Journal

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

‌     The earth rolled toward the sun. Some birds thought it a sign they should
thrash and caw. Open the window, close it. Because I am reactionary, I will
wait for bathrobed neighbours to water their lawns.
‌     “You say you know nothing.”
‌     “Where is this coming from before bacon?”
‌     “Never said it would be pleasant.”
‌     At cross purposes, we never know where the conversation will take
us. For now the nook demands our presence as the bacon sings its song.
‌     “Ever wonder where the plastic jockeys went?”
‌     “What do you mean? Were they a thing?”
‌     “Like plastic flamingos.”
‌     “I liked those. Not garden gnomes.”
‌     “Name your favorite breakfast cereal.”
‌‌     “Hm, Count Chocula.”
‌     “You’re kidding.”
‌     Whenever I feel like spitting out the truth my lips go dry and then I feel
as though I must lick them instead of saying what is pressing up behind the
teeth. If we were all married to the truth, we’d find ourselves living in a city
full of liars.
‌     “People make me sick.”
‌     “In general, yes, but particular cases hold more gravity.”
‌     “I disagree completely, but never let me go.”

Salvatore Difalco‘s work has appeared in a variety of print and online formats. He splits his time between Toronto and Sicily.

Ninety Two

He thinks about this:

He does ok.
Puts 92 in his car
(a Lexus)
(well, a ten year old Lexus).
Listens to KMHD, 89.1
on the FM dial. All jazz, all the time.
It’s public radio, so
he makes sure to pay his annual fees
even doubles them, because he can.
Because he should.
Has the donation swag to prove it. A
sticker on his Lexus, a cap,
a coffee mug.
All with monikers that read
KMHD Jazz Radio.
Quality programming from
a community station. His people.
His music. No satellite.

Buys local, gives to the shelter, doesn’t hate.
Gets angry when people do, especially when they
hate the gays.  Has friends who are.
And
he’s passionate that they should be free to
love whom they want. Just as he is.
He’s not gay. But wouldn’t care if he was.
His wife might.

Works in public service, but as an
Administrator.
So he
does ok.
Puts 92 in his car. Safety is important.
That’s why the Lexus.

That and quality. That’s why the 92…
Premium.
Quality and safety.
House, car, furniture, art, music, clothing,
kitchen utensils, bed. All quality. All safe.
Been at his job for
two decades. Has tenure. Safety. And
he’s been told…
his work is
exemplary.

Still, he thinks,
he’d walk away.
Wishes he could walk away.
Wishes he could
at least
consider walking away. Or
doing it over? Yeah, if he could.
No safety, no tenure, less quality. Just 87.
But indulged
in playing jazz music,
not just listening to it.
Making art,  not just buying it.
Maybe,
drink too much. Some drugs.
A bar fight.
(He’d only been in one fight. In high school.
Sitting next to his friend… a black friend.  Another kid shouted
a racist remark. Goddamnit, that pissed him off… he hated that word.
He hit that kid so hard! Still got his ass kicked though.
But oddly, it felt good… and he remembered.)
Maybe
Flop on a friend’s couch.
A weekend in jail. A week in jail. Maybe end up
doing a little time in the joint? That’s how
he’d say it… because it
sounds cool. But
that’s too much, too long, too far.

No, just day to day. Week to week. No promise, no
safety. A different kind of quality.
Living big, dreaming small.

That’s what he thinks about.

He’d never last.

That Lexus needs 92

 

Two and a half minutes,
outside of Kraftworks Taphouse, early July, 2016

These are the words he used to describe his discomfort… “I’m better when I sit there,” pointing to a set of chairs, backed up to the pub’s exterior wall.

An attentive woman tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes and nodded, stepping forward.

They sat, her expression suggesting uncertainty.

But I knew.

I knew the moment I noticed him approach the sidewalk seating and sensed that he had noticed me first, and everyone else in the immediate location, assessing us within the casual, situational elements of walls, windows, furniture, dress, drunkenness, gesture, and relaxed behavior.

I knew when I noted the ink, resting on skin pulled tight over well-defined muscle, peering out from under his left, short sleeve… the lower third of the gray-green letters composing the words, Leave No Man Behind.

I knew when he approached the tables with a slight limp in his left leg, and again when he turned slightly to scan the seating options and the people sitting, including me. I caught the trace of a pink scar spanning a third of his skull, camouflaged by his auburn hair, cut high and tight.

I knew when he sat, and the woman, sensing his discomfort, placed her hand in his and he half smiled, half sighed in return.

I knew when our eyes met and I slightly smiled, nodding a subtle bow of gratitude and apology. He nodded back, then tugged from his pocket a pair of aviator sunglasses, too reflective for me to see his eyes or the direction of his glance, and rested them on the bridge of his nose.

 

John Van Dreal has found that writing is a way to avoid meeting expectations: “John, a little help with the grocieries?” “Uh, nope. Writing.” As a result, very little is expected of him; that is why he is a successful writer.

She Paints the Town

Autumn Celebration

The Old Year knows how to dress
for the last act. She has dyed her hair–
henna streaks on straw-brown grass,
crowned herself with milkweed feathers,
powdered her cheeks with goldenrod dust.
She wears a boa of scarlet sumac and orange bittersweet
around her wrinkled neck.  Tufts of purple asters
are stuffed between her cracking toes.

She paints the town purple with wine and ochre
with mustard weed, brush strokes
twig and bramble rough across disappearing ground.
As night comes on the note is blue: trumpets
of high flying geese, snare-drum raindrops on the roof.

She is celebrating passions past: blossoms
on lips, flowing of sap, sweet fullness of fruit,
nights heavy with pollen, sweat and pain.

But oh… I do not think, she wishes
to be a springtime budding girl again
with wispy hopes and fledgling plans.
For I would not trade this grand wild departure
for all the dreams of youth.

Judith Edelstein says having a November birthday affects how she views beginnings and endings.  It’s not all black and white.  “She Paints the Town” was previously published in Edelstein’s limited edition chapbook, Leaving Kansas.

Mystical Woodpecker

My binoculars are covered in pollen
–so it must be summer at last.
And here comes that woodpecker,
the mystical one,
the one I invented, for times like these.

His feathers are made of steel.
His beak is neither gold nor hope.
Pure bone on flesh
brings a sort of peace
in heat, dust, and sorrow.

I saw him again today
when with trembling hands
I raised my ringing phone
that hideous Talthybius.
I could not answer.

I no longer listen.
Let time rip my bones apart.
For now,
I’d rather watch my imaginary bird
through yellowed lenses.

 

The Chemist Thinks of Her Love

as an ionic bond
but wonders who does the stealing.
Their polarization evident from the start,
different  levels and all that,
but worse when the relentless water drips
on their metal roof
a titration of gray.
Time supplies each color
in silent sighs and vacant glances.
A kiss with the substance of an electron.
Staring at her skin, the chemist wishes
the blood underneath would rush,
creating a magnetic field.
Would that bind him stronger?
Passion is real.
Orbits of energy releasing heat
no light, but sounds
like ancients forgotten,
like the ether that used to inhabit the cavity
of bone and skin and void.
Covalence might be in other homes,
other sentences.
Carbon to carbon was not their destiny.
She plays with a mote of dust
and wonders at matter as it rises.

 

Born in México and raised in Puerto Rico, Amelia Díaz Ettinger writes poems that reflect the struggle with identity often found in immigrants. She began writing poetry at age three by dictating her poems out loud to her uncles. Now retired, Ettinger continues to write with fervor. She currently resides in Summerville, Oregon with her husband Chip, two dogs, two cats, and too many chickens.

Jacht Symfonika

 

Line Composition

David Felix is an English visual poet who lives in Denmark. For fifty years or so his writing has taken on a variety of forms, in collage, three dimensions, in galleries, anthologies, festival performances and video, and in over thirty publications worldwide, both in print and online.

Shade

I am trying to speak like an adult
while the shadow of the past goes racing over the aspens.

This is the summer of butterflies—I mean the actual thing—
& swarming bumblebees

a world so changed since childhood
I am surprised I startle to see you:

breath shocks & the thirty-some years I’m dragging
gasp below your towering bones.

We learned spelling together, wanted something
from one another beyond fractions & maps.

Our history is a game I lose badly today
all childhood lurking and clamorous.

These days I eat mangoes sliced at every meal,
more mangoes than ever & never enough;

it takes every measured pause to not launch across
decades of body-warm space. You, now—

look at me. I have been a woman long enough and yet
I know the taste of you under the trees.

I know the way these things come undone.

 

At the foot of October 

Cool winds hum a reckoning
in secret corners by shelf and door
through the fuzz of lint from hair and clothes

Arrivals on dark legs, afternoons push
dinner ahead of them. Islands rise
through a viscous ocean—
like a mind’s struggle for substance.

At the foot of October
old debts come due:
blade-raked hand; bloody swim
a brave stripe on pavement.

Knives in audience
spit disapproval.

Until the door blows shut,
I cannot enter the day.

As a child in rural Oregon, Delia Garigan assumed animals understood her words. She has spent time as a research scientist and a Zen monastic, but still does not understand how words birth the world. Her poems have been published in Animal, Phantom Drift, Windfall, and VoiceCatcher.