April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Green Lion Devouring the Sun
1.
Once again Z.’s following in the tracks of dad. Unlike Z. dad hasn’t
escaped the ravages of time—save for the new legs that he’s using to
snowboard through the streets. “Where’d you get those?” Z. asks.
“Don’t know, but the powder’s fantastic!”
2.
Come to think of it: Z. wakes in a fetal position
3.
After breakfast Z. curls up with Strindberg. All this vitriol
and dross for the taking
Rage, Rage
1.
Night. A little wine is spilled. The age-old drama is reenacted
not far from the church steps
2.
August and Pelagia drag out the usual knives and scrapers
and work on each other until they’re nothing but a lattice
of bone and the foul shop
3.
The next morning they look somewhat refreshed. He tries
to cozy up. Put a good spin on things
“Leave it alone,” she says. “You can’t be evil 5 of 7 days
and nice on 2”
“But you said you were evil all 7”
“Your evil is worse”
—Rex Swihart
R L Swihart currently lives in Long Beach, CA, and teaches secondary school mathematics in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in various online and print journals, including Right Hand Pointing, 1110, decomP, Posit, and Lunch Ticket. His first collection of poems, The Last Man, was published in 2012 by Desperanto Press.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
There are uncertainties traversing our unknowns
despite the trolls we’ve ostracized under the bridge
of our relationships. These ogres contemplate
us from the abutments of our past: how and when
and where to snatch us by our limbs. At night when we
are drifting down to sleep we glimpse the glistening
of their red tethered eyes reflecting off the walls.
It’s not the gentle cycle of our snores we feel
but their hot breaths in the pulsing of blinking lights.
On Sunday afternoons when the lazy sparrows of
our lives should linger on our beds, it’s not the flutter
of wings echoing through the heavy air, but the gobbling
of feathers, the chewing of bones, the slow grind of dull teeth,
the grunts below our naked feet splintered by the crossing.
—Aden Thomas
Aden Thomas lives in Laramie, Wyoming. His work has been featured in Dressing Room Poetry Journal, The Common Ground Review, and The San Pedro River Review.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
he couldn’t stop his dreams–
each night he’d fall down a mountain
where him & our dead grandpa,
in his army greens would roll
around in a haybarn & my brother would–
out of nowhere–grow enormous tits;
grandpa would grope and suck
so as not to be sucked himself
into the vacuous sun-hole suck-shining
in the sky. When my brother woke up
he felt no horror but an overwhelming
sense of accomplishment. It seemed,
he confessed, through a cascade
of tears and thick saliva, heavenly…
This for real happened
on the way home from middle-school.
Mom was driving the dirty white Prelude &
at the intersection of after
him telling it, us conjuring it,
she pulled over and cradled his head into her chest,
caressing him violently and weeping
in the afterschool sunlight.
—Corey Spencer
Corey Page Spencer is a student of NYU’s Literature and Creative Writing program. Hailing originally from South Carolina he currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with his girlfriend and his pit-bull Hank. His work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and SOFTBLOW.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
Look at it this way. They forced you to wear a hair net. Because your locks were too long for the rusted chicken-fried-steak trailer, that grease-pit concession-stand prison uglifying the edge of the racetrack. As if the orangutan with rotted-out teeth on the other side of the counter, the dude standing there with chewing-tobacco drool, slobbering all over himself, drenched in day-old sweat, the dude on his fifth can of Stroh’s, hell bent for the grandstand with his skeletal meth-head girlfriend to watch modified cars drive around in a circle for two hours–that dude–like he would give a shit if one single hair from your head wound up in his chicken-fried steak sandwich. Look at it that way. They forced you to wear a hair net. They got what they deserved. They all got what they fucking deserved.
—Gary Singh
Gary Singh is an award-winning journalist with a music degree who publishes poetry, paints and exhibits photographs. As a scribe, he has published hundreds of works including travel essays, art and music criticism, profiles, business journalism, lifestyle articles, poetry and short fiction. He is a sucker for anything that fogs the opposites of native and exotic, luxury and the gutter, academe and the street.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
My Mother is Buried
My mother is buried on wind-swept
high-ground in a tiny ignored
cemetery.
The grass-spare plots are surrounded
by immaculate plowed fields
that never see a crop.
Every month I buy artificial flowers
at Wal-Mart and stuff them
into a cone filled with green
styrofoam, then
I get on my knees and pull weeds
away from the base of the tombstone.
Usually, I set up a lawn-chair and read
her poetry.
As far as I know she never read poetry
in her entire life, but she did
read the Bible so I always include a few
psalms.
Mostly though, the poetry is for myself
hoping that somehow that is okay.
Lately I’ve been reading her Blake.
Sometimes I read Herbert or Hopkins
thinking that maybe she would like
them better.
If I am there late in the day I usually get
drunk and have to sleep awhile before
I drive home.
One warm summer night, last July, I fell asleep
(passed out) and woke up at three a.m.
to a gray fox trying to eat the yellow
and blue plastic flowers.
Sky over Indian Hills
Silk-screened pink sky tucks behind
the four mesas, the
four of them a worm-hole to the west, and
Comanches, only a hundred years gone.
I lean against oak trees with purple-brown
leaves, some falling like dead dark
snow, while my heels dig
into the sand of an overgrown peanut field.
Sky darkens but still is dominant,
the earth a postcard. Fleeting memory is a
plaything of the infinite and soon the stars will
laugh at the tiny trees and miniature creek.
Hills darken and are gone, pink gone too,
everything consumed by hungry time
and heaven.
I sit long into the night,
coyotes in the distance,
leaves rattling in the woods.
I think that means birds but it might mean
wild hogs.
I go back to the cabin that I have left well
lit, the brightness reminding me that I am
alive and important. Just a ruse really.
I know that in the morning the sky will
be blue and the Indian hills will
be the focus of the sun.
—John T. Waggoner
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
People eating people, symptom of our times,
like curbside recycling or socialized health care,
back to nature, slow food – just look at my neighbor –
enough for me and you, or at least for me, enough for
what comes around to go around. Remember good
old Uncle Jimmy? A real tough guy, they always said,
but hey, that’s what stew pots are made for.
—Jeffrey Park
Jeffrey Park’s poetry has appeared most recently in UFO Gigolo, streetcake, The Camel Saloon, and the science fiction anthology Just One More Step from Horrified Press. A native of Baltimore, Jeffrey currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school. Links to all of his published work can be found at scribbles-and-dribbles.com.
