July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
(truth-harmony-beauty:
the necessary conditions
to create or perceive a Bonsai)
i
In Santa Monica, on a crowded Promenade
I stare at the tiny tree on the tilted cart
At the silent, knuckle-thick trunk
That angles impossibly down.
Bristlecone Pine. Cascading.
Dwarfed by pruning, training.
I have been told:
To see a Bonsai
Forget that branches have been wire-coaxed
That pea-sized lead has hung for years
Forget trimmed roots
Forget conifer tips
Plucked between ball of thumb and finger.
Forget the salesgirl who smokes a French cigarette
To spite her worn-out boyfriend.
He waits on the stool, my perfect mirror,
Staring into the crowd of unfamiliar faces.
His arms reach back.
Forget my mother in her bath, closing the door.
You’re too old now, she says with an awkward smile.
Or:
The hand of measured fingers
that hush the baby’s mouth –
small, noisy o.
Or her ping-pong fists, pounding at my chest.
ii
To see a Bonsai, shrink into
Its crafted grace, five-needled fascicles
Branches suspended as if draped over a ravine
As if you draped over that ravine.
Everything must go, they say.
Ignore:
The blue-gray light of television
Muted voices, costumes of the past
A family of three, watching wistfully.
On the other hand:
Here’s my father at my own boy’s arm:
Trying to wrest a towel my boy will not surrender.
I forgot those fingers.
How the unknown assaulted him by existing.
How much vengeance he hoped to extract.
At night, when no one was watching,
He grew very small.
Cut tongue. Stumped root. Chest of tools.
I watch him at the plumbing
Twisting against the unyielding world.
My own arms reach back
To the dinner where we talk about manners
But not the oak tree that fell in the storm
Exposing our academic life to the neighbors.
Faces screwed up from the inside.
Show of a smile
imitation of a perfect
imitation.
iii
To see a Bonsai, the Masters advise:
Don’t shake the tree loose of its crumpled form —
Shake the idea of the crumpled form loose from the tree.
As in:
My mother’s shroud draped across my face.
As if I agreed to pack
What we could’ve torched on any summer night.
I drive past my parents as they walk
Arm in arm. I call, but they do not
recognize my voice.
In the mirror, I watch them recede, vexed.
This is any summer night.
This is the overgrown pool, teeming with croaking frogs.
There is the real moon, deemed untouchable.
Like a cracked, windswept pine
at night on the cliffs
old, awake, alone—
There must be an original tree.
iv
If only the Bonsai remains
Who then is watching?
Or a handful of pale water
content to be held
content to flow.
Come, moon, patient and familiar
no longer cluttered with history.
My mother and father
One hand for each—
We’ll sing the old, rustling mantra:
Evergreen, evergreen, evergreen.
Here’s a quiet walk. Here’s a trackless forest.
Here’s a shakuhachi flute, unattended.
by Roger Soffer
Roger Soffer has written, and sometimes produced, miniseries and feature films for networks and studios, and is currently doing three bilingual animated features for China. His poetry has been Pushcart Prize-nominated and is featured or forthcoming in many journals, including Pennsylvania English, Spillway, Jet Fuel Review, and Euphony.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Let it burn
until all that is left
is a black crisp
of dehydrated exoskeleton jerky.
What do I care?
I did not create this place.
I did not ask to play this game.
I did not stuff the coal shafts.
I did not dig the oil wells.
I did not clamor for the goldmines.
I did not manifest destiny
across the desert
with a mind obsessed
on material diversions of the flesh.
Let it burn
until the stars in the sky
have nothing left
to shine down upon.
Let it burn
until the sun extinguishes
from its own
existential exhaustion.
What do I care?
I didn’t build the Model-T.
I didn’t pave the asphalt road.
I didn’t plan the concrete jungle.
I didn’t send the ships
across the sea
with hopes of New Atlantis
in the distance.
Let it burn
until Sherman’s fire
pales like a glow light in comparison.
Let it burn
until the Apocalypse
rises up in molten magma
through volcanic outburst tantrums.
What do I care?
I didn’t write the Holy Verses.
I wasn’t the one
inspired by God
to lie false prophecies
into the hearts and minds of Man.
I didn’t slaughter the natives.
I didn’t enslave other races.
I didn’t stomp on Pagan grounds.
I didn’t erect churches
atop conquered lands.
I didn’t start the wars.
I don’t need to finish the job
that other animals began.
Let it burn
until the flag is stripped
of blue and white stars and stripes
and all that remains is red.
Let it burn
as a beacon
atop the flaming hill
as a lesson about the fall.
What do I care?
I didn’t taste the forbidden fruit.
I didn’t kiss the serpent.
I didn’t fuck the liar.
I didn’t drink the venom.
I didn’t suck the poison.
I didn’t breed the cancer.
I didn’t dig the shallow grave.
Let it burn
until the bones are ash
and the marrow evaporates
into a chemical combustion revelation.
Let it burn.
Let it cry.
Let it whine.
Let it bitch.
Let it moan.
What do I care?
I didn’t promise it
a single damn thing.
I didn’t ask it to love me.
I didn’t need it to want me.
I didn’t beg it to birth me.
I didn’t buy the ticket.
I didn’t sign up for the ride.
Let it burn
until the plastic faces
are melted
on the Sunset Strip
and the haughty egos
catch flame on Boardwalk.
Let it burn
from the outside in
so the rotten core
is the last space to smolder into oblivion.
What do I care?
I didn’t come here to save the world.
I didn’t offer a quick fix resolution.
Let it burn.
The Phoenix is waiting in the wings.
by Scott Outlar
Scott Thomas Outlar survived the chaos of both the fire and the flood…barely. Now he spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over life’s existential nature. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Yellow Chair Review, Calliope Magazine, The First Line, and Harbinger Asylum.
July 2015 | back-issues, nonfiction
I haven’t said my skin is ash. I hyperpigment where the band of my sports bra rests, where a racer back runs rigid between my blades, where my favorite strand of pearls wants to lay. I sliver tiny shavings of my skin where these polka-dots amass. I fragment, and I flake, but I fold myself in scarves and sweatshirts so nobody sees.
I haven’t said this collects on every person’s skin, just better on mine. It appreciates the four hours every weekday I spend outside, where it can absorb the hot, humid air. It appreciates that I sweat when I work out, that I moisten it, that I quench its thirst. It appreciates that I supply it with neighbors too—like asthma and celiac. Yes, this appreciates me.
I haven’t said my skin is scales. Fine scales. Pale scales. Pink scales. In the shower, when I exercise, after sunlight. My flesh courses itself into rigid plates. On my back, they look like uneven roof tiles arranged in concentric layers. Patches overlap from head toward toe. Between freckles, they sink their uneven edges like teeth into my ribcage. They indent and project and flex and multiply, and multiply, and multiply.
I haven’t said Malassezia furfur. Since this inhabits my skin, it will return. Since this can’t leave, I can only hope the pale pigment patches on my right shoulder and the russet spots on my spine blend with my natural Band-Aid colored tone. Since I can’t seem to shake this species that shadows me, I’ll keep itching.
I haven’t said my skin is rash. I apply lotion, shampoo, cream, foam, soap. I want to control this, to keep it from growing. Over-the-counter, prescription, topical, homeopathic, breathable, non-greasy, hypoallergenic, who cares. This is here to stay.
by Ruth Towne
Ruth Towne is an emerging author from Southern Maine. The Literary Yard recently featured her piece “Four Passages” on their website, and Blotterature published her short “This Is More Than Homesickness” in their Winter 2015 issue. She currently studies Professional Writing and Information Design but loves creative writing. When she is not working, she loves to visit her family’s camp and explore the New England woods.
