October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Toast to the Aftermath
Our angels have traded their binoculars for krugerrands.
They send their regrets along with brochures from islands where the dollar
still buys luck.
Our keepsakes packed in knapsacks, we recite conspiracy theories by heart,
migrating under the cover of trees.
Collect warnings like family recipes and hide them in the grass.
Dilute panic with apathy. Shake. Then serve the mix on ice.
Before global mayhem, a morass of days must be endured.
Work: winding the time around your hands like an endless yarn.
Try to stay alert.
The last ships departing will look like toys through the haze.
These signs will prepare you for cataclysms
for which you cannot prepare.
Another round, please, for the uncertainties that now nag no more
than a foaming fizz stings the tongue.
Watchers
Years ago
they cut down
the dead oak
I had watched from my window
to build a house
over there.
So full of crows then,
their dark complacency
from rotting branches,
their blue-black
staring, endless, at me,
the oak’s branch tips
extending upward like fingers
of a child reaching
for comfort or answers,
the oily crows
waiting for something
from me.
Years,
and still they watch
from a void over there,
dead oak gone,
a blank sky with its ghostly
imprint smeared
blue and gray,
a child reaching her hand upward
waiting for permission to tell
her awful secret.
Georgia Kreiger lives in Western Maryland, where she teaches literature and creative writing. Her poems have appeared in Earth’s Daughters The 2River View, poemmemoirstory, The Orange Room Review, Literal Latté, Poet Lore, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Outerbridge, Backbone Mountain Review and others.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Elaina Perpelitt
The nauseous breath of change blows bravely
into my warring heart, saying gravely
I have a greater calling
outside my parents’ house where the garden
dies annually, a sickly warden
of youth, ever stalling.
I pray to a different God today
than yesterday, a funeral away.
This God sends me spinning
into adulthood with a Dev’lish wink.
Not ready, I bend over the kitchen sink
a child, a coward, a beginning,
seeing nothing but distorted distortion;
potential fleshing out of proportion.
But then!
I see a vision perfected.
One day
I’ll come back with mask of sagging skin,
stomach settled, and I’ll see the garden
Die and be resurrected.
Elaina Perpelitt is a student at Chapman University. When she’s not writing film and play scripts, she’s writing poetry and novels.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Dream Disease
You be the building and I’ll be the fire.
She’ll be the one on the funeral pyre.
All night and day I will dance around you
and climb you, as I try to escape these
twirling images. At the moment I no longer
want to deal with these words that drip
like blood, each one a little city etched
with a smoky memory or two of something
mildly to severely traumatic. Sometimes I
just don’t want to wake up to a face, I want
to wake up to birds chirping and being blown up
by shotguns and songs about big black rivers, a
paisley haze. Every day I grow more tired of
your tiredness, of your wavering abjection, of
the way you and your country try to suppress it all
with drugs, staving off dreams like they are disease.
Snowy Hell
Sorry, I fell into a pit of flowers
and could not climb out for a while
because the stems kept breaking
and the petals started rotting
and I got sick from the smell.
Later I woke up on a cold California
beach, dragged out by someone who cleaned
me up with bleach, dragged out by someone
who had arms enough to reach into my
jagged heart that’s space deep.
Here I am I guess, people tell me I’m pretty
but I suffer from an ugly private paralysis.
Here I am I guess. Please give me your best.
Sorry, I fell into a pit of flowers,
I started playing solitaire, got distracted
for hours. And then the stems kept breaking
and the flowers started rotting and I got sick
from the smell, and then I woke up on a beach;
someone had dragged me out of that snowy hell.
Drea Jane Kato was born in the great state of California and was raised Buddhist by a gypsy-like artist mother and a Japanese farmer who currently grows pineapples in Hawaii. She is a Capricorn, Dragon, INTJ, HSP, Atheist, singer/songwriter, abstract painter/artist, iPhone photographer who likes yoga, fasting, and the beach. She has been published in magazines such as The Blue Jew Yorker, My Favorite Bullet, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Beat, Ditch, Pomegranate, ReadThis Magazine, Otis Nebula, and Alternativereel.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Danny Earl Simmons
Her words slide
across the page
like a lap dance
and grind against
the very base of you.
She writes
like a runaway
without options;
uses what God gave
and what men take.
She digs on the sweat
and the panting
and the smoke
and the rush of blood
to the head
from the whiskey
she pours down your throat,
and you open wide.
She knows
she’s an addiction
and winks
at the weakness
of you,
reduces you to words
you read over
and over again.
Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and pops in when his work schedule allows. He works for Knife River and currently serves on the Board of Directors of Albany Civic Theater.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Below the snow-pack, under the flat tangle
of matted grass, gently squirming beneath
the force-field of the frost line
live les vers de terre, their cryptic trails
umbilically twisting toward the winter crust.
I’d like to think that it’s summer Down Under,
Worms on holiday from noxious flocks
and the deadly tread of feet.
And when Spring, sensed like a womb-heard
heartbeat, melts the inhibitions and ignites
the slick ambitions of The Few, The Strong,
The Rebel-Worms, to take a slide on the wild side,
up, where the world is dry and frightful;
will I find their wriggling courage to say
to the flowers and the giants,
“Eat my dust!”?
Constance Kramer is a microbiologist by training, but explores the visible and invisible world with poetry and short fiction, also. She resides in Tallmadge, OH.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
the enlightened inquisitor
We are meaningless bolts of animalistic cruelty
lost in working class delusion;
enthusiastic mimes latching onto shriveled worries.
The blood of the gutless man
emerges from infected wounds.
Annihilating creativity upon contact,
this gaudy, guile puss
waits upon a terrace of glistening destruction.
Eventually this handsome camouflage
melts into a pool of greasy defeat.
With the right weapons
it always will.
every night
I wish that every night
you could come over
and we could sleep in past noon.
we could skip all of our
damn responsibilities,
face the alarm clock against the wall,
wake up when it feels right
and cook breakfast naked.
we could drink expensive Cabs all night.
we could get higher and higher,
higher and higher
and never come down.
we could stumble to a nearby deli,
our laughs echoing across Hollywood.
we could snack on the finest cheese
and dance around the Numark.
we could make love for hours;
on the couch,
in the kitchen,
and a grand finale on the balcony.
we could do all of this
every night.
Cliff Weber is 24 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published two books, “Matzo Ball Soup” in 2009 and “Jack Defeats Ron 100-64” in 2010. A new collection will be available in 2011. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Physiognomy in Letters, Bartleby Snopes and Out of Our. Weber is currently in need of a book publisher.
