Journal

He Explains Why He Sleeps
on a Lawn Chair in His Front Yard

Walls are not two-by-fours but faces
speaking without a voice.
‌                    I call King TV. No reporters show.

Sitcoms and reality shows fade
in a swarm of mosquitos.
‌                    I stop separating garbage from recycle.

Tricksters circumnavigate. Someone
in the government gives them lessons.
‌                     Immigration doesn’t call me back.

Converts practice their code-making.
They don’t explain why the world spins faster.
‌                    I leave Oreos by the fireplace.

I call for the exterminators, but I am down
to dimes and nickels. The floor lamps
‌                    take reverse x-rays.

I leave pennies by the door.
The priest from St. Marks can’t come.
‌                    I practice self-absolution.

The electrician says he won’t accept cash;
he’ll bill me. Nettles root in my ears.
‌                    Over the stinging, the pharmacist

at one of those chain stores tells me
you need a doctor’s prescription.
          That’s when I know
‌          what I need to do.

 

Susan Landgraf’s writing exercise book, The Inspired Poet, was just published by Two Sylvias Press. Her poems appear in Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Margie, Nimrod, Calyx, and others. Other books include What We Bury Changes the Ground and Other Voices. Currently she’s Poet Laureate of Auburn, Washington, where she lives.

Dan

Disheveled, soiled, stinking
he paces 2nd street
around the closed foundry,
counts the splotches,
avoids the curb for 26 steps.
Slumping shoulders,
the world in his head turning,
his mind connected to fibers
that speak from beyond,
whirring, hear the hum?
You don’t know
and never will know
what he knows.
Loo of Loo’s Chinese and American Cuisine
puts a small white box
of likely leftovers behind the dumpster
with a plastic fork stuck in the handle
where if it’s eaten or not
can easily be tossed.
Loo watches, sometimes.
Dan will pick up the box
smell it, put it down,
walk around the block,
come back, pick it up
and sometimes he eats.
The last of the dishes
roll out of the washer.
Dan turns around 3 times
testing the fibers for true south.

 

Gary Lark’s most recent collection is “Ordinary Gravity,” Airlie Press. Other work includes, “River of Solace,” Editor’s Choice Chapbook Award from Turtle Island Quarterly, Flowstone Press; “In the House of Memory,” BatCat Press; “Without a Map,” Wellstone Press; “Getting By,” winner of the Holland Prize from Logan House Press. His poetry has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, Willawaw, Poet Lore, ZYZZYVA and others.

In Dreams

I wake from a forgotten dream
with the taste of salt
heavy in my saliva, and
the smell of seaweed
deep in my nose.

Did I almost drown
in my sleep, or
find a floating peace
so far unattainable
in the waking world.
Each day stretches cruelly
before me like a promise broken
before it is sworn.

 

Edward Lee is from Dublin, Ireland. His poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England, and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, and Smiths Knoll.  His debut poetry collection, Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, was published in 2010. Lee also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, et al. See more at his website: edwardlee.wordpress.com.

Sunday Mornings

My mother would drag the rugs out
of our red brick house, one-by-one
down the steps, in front of the neighbors.
She beats the rugs with her broom
as if they are flesh-eating aliens.
I want to scream, “No!” “Stop!”
but all I can do is cover my face
with my hands. I smell my breath—
maple syrup, challah, sour milk.
If only I had a stick of peppermint gum,
everything would be a lot better.

 

Sherri Levine is a poet and artist living in Portland, Oregon.  She is the author of In These Voices and is the recent recipient of the Lois Cranston Memorial Poetry Prize. Her poetry and art have appeared in the Timberline Review, CALYX, Driftwood Press, Willawaw Journal, The Opiate. Visit her website for more information.

Here for the Long Ride

I am depression, blossomed from a seed
feeding off your need, spending the nights
turning off the lights, I am a coverlet of pain
It’s me gently whispering your name
holding your head against my chest
What beats beneath your breast
I am the one making you cry
even when you don’t know why
I’m always deep inside
Here for the long ride

 

Aurora M. Lewis is in her late sixties, having worked in finance for 40 years. In her fifties, she received a Certificate in Creative Writing General Studies with Honors from UCLA.  Her poems, short stories, and nonfiction have been accepted by The Literary Hatchet, Jerry Jazz Musician, Persimmon Tree Magazine, The Copperfield Review, Lucent Dreams, The Blue Nib, and others.  She was nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Web.  

I Took A Stroll While Coming Down