6 a.m.- 9a.m.

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

The snow may be 9 1/2″ deep, but

I’m a resourceful He-Manly man, man.

Up at 5 a.m.

Layering layers upon layers.

I stagger around, puffy, prepared.

Stagger and sass, sass some more,

dawn dreaming in the inky dark.

As the sun slowly rises, grunting

like some 47-year-old ex-NFL quarterback,

I am the magnificent soloist maestro,

wielding my shovel heroically,

I dig a moat around my mansion,

clear the way for my wife and her wee dark-green Honda.

Staggering back inside, I take off some of my layers,

wake the kid, kiss the wife goodbye,

bulk up our bellies with oatmeal,

dress him in layers, vaseline his tiny gob and cheeks.

I relayer myself, and then we go for the bus.

Two grand staggerers on an epic intrepid Dr. Zhivago walk,

bobbing and weaving through dirty gray snowbanks,

which have fresh crunchy snow layering their tops, and,

really, I wouldn’t mention the frozen dog shit,

except it’s fucking everywhere,

so that 31st is a toxic knickerbocker glory.

When the bus arrives, its engine stuttering as it vibrates against snow banks

I climb up the dirty mountain, lift the boy up and over

and nod at my fellow warrior, the bus driver.

Once home, I peel off my layers. Blow

my nose so hard it hurts my ears,

savor a cup of tea, listen

as my knee cartilage creaks. Listen

as my neighbors struggle to start their engines. Listen

to the ranting on Sports Radio. Wonder

at the warm wire I feel through the muscle in my heart.

Struggling up the stairs, turning up the heat, I

run a bath, spit out snot and get naked.

I bathe, ponder my aging balls.

Look at the clock: 9 a.m.

Now it’s under the covers and

sleep.

Definitely A Whimper

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation

busted for
malfeasance.

Crying glib
crocodile tears.

The codpiece of
tenure ripped aside like so much recycled paper.

Keening.

Staggering
through Bridgeport,

foul of breath
from ersatz Cuban panatellas,

singing out tthe
true stories of their lives,

fuelled by
Maker’s Mark, Dylan and a heaped tablespoonful of self-pity.

Embittered.

Half-written
memoirs, unfinished romains,

the glorious
shimmering stank of student pussy in their mustaches.

Trapped in the
afterglow of the grins of lesbian colleagues.

Their chances
now doubly improved, they smile,

bask in your
misery. A Superior predator

Grateful.

Their kids and
anti-trophy wives

like question
marks burned into forehead

by the tip of
the white-hot rapier that was once your own sense of humor

but now belongs
to your spawn.

Crying.

Yeah, cry,
motherfucker, you only went into teaching for the three free months
of summer

so you could
disappoint your parents,

show off your
scintillating repartee

and shagshagshag
little slags.

Laugh.

Gigglle when you
encounter the winners.

Their classrooms
trouble free.

Risk averted at
the very gates.

The dross
propaganda of Derrida, Beaudrillard and f-f-f-fucking Foucault,

dead without a
gutter, without a singular tear.

Hallelujah.

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation purple with envy.

Preaching
against the national debt .

Haunted by the
prospect of perpetual war,

and a singular
dream where their children’s children bear prayer rugs.

Dream.

World’s end, as
the sun, a pitted, acne-infected orange,

spitting its
haliotosis accompanied by a bass-heavy worldbeat soundtrack,

weights and
measures,

whimpers-versus-bangs

God and the
devil in the final World Series.

Marriage

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

I explain. You

hear shouting. You

regroup. I see

you’ve picked my scab.

You are reasonable. I

see shades clipped onto your bifocals. I

apologize profusely. You

sniff out expedience.

I am a nice Jewish dove. You

say I’m crazy, like Saul. You

throw me an olive branch. I

am cut by its thorns.

You gush blood. I

see no tears. You

will not take a dive. I

have loved you for eleven years.

Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé: three haiku

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

a haiku and our night out

from ridge to ridge

camera projection left –

of freemans’ waters

neon billboards

one night in finders corner

with fiddle strings

the look of true love

st patrick’s day in sarawak

our plate’s green orchid

a haiku is a fitted appliance

knock on the porch door

sterling rose out of daisies

unsigned gift card

white and blue pills

syringe, thermometer, bedpan

empty bauhaus chair

a haiku is a hundred different ways

in good time

the stars shine brighter

sometimes longer bursts

at the festival

urban samurai in hemp

buttonquail – blue-backed

Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé has edited more than 10 books and co-produced 3 audio books, several pro bono for non-profit organizations. Trained in book publishing at Stanford, with a theology masters in world religions from Harvard and fine arts masters in creative writing from Notre Dame, Desmond is a recipient of the Singapore Internationale Grant and Dr Hiew Siew Nam Academic Award. He has recent or forthcoming work in Copper Nickel, Clutching At Straws, Dark Sky, Fence, Grey Sparrow, Presence, Nano Fiction, Notes from the Gean, Spilling Ink Review, Spork Press, Sugar Mule, and Write From Wrong Magazine. Also working in clay, Desmond sculpts commemorative ceramic pieces for his Potter Poetics Collection. These works are housed in museums and private collections in India, the Netherlands, the UK and the US.

Trail

July 2010 | back-issues, poetry

by JE Baker

The doe is dead, devoured by hounds.
Her bones lie by the river’s edge.
Curled small,
small is never long;
her body will grow and cast away the brush that veils her.
Her fair spots will fade with time.
It’s the sparrows that call her to run,
to stretch her legs long and flee.
But the fawn, she listens to the leaves
whispering that it is safe to stay.

I stood at the sink
scratching and scraping until fingertips were bloodied and sore.
As the water ran I thought,
her spine curved like the back of my ear –
her heart in a box.

It’s easy for the leaves to die.
The mantle of dirt shows the way.
Head south,
toward the river;
blood smothers the earth where half-eaten bones are still strewn.
Ash-covered tracks form a trail.
The Huntsman keeps her heart in a box,
to take to his aging Queen.
But from there an iris still watches,
warning her daughter never to stay.

The water was hot
and the steam held a stench like a scream at the back of the throat.
My eyes burned, but I knew
she hadn’t had time to not be timid –
she breaks like the doe.

Hidden, hooves tucked up underneath.
She rises and stamps on the ground.
Look at them,
her feet ashen;
slight and unsteady as they search for a suitable trail.
She won’t fall to the arrow.
The Huntsman thinks she breaks like the doe,
running, her tail in the air.
But the white flag isn’t surrender,
waning fear frees her heart lest she stay.