October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
The Reality of It
satin smoothed to be bruised, eventually
like a car crash looming, sugar rush
glitter tears glass bits
snow fluff, spread
science says energy never ends –just changes form
garage sale lace discard
someone in the family owns a closet of black clothing for events such as this
twirling skirt, champagne glasses with lipstick stains
aghast, entwined in the silky mess
vase cracked, plum pits
shrivel
Hard Times
“In hard times, beauty can seem frivolous—but take it away and all you’re left with is hard times.” –Paul Madonna, Everything is Its Own Reward
gray matter mush, a heart attack
the older brother died at thirty-one
the younger one was picked up put away
his underpaid lawyer tired smiled patted shoulders
fifteen more months of under-seasoned “meat” –could be worse
salt water halo
i leave the door ajar while i sort refold repack the sweaters shirts jeans shorts
tags still attached until he gets back
a scavenger, i eat on food stamps and dig myself a sanctuary
in a compiled dust old junk grease stains house
spiders watch me shower
my saintly lover sighs and i apologize
we met at the start of shit falling apart
our summers bring bad drivers sweat cat hair everywhere
so, we take to the mountains
escaping the stink and thinking
for a week, climbing soggy cheese and trail mix
watching the kaleidoscope landscape crumble into night
he holds me steady, and i can breathe
A Tracing
advertising mind control
mouth ear finger head
a sponge –fucked
unruly
opaque
starlet envy
bleached blonde
diva decapitated
coffee smoke rings, the trash
hasn’t been picked up for weeks
erased painstakingly
protruding ribs and hips
distortion
teetering on patent leather boots
in black and white
a sliver crust, a dropped jar of pickles
dissidence
ignore it until it’s gone away
the graying sheets with makeup splotching
Amanda “Cal” Phoenix is an undergraduate student at Washburn University, in Topeka, Kansas. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta and has had work featured in Inscape and The Hobo Camp Review.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Jake DeHaai
His bright blue eyes provided the only color to the barren wasteland. The deep creases around his mouth told tales of violence, love, and loss. He walked across the decrepit highway, the realization had set in, he was alone. He was isolated. His past had hardened him, taught him to show no emotion. Yet his internal sadness had broken out of his hardened shell and was plastered on his face permanently. The emptiness of this land constantly reminded him that everyone he had ever loved, spoke to, or even glanced at—were dead.
Screaming. Buildings engulfed in fire. People burning, trying to run from imminent death.
He used to walk the path of God; but after seeing what man could do to each other, he had decided that there was no God, for no God could let its creation do this to one another.
All the man had done was walk. He was constantly on the move, on the run from his pain, sleeping wherever he could, but never for more than a few hours. The soldiers would find him if he did. Every day was just like the last, wandering, trying to survive as the pale gray sky loomed over him.
Eyes blinded by the bright light, which followed the ear shattering boom. The concussion knocked over buildings, uprooted trees.
Pieces of his past came to him, but only in snippets. His conscious was in turmoil, plaguing him with despair. But then he saw the town. It was like a distant desert oasis, luring him with food and safety. But soon skepticism took a hold of him. The soldiers patrolled the towns, looking for him. He gathered up his courage and decided to take his chances, for he needed food.
Upon approaching the town, with one hand on his pistol, he gazed out at the ramshackled buildings, lifeless and ruined, and his inner feeling of hope dispersed. He wandered the streets of the ghost town. The cracked pavement of the road and the dilapidated facades of the buildings set off an eery tone. The ruins of rundown park caught his eye. He could still see the frame of the rusted over swing-set. The metal merry-go-round was turning slowly in the breeze, creaking with each movement. He made his way toward a faded bench. Sitting on it he opened up his rucksack. It was littered with .44 bullets and empty tin cans. As he noticed the bullets, the realization of his situation started to set in. An idea expanded across his face. It was appealing, for he had no food, no water, no friends, no shelter, and no hope.
He took the pistol out of his belt, pressed the catch on the side. He sat there and watched as the clip fell to the ground. The ringing of the metal hitting the street filled the town with noise. He didn’t care. He slowly picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands. He sorted through his array of bullets and chose one. He brought it to eye level and gazed at it. It was weathered and scratched with age. He brought it back down and pushed it into the clip. He put the clip back in the gun and pulled back the slide. He felt the cold hard steel in his mouth as he was preparing to pull the trigger. He squeezed.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
low voices
God and i talk all day
in low voices. i’m driving
and he says something like
“did you know
the air pressure in one of those semi-truck’s wheels
is so great that they sometimes explode?
and when they do, they shoot off the axel like a rocket.
if you happen to be driving beside one
at just the right moment,
three hundred pounds of steel and hot rubber
comes smashing through your window
and takes your head clean off.”
“jeezus.”
“yeah. it happens every day, only
you don’t hear about it.
and do you know why that is?
because no suit makes a dime off random tragedy.
we’ve got home security systems,
public service announcements
for the endangered polar bear,
your choice of six dozen drugs
to keep you from bathing with your toaster,
but when it comes to those “unpreventable” events,
those deaths which have no patented and affordable cure,
mum is the word.
it kind of makes you wonder about things, you know?
like the connection between governmental policy
and the booming industry of medicine.”
“holy shit. take it easy on me, big guy.”
and he laughs,
“what i’m saying is that life is a gift,
and there’s really no time to shake the box or guess
at what’s inside. rip off the wrapping.
become a rock star, a monk, a father, a junkie
if that’s what you want. stop trying and just do.
roll down the windows, stomp the pedal,
but for Christ’s sake enjoy the ride.”
i’m feeling almost convinced
until some daft bitch cuts us off
in traffic, i punch the dash hard and
damn everything to hell.
a man picks up a lady of the night
a man picks up a lady of the night,
pays her to lie in bed beside him
’cause i’m afraid to die alone, says he,
pulls a gun from the pillowcase and
paints red the rented room.
he said [she says]
his dog don’t like loud noises
he wrote
the only end for me would be
to be dragonflies whose wings beat
in perfect and effortless syncopation
toward a torn-open hole in the sky
[six legs wave goodbye]
hauling down monuments to the tune of our instruments
blooming, but still asking why
lord God bless and curse the martyr who
fell madly in love with his own reflection who
[drunk with pride] dove headfirst into shallow water who
came face to face to face his sorry self
and the bottom of thy swimming pool in autumn
[for he was]
lost in thought / buried by leaves / reborn into the light
may the dog eared pages of his volumes speak
boldly through the throats of future ghosts forever
and ever amen
–Elias Van Son
Elias Van Son is a young artist living in the Catskill mountains of New York. His writing has appeared in ATOMICA, In Preparation, The Angle, and elsewhere. His first full-length book of poems Little Feather was published in 2009 by Some Blaze Free Press, and an EP of his language-based music is forthcoming from Steak and Cake Records.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Life…
“Life is what you make it,”
They told me. So
I made mine
sit down and
shut up.
I stuffed it
into a small, neat,
square and shiny
box.
I crammed a
ball gag
in its mouth
lest it embarrass me or
scream for help.
I chastised it
for coloring
outside the lines,
for singing too loud
in the shower—
for thinking for itself.
when my life
dared – to fidget,
I tied its hands together
with good, strong rope
made of moral fiber.
It starved—
became
weary and pasty.
Its limbs & lips
are now
colorless, dead.
Its eyes
faded and sank.
That neat and tidy
box is now
its casket— its tomb.
Found
Gauzy fibrous pipes –
melded pinwheels, or
lacy doilies crocheted by the sea.
Interlocking, united, porous
caverns
where invisible beasts
seek shelter.
Formed by the hand of Poseidon’s
own grace
joined by his caress
forged by his wrath.
In this universe
unknown & overlooked by
militant waves, these
miniscule worlds
rise & fall—
are created & destroyed
Information Inspiration
Invitation to…
Contact
Reflect
Release
Save a dying world.
Learn about:
Ecology
Conservation
Coral reefs
Rainforests
Ecosystems
What’s up.
Here’s your chance.
Experience Happiness—
Inspire Curiosity—
Art & Music
Fiction-Inspired Learning
Ensure continued access.
Upgrade your network.
Nominate someone.
Friends & Family welcome.
Here’s your chance.
Have and idea or
Ask a question.
Here’s your chance.
Enrichment
Quality
Culture
Do something
You’ll remember.
Here’s your chance.
Do something.
(Don’t miss out)
Deadline—
DO something
DO SOMEthing.
DO SOMETHING.
–HollyAnn Walls
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sick Day
I’m taking the day off
to mourn my life
which is not something
I can do at work
surrounded by computers
and codes.
Grief and regret – that one
we’re implored to deny –
can’t be codified.
They can be washed in tears
or taken for a walk
to the park, in the rain.
Or written down and out
in the hope of freedom
or better yet, redemption.
They can’t be summarized
into a memo to a choice few,
and copied to a few more.
Written quickly
and typed from memory,
that memo would be
an embarrassment
to the Professionals.
They would think, well,
she’s really lost it now,
telling us this. All the while
keeping back their own tears
welling up inside.
The Color of Wind
The end of his fingertips are pressed tightly against his eyelids,
praying for a color, a pink, a deep blue –
he knows nothing of pink or deep blue.
He knows the smell of watermelon
on a hot, humid day.
A seed gets spit onto a paper plate.
He knows the feel of seersucker against his legs –
that soft, corrugated cotton
moving with the breeze.
A bell rings on a quiet porch.
The wind blows an easy hello while he
makes his way through the living room.
Sitting on a chair in the shade
he listens to the bell chime
for his sound heart
and his telling tongue.
The wind greets him across the morning
through the wildflower fields
filled with the deep reds of poppies
the purple of flowering salvia.
Review of a Lifetime
There are angels in this city
with cameras slung round their necks.
Disguised as tourists, they take pictures
of us. Documenting our time on Earth.
Did you give the bum
a quarter or a smoke?
Did you cross at the light
or run when you could?
Did you smile at the stranger
as she snapped your photo
taking it to God for the review
of your life?
There are angels in this city
on the sidewalks, in the streets.
They are the cabdrivers, the waitresses,
the docents at the museum.
They are the clerks at Duane Reade
and the millionaires in their town cars.
They are the journalists of heaven
under the cover of humanity
watching over and watching us,
making sure we keep the pact
made at birth.
The deal of innocence
played out over a lifetime,
a wingspan, encompassing
all the hours
from birth to death.
–Nickie Albert
