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.
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.
