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| Photo courtesy of Zinta Aistars |
Jeff Kass
Little
Joe Never Once Gave It Away
after Patricia Smith
When
Scott Brogan sang
it
sounded like we really could
do
everything Lou Reed wanted
we
could converge with Candy
from
out on the island
in
the back room where she
was
everybody’s darling
and
she would never
lose
her head
Scott
had surfer-blonde hair
and
a left-handed curveball as crazy
as
his laugh that jumped and floated
and
sometimes sank and tied hitters
into
hangdog tangles
we
stole a bottle of vodka
from
his Dad’s cabinet
and
killed it until we
bumped
into lampposts
and
each other and Mike D
with
his hand-me-down
painted-over
taxi said
he
could still drive
just
let him throw up
one
more time and he’d be fine
and
the beach at Mamaroneck
harbor
was hardly a beach
40
yards of dirt mixed
with
a handful of pebbles
and
Scott’s laughter
beckoning
like a sugared hand
Mike
still puking in the playground
with
the rusted merry-go-round
that
swung so fast it felt like
it
was about to decapitate
our
wobbly stuttering ankles
and
a girl named Gabrielle
with
braces and striped
hair
that would have looked
good
on a zebra, her black
and
green bikini riding
up
her ass when she waded
into
the mucky brown
known
as the Long Island Sound
and
we were three pairs of broken eyes
staring
and Scott, spoke first
as
always, his laugh, then the urging
Do
it, Bro, wild side
and
it’s t-shirt off
sneakers
ditched in the dirt
a
jump and a float
and
somehow she buys it
and
her arms are around your neck
50
feet from shore and Scott
is
shutting the fuck up now, isn’t he
and
Mike’s still puking
and
it’s a hustle
here
and a hustle there and you’re
not
exactly treading water
but
not anchored either and you’re
thinking
about ice cream later
on
the street where the cars
are
parked at slanted angles
and
she whispers something
that
sounds like yes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jeff Kass is a teacher of English and Creative Writing in Ann Arbor,
Michigan and Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, Michigan. He also works as the Poet-in-Residence for Ann Arbor
Public Schools. He was the Ann Arbor Grand Slam Poetry Champion in 1999 and 2000 and the runner-up in 2001 as well as the
Champion at the inaugural Ann Arbor Book Festival Poetry Slam in 2004. His poems, stories and essays have been published in
several literary reviews, newspapers, magazines and anthologies and he has taught poetry workshops to thousands of young people
in schools, juvenile detention centers and synagogues. His short story collection, Knuckleheads, is forthcoming from
Dzanc Books.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris Astwood
I‘ve Got a Bone
to
pick with your hip:
I
itch itch itch itch
on
my belly and ribs.
Thinking
about your grip
with
a Robert Nesta riff
declining
into static
waves
with the Mid-Atlantic sun,
I
feel like it must, steaming on
my
sea-bed horizon, flashing green
as
I sink into a cool sweat-sleep.
I‘ve got to pick the lock,
got
a pick to pound on the rock
around
the plain metal doors
of
the locked Juliet-tomb
unit
where you sleep, but that‘s
too
melodramatic,
not
fit for life offstage;
I‘ll pull no Shakespeare
tricks.
But I‘ve a bone
backstage
with the director
of
our postmodern romance show,
your
exit: cleft between
belly
and shifting
bone
deepening
with
every impression made
by
your heel on my mental
map
as the curtain call sounds,
chests
throbbing and zipper teeth
opening,
barracuda jaws
grazing
our bare bellies.
š
Fever
June, Galesburg, IL
Rain
like this will miss the open window
every
night until the misted prairie
manages
to muster up its winds.
This
second floor glows orange,
colour
of the parking lot‘s tall lights,
hotter
than their filaments.
On
my flesh, I scratch away insomnia,
on
yours, inscribe the shadows
with
sweat on my fingernails.
Nothing
comes stronger
than
your breath, not the drunks
out
keeping dry or drunk, not the bump
and
hoot of freights rolling the nearby tracks
all
night, not mosquitoes or the bean
stink
from the coffee house below.
The
creases in your skin flash behind
the
passing cars. Our bikes, locked together
in
the hall, knock against the wall
whenever
this old building shivers,
brick
sweat settling into chills
that
rattle the scaffolding.
I
will hold you beyond this fever June, weak
though
I may be, skinny with hospital
corners
folded at the edges of my eyes,
because
I believe that, sleeping, you‘ll feel
my
slow breaths, and remember:
this
sick earth can sometimes be fair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris Astwood is a poet from Somerset, Bermuda. He received his BA from Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois, and currently
is studying for his MA at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, UK. His poems have appeared in Catch, The Caribbean
Writer, Iota and Other Poetry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim Tomlinson
Moonlit
Walk
You
walk out on this failed Sunday
under
a January moon so full of sun
you
throw shadows on the empty pathways
your
footsteps have yet to memorize
and
you follow the path away from
the
motorbikes whining
in
nearby hills to the murmurs
of
this slow canal. Wood smoke
lifts
from chimneys into the moonlit sky,
past
closed shutters and clothes half frozen
on
lines. Lifting your head you fill
your
nostrils with your neighbors’ fires.
When
you were a child at the seaside
dwarfed
by the surf foaming at your feet,
how
could you fake even one step toward the silent ocean?
Now,
along this narrow canal, how firm
the
footing for the next, the final steps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim Tomlinson is a co-founder of New York Writers Workshop, and co-author of its popular text, The Portable MFA
in Creative Writing. He is the fiction editor of the webzine Ducts. Recent fiction and poetry appear or are forthcoming in Perigee, Pif, Del Sol Review,
Nova Cookie, Dogzplot, 3:AM, Hanging Moss Journal, and Tongues of the Ocean.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carolyn Srygley-Moore
Shadow-Speak
From
the darkness within the violin the sleeping shadow
speaks ― force the shadow to speak ― this is the wreckage
of exile, this is the exile
from
place, person, you. I clutch my passport like a soft papoose
stitched to my belly;
my dark ambiguities
are vectors twirling above the hex sign
where
the red rooster is clamped, calling forth the wind. & I clutch
at my history, speak its
shadows, grains poured
into a terrarium with walls of zero. I am willed
by
night, by twilight, by the misplaced memory
of us, unfairly ended.
The planet we occupied revolves
without name, beyond the wrath
coiling
the earth rock, the soil, the grit
purpling the whites of
the eye. I saw you harvest
your grief as joy, saw you cull
as
through a basket of summer
blueberries, separating
truth from falsehood in a world
that believes there is no truth: I learned.
The
battle cry of all being
falls upon those ones
who farm the vintage ― hear it,
a wind passing from sea to inland, passing
from
homeland to exile: this is the sweetest kiss
I have ever given, been
given, known ― this is
the shadow-voice speaking the light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carolyn Srygley-Moore is an award-winning graduate of the Johns Hopkins University's Writing Seminars, a Pushcart nominee;
she has been published in a number of journals to include Antioch Review, Eclectica,
Flutter, and the antiwar anthology, Cost of Freedom. Her digital chapbook Enough Light on the Dogwood was published by Mimesis. She currently lives in Upstate
New York with her husband and daughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ann White
Virgo
Eyes
On
a palette, they might be called
raw
umber, yellow ochre, phthalo blue.
Inconstant
Virgo eyes ― the smudge
of
camp fire, Spring’s harvest ―
ruddy
and wet from dew.
Virgo
eyes escape into elusive shades
that
flicker and turn
like
the sun’s moody rapture,
the
moon’s apotheosis.
We
are stunned into obedience,
spindles
caught on the compass edge
of
metaphysics, the necessary duty of reply.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ann White is a former journalist and magazine writer who turned to poetry around age 50. Her poetry has appeared in
various journals, including Blue Fifth Review, Swell, Dead Mule, Triplopia, Barbaric
Yawp and Modern Haiku and in the anthology, Letters to the World (Red Hen Press, 2008). She is the organizer of the Women Poets Reader Directory, a searchable
wiki for anyone who wants to book a poet. Ann received her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. She
lives in North Florida and works with college students who are political refugees.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carol Lynn Grellas
Forgiveness
One
fatal nightmare wakes me from my sleep;
a
programmed killjoy robs asylum-dreams
where
keyholes wait for eyes to undercreep
inside
and stimulate an inner voice that screams
to
end the madness, bring you back to life.
Uncross
positions, fate that’s been assigned.
Your
letter rests beside the paperknife
I
use to cut the envelope. Remind
me
not to read that note again,
my
hopeless supplication never heard,
how
often is enough enough? But then
there
is no way to comprehend a word
like
suicide and all it meant to you ─
unchained,
God help me do what I must do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carol Lynn Grellas is the author of two chapbooks: Litany of Finger Prayers,
forthcoming from Pudding House Press, and Object of Desire, newly released from
Finishing Line Press. She is a two-time Pushcart nominee and widely published
in magazines and online journals, including most recently, The Hiss Quarterly, Flutter,
The Oak Bend Review and an electronic chapbook, Desired Things, from Gold Wake
Press. She lives with her husband, five children and a blind dog named Ginger.
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