January 2013 | back-issues, fiction
She scrapes the charred crumbs from her morning toast, then she does laundry.
She does ironing, then she strums a chord on her guitar, commiserating with herself, as the taut metal strings slice pain into her tender fingertips.
She does more laundry, then she spatter-paints with Pollockesque abandon.
Which inevitably generates more dirty clothes.
She has a shower, luxuriating in the incalescence of the near-scalding water, as it flows along the crevices of her fatigue.
She dries her tangled hair, then dries the laundered clothes, then nourishes the machine with another load.
She eats ambiguous leftovers with a plastic fork, then watches the kaleidoscope of colors intertwine, as purple shirt mixes with scarlet robe mixes with periwinkle underwear mixes with turquoise socks.
She wiggles open the encrusted lint filter and wonders why the vibrant hues always converge into a sluggish gray.
She does more laundry, writes a restrained haiku, then erases it.
She sips decaffeinated coffee, while she edits her fragmented novel, seeking flawless metaphors for unrequited love and grim despair and soul-sucking regret.
She classifies the laundered clothes and places them benignly onto hangers, slides them with innate compassion into drawers.
At ten o’ clock she slams the lid onto the overflowing wicker basket, as she crawls, debilitated, into bed.
by Gillian McQuade
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
“Energy is eternal delight.” – William Blake
At 4 years old I levitated
Locked my eyes and lifted from my bed
Floated through the house
Soared over mountains of crushed and flattened cars
I knew the golden flashes of the stars
The electric chanting of the air
The darkness of the universe
I knew invisibility
And on the stairs outside the kitchen door, I tasted endlessness
At 9 I pissed on my big sister who wouldn’t get off the pot
I squirted a gusher on that hapless, acne’d wretch
Soaked her chest, her lap. her thighs
That same day epiphany raged through me like an avalanche
The magnitude of death, end of consciousness, everlasting solitude
I shuddered, and shudder yet
At 13, my Bar Mitzvah year
I eavesdropped on my parents thrashings of desire
Ashamed, appalled, and beating off
And bragged about it to my friends
In my teens, (the young manhood of a Jew)
I bullied the weak, ridiculed the strange, shunned the lonely
and toadied to the crew I most admired.
I thirsted to become whatever it was I would become
I was a courtier in the courtyard of my life
At 21, the year I came of age,
In the spirit of equality I slapped a woman who loved me
Like Rimbaud, I turned away from rectitude, shunned all things familiar
Cheated my parents, they who seeded me, in the name of education
I enlisted in the Marine Corps in a dream of chivalry
Washed out quickly, my apathy intact
When no one was looking
I made babies cry and dogs whimper in pain
I was searching for an ethic of creativity, looking for a rose
At 31, appearing fully formed and fortunate
I was a husband, father, businessman in high regard
I walked upon the world intent on leaving footprints of achievement
I hankered after a baroque richness and a classical order
Doing what I had to do
I fleeced whoever trusted me, and bribed officials, and pimped my secretary
Along the way I cheated on my wife and gave her crabs
Kicked around my sons to ease my cares
Terrified my daughter to nurture her imagination
I paid no attention to the pageantry of time
No longer troubled to recall my dreams
At 40, aware of my impermanence
I’d learned that defeat and loss are the hyenas that feed upon us
And resilience is a lifelong obligation
I turned my lust to matters altruistic
Setting out to heal the sick at heart
I became the train that carried broken birds of passage
I listened to their cries at night and wailed into the night
In my envy I seduced the sad and lonely
Again and again my resolve to do some good unraveled into lassitude
My indifference sped desperate people to their ruin
Now, at 63, I bring you these bitter fruits, this litany of memories
The song of my self-loathing
I’m dedicated to a self-absorbed ideal of partial truth
I make no apologies
This is a cleaner work then what has gone before
It redeems me by virtue of a half-assed honesty and graceful phrasing
I tell you I am joyful and unrepentant
I tell you these are the badges of my sainthood and mortality
I tell you I’m expanding as my world contracts
I tell you I’m a falcon rising
I tell you that I’m laughing as I gaze into my grave.
by David Lewitzky
David Lewitzky is a retired social worker/family therapist living out his sedentary life in Buffalo, New York. Recent work has appeared in Nimrod, Roanoke Review, and Third Wednesday among others and forthcoming work in Passages North, Clarion, Sam Smith’s Journal and Poetry Bus.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Can’t Understand
when in the drowsy hours
you speak to me in tongues
I can’t understand,
is when I realize we must
be doing this for a reason,
to get to some end, or
to prove something lost,
and you wait patiently for me to answer
in huffy silence until you recall that I can’t
speak a bit of mandarin
and you laugh, a sweet,
funny kinda laugh before
you fall asleep and forget.
Fly
All this world out there
and you can’t reach
any of it, and neither
can I right now, Only
I know about it
you can’t even realize it,
even in the end,
this glass is ugly
people cough, piss & die
it’s reflected on me,
windows divide the cosmos,
the very black hole of reality,
you stick to it,
falling sideways,
crawling about my books.
by Thomas Pescatore
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing underground poetry scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.
