AN IMMIGRANT’S TALE
It was a wide sea
in those days,
when I was seventeen
and the world was screened off
by sky and clouds,
staying put was the only scenario,
with me on land, grounded,
still in the clothes my mother paid for
and with just a few dollars in my pocket.
I could barely flow with rivers
let alone cruise the jet streams.
There was no clear way
out of my life and into any other.
A rumpled look,
a few friends,
a limited knowledge of sensation,
I really felt my age –
young but preordained.
So how did I ever get here?
From an uncle’s advice
at a backyard cookout
to the other side of the world?
From a warm Christmas with family
to a long December with snow on the ground?
I could give you a list of snap decisions,
coincidences, odd choices, haplessness,
hopelessness, pure luck, and a youthful
preference for romance over responsibility.
But I prefer to end this with…
here I am.
And I can look back.
There’s still a sea out there.
But I see beyond it now.
There’s always another shore.
Luke Dylan Ramsey
No Mama No Papa No Whiskey Soda
I live exactly there: among
the ruins of you… ranting
and looting and raving—zooted
off to a liminal extreme
peanut butter and honey and a pipe
riding a mind—inside, an empty
pool built of desiccating susurrations
I am lonely but I survive
even thriving—the water yells out
its inane tomfoolery—picking at shells
I excuse myself… also you: I excuse you
even though… well, I really shouldn’t
English boy, English boy
surrendering more every passing day
an empire for the sun—no longer
conquering me
Stephen A. Rozwenc
Off to the park
Just inside black iron gate posts
Along a row of pew type benches
For bemused parishioners
Two frizzy haired priestesses
Clad in street-stained joking suits
And a beard-spittled medicine man
Cloaked in a 30-gallon trash bag
In case of rain
Bob and weave
Rock and sway
Kick and spit ritual howls
As they pass
A brown bagged pint
Of cheap communion wine
Back and forth
Up and down
Gulp and giggle
Sublime and fickle
The universe favors
The compassionate
As the offer prayers
To the hawk and wild iris
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Here I Am
Here I am,
a simple man,
an older man,
I am estranged
with the term bride.
An old flame
is on my mind.
Can you believe that?
I feel nothing,
only loss.
The weight of life
has made me stall
the next chapter.
She is on my mind,
and she’ll never know.
What’s wrong with me?
I feel nothing.
I call her name.
I weigh my loss.
This poem will
will save my life.
I call bullshit.
Approach with caution.
Rip up this poem.
Cut up these words
and close your eyes.
The poem thrusts its
tongue and tucks it firmly
in a cheek. The left one
if you need to know.
There is no rhyme or
reason. The hour is late.
I take my leave.
Ian Patt
Poetic License
Bound for the Tetons,
I made my first stop in Missoula
with an old friend from undergrad.
He was still married to a curly-haired art major
he started seeing after a line from Virginia Woolf’s debut novel
provoked him to dump his high school flame.
Now he was an editor-in-chief of a lit mag who knew
some MFA candidates I spent the night drinking with.
One guy named Sam said he spent years
submitting serious poems to a prestigious magazine.
They accepted one last fall and mailed a check for $1,000.
Sam bought an apple tree and blew the rest on cigarettes and beer.
The tree survived one harsh winter in the front yard
before a drunk driver plowed through the chain-link fence
and demolished the fruits of Sam’s labor,
which he assured me over karaoke
was far more poetic than anything
he had, could, or would write.
Jeff Weddle
Monkey Business
He lived in the small apartment with his pet monkey and painted portraits of people who might have been. They sat for him in his cold rooms, glad for the attention, while he struggled to get everything right: the lighting, the skin texture, the philosophies, existential and otherwise, which guided their nonexistent days. The monkey had a friend, a monkey that never was. It had been abandoned in the apartment by one of the artist’s early subjects, and the two monkeys often got into mischief, sometimes pooping on the floor, often leaving banana peels to rot in corners or under a table. Neither the artist, obsessed with his work, nor the people who never were, could have possibly cared less. Most of them suffered from frustration, as you can imagine. Any small slight became tragic. Any favor an epic blessing. So, the men who never were called him a good fellow and patted his back. The women sometimes gave him the comfort of their potential bodies and sometimes only smiled mysterious smiles. He continued with his work, as always. In time, someone visited the studio, an actual person seeking an apartment. The visitor, a miser who lacked both compassion and imagination, found the artist, one monkey, and portraits on canvas stacked haphazardly around the place. It turned out the artist had not paid rent in quite some time, and so the new man had the monkey and he thrown into the street. This will make a fine home, he thought. It was cozy and comfortable enough, though a smell hung about the place. It was tropical and musky, perhaps a combination of shit and fruit. No matter. A good cleaning would do wonders. You never could tell what was hiding, close enough to touch, just beneath the veneer of the day. The artist found a new place to squat and kept to his task. The monkey that never was, now alone and unnoticed, was devastated. In the night, it often stood over the newcomer as he slept, ominous, waiting, with murder in its heart and silent as the Buddha. Sometimes it pissed in the man’s mouth, but he, upon waking, was not bothered in the least. He brushed his teeth, sometimes gargled, thought about nothing of importance, and went about his day.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
READY LOST
We are so alone in ourselves
Lost in the sea
Waves taking us where they will
Bone cold
Monsters below
Circling always circling
Single cell
Bobbing hell
Bloated and ready to pop
Thunder booms
Overhead clouds blackening
Rain choking
Wind howling
A whirlpool sucking
Gasping cries to God
We’re finally ready
For Him to send
A whale the size of Baltimore.
Marisa Cimbal
She does
She does, does, does. She dances in circles,
around his unpredictability, his platitudes,
his drinking and his drama, his constant
lack of accountability. She spins and swirls,
her body gyrating to the rhythm of the beat,
trying to stop the fluttering of her heart,
pins and needles in her head, the song
on the radio taunting her, “should I stay or
should I go?” She tastes the strands of her hair,
feels the sweat burning her lips, tingling in her toes
and she looks in the mirror. The reflection looks familiar,
but it’s not her, it’s him.
Dear Box Hair Color,
You make it easy to access the fountain of youth.
You never let me down. You’re not a liar like those other boxes,
“no more fine lines’ or “no more brown spots.”
As promised, you cover those greys that pop up like aliens,
trying to infiltrate my luscious brown locks and
transport me to Planet Aging on their silver spaceship.
They think they can win by gathering forces at the root,
but they are no match for the secret elixir
and never make it past the crown.
DW Chance
Trend Setters
The breeze turned cool
sometime this week,
cool enough to notice.
That’s the signal.
I’m about through here.
I owe the landlord, I owe the bar,
I owe a woman named Darlene
an apology she’ll never get.
Every bridge in town
burned down to the waterline.
The guys at the meetings call it
a geographic cure.
Pack the bag, catch the Greyhound,
start over.
But you never start over.
You just haul the same old crap
to a different zip code,
different days, different locals,
new people,
new victims.
I’ve done this enough
to do it right.
One bag. No goodbyes.
The motivation takes a while,
but it always shows up,
usually about the time
the money runs out.
Every town’s got a skid row,
or one step above it,
but just barely.
That’s where I step off the bus.
There’s always a flophouse,
rooms by the week,
a sink with a rust stain
shaped like Ohio,
a radiator that knocks all night
like somebody wants in.
And there’s always a bar
two blocks down
where the bartender learns my drink
by the second night
and never asks where I’m from.
Nobody there asks.
That’s the whole charm.
We get a few laughs.
We hook up with a few tired women
who want what we want,
a warm body and no questions,
and by Sunday
nobody’s fooling anybody.
Day labor when the rent comes due:
unloading trucks at 5 a.m.,
scrubbing pans in a kitchen
where the cook hates everybody.
Enough money, then I quit.
Then I’m free again,
free as a dog
nobody’s looking for.
We keep it up as long as we can.
The gutter takes us at fifty
if we’re lucky,
in bodies that clock in
at seventy-five.
Then a corner in potter’s field,
a number instead of a name,
the county paying for the hole.
Trend setters, every one of us.
Sooner or later everybody follows.
Daniel S. Irwin
Thoughts on a Sweet Halloween
Having kept the best part for himself
As he selected organs for his monster
Dr. Frankenstein soon became a very
HUGE hit with the ladies.
Okay, great, stuck in a rut.
Same ol’ routine every time.
Bite the neck, suck the blood.
Say, I haven’t been a vampire
All that long. Suck the blood
But maybe, sometimes, I just
Wanna lick the cunt.
The knock. Who could it be?
Open the door to pure terror.
Monsters? Gangbangers?
Racist bastards? Satan?
Young children scarred for life.
Sweet Jesus, it’s politicians!
The local bully was impressed
That the kids readily gave up
The candy they’d gotten
From old Dan Irwin’s house.
Hopefully, Butch will enjoy it.
No one else cared for the
Candy wrappers filled with
Fresh Chihuahua turds.
