January 2016 | poetry
Moon jelly in the sea noodle
Shimmer of flying fish morning
Laughs to itself the sky has landed
Along the beach water dripping off its hair
Sometimes the world might
Come in a little ahead of the game
Today it looks like it was going to rain
Airwaves change a seagull into a musket ball
The lovely girl I’m too old & fat for
Sets her halo down
Next to her umbrella
It must get mighty rainy in heaven
& there’s still a star in the sky
A little pinkish around the edges
Gotta change this reality
Hold onto life by its tables & chairs
Typhoon voices too loud to be heard
Words bouncing around in the back of my mind
Rainfall rattles the windowshades
The wind seems laboring
Up a long flight of stairs
A car horn honks my name
The cannonade of an endless heart
A new window has opened
Spider webs are forming
The ceiling is falling
The Eiffel tower in miniature
Infrared balloon bubbling
Between the starfish high
In the mountains
& what only time will tell
The world loves itself in a special way
A man doesn’t have to worry about
The sunlight on how it is. The shadow
Of the door swung its shadow. She kind of
Knew something was going to happen
It was a ruby chandelier shot thru a wineglass
Falling back into empty spaces
Handwriting too indecipherable
To remain undecoded
A book too complicated
To remain unfinished
Bricks ripped away
In the underground restaurant
To make it seem more rustic
There is a solidity
Even in dreams
With its last breath the mountain
Yodels down the ravine
Nothing but rock formations
Shaped like cathedral spires.
by Kurt Cline
Kurt Cline is Associate Professor of English and World Comparative Literature, National Taipei University of Technology. His full-length book of poetry, Voyage the Sun, was published by Boston Poet Press in 2008. Poems and stories have appeared, most recently, in BlazeVOX, Danse Macabre, Shotglass Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, HuesoLoco, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Black Scat, and Clockwise Cat. Scholarly articles have appeared in Anthropology of Consciousness; Concentric, Beatdom Literary Journal; and Comparative Civilizations and Cultures.
January 2016 | fiction
…they try all the avenues, all the dusty streets, all the leafy parks, the houses in the better parts of the town, but they’ll not get me, they’ll not find me, they don’t know, how to do, how to do what they try to do, they fail, they always fail, it is I who knows, I have a map you see, a map of the whole town, all its nooks and crannies, I know the formula, the places to go and how to get there, despite everything they will fail, oh I look forward to it, I rub my hands at the thought of it, it will be quick when the time comes, I really cannot wait, but they will try, they will try anything, mostly it will be their trying, not my succeeding, oh I know that, and they do too, they know it is pointless, it will fail, they will try though, they always do, or do not, I mean they always fail, they won’t find me no matter where they go, no matter what they do, through leafy parks and dusty streets and oily roads, of tar and sand and stone and crisp corners in the lines along the sky, through small idle windows in red brick, no, they won’t find me, no, I know, you see I can tell from here, I can see them, they cannot see me, only they think of me, hiding the words, it gets them thinking I know, I know all they can try, they try this as much as they like, I don’t mind, I am patient, it is they that are in the hurry, it is always, there is no end to it…
by Martin Keaveney
Martin Keaveney’s recent fiction includes ‘The Rainy Day’ in the anthology Small Lives (Poddle Publications), ‘Last Order’ in Crannog and ‘A New Freedom’ in Gold Dust magazine with work forthcoming in Agave Magazine. His flash fiction piece ‘Laugh’ will appear in Apocrypha and Abstractions magazine in March. He has a B.A. in English and Italian and an M.A. in English (Writing) from NUI, Galway, Ireland. He is currently a PhD candidate at NUIG, 2014-18 where he is researching the John McGahern archive and also writing a novel as part of the course.
January 2016 | poetry
Trying out for the Senior Class Play’s
romantic lead opposite my girl but coming in second
to the ever-popular handsome hunky Everett
then having to watch him romancing her
on-stage from backstage for weeks.
Waiting for my wife in this busy hair salon
with all the clipping, combing, coiffing
and fussing with hair length, color, body . . .
with the incessant small talk all these people wasting
so much time it’s hair for crying out loud!
As a youngster he was an altar boy
carrying the cross or The Holy Book
to the altar, his face stern with religiosity.
Today he’s in the ICU waiting for the doctors
to decide if he should stay there or go to hospice.
by Michael Estabrook
Retired now working around the yard and writing more poems or trying to anyhow. Noticed 2 Cooper’s hawks staked out in our yard or above it I should say explains the disappearing chipmunks.
January 2016 | poetry
They give me no peace,
constantly flying over
at all hours.
Right on schedule,
with the precision
of a quartz timepiece.
The drone unmistakable,
they buzz by,
far too small
and too low
for commercial aircraft,
yet unassuming enough
for covert military intelligence.
Manned or unmanned, it
makes no difference, as
my house sits outside
any published flight plans.
This much I know.
That leaves me
as their sole purpose
for being HERE,
their target.
It leaves me,
also, the only one bothered.
Hell, the only one
to even acknowledge
the strangeness of
their presence.
But like everything else,
what can I do?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
So as always,
I grit my teeth,
force a smile,
and pretend I
don’t notice.
It’s harder than it looks.
by Matthew Armagost
January 2016 | poetry
You said
I could be anything
So I became “Me”
But then
You said
That “Me” was too
Cliché
Predictable
Counterfeit
So I became
A sunflower
stretching with every fiber
of my being
toward the sky
toward the light
But you didn’t like that
You said
I set my sights too high
So I became a tortoise
stagnant
relying on my complacency and
not my accountability
But you quickly grew bored of me
You said
That I took things too slow
So I became a feather
bending and waning
vulnerable to impurities
and
emotional cacophony
lilting.
But then
You said
I was too soft
I traded hats with a thousand strangers
and nothing seemed to fit
your rules
So I became a cardboard box
With my edges fraying
And a sticker marked FRAGILE
Slapped on my left side
You put me in storage
And let me become
Worn
Weathered
Broken
And when you took me out again
My sticker had fallen off
And I wasn’t FRAGILE anymore.
The edges of me started to disintegrate
Until
I was just matter
Even though
all this time I felt like
I Didn’t.
by Piper Wood
