October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Danny Earl Simmons
Her words slide
across the page
like a lap dance
and grind against
the very base of you.
She writes
like a runaway
without options;
uses what God gave
and what men take.
She digs on the sweat
and the panting
and the smoke
and the rush of blood
to the head
from the whiskey
she pours down your throat,
and you open wide.
She knows
she’s an addiction
and winks
at the weakness
of you,
reduces you to words
you read over
and over again.
Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and pops in when his work schedule allows. He works for Knife River and currently serves on the Board of Directors of Albany Civic Theater.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Below the snow-pack, under the flat tangle
of matted grass, gently squirming beneath
the force-field of the frost line
live les vers de terre, their cryptic trails
umbilically twisting toward the winter crust.
I’d like to think that it’s summer Down Under,
Worms on holiday from noxious flocks
and the deadly tread of feet.
And when Spring, sensed like a womb-heard
heartbeat, melts the inhibitions and ignites
the slick ambitions of The Few, The Strong,
The Rebel-Worms, to take a slide on the wild side,
up, where the world is dry and frightful;
will I find their wriggling courage to say
to the flowers and the giants,
“Eat my dust!”?
Constance Kramer is a microbiologist by training, but explores the visible and invisible world with poetry and short fiction, also. She resides in Tallmadge, OH.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
the enlightened inquisitor
We are meaningless bolts of animalistic cruelty
lost in working class delusion;
enthusiastic mimes latching onto shriveled worries.
The blood of the gutless man
emerges from infected wounds.
Annihilating creativity upon contact,
this gaudy, guile puss
waits upon a terrace of glistening destruction.
Eventually this handsome camouflage
melts into a pool of greasy defeat.
With the right weapons
it always will.
every night
I wish that every night
you could come over
and we could sleep in past noon.
we could skip all of our
damn responsibilities,
face the alarm clock against the wall,
wake up when it feels right
and cook breakfast naked.
we could drink expensive Cabs all night.
we could get higher and higher,
higher and higher
and never come down.
we could stumble to a nearby deli,
our laughs echoing across Hollywood.
we could snack on the finest cheese
and dance around the Numark.
we could make love for hours;
on the couch,
in the kitchen,
and a grand finale on the balcony.
we could do all of this
every night.
Cliff Weber is 24 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published two books, “Matzo Ball Soup” in 2009 and “Jack Defeats Ron 100-64” in 2010. A new collection will be available in 2011. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Physiognomy in Letters, Bartleby Snopes and Out of Our. Weber is currently in need of a book publisher.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Bryan Sisk
I’m reading a book of poetry
by Robert Frost,
an American master.
I can smell the dirt and
hear the rustle of trees
as I flip through the leaves.
I found the book at a library sale,
fifty cents.
On the inside cover is an inscription
scrawled in crooked adolescent script
by someone making the jump
from print to cursive,
pencil to pen.
“To Dad,
my poetic
father”
I never bought my dad
books of poetry.
Every holiday it was
fishing lures and underwear.
These gifts went a long way
on father-son fishing trips.
Lures taught me to fish and
sometimes brought dinner.
Underwear served its
obvious purpose,
but also served as
a coffee filter in desperation.
With these simple gifts,
my dad led me through
the rites of passage
into my own manhood.
I hope my turn comes
to lead a son of my own
through his adolescence.
Teaching him to risk losing a lure
for the perfect cast,
and to portage
when the river runs dry.
And I hope he gives me gifts
of fishing lures, underwear
and poetry.
One can lead a happy life
with these simple gifts.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Seizing Optimism
Tangled in a ruthless sea of anxiety and adversity,
my lungs crave the cool clarity of the air
but fail to conquer the destructive consistency
of this hurricane’s warfare.
My eyes sting with the salt of my past,
But still I see a glimpse of the light of relief.
I struggle to make this speck of oxygen last
as I’m swallowed by these waves of defeat.
Hurled into the shady blue depths of catastrophe,
Straining to defy the wrenching current of cynicism,
I dig my nails deep into the sand and into my sanity,
searching desperately in every seashell for wisdom.
I extend my arms toward the glowing luminosity of liberation
and kick my feet against the consumption of this sea.
Breathing purely off wilting hopes and determination,
I refuse to let this ocean of drowning dreams engulf me.
Breaking through into the atmosphere of belief,
I gasp for emancipation and breathe in gulps of hope
as I closely clutch the seashell from beneath
that has taught me how to float.
Having Faith
As I shed my leaves I become drenched with vacancy and despair
because without each of my blooms in this chill I feel completely worthless and bare,
each encompassing a story, a memory, a lesson, a regret,
leaves of love, leaves of pain, some leaves I wish I could forget,
but each had branched together to complete a singular tree
colored with life and specks of beauty and authenticity.
They glide gently to the ground, carried by the soft grace of the wind,
so effortless and peaceful, yet I feel so empty and thinned.
The cold becomes colder and my loneliness remains thick and dark.
I rapidly lose hope, feeling incompetent dressed in only a bland sheet of bark,
but the welcoming rays of Spring arrive and paint over the wintry gloom,
and in contrast to all of my negativity, a new batch of leaves I blissfully begin to bloom.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
The Reality of It
satin smoothed to be bruised, eventually
like a car crash looming, sugar rush
glitter tears glass bits
snow fluff, spread
science says energy never ends –just changes form
garage sale lace discard
someone in the family owns a closet of black clothing for events such as this
twirling skirt, champagne glasses with lipstick stains
aghast, entwined in the silky mess
vase cracked, plum pits
shrivel
Hard Times
“In hard times, beauty can seem frivolous—but take it away and all you’re left with is hard times.” –Paul Madonna, Everything is Its Own Reward
gray matter mush, a heart attack
the older brother died at thirty-one
the younger one was picked up put away
his underpaid lawyer tired smiled patted shoulders
fifteen more months of under-seasoned “meat” –could be worse
salt water halo
i leave the door ajar while i sort refold repack the sweaters shirts jeans shorts
tags still attached until he gets back
a scavenger, i eat on food stamps and dig myself a sanctuary
in a compiled dust old junk grease stains house
spiders watch me shower
my saintly lover sighs and i apologize
we met at the start of shit falling apart
our summers bring bad drivers sweat cat hair everywhere
so, we take to the mountains
escaping the stink and thinking
for a week, climbing soggy cheese and trail mix
watching the kaleidoscope landscape crumble into night
he holds me steady, and i can breathe
A Tracing
advertising mind control
mouth ear finger head
a sponge –fucked
unruly
opaque
starlet envy
bleached blonde
diva decapitated
coffee smoke rings, the trash
hasn’t been picked up for weeks
erased painstakingly
protruding ribs and hips
distortion
teetering on patent leather boots
in black and white
a sliver crust, a dropped jar of pickles
dissidence
ignore it until it’s gone away
the graying sheets with makeup splotching
Amanda “Cal” Phoenix is an undergraduate student at Washburn University, in Topeka, Kansas. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta and has had work featured in Inscape and The Hobo Camp Review.
