pack everything they own into a u-haul
the youngest child will pluck a twig of wisteria before parting
and on the journey to she doesnít know where
sniff it in the back seat
she will never forget its sweet fragrance
and her fatherís face as he drove without fear
and steve will quit his job at the sunrise realty
go back to school and
take up the cello
by Maureen Foster
Maureen Foster is the author of three novels, and her essays, poetry, and short fiction have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, The Pacific Review, Word River, and others. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.
