House of Vanishing Doors

A breeze came through the window

In a small vacant farm house very far

From town as the soft transparent

Cloth certains danced. A chair and

Table nearby held an open book; pages

Turning themselves as if alone by the

Force of what was searching from the

Outside coming inside, intermittently,

At my reading pace. You see, I once

Lived here in the flesh of events with

Passion like others had done so when

Our fields were full of cotton and trees

Had deep water wells for their leaves To grow cool shades. And the back bed

Room at times became silent as things Stood still for moments. Again,just now,

I can recall one summer day like a dream Written down, the long letting go, a closing

That haunts me since, as I was the one Who died here; and people were walking,

Leaving like in slow motion while the Landscape dried up as the seasons moved

On. Still, I remain looking out the stark Window of migrating birds and dirt roads.

Watching them going, changing, disappearing Into some kind of a lonely series, never ending.

Stanley Morris Noah

The Fall of Berlin, 2 May 1945

Russians are at the Fuhrerbunker, now. Where is A. H. and his new wife, Eva?

In this hour the dirty work had to be done. Up came the six bodies of Goebbels'

murdered young children. Killed by their

parents, Magda and Joseph. Placed on

the grounds side by side. The broken, bent burnt, their eyes open, looking at nothing.

The cold objective camera moving, rolling slowly did a good job filming each child.

Each the subject of what remains in a total war. After identification the duty was over.

It had been very emotional for some, others just a methodical dreadful process. Then the

Russians, framed in black and white, turned, lit cigarettes and disappeared. In long days

that followed there was the clean-up, brick by brick and shovels. Street cars and rail

came back. Outdoor cafes opened with the smell of coffee and flowers. Retail shops, too,

had the latest apparel. Then, all of a sudden it was 1950. The Fuhrerbunker! Where is it?

Stanley Morris Noah 

A War Film Documentary

Stars are falling while people are leaping from shore cliffs of Okinawa, April 1, 1945. Americans now on the beach with gCfthering hours. Civilians

were told the invaders are red

horned demons. The horror. The floating corpses delicti of lies in motion, up and down with every tide, tides coming

in going out, balanced by the timing of the moon's forever indifference, whimsical clock. Bodies beating on sharp rocks

like dead fishes. I have seen

this event many times in my studies. The one woman standing a breath a moment, the letting go. And then I close my eyes. Don't want to

see the divine wind and waves again. Don't want to see the inevitable pungent demise. See mother with child, dangling all the long way down.

Stanley Morris Noah 

 

Last Train Leaving Berlin, 1-May-1945

We must hurry, tall mother

told me. Russians are like

ants every where, more and

more, through streets, buildings,

houses. We must get there

and I did. Slowly, the big black

train moving away. I saw many

staring, standing with hopeless

faces, screaming into a profound

memory. Central Station anew,

1972. 1\10 need to rush now. But each step I could hear skeletons

breakable, bones cracking deep beneath----it was the old world. You Know, they just found Martin

Bormann's skull here in the levels of time. Broken glass vial of cyanide between his teeth. Did

I see him in the crossing, then? Where is mother?-------Mother! The child's voice inside me asked.

Stanley Morris Noah

What the scientist say about ghost

Ghost Are dead people who refuse to lie down. They can walk through walls. But you only see Them coming through doors or already in your Room. They can't make a sound or talk although You are not completely sure.

They'r6!! Invisible but some how you're able to see them Clearly during the night hours and not in the Day time. They are intruders in the house though You know itto be their home long before your Arrival and ownership.

You will Venture into every room in the house except the attic; Thinking that must be where they got murdered or Have secrets there as if it's a sacred place of the ghost In residence. You don't want to offend as they might Haunt you to leaving the house you have now desired And love.

Ghost, according to scientist, Never vacate the premises because they would become lost among the unfamiliar. It's not a good idea to Refurbish your house, scientist say, as this would make Them disorientated. It's a transgression against their Serenity and sovereignty.

They have become empirical in your Mind --not in your closets. But even this is still an on going Intrinsic investigation. And if they turn out to be real and Externally true, don't panic if you hear things shifting in the Night or something missing from the kitchen. Remember, It's their house too. 

Stanley Morris Noah

A little Math Before and After Defenestration

Mr. Finndock was a New York City lawyer with a young and beautiful wife. He was middle aged, about 50ish. And had an office on the 9th floor not too far from Wall Street near the stock exchange. In fact he was in walking distance; and there waiting for him was his destiny. So in the past few years of trading stocks he had become quite successful; it also had first grown into an addiction, then an obsession. Even to a degree where he once said to himself that playing the stock market beats great food and sex. To Mr. Finndock, the action of buying and selling was like art's highest form of expression, even if it meant being reckless at times and even if it meant doom itself. His account now was worth $454,000.00.

Then the impossible happened that October day in 1929. The market crashed and thousands lost millions of dollars in one or two days. Mr. Finndock's stock broker called to give him the bad news. He had lost everything, the $454,000.00. For Mr. Finndock, it went from surreal to shock and finally to despair, all within minimal minutes. His whole life now felt like a financial crucifixion. Mr. Finndock went rushing full speed out the window and nine storys down without making a noise (suicide victims never yell on the way down, bet you didn't know). Two days after Finndock's demise, his widow received a phone call from his broker. He apologized and explained a dreadful accounting mistake had been made. Finndock had not lost $454,000.00 but had made $454.00. One month later, Finndock's widow married his stock broker, Mr. Worthmore.

Stanley Morris Noah

 

Jesse James, Vincent van Gogh and Robert Ford

Robert was living with Jesse and Zerelda James in a rented house, St. Joseph, Missouri. The two, Robert and Jesse were friends and friends-in-crime too. At least Jesse thought Robert as a real and honest, close friend and kept Robert as company and bodY guard.

The time was morning, the 3rd of April, 1882. They had just finished breakfast of blueberry muffins, quiche lorraine and cappuccino. Zerelda then left the room carrying empty dishes made of fine china in Holland. Jesse and Robert were going over final plans for a train robbery to take place at sometime next week; and meeting up with Robert's older brother, Charley, before the caper.

After going over things, Jesse folded the maps of railroads and put them in his dress coat. Both spent the next hour cleaning their Colt six-shot pistols and exchanging small talk as they compared notches on their gun handles. Some of them dating back to the civil war, when they were raiding, killing and burning most anything that belonged to the Federal Government of Washington D. C. You see, Jesse and Robert fought for the Confederate States of America in military guerrilla units. But when the war between the

states was over in 1865, Jesse and brother Frank James and a few other members became delusional and wouldn't stop what was now considered to be criminal behavior. They were looked upon as the black sheep of "the lost cause."

It was time to go. Jesse went outside and got the horses fitted to ride and came back in. They were at the front door about to leave when Robert turned around to look at a strange painting hanging high

on the wall. "Say Jesse, where the hell did you get that colorful thing?" Pointing with his crooked forefinger,

"Oh hell, Robert-Zerelda got it at some neighborhood barnyard sell. She payed fifty cents for it. Never seen anything more colorful. Look how thick the oil is applied, and all the turbulent brush strokes, everywhere. It sort of reminds me of our own lives, where we've been and things we're still doing. Doesn't it Robert?"

"Yeah, sure does! Whose name is that down at the bottom?"

"Oh, that's some guy by the name of Vincent....err....Vincent van Gogh. Never heard of him. Maybe he's from around here. Wait a minute Robert. ,'II get a chair and clean it off before we leave." Jesse stands on the chair, takes a handkerchief.

Robert looks on and was about to say something. But then Jesse heard a gun click-bang. Jesse was shot in the back of the head. Zerelda came rushing in, screaming, "what happened, what happened?"

Robert with a guilty cloud of gun smoke just above his head replied nervously, "I didn’t do it, I didn't!"

The last conscious thought Jesse James must have had was van Gogh's painting. But exactly what was the subject in the painting? Was it sunflowers looking also like his famous big yellow sun; you could almost feel the humidity in the room, or was it an outdoor cafe scene, or sidewalks of Paris lined with green and blue poppies, or a still life, or wheat fields tumbling in the wind? Or maybe one of many self portraits-a man with flaming red hair and red beard. I guess it doesn't matter, not really, However, we are left with a phenomenon and a paradox here. Both van Gogh and Jesse James died from a gun shot to the head. Hundreds showed up to view Jesse's body. Hundreds came to his funeral. Few went to van Gogh's funeral.

Stanley Morris Noah

 

 

 

 

Black Cloud Snapshot

Pictures paint eyeless

sockets with kaleidoscope

memories of you and I

playing tuneless music under

a tombstone engraved

with a blank epitaph

sex

you say wait

i say no

you say please

i say go

you say never

i say blow

&

the boy in

his bubble

floats

towards

the mantis

Dear Dearest,

I tripped over

your flashy lash,

fell decades deep

into your eyes

where you’ve

kept me

sentimentalized.

 Andrew J. Stone

SOMEDAY MY PRINCESS WILL COME

Truly this place is filled with enchantments.
Fairies, talking animals, insects, and elves.
These will amaze the women, men, girls, and boys.
It’s beyond imagination better than puppets and toys.

What else would you ask if you have magic in your hands?
You could have anything with a wave of your wand.
A talking cat on his boots and sharp sword,
And a mirror who knows everything by its words.

I could praise a tinker who dusts us and let us fly,
With a boy whose shadows’ stays away but he never cries.
Someday I will wish on a star to find my princess.
Fight the dragons in dungeons, destroy walls and fences.

I am scared but I don’t care if I will turn into a frog.
Leap on thousand lilies and stay on a quiet pond.
Talk with fishes and crocs, but with a little fun,
Because I know I’m sure someday my princess will come.

Oh! I will build an army and fight the evil queen.
Ride my stallion, wear my armor, and lead my men.
Conquer on the battlefield and widen my kingdom.
This will be my gift to my princess the time she’ll come.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THE EDUCATOR

Simply amazing the way she talks
while she teaches us things in the book.
Simple thought we could use in our walk,
no one compares to her as we look.

She waves her rod to shine our mind
and sooner we will shine to the inside.
She casts her words to its most unkind
but to make sure we’ll not be left behind.

Dearest she is when we share our downs,
and shares her words to avoid the drown.
Dear like a mother she puts down her crown,
sits with us and laugh like a clown.

Truly I say she is simply the very best.
A friend, a mother, who gives her caress.
True to herself though at times like a beast,
but to mold us to stand above the rest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

WEDDING FANTASY

Everything is ready in my mind,
the ring, the flowers, the cards,
the maids and the bridal car.
All is set except for the bride.

Maybe I’m the only who’s too excited.
The calendar’s pages has been counted,
I am too busy for myself,
I who knows when to be wed.

I have to come back to my reality
that we will not be able to marry.
I’m not for her and she’s not for me.
My bride is just a fantasy.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I'M GETTING OLDER

I’m getting older like what we supposed to.
I’m getting weaker and less we could do.
I am not afraid to die for we will all too.
My days are counted and we are nearly zero.

I’m getting rougher but it is only my skin.
I’m getting tougher but only deep within.
I have already accepted whatever may happen.
Only the end will bring me to the start again.

I’m getting richer of my friends and memories.
I’m getting more worthy of my legacies.
I will come to rest and resting means peace,
for I fulfilled all my purposes and duties.

- - - - - - - - - -

IMMATURE

I am old now but I still do what I like,
play with my dolls and ride the bike.
I don’t mind the gentlemen and the boys,
but I still like the flowers and the toys.

So set aside the powder and the lipstick,
I still have my story books and fairy magic.
I still play with my lovely Ken and Barbie;
watch the Looney Tunes and Disney.

Yes, it’s fun when I bite my tiny fingernail
and swirl every tip of my wavy curly hair.
I still wish when the stars starts to shoot,
and enjoy the pouring rain on our roof.

So what if I still do the things I always like?
Who cares if they see me ride on my bike?
Who cares if I still play with my toys?
And… Who cares about the stupid boys?

- - - - - - - - - -

I LOVE TO DIE

I love to die when it means resting.
To leave all things without thinking.
I love to die and forget every thing.
I love to die when I know I’m nothing.

I love to die so problems will fade away.
To rest my body and mind to gently decay.
I love to die and dying is really okay.
I love to die when I’m a loser anyway.

I love to die and leave all my friends.
To know who really cares until the end.
I love to die so my works will mend.
I love to die when my story will become a legend.

 

Rey C. Jimena

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing poetry/lit scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. 

To dream of Reality and the Outcome

We stood back-to-back

against the insane map of the stars

bordering on un-reality,

I saw every twinkling existence

the shroud of the milky way

the black holes and supernova

births, we stepped toward them

and the darkened moving away,

our footholds were hard, invisible

but concrete, space was something

else entirely, not what we'd been told,

each time we moved forward

it was like gigantic light-speed leaps,

the stars were merely illusory lights

a thumbnail of burning gases on black wallpaper,

the was the great charade, the great

universal lie,

our lives were vindicated.

 On-coming

Saw the tracks on the

wrong side of Columbus,

Vitaly had pulled out into

oncoming traffic, wrong side

of the road, heading right into

old broken down trolley River

Styx and we were next to try

and cross it, but I noticed in those

final seconds and we slid to a halt

on a patch of grass, and the faces in

the cars were watching, the headlights

blaring, the last vespa bent to the road south

before we could u-turn the bitch and

get on I-95, "Fuck, Vitaly, you

almost killed us!" Will was hammering

the dashboard, "Yea,

I admit that but they gotta put up some fucking signs,"

He's right I thought in the back seat

there weren't any signs, no signs

pointing the wrong direction.

The factory

We can find the bed forever

for whatever you want

or nothing, heaving dry promises

at the crowds, I'm full of promises

and most don't work out as I planned,

or work out for me, or ever come

to fruition,

I get caught up in making them

preparing them like a cracker

each layer folded over the last

until it's so heavy I can't lift it

and you have to chew through it,

all the flour and salt and no water

to wash it down

The scene is set after shower

Avoiding the puddle spreading out

on the desk, a piano playing some wheres

I couldn't see, the shower whining behind, I

wasted my life on the screen gladly, roaring madly—

me, who was bent to the keyboard chattering,

me, trying to rip something from my soul I

wanted to be there, whether I had to make it

exist or fuck it and pretend, me, dressed in unbuttoned

flannel shirt and torn blue shorts, me, thinking

out there into the space, out there where you are walking in the rain,

I guess, walking and looking inward burying your past,

me creating this act of blister, mortar, pound—

at the clock ticking with the water's dripping, the rhythm invading

Kerouac's voice as he reads from Visions leaning to

the piano's soothing unpredictably, as the pattern rises,

as the keys spread achingly indistinguishably forward

through perceived stop motion time, slam! Here it goes, Aw!

across gulfs of years and experience without sadness, leaving me

here, a lone fleshy brainless lump, tapping, avoiding, beaming, bleeding,

sleeping, eating, ending, forgiving, careening, caring, repeating,

watching the water dry out

 We killed them

Artists don't sit inside all

day to write and type and suffer,

they play on their iphones and macs

with dull eyes editing music files,

remixing old sounds, taking

photographs that seem

somehow older even though they

don't know why, they catch the movie

to marvel at the book (it's YA fiction)

then the next day read it on the train

cover out and facing the crowd, and

they dance at night clubs to hip-hop and

techno in the nearest up-and-coming

neighborhood, their drunken image tagged on

facebook, exchanging that for actual fame,

and remain blissfully ignorant of the truth

because artists don't think for themselves

or think at all anymore, hell,

they don't even try, because

for the most part

when their head hits the pillow

around 5am

they're plain fucking dead

and nobody gives a fuck.

Trying to get some sleep

I could hold the sky in my palm,

wipe it onto depth-less reality like

an unguent cure in this after-night

morning glow pink rising to a

dark purple that settles like a fog on abandoned streets,

instead I get up and walk heavily to the bathroom

to wash my face and hands,

the floor boards creak with each step,

my ceiling fan whines non-stop,

the subway makes its first run, and

I'm alone counting the surges of pain in my knees,

waiting for the next rattle of tracks heading north,

waiting for the sun to rise from the east

and annihilate this perfect thought

Eighteen Dollar Gogi Berries

In the conventional living-rooms of hipsters’ America,

concentrated spiritual epiphanies manifest in the hemp satchels

of eighteen dollar Gogi Berries,

while monsoon’s drop down from the Tibetan Plateau,

To wash nothingness over nothingness,

In Phnom Penh.

Lobsters and Hipsters

 

Some male birds sing doggedly to claim territory.

Lobsters monger power pinch by pinch.  Literary

control mongers select ‘works’ from pools of hipsters

who compete by being cool, cooler, or coolest.  At

one point in the continuum, Macramé skills were

the ‘twin of aces’, in the arena of

competitive zeitgeist.

Judy Garland Part Two

When I realized that you were born in Grand Rapids, Minnesota,

which is on the Mississippi, your ability to ‘haunt’ increased by a

factor of twenty-nine.   In our thoughts about legends, the haunting

ratio is mathematical, expressed and measured by various notches

of beauty, including ‘hometown’ and connection to natural lore,

such as proximity to sacred ‘literary’ rivers.

Dan Hedges

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.  She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

Suddenly Vanished

I wish I could package your breath.

And carry it with me.

Like a balloon.

My own private pillow.

Of life.

Silent.

But solid.

As a memory.

Drifting above me.

I would only have to pull the string.

And you would fall.

And if I forgot

to need you?

No big deal.

I could just release you.

Let you waft away.

Or I could damn you.

With a single prick.

From my nails.

Watch the Lamb

Passion is weak.

In this darkness

I have crawled to.

On your knees.

I want you

to know

the feeling.

Of the shadow’s fading.

So hopeless.

So controlled.

By a movement.

Intended to crack.

The world.

Dependent.

On the sun’s back.

The Patience of a Tortured Saint

You say my skin is like porcelain.

You know I will crack

when you drop me.

That’s why my edges are so flat.

Depressed

between your fingers.

I am embedded

in the blood

of your air.

And what a yawn.

To have become

a cliche

so young.

I know I must fail.

I know I must fall.

And complete your charge.

I just think

it’s more fun

to dangle.

Lightly.

Pulling.

The end of your chain

into the dark.

Dissolving into Yesterday

Floating leaves die.

Like fire.

Drink their breath.

Let it tangle with your own.

Such music begins

at dawn.

With moments set aside.

For angels.

Or, at least, their blood.

It drips like rain.

Filling oceans of silence.

Too perfect for waves.

They break the line of sight.

And follow sense

right down the drain.

author: davy carren

location: san francisco, ca

story title: how death came to sandovar rudd

            You’ve got to hand it to the weather. Sometimes it just knows when to rain. Like today, when I don’t have an umbrella handy, and there’s no food here, and I’ve got to wear my nice wool jacket. Don’t ask me about the jacket. When it comes to the jacket I’ve got no idea. It’s got to be worn. I don’t want it to get wet. So, here I am, stuck. That’s about all you’ll get out of me. But if the circumstances permit-- and when it comes to circumstances I don’t know much-- I might get lucky and catch a cold. The circumstances have to permit it though. Permission must be acquired, like a new hat or a botched haircut. Let’s agree on principle. Here, let’s have at it then. When the whole bucks, and we part, then, of course you’ll see a marginal amount of detail in the differences between the color and loop. A barn burns so we like fire. It’s a matter of distinction. Pride and goofing off. Greed leaves us subtle. Then, also of course, a miserable amount of grief stomps in with two-by-fours strapped to its feet like skis. You’d be better off just splitting the returns. I know, when it comes to returns we’re more even keel. I understand this. Bottle caps scattered around the shore. I’ve got my scars too. Let’s talk equipment. If it’s necessary to be liked then we’d do well to wish for ailments. Don’t worry. When it comes to ailments there’s not a lot of aught to. If we’re talking ailments, well, call me a water hog all you want, but there’s thunder in my cereal. Nobody’s as funny as they think. Hell, there’s a mission statement in my coffee cup. I’d draw you a map, but my face will cringe. And I’m the one left pulling strings on the inside, hefting garbage bags down to the trashcans in the basement, and chinning up to the moon. Well call me Lady Day and tie a ribbon around my neck. I’ve got facts to figure out. I’ve got cases to explain. We’ve got to talk cases and facts at some point. Just like alphabets try on words for size. I’m going to test the bill. Exposition rendered precisely, in the minutest of ways, kind of positive in spending habits, that’ll do for me. For me, well, there’s no real try in it. Got to get mama’s house all sorted out. Of course there’s always that. That’s first on the list. Got to get those Jack In The Box burgers out of the freezer. Patch up the walls. Spackle the place up. Really, when the weather gets this way, well, it’s just like this. Quit. Get a job. Move the bulldozers over the hill. I can’t help getting needy in the wintertime. Sure, I’ve bricked my fair share of shots at getting ahead. Like being addicted to temporary tattoos, or being a little bit pregnant. For me lying is a rebellious act. I create this life, manufacture this person to be, and I wonder why people mistake me for a stranger. I won’t go on getting all morose about it. There’s no danger. It’ll be winter soon. All the drunks will come staggering in, ass-holing on about the spiritual side of things. After all, we’re lucky because we get to be humans and exist in the world the way we do. It’s just that my face doesn’t always make the right faces. That about sums up my adult life. Summing up? Well, that’s a funny thing. Like an umbrella being out of tune. I’ve done a few stints in the nuthouse. Can’t say anything too fascinating about it. Only thought about doing away with myself a dozen or so times a day. So there’s this patch of land in my head, this scrap of a thing, a borderline hysterical place that metes out parking tickets to bad memories and tries to restore peace. There’s just something about thinking that’s always eating away at itself. You go around. You come back. You bite off more than you could ever chew, and then get frustrated with your own cud. And so then you go and lop off a snake-like chunk of the thought that’s squirming here and there and everywhere, and pander to it some, and there’s only one place to go back to. Yep. And there’s always something lurking just around the corner like holy god bringing down his judgment on some specified day that everybody but yours truly knows about. I offered my condolences to the Hasblitt sisters when their daddy went AWOL and shot the moon with Francine Yeller that awful February night, and there’s no telling what exactly did happen to them both, though I’m sure Mrs. Hasblitt maybe might be able to offer up some. Nobody’s asking anymore, what with the aforementioned misses now being gone to the great ballpark in the sky, through doings all her own, mainly a shotgun’s last call. Now, I don’t mean to be implying that this lovely woebegone thing had anything to do with the disappearing of those two trysters under the starry sky, but there are those whose suspicions were aroused, seeing that the petering out of Mr. Hasblitt’s amorousness for his dearly beloved wife were well known to me. He’d often gate around the yard, out where the wrecks rust and the feral dogs growl, and we’d stoop and squat and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, Old Gold, and he’d get to yodeling on about some ripe young thing he was about to tear into. I’d let him talk. I liked the cigarettes, and it was nice to be out there getting away from my damn infernal solitude for a spell, and he had a hand pistol he’d use to scare the wild dogs away. He’d rave on about the tempest of his doings, the way his misses stunk, the hurt that was hanging onto his heart like a claw hammer. I didn’t pay it a whole lot of mind. Murder was thicker out there than in most places, and it got slimy and mucked around like week-old stew being dumped into the road. Oh, let me tell you. There was world enough and time for it all out there. People stood around and ogled. Sometimes it was like the stars were watching you too, and there’s plenty more than a lot of them. Let’s not dawdle around on the circumstances of me being close with that wily bastard. I’ll just say he showed up sometimes, and we shot the shit and smoked cigarettes out in the yard, and it was pleasant enough for a hermit like me to have some company nights. Sure, he talked rot, and was vile and rude and all what have you, but I didn’t put much stock in his ever doing much besides jabbering about what he wanted you to think we was doing. One of those talkers you just let slide because they don’t matter much to anyone except themselves. Me? I think too much. Too much cerebration. It makes me bad company. I count stars, read the bible, and gun down snakes with an old Springfield bolt-action rifle from my bedroom window. People seem to stay away. Moved out here in ’82, before the Paddington Stock & Rebar Co. moved in and sucked away a bunch of the land, putting up stakes, claiming land at next-to-nothing prices, and then trying to profit on the people who’d come to rely on that land. People got mad, but what could they do? Money won out in the end, as it tends to do. I got myself this junkyard. I did okay. I managed. Things just ended up in my yard. It was like ghosts were dropping them off in the middle of the night, and maybe they were. I never ask those kinds of questions. I just go about my ways, counting my luck on the three fingers of my left hand, the other two gone to a stray bullet when I was just scrappy kid, the where and why of which I know about none, since it was before my powers of memory reached their full potential, and, from what I was told, the pain of it knocked me out cold, and in fact my ma and pop thought I’d done gone clean dead on them. But I didn’t. I kept on breathing. And when I woke up there was my left hand all bandaged up by Doc Shivers, who mussed my hair and told me what a brave boy I’d been. Brave? Shit. I slept through the whole ordeal. I guess sometimes you miss the rainstorm but get credit for walking home through it. Anyhow, I turned out like this with eight digits, and some folks call me Mordecai still, recalling the great 3-fingered righty of the turn-of-the-century Chicago Cubs, and I took this as an honor, and now go by Mordy to most. Though what people call me isn’t a blister or a burp to me. I’m my own man. That’s obvious of course, but what it means is true. So my junkyard grew as people moved on, and the scarp heap blossomed into an eremite’s dream. Carcasses of rotting dodges flanked with sunflowers and moss-covered refrigerators. It was something to behold. Stuff just found its way to me, and stayed found for the most part. Television sets lost their knobs and dials. Glass splintered like spider webs in the sun, which bleached everything to a stale, desert hue. The rivers of rust ran wild, and like wisteria climbed over toilet bowls, lunch pails, VCRs, x-mas tree tinsel, radios, aluminum siding, cookware and computers just the same. I had buyers from time to time, but mostly it felt like a giant tomb of things people didn’t want around anymore. Maybe I felt like I was one of those things. But I’m not one to get to sentimental over objects. They get made, and they’ve got to be discarded. I do my part to help them on their way. There was a guy at my door one day, banging on the screen, and I went out there to see what all the hubbub was. This guy’s grease-splattered and unshaven, and stinks like a brewery floor. He’s got on these gold-rimmed sunglasses, and his hair is all bunched up like a tumbleweed. I don’t want to let him in, or get too close, so I only open the door a crack, and I yell at him from behind the screen with the door still latched. Turns out he’s a scholar. He wants to talk to me. He’s on some kick where he’s trying to interview the old timers like me who’ve been around here and through some stuff. I don’t like the looks of him. He’s got holes in his shoes and shirt. It seems like he’s had his pants on for about a month without changing or washing them. I just know he’s not going to be nice on my upholstery or my carpet. But for some reason I let him talk his way in there, and we get to jawing, mostly him, about the old days when I first moved in here. At first I was kind of curt with him. Didn’t want to give too much away. And being laconic’s in my nature anyway. Most days I hardly say a word except when the mail arrives. But this tawdry scholar guy, well, he’s really trying to dig in for some information, and I’m curious as to why, but mostly keep that to myself, as is my wont. I’ve learned to play it close to the vest over the years. So I get to saying a few things I probably shouldn’t, and then he starts getting into a huff about it, and my mean streak comes out in spades, and soon we’re cussing and throwing good-sized objects at each other, and I tell him to go fuck himself and all this, and he’s seeing red, and I realize that he’s not so small of a guy really, and that maybe he’d take me. I mean without weapons. But I’ve got weapons of all sorts. So, I run back to my bedroom and make sure to slam the door behind me so it thwacks him, because I know he’s coming after me, and it knocks his ass right down hard, which gives me time to grab my….well, I’m not going to go into all that. No need to implicate myself. Let’s just say, he got what was a coming, and what was a coming was a trip to county. That did him well I think. Lousy bastard. Never saw him after that. Heard he was living in Topeka, last I know, and had shacked up with a bow-tie salesman named Robert. It was odd, but I didn’t care. To each their each. That’s what I say. But me? Well, I’m done losing fingers. Let him take a shot at my head next time. That’d be okay by me. Until then? Well, it’s think, think, think. Collect junk and wonder about god. There’s nothing left I can do.

BOYS AND GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN



We now know more about Services received,

Then the Secret ones they're employed to provide,

For at least twenty women, the Price wasn't Right,

Was it worth quibbling and now having nowhere to hide?


From girlfriends, wives and family,

To say nothing of the public and press,

Yes, prostitution's legal in Columbia,

But taking a risk over pesos; what's the "cents?"


Knowingly violating their now lost security clearances,

Launching four government investigations, so US taxpayers have a say,

Boys will be boys, but while waiting for Barack to get angry,

Wondering what other less than "highest standard" behavior has been covered up along the way.


For 20 years, I was married to a DIA intelligence analyst,

For half that time, how often, and how much he paid, the divorce records show,

The agency did nothing, he still has his TS and 100+K/year job,

So I speak of what I know.


Overshadowed by the daily dribble of trip's "male melodrama,"

Was a pic of Hillary not exactly acting like a nun,

Beer and dancing, not whiskey and cocaine,

Showing the world that it's girls who know how to behave while having fun!



Karen Ann DeLuca

AN AMERICAN POEM



It snowed overnight

and here come the Klu Klux Klan

all toting volunteer shovels.

"We'd be glad to dig you out

as long as you're a white man."

they tell me. "Or not Jewish. Or Catholic."

I'm none of these, I swear,

and the Grand Imperial Wizard

forswears his divine mission

for an hour or two

of slapping around in mounds

the color of his robes.



It snowed overnight

and my dreams volunteer

to help clear out the driveway.

The one where I ride off

on the back of a goat

is already chiseling away

at the hard, crusty, icy, stuff.

And that's me, sitting for

the big exam in my underwear,

taking a little time out

to brush of the car,

uncover the front steps.

And would you believe,

the monster in the closet

is knocking those icicle daggers

from the eaves.



It snowed overnight

and snake-dancers arrive

all the way from Kentucky

to push that blower around.

Likewise a Nuba man

painted in ashes.

And the earth spirit

of the Ahsanti tribe

who hasn't even seen

a flake of snow

in his hundred lifetimes.

I can always count on Asmodeus,

the demon of lust



but who'd have thought

an astral body would have

all the right equipment

and Romulus and Remus,

teat suckers from way back,

would offer to sweep my path.



It snowed overnight

and St Uncumber,

everyone's favorite virgin,

is assuring me,

"We'll have you out of here in no time."

And the God Uranus

dropped down from the stars,

says he'll melt some of the stuff

if that is okay with me.

Even Dickens rolls his sleeves up

and Varney the Vampire

risks a killer sun and heat

of 21 degrees.



It sure is good to know,

when the work needs to be done,

I'm not alone in this world.

Side by side, even with the enemy,

the mystery, the exotic and the freaks...

if I can't get my car out

then who knows what the future holds

for any of them.

The Grand Wizard

doesn't even seem to mind

when the wind blows clear

that Nuba man's white ashes.

It's enough to make a grown man cry.

And maybe that crying grown man

will shovel me out next time.



DIVORCED COUPLE SELL OUT



You have not only purchased the house

but also the garden. Yes, it looks so

frail now. It's the season. It's the sentiment

our home exuded knowing it was on

the market. But don't worry. In decay, there

is color. In wither, a running commentary

on new life.



So work at it, like we did fifteen years ago.

Few will see your bed sheets after all

but many a thousand will spy your flush

geraniums and make their judgments.

Sometimes, flowers judge us. Like these,

crying out for fertilizer, for water from

that green hose that just lies there like

a dead snake.



You're new to this business I can see.

New couple. New house. Believe me,

the coming days, you won't stand for

anything that's dying. You'll take to

spades, to rakes, and churn your

precious miracles. The garden will prosper,

I guarantee. New blooms for old.

It's a sale.



TO AMOS, MARRIED TO THAT SIXTIES' REVOLUTIONARY



To think, the woman once

railed against Castro,

no better than Batista,

and now he's old, his beard

is white, and he can't even

get those good Cuban cigars any more.



He probably has Alzheimer's, she says,

forgets there ever was a revolution.

The people, she sneers,

they've been screwed by everyone

from emperors to presidents.

And they even screw themselves, I add,

though she doesn't hear.



Time is such a grim watch-dog.

It once felt like Now.

These days, it's retired and playing golf,

figures it can shoot its age,

never does.



And to think she kept the love-letters.

What are the words to her?

More Castros?

Except of course, their betrayal happened

over years.

And perhaps, she encouraged that treason.

Two people, both Cuba, both Castro.

Only she has no beard thank God.



And what's on at the Multiplex?

A movie about Che. Please, don't

get her started. That's how things end.



AVERAGE JOE



It’s a crazy death, a man underneath his car, in his own driveway,

doesn’t realize the brake is off and that vehicle rolls over him,

crushes his legs, his chest.

No wait, that’s not it, the scene is his driveway sure,

but he backs up, smacks into his five year old daughter

who’s playing with her dolls, squashes her like a gnat

against the garage door, cracks open the head of every doll.

But no, that’s just the worst that could happen,

not what did happen.

He made it to the street safely, and his family were

all safe and snug indoors.

But not the boy on the bicycle, a neighbor’s son,

he didn’t miss when that kid pulled out of the side street,

smacked him six feet in the air, bounced him off the car roof,

sent him sprawling bloody and dead, face down in asphalt.

But that wasn’t how it happened.

Nor did the truck cross over the center line, smash into him on.

And he didn’t slip on ice, crash through the guard rail.

Nor did he pull up suddenly, get concertinaed by the traffic behind.

It’s a crazy life, all of the things that could happen that don’t,

to him, to loved ones, to strangers, but they’re there in other lives,

the papers are full of them, deaths and disasters, there on every page.

He’s at his desk, car safely in the office garage, sipping coffee,

flipping through the newspaper before work begins.

On page three, ten dead in a mine cave-in. On page seven, a man struck by lightning.

He wonders where do they get these people.



CHILDREN OF IMMIGRANTS

Much talk,

garbled, gulped down with

Swedish meatballs over pasta,

odd friendships

yapping around a table.



Dave speaks and eats,

hard, staccato, like

pounding a ball in his glove,

Anna whispers Polish joke to Carl,

Lin is unhappy for all who did not make it here



It’s Jenna’s house,

photographs hang ghost faces,

ancestors years and oceans away,

yearning to be near

in sweat-shirts, jeans, and close cut hair.



No Kazlowskis’ here, not a Chin,

nary a Martini or a Schmidt,

intermarried, anglicized,

and all together, chatting the concerns

of romance, not races.



Slurp, laugh and on to the next

is the way their history happens now,

every look not catalogued,

every word not written down,

yet here they are, none of them.

John Grey

Courage


By Joel Clonts


You see,

it takes courage to love someone

as violently as I love you.


Thoughts of you enter my mind like a swelling rage

full of intensity.

Hollow.

Echo.

Time slows until there is nothing but the sight of you.


I feel you

in the pit of my stomach; the top of my senses.

Your smell, your body.

The smooth of your skin, the small of your back.

The touch of light reflected in your hair.

The seduction that is you.


It is as if everything in your faculty is a string

attaching you to me.

Twisting and intertwining

Tangling.


You see,

It takes courage to lie beside you, beneath you

To hold, to taste;

To hide in you


I love you violently

As beautiful and untamed things are to be loved.

Wild and frantic

Completely, in ways that I often can’t understand


…and I wouldn’t want it any other way.



Somewhere I’ve been.



By, Joel Clonts


Its somewhere I’ve been, not somewhere I go.

Where the saints, sinners, and winners meet.

Where the drunks remain and the regulars came,

To see how the black lights glow.



Different faces in different places,

Different ways, with sexy names

Clever letters rearranged,

but remaining unchanged

Is that black light, exposing stains



On your clothes, and on your soul

On your veins and up your nose

Feelings that show

only under a black lights glow.



Clear liquor, clear eyes open,

gazing-looking for something

Drinking, chugging, hoping and looking

But no touching.



She tells stories of circumstance, of innocence as she lies

To herself...as what she will

and what she want

Are compromised, besides…



It pays.

Easy money in easy ways,

But there are other ways debts are paid

She pays hers with pieces of herself that she can’t have back.



You see it and you find it,

Buts it’s different than when you left it

As a familiar stranger stares back from her reflection.



You see, it’s what you know, not what you see.

As the sun gets to bright for neon lights

And she is no longer “destiny.”



Her name is Nikki and she grew up on Taylor Street, around the corner.

And she’s got kids and bills and a mother who prays for her.



Under a black light,

She’ll try it once and she’ll love it twice.

As it makes everything in life, right. Everything better


She says it helps her


With rude businessmen, and slack boyfriends

With drunk college kids who have bi-curious girlfriends

“It makes it easy”

She’ll let herself believe.


If you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,

She’s starting to see

As her nose burns, and that line blurs

Between who she is and who she used to be.


Her name was Nikki from down the street. I was friends with her brother.


But she’s high now, a little numb and a little dumber

Mind trances, and lap dances, and she lets those hands begin to wander.

Lost in a moment, with strong liquor flowing

John boldly throws out a number.


She’ll swear its no habit, but she does have to have it,

So I try to get her some help.

All I can do is pray,

because it’s true what they say;


Baby girl,

I cannot save you from yourself.


You see, I’m an outside observer, just here for the show, caught up in the glow.

And even though, I may seem in the know,

Believe me when I tell you, this is not where I go


It’s just somewhere I’ve been.