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.
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.
