September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for Michael Koop)[/i]
Grandma died suddenly and crushed us kids,
Who were unprepared for
The staggering loss
That old people and families manage so well.
The Family stumbled.
Things were said
That echo faintly,
Even now.
But Family is family,
Which is why
Grandma is a sweet memory,
Not a bitter one.
It seems to me that your Family did it right,
Gathering,
And your tears seem
Much of denouement,
Less of loss.
Family is family, and your loss is
Near to mine.
So I didn’t go.
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
the poem is
just beneath the
skin
the skin is pale and
easily opened
what happens though
is this
i find myself
out of words
out of breath on
the front steps with
the roses i bought
already fading
with apologies falling
dead
from my lips
and if i’m not a
person you could ever
love and if
you don’t have the strength
to hate me
then what?
we are all afraid in
the thin air
of passing days
held to the ground by
the sheer grey enormity
of the sky
by the lack of
possibility
one among us just
waiting for the
perfect moment to step
forward and be
crucified
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
and she is there
at the edge of the field
she is gathering flowers
and the sky
surrounds her
we are not lost
we are not forgotten
we are hopeful
and the book of days is empty
and in the town we left behind
the poets have all
been hung
this is the truth
everywhere
this is the sound of crows
after three months with
no rain and she
is there
she is gathering flowers
and they turn to dust in her
delicate hands and
the poem inside her heart was
never meant to be read
was never
meant to be written
and the dust falls through
her fingers with the slow
grace of angels
and we are far from home
but hopeful
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
but the horse is
crippled
the rider blind
the doors of the weak
are always waiting
to be kicked in and
i have been promised
rain for
three months now
i have watched
the rivers fade to
dust
i have watched the
hand that holds the flame
reach out to the burning boy
and the smell of his pain
was familiar
the sound of trains
unmistakable
and the screams of young girls
as the showers were
turned on
this is destruction
far beyond the feeble scope
of god
do you understand?
the mother is starving
and has nothing to eat but
her child
the child is sick
and will be dead before
the season of famine
is over
if the word you choose is
[i]mercy[/i]
there will be no one
with the courage to
listen
September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for John Swenning)[/i]
Enchanted – listening there to subterranean conflicts of love,
Lad and Dad, dark echoes of me and my old man.
That invitation tendered – and declined – would have rendered skill
In me, wisdom of the knotty, passionate weal
Of reciprocal head-butting that embraces love and hate between
Father and son, tethering them like cats on a clothesline, clawing,
Incessantly united, minutely, painfully aware
Of the wefts of each other. No other souls mingle in the play.
Had I hefted that proffered burden, I would now be steeped
In the loving turmoil, been counted wise in that hour when the
Circle dissolved, dispersing discord, leaving only love and despair.
The poetry you sing of your old man dwells within me,
A bittersweet echo of mine, of mine.
So I learn through hollow bulletins that I am forever banned
By time and choice from the mysteries of you and your father.
I am forbidden past the outer rim of your grief.
I don’t know what thing I regret the most.
August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Fighting[/b]
we square off
just outside the bar
this all started when
he looked me dead in
the eyes and said:
“what the fuck are you
looking at, motherfucker?”
he outweighs me by fifty pounds
and stands six inches taller
I’m hopping up and down in place
and he’s still trying to get
his jacket off, while his
old lady is screaming at him
to kick my ass.
he is watching the swelling crowd
taking in all their bullshit
and believing it, when
he should be watching
me
I’m jumping out of my
skin
seeing everything
so clearly that the edges
of my vision
threaten to grate
against each other
and crack into a million
pieces.
“fuck it” i think
and for a second, i swear to god that
i love this half drunk red-neck and
his half tore up old lady.
i throw up a half dozen
ghost punches
1 2 3
1 2 3
light as air
a secret heart of
violence
lies at the center
of all men.
his arms struggle free
of his jacket
and i watch it flutter to
the ground
for a second it becomes
a pure wave
in the strong wind.
when it hits the ground
i am moving in.
light on my feet.
ready for pain.
my fists feel
like lightning.
howitzers.
[b]Cricket Music[/b]
stoned on a
hill top in
oklahoma
when suddenly
the band struck up
a cacophony
a blitzkrieg
an orchestra
ten million crickets
banging away like
crazy
on ten million little
gongs
cymbals
and tambourines
angry little jazz
crickets
we were
a little bit
amazed.
[b]Country music[/b]
steel guitars
and banjos
and clanging
honky-tonk
piano
the sweet
harmonies
that sound like
you’ve heard them
all your life,
and you have,
you can still remember
your mother doing
a little two step
across the kitchen
floor one day
while you were
still hanging
low in her
belly.
just think back far enough.
if you’ve ever smoked
a joint and
listened to willie nelson
hum magic
or jerry jeff
tell us how he got it all wrong
again
or hank snow
mourn for frauline…
well, then you feel it.
cause in the end
they tell us that he
is from the south
and that she finally
left him,
and that he is drunk again,
and that his heart is
sick
and will never heal
and that even this
is beautiful.
by Joel Abel
([email]cricketbomb [at] yahoo [dot] com[/email])
