October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Bryan Sisk
I’m reading a book of poetry
by Robert Frost,
an American master.
I can smell the dirt and
hear the rustle of trees
as I flip through the leaves.
I found the book at a library sale,
fifty cents.
On the inside cover is an inscription
scrawled in crooked adolescent script
by someone making the jump
from print to cursive,
pencil to pen.
“To Dad,
my poetic
father”
I never bought my dad
books of poetry.
Every holiday it was
fishing lures and underwear.
These gifts went a long way
on father-son fishing trips.
Lures taught me to fish and
sometimes brought dinner.
Underwear served its
obvious purpose,
but also served as
a coffee filter in desperation.
With these simple gifts,
my dad led me through
the rites of passage
into my own manhood.
I hope my turn comes
to lead a son of my own
through his adolescence.
Teaching him to risk losing a lure
for the perfect cast,
and to portage
when the river runs dry.
And I hope he gives me gifts
of fishing lures, underwear
and poetry.
One can lead a happy life
with these simple gifts.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Seizing Optimism
Tangled in a ruthless sea of anxiety and adversity,
my lungs crave the cool clarity of the air
but fail to conquer the destructive consistency
of this hurricane’s warfare.
My eyes sting with the salt of my past,
But still I see a glimpse of the light of relief.
I struggle to make this speck of oxygen last
as I’m swallowed by these waves of defeat.
Hurled into the shady blue depths of catastrophe,
Straining to defy the wrenching current of cynicism,
I dig my nails deep into the sand and into my sanity,
searching desperately in every seashell for wisdom.
I extend my arms toward the glowing luminosity of liberation
and kick my feet against the consumption of this sea.
Breathing purely off wilting hopes and determination,
I refuse to let this ocean of drowning dreams engulf me.
Breaking through into the atmosphere of belief,
I gasp for emancipation and breathe in gulps of hope
as I closely clutch the seashell from beneath
that has taught me how to float.
Having Faith
As I shed my leaves I become drenched with vacancy and despair
because without each of my blooms in this chill I feel completely worthless and bare,
each encompassing a story, a memory, a lesson, a regret,
leaves of love, leaves of pain, some leaves I wish I could forget,
but each had branched together to complete a singular tree
colored with life and specks of beauty and authenticity.
They glide gently to the ground, carried by the soft grace of the wind,
so effortless and peaceful, yet I feel so empty and thinned.
The cold becomes colder and my loneliness remains thick and dark.
I rapidly lose hope, feeling incompetent dressed in only a bland sheet of bark,
but the welcoming rays of Spring arrive and paint over the wintry gloom,
and in contrast to all of my negativity, a new batch of leaves I blissfully begin to bloom.
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, 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
