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THE SMOKING POET |
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M. Rather, Jr. The Way She Perceives Them Has Much to
Do With Their Behavior She sees young men pulling their facial hairs, trying to fill their patchy faces. She, and these other women smile at fists, smile at soft arm punches. The welts grow. The young men’s wide stances, she refuses to see how their feet face forward and their shoulders crack like oaks. She, and these other women smile, pull back pale lips, and are not offended by the musk, tobacco leavings, and beer spills. If the young men were hunting, a silence would descend
upon them. Their ears would open and their throats close. She knows little of their silences, misunderstands
the thin eyes as sadness. She cannot
let them become men. Her arms remember plastic dolls she would place
on the couch cushion and cover in a food stained blanket. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ M. Rather,
Jr.’s work has appeared in Galleys Online, The Centrifugal Eye, Reed, A Generation Defining Itself V.7, Circus Diem:
Red White and Glue, Des Moines Register’s Artscene, 12th Planet, Idiolexicon, and Adagio Verse Quarterly.
He is currently pursuing a MFA in Creative Writing at ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mike
Donaldson Chai #14 despite the colour of the tikka the weave of the sari the occasion of the pilgrimage or the twirl of the moustache despite the flood of the
monsoon the drought of the Thar
or the avalanche of the Himalaya despite the length of the calloused fingers that have raised a culture by hand still, milk and sugar and crushed leaves brought to a boil within a steel pot is stained by an ointment that soothes the throat of a mass existing despite India her tears and her tea ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mike Donaldson
typically refers to ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ John-Franklin
Dandridge the lost art of passing notes in class They met in a chat room connected to their school after she broke up with her boyfriend who only had a dial-up connection and his girlfriend left him for a long
distance relationship that more fit her profile So with both their in-boxes emptied out they fell in love upon noticing that
they both used the same font and the ring tones
on their phones were recycled from the same website of pop tunes Soon they sent photos back and forth discovered they had friends with the same user names Two weeks of texting led to x’s
and o’s at the end of electric sweet nothings whispered in italics Then during lunchtime they had problems talking over tables as neither could
keep a clear signal She wanted to meet him after school after the bell rang long after the buses rolled by behind the baseball diamond where they’d share their first kiss But his battery died during recess and
her instant message never reached him on
the playground ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ John-Franklin
Dandridge lives and writes in ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CL Bledsoe The Bank Dad said there was
no future in farming so he sent his sons
off to bag groceries, stock produce,
flip burgers while his brother
and the bank carved up the farmland
and kept the white meat. We
knew fish and cattle, rice fields
and soybeans. We knew jeans and family,
sunup to sundown, the names
of the people for whom
we worked. My brother put in thirteen
years on the line before
being replaced by an elsewhere of
lower wages, looser laws. I filled
a desk for nearly a decade before standing
in front of one myself. Once the bank
owned our land, now we don’t
even have land and yet the bank still
stands, its heel on our throats. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CL Bledsoe is the author of two poetry collections, (Want/Need)
and Anthem. A third collection, Riceland, is forthcoming later this year. A chapbook, Goodbye To Noise,
is available at Right Hand Pointing. A minichap, ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ R Jay Slais The Passage
Another’s kiss has silenced your
mouth so I must swallow everything, a jug of wine, the salt of sea spray,
grains of sand, the lighthouse. Your beacon shall soon become forgotten like an encrusted bell, sunken and shape
shifted, now good for nothing but to be a home for slime-skinned eels and bottom feeders. The last tongue of spirit goes across
the lip of the bottle as the wind’s solitude
whistles its song on the empty cavern, a belfry
of hollow air. It has been poured dry, into the tunnel
of black-water cave dwelling inside.
My heart is a drunkard of desire drowning in a voyage of nostalgic voices. A thirst for the outer waves may grow, but the moon will hold them back. They stay too far off to know if their white caps are truly a incoming
miracle or a cursed ripple of hope. While immersed in the water, glue that is meant to bind loosens, as if peeling it away is a way of peeling
off this layer of calloused skin. Your label now removed, the bond eaten,
a naked start just like the night our rain undressed the peaks of your
high tide during the rise and sweat of wave migration. I gave to you my dearest love poem, now a scroll of tears, forced down into
this empty jug, a cork on top to seal forever this moment
of letting go. This message in a bottle can only be
viewed through the window of curved glass in
opaque hues. I cast you out into these carnivorous
waters to be devoured, call for the white caps to strike, the
waves to carry. I will only remember you, as you were
before we existed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Some of R. Jay Slais’ recent publications include poems
at Barnwood, MiPOesias, Oranges & Sardines, The Pedestal Magazine , Rose & Thorn Journal, and Twisted Tongue. His first collection of poetry, Mice Verses
Man, is forthcoming in 2010 from Big Table Publishing, Newton, Massachusetts. A single father raising his
two children, R. Jay writes from his home in Romeo, ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
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Feedback, submissions, ideas? E-mail thesmokingpoet@gmail.com |
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