July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
You’re on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,
I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead
I’m writing this; an
alarm goes off, it’s mine
Saturday morning, you’re
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds
and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,
this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn’t
make sense anyway; it’s
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,
which is everything,
we aren’t friends; I can’t see the
trees,
I’m hiding from the sun.
by Thomas Pescatore
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. 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.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The time until you die
grips the top of my hand
grates my fingers against
puckered metal
collects skin and bone
shavings
into a soft pile
on the good China.
by Jane Juran
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Like lace
Itsuki always dances behind cob webs
There, he can manifest several shapes
and pick which one he likes
Sometimes I help him move,
for he has no control over his particles
He is like lace,
weightless and transparent
Sometimes I worry I will injure him
if I want to kiss his cheek bone
or cradle his hands
If he would beg for my love,
I might be happy
If he would look at me and blush,
I might feel gorgeous
Today when he performs,
I tilt against the fireplace mantel,
hands gripping my elbows,
eyes exhausted with longing
I wish I could be a ghost
and be afraid of myself
for a good reason
Mournful moments
I imagined myself dancing,
arms out to cuddle lonely spirits,
eyes closed to feel powerless
I imagined someone told me I was handsome
and didn’t need to smile
I imagined I was in Japan,
the place my embryo developed
I imagined there was romance to my suffering
and that the pulse in my chest was a hand begging for me
I imagined the lights were off
and that my shadow was someone I liked
I imagined the room was full of demonic voices
and that I was not afraid of anything
I imagined I was dying and that my funeral
would be beneath the ocean
I imagined I was titling into glass
and cracking my bones
I opened my eyes and saw a skinny silhouette standing
ahead of me, arms tied behind the back
I made not a sound as the figure came forward
and kissed my throat
“Stop picturing mournful moments.” a feminine voice hissed
“It is shattering my organs to see you so sad.”
I remember hearing myself laugh
Then I was unconscious, floating through lavender mist
and tiny insects
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in Literally Stories, The Gloom Cupboard, The Birds We Piled Loosely and others. She wants to visit Japan one day.
