January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
In the sci-fi movie, plants drifted
through space and took root
in fields outside our city, blanketing
them with a sinister green until they fattened
on cow’s blood and rain. When they ripped
free from their roots and began to walk,
strangely graceful, gliding more than hopping
on those bending tendrils, we knew that fire
couldn’t stop them, nor cyclonic winds
nor prayer. Merciless in their calm, asexual way
they marched on Paris and Rome, we saw them
waving down Fifth Avenue, hideous parody
of Saint Patrick’s Day. We saw them
clustered in Beijing exhaling carbon dioxide
and fluttering like deadly daffodils
until the factories shut down, and gradually
earth grew calm and waters swelled
clean and crystal blue and the aliens began to sicken
because there was no acid in the cold rains to fuel
those bodies raging for silence and the ancient breath of stars.
by Steve Klepetar
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two of his chapbooks, “My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word” and “My Father Had Another Eye.”
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Electric Pictures
lend credibility to imaginary walls.
The perfect frame for time-
stopped moments of mind rain.
They flair to life. Laugh, dance, twirl
an eternity into the blink
of an eye that only pretends to be
blind.
With Disdain
I hand over the two
dimensional datum ephigical
laminated version of myself
to anonymous hands.
Fingers fly
over keys. Stroking,
entering my parameters. I am
essentially logged, filed
away for future reference.
by AJ Huffman
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
While you were gone
We talked
We touched
We slid melting
Ice cubes over
Sweat slick thighs
While you were gone
We danced barefoot
To the little radio
In the kitchen
Naked
Ate chocolate chip
Cookies and licked
Crumbs off our faces
Together
While you were gone
We laughed
Softly and hard
As the light fell
We sat face to
Face and fingered
Eyelashes
Until
With an unwarning whir
You returned
In blaze of light and
Blaring voice
And caught us
In reimpowered
Sixty inch eye
Shamed separate
we covered ourselves
And resumed
Our silent watch
Power restored
by Pearl Ketover Prilik
Pearl Ketover Prilik, freelance writer/psychoanalyst, is a believer in the spark that flickers within each and connects all. She has three nonfiction books published, was editor of a post-doc psychoanalytic newsletter and lately, editor/contributor of two collaborative international poetry anthologies.
