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, 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.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Most things are not the end
Of the world. You know this.
But on this day
You can’t hold the world’s atoms together
Not with the muscles of your mouth
Still making the shape
Of the last thing you said to him.
Not with blood under fingernails
From hanging too long
Like a gymnast spinning a slow koan
Against gravity.
The last person you loved
Was an avalanche, dear
To you once in a way
That flattened the landscape.
Where does love go after
You press it into the ground
With a face full of blood and
vomit in its hair?
It would not be the first thing
Ever to rise from the dead.
You’ve done it yourself more than once,
Taught yourself how to die and come back
Between eye-blinks
Without anyone knowing.
—Jenny Williamson
Jenny’s work has been featured in 24Mag, Wild River Review, Poetic Voices, and in Philadelphia’s Writing Aloud series. Jenny also received recognition from the Academy of American Poets and NPR’s Young Poets Series.
April 2014 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
She hops down from the dump truck’s crusty side
and climbs up into the earth mover as graceful
as a gymnast, pony tail bouncing
behind her John Deere baseball cap.
She wields the blade
of the machine and in minutes
levels a great mound of soil
into flat-out respect.
The admiration in which I held my ex-wife
comes to mind. How
when the pipes leaked
she slid under the sink
wrench in hand, saving the day
while I just held her flashlight.
But this is about a woman
who moves the earth
with just her fingers
on the leash of a great yellow beast,
and though she’ll never know,
holds me in the palm of her hand.
—Bill Wunder
Bill Wunder’s poems have twice been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, and in 2004 he was named Poet Laureate of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. His poems have been a finalist in The Robert Fraser Poetry Competition, The Mad Poet’s Society Competition twice, and The Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards three times. He has previously been featured in Burningword Literary Journal and was included in Burningword Ninety-Nine, A Selected Anthology of Poetry 2001-2011.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
The air has split
open, and
the townspeople
are dropping
in heaps.
They’re falling
asleep:
belly-down
on swings,
splayed on
the sun-specked
riverbank,
hunched over
on park benches.
Snores push
upwind, around
the brick
outhouse, onto
the streets. No
one’s awake to
notice.
Outside a house, sixteen tiny flags still line the front lawn,
leaning in the wind like sixteen tiny matadors
swaying, not stepping, on beat.
Inside, a baby sits before a silent television,
crumpling a newspaper in her fists just for the sound.
From afar, the town is a nova crackling,
almost vanishing, reappearing, on the horizon.
—Mia Hood
Mia Hood is a doctoral student and graduate instructor at Teachers College, Columbia University and Assistant Professor of Practice at Relay Graduate School of Education. She teaches teachers. Previously, she taught middle school students how to read better and write better. She keeps a blog called Dinosaur Sweaters.
