July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Early purple
blooms of cosmea,
in the sparse grasses,
in the granulated earth,
pierced and punctured,
between two roses struggling:
their roots tangle,
squeezing each other
until one submits
and sumptuous oils
catch and then release
their differences.
Glazed with spice
and salt, the roots
dig deep into the secrets,
lessons learned
from The Day After,
scavenging for sustenance,
and from the love bombs,
roses enweaved
with yellow buds,
all racing to be first
to reach the surface,
by thrusting upwards
through the clouds,
growing faster
to taste the cold
water of victory.
Late harvest this winter:
olive tears, dropping branches
trimmed from existence,
pitched into the graves
of the giant groves,
sinking deep and covered
by the smell of sweet
jasmine blooming,
their tangled,
intertwined vines
now all growth
to dust and dying,
from those that
grew before them.
by Kristina Blaine
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
all who wander are lost in some
scape – land of mind, body;
until moon sings to sun of the last
vine of being: weaves forth
the stardust of all folks into unparalleled
pulse, blood unburdened: tangled
along the curve of earth’s spine.
by Renee Hamlin
Renee Hamlin is a student transferring to the University of California, Riverside in fall 2012 to study Creative Writing. In spring 2012, she took a literary magazine course, which published the 2012 issue of the Suisun Valley Review, and was humbled by the tiny, tiny taste of the editor’s world that it gave her.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusements sake,
like gigantic
lustrous
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth
graceful
class.
Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.
But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the colorless upholstery
as I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.
Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.
by Cliff Weber
Cliff Weber is 25 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books, Matzo Ball Soup, Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 and Remain Frantic, all available on lulu.com. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes and Burning Word, among others.
