July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Early purple
blooms of cosmea,
in the sparse grasses,
in the granulated earth,
pierced and punctured,
between two roses struggling:
their roots tangle,
squeezing each other
until one submits
and sumptuous oils
catch and then release
their differences.
Glazed with spice
and salt, the roots
dig deep into the secrets,
lessons learned
from The Day After,
scavenging for sustenance,
and from the love bombs,
roses enweaved
with yellow buds,
all racing to be first
to reach the surface,
by thrusting upwards
through the clouds,
growing faster
to taste the cold
water of victory.
Late harvest this winter:
olive tears, dropping branches
trimmed from existence,
pitched into the graves
of the giant groves,
sinking deep and covered
by the smell of sweet
jasmine blooming,
their tangled,
intertwined vines
now all growth
to dust and dying,
from those that
grew before them.
by Kristina Blaine
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
all who wander are lost in some
scape – land of mind, body;
until moon sings to sun of the last
vine of being: weaves forth
the stardust of all folks into unparalleled
pulse, blood unburdened: tangled
along the curve of earth’s spine.
by Renee Hamlin
Renee Hamlin is a student transferring to the University of California, Riverside in fall 2012 to study Creative Writing. In spring 2012, she took a literary magazine course, which published the 2012 issue of the Suisun Valley Review, and was humbled by the tiny, tiny taste of the editor’s world that it gave her.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
The closet held a row of empty hangers.
Michael met Michelle at the grocery store when they both reached for the same box of Lucky Charms. He let her have the box, and noticed as she walked away how her skirt swayed with
her hips, and her tan thighs.
The perfume lingered in the closet.
After six months of dating, Michelle and Michael moved in together in a small apartment near the college Michelle attended.
The dresser’s top was empty of jewelry and perfume.
On their second anniversary, Michael proposed during a candlelight dinner he’d cooked.
The drawers of the dresser had been cleaned out.
Michael met Sophia at an office party celebrating his landing of a new marketing client. At first she reminded him of Michelle, but soon he realized the distinct difference.
The stripped bed set next to the dresser.
The first time Michael met Sophia at the hotel, the sex was exciting, invigorating; something his marriage lacked.
The button-up shirt lay on the stripped bed.
Over time, being with Sophia was just as comfortable to him as being with Michelle. He didn’t distinguish the two. The excitement was gone, but the sex was still good, like the sex with Michelle. Now both familiar, Michael wondered if something else was missing.
The lipstick stained the collar.
Michael met Megan at a local bar. She was new and exciting. She was more open than Sophia. Sex was amazing. Michael never worried.
The closet held a row of empty hangers.
The perfume lingered in the closet.
The dresser’s top was empty of jewelry and perfume.
The drawers of the dresser had been cleaned out.
The stripped bed set next to the dresser.
The button up shirt lay on the stripped bed.
The lipstick stained the collar.
The color wasn’t hers.
by Angela Spires
Her work has been published in The Brushfire, The Stethoscope, Wildflower Magazine, Mat Black Online Magazine, and Deep South Magazine.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusements sake,
like gigantic
lustrous
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth
graceful
class.
Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.
But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the colorless upholstery
as I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.
Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.
by Cliff Weber
Cliff Weber is 25 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books, Matzo Ball Soup, Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 and Remain Frantic, all available on lulu.com. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes and Burning Word, among others.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
A carnal flower grows in my garden,
and each night, like clockwork,
when the sun slumbers, giving way to the Afterdark,
I pick it and settle it in my tweed pocket.
I keep it safe through the darkness,
where I disappear into the shadows,
becoming endlessly elegant.
Sitting in the hush of the violet hour.
by Tate Geborkoff
Tate Geborkoff is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America and has worked as a national playwright and poet for over 12 years. His career started in Denver, Colorado and eventually led him to Chicago where he’s been for the past four years.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs
of a labourer building the statue of the herald
but fails and falls in the soil sucked up by heat,
Vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand;
Dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers
walk over it.
His weapons are a chisel and spade;
He lifts them to protest but vacuum wailing in the curves
of his muscles make it fall again on the mummified ground;
just to dig, dig the ground for
the Herald’s statue must stand firm
or his existence will be buried under its
falling weight.
Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon
The dawn will hear sounds again-
sounds of iron striking against rocks.
The air waits to weave those sounds
and strike a twister with them-
Tall enough for the world to see
bold enough to step over mountains
Clear enough to show the waving hands
begging a day out of slavery.
by Sonnet Mondal
Sonnet Mondal is an award winning bestselling Indian English poet and has authored eight books of poetry. His latest book is Diorama of Three Diaries (Authorspress, New Delhi). Sonnet is the pioneer of the 21 line Fusion Sonnet form of Poetry. At present he is the managing editor of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, Editor of Best Poems Encyclopedia, Poetry Editor of The Abandoned Towers Magazine and the Sub Secretary General of Poetas Del Mundo.
