Epic Mimicry and Studied Elegance
Too late to write. Too early to sleep. Too tired to talk. Too wired to stop. My night drifts into your day. Guitar too heavy to lift. Songs too hard to hear. The bed beckons, one side bursting from the wealth of books, the other empty, expecting my acceptance, my shallow shuddering breathing. And all we know is what we learned, and what we learned is all we know. We know it all except the secrets of our hearts. We live and pose, facsimile, until the feeling starts. One hears words, another a song. Both a dirge and somehow wrong. And the moon looks on at the fools, its laughter ripples the heavens, waves of undulating mirth that never reach the earth.
Showing posts with label theme issue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theme issue. Show all posts
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Prose Poem: Elissa Gordon
Potentiometer
Last week a $500 auto repair, a throttle body sensor, a skip, a jump in the signal, after nine years, the press of a pedal no longer tells the whole story of how much fuel is being sent. Get out the gauge. My mechanic kneels down to diagram the problem for me, just as he had in his office. In my muddled dreams the instrument slipped in his hand and pointed directly at me. The needle quivered, hovered just above zero, barely registering, like that time at the DMV, back when they still used Polaroids, and they had to take my photo three times amid the laughter and vampire jokes.
Last week a $500 auto repair, a throttle body sensor, a skip, a jump in the signal, after nine years, the press of a pedal no longer tells the whole story of how much fuel is being sent. Get out the gauge. My mechanic kneels down to diagram the problem for me, just as he had in his office. In my muddled dreams the instrument slipped in his hand and pointed directly at me. The needle quivered, hovered just above zero, barely registering, like that time at the DMV, back when they still used Polaroids, and they had to take my photo three times amid the laughter and vampire jokes.
Prose Poem: Robert Scotellaro
Black
(originally published in Clockwise Cat)
The day they stole my father - the sky would have been black and low enough to bruise a man's shoulders. He must have been weak from the flu, a buckle beating, or a bad back - too weary to resist.
The car, I imagined: black, or a hunter's green Caddy with a shark's-teeth grill. The blacktop, a chain pulling it/him along south—blacking out from the heat. His captors in the back, on either side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Forcing him, later, to remarry - the gun metal singeing his shiny black hair.
All those miles piled up behind him - one screeching crash after another. The black heart, my mother said, he took with him - far and safe enough away - it couldn't hear a thing.
#
A Pretty Rain
(originally published in Willows Wept Review)
One day it rains a pretty rain, and everyone it touches knows beauty. Cars and houses quickly empty. Already attractive people stand in it, naked, against that one gray hair or bit of flab. Plain Janes splash in its puddles with a warrior's cry; erasing the sadness from their cheeks.
But the next day an ugly rain falls, with disquieting effects. Umbrellas blossom much too late. Forecasters are stumped. People wait indoors with wart-tipped noses against the glass. Which will it be?
It's cold as the fat clouds darken. A wise snow comes, weighing on the eaves. Filling the hollows of hats, and slipping into the darkness of high boots; tracked and crunched. A deep snow. A quiet snow, gathering - nearly luminous. Whispering down and landing on wide-eyed faces. And all will have to rethink everything.
(originally published in Clockwise Cat)
The day they stole my father - the sky would have been black and low enough to bruise a man's shoulders. He must have been weak from the flu, a buckle beating, or a bad back - too weary to resist.
The car, I imagined: black, or a hunter's green Caddy with a shark's-teeth grill. The blacktop, a chain pulling it/him along south—blacking out from the heat. His captors in the back, on either side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Forcing him, later, to remarry - the gun metal singeing his shiny black hair.
All those miles piled up behind him - one screeching crash after another. The black heart, my mother said, he took with him - far and safe enough away - it couldn't hear a thing.
#
A Pretty Rain
(originally published in Willows Wept Review)
One day it rains a pretty rain, and everyone it touches knows beauty. Cars and houses quickly empty. Already attractive people stand in it, naked, against that one gray hair or bit of flab. Plain Janes splash in its puddles with a warrior's cry; erasing the sadness from their cheeks.
But the next day an ugly rain falls, with disquieting effects. Umbrellas blossom much too late. Forecasters are stumped. People wait indoors with wart-tipped noses against the glass. Which will it be?
It's cold as the fat clouds darken. A wise snow comes, weighing on the eaves. Filling the hollows of hats, and slipping into the darkness of high boots; tracked and crunched. A deep snow. A quiet snow, gathering - nearly luminous. Whispering down and landing on wide-eyed faces. And all will have to rethink everything.
Prose Poem: Carol L. Berg
Cousins Island
The parking lot a crescent moon. Dirt road with craters big as your Volkswagen Beetle you've parked out on the jut facing the bridge where bare chested boys plunge into the green ocean's mouth. The Grateful Dead sing Sugar Magnolia from speakers. We grip Michelob beer bottles. Some of us are dancing. Some of us are dancing the lust dance. The grin and flirt. The two-step closer to that brown eyed boy whose freckles glow like orange headlights in the October sky. I'll swing my bare leg over your motorcycle seat, zoom off without a helmet, and burn my thigh on the hot carburetor. Later you and I sit in another car, smoking a joint through a rubber mask to get a bigger hit. I'll pretend to pass out. Or maybe I do pass out. And then you turn toward me. And then all the lights crash out.
The parking lot a crescent moon. Dirt road with craters big as your Volkswagen Beetle you've parked out on the jut facing the bridge where bare chested boys plunge into the green ocean's mouth. The Grateful Dead sing Sugar Magnolia from speakers. We grip Michelob beer bottles. Some of us are dancing. Some of us are dancing the lust dance. The grin and flirt. The two-step closer to that brown eyed boy whose freckles glow like orange headlights in the October sky. I'll swing my bare leg over your motorcycle seat, zoom off without a helmet, and burn my thigh on the hot carburetor. Later you and I sit in another car, smoking a joint through a rubber mask to get a bigger hit. I'll pretend to pass out. Or maybe I do pass out. And then you turn toward me. And then all the lights crash out.
Prose Poem: Puma Perl
Miss DiFalco
Miss DiFalco
(not yet thirty,
but spinsterish)
taught English to
seventh graders-
girls in black eye make-up
boys who wrote "fuck"
in their books…
Miss DiFalco,
principal’s daughter
a bear-like man
who scared everyone,
even the boys
drawing cocks
in library books,
even the girls
in ripped
black stockings...
Miss DiFalco,
perfume
light and flowery,
lavender, gardenia,
the girls smelled
of cigarettes,
tasted musky,
the boys greased
their hair
Miss DiFalco,
in her skirts too long,
her sensible shoes,
her crying eyes,
spoke clearly,
softly, in a refined
Brooklyn accent-
the students liked her
despite themselves.
they seemed to feel
the passionate woman
hiding behind her eyes.
on parent-teacher day,
six mothers wore pant suits,
three fathers squeezed
their bellies behind
student desk
the kids played
with their erasers,
tapped their feet-
everyone pretended
interest in verbs,
nouns, sentences.
after the lesson
Miss DiFalco
read a poem,
The Highwayman,
by Alfred Noyes
she had memorized it
"I'll come to thee by moonlight"
she recited, eyes burning
"look for me by moonlight"
she whispered, cheeks red
"Tlot-tlot in the frosty silence!
Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!"
she cried out!
the fathers leaned forward,
forgetting the desks
cutting into their guts,
the mothers narrowed their eyes,
the boys stared at her breasts,
the girls fixed their stockings-
finally, the highwayman
rode up to the old inn door;
whip in hand, he reached
for Bess, the landlord's daughter
the one with the long black hair-
Miss DiFalco
hissed those last lines,
closed her eyes,
clasped her hands,
willed her shaking body
to sit quietly again.
the class stood up
and applauded.
it was her finest moment.
#
A Ninth Grade Story
Monday morning:
Joey Carlucci turned Mr. Gatto's VW bug upside down.
His friend Butchie threw Mrs. Kimmelman’s desk out the window.
It landed on Mr. Camiel's 1962 two tone 4 door Dodge.
The cops found 82 unpaid parking tickets and red lace underwear under the seat.
Josephine Caruso passed a note to Richard Dorso.
It read in part, I love You. you can put it in Me today.
She signed my name with a lot of hearts and a postscript,
suggesting that he call me Huckleberry Pie.
Richard Dorso’s girlfriend Angela Palumbo came to my Spanish class.
Said she'd wait for me after school.
I told Joey Carlucci who liked me so he slapped her.
During lunch, he had a fight with Richard Dorso.
Angela and I smoked cigarettes and glared at each other,
twins in ripped black stockings and sneakers
She was 13, a year older than me cause I skipped 8th grade,
The cops arrived (again) before you could tell who won,
though Joey Carlucci was starting to look a little soft
around the eyes, like he was afraid of getting hurt.
Everyone who didn't run got JD cards and notes
asking their mothers to come up to school.
I rode the bus home alone except for Butchie,
who kept whispering "Huckleberry Pie" at me.
I knew I had to fight Josephine Caruso,
but all I wanted to do was to go home
Eat milk and cookies; the milk had turned sour
so I drank a cup of coffee and went back out,
looking for Josephine Caruso.
#
Naming the Wild Flowers
(original published in Journal of Heroin Love Songs, 6/08)
Ruth was long and blonde
She lived in the yellow house
up the road
She drove a pick-up
Painted houses, taught school
Baked pumpernickel
with secret ingredients
like mashed potatoes
She left the yellow house
to live with Allen on Bald Hill
His face was hidden
behind a bushy beard
Glasses and a hat
His head was usually down
He picked it up for Ruth
Turned out to be quite handsome
Wild flowers grew by the door
Ruth recited their names slowly,
like a child learning the alphabet
Fireweed Goldenrod
Spring Beauty
Starflower
Jack in the Pulpit
In a little girl's voice
She called out each name
Years later they came downtown
It was winter, she wore a pair of pants
around her neck, she had no scarf
After an hour, it was Allen's turn
She buried her face
in a stained cabled sweater
Her skin was as yellow as
the house up the road,
She spoke in a rasp, broken
teeth, cracked eyes
Burnt matches fell
from her pockets
They left hand in hand
Nicotine fingers entwined
She looked back at me once
The wind whipped her hair
Into her eyes, covered her face
She used to smell like lemons
I remembered her
Sitting on a country step
Could still hear her
In a child's voice
Naming the wild flowers
Miss DiFalco
(not yet thirty,
but spinsterish)
taught English to
seventh graders-
girls in black eye make-up
boys who wrote "fuck"
in their books…
Miss DiFalco,
principal’s daughter
a bear-like man
who scared everyone,
even the boys
drawing cocks
in library books,
even the girls
in ripped
black stockings...
Miss DiFalco,
perfume
light and flowery,
lavender, gardenia,
the girls smelled
of cigarettes,
tasted musky,
the boys greased
their hair
Miss DiFalco,
in her skirts too long,
her sensible shoes,
her crying eyes,
spoke clearly,
softly, in a refined
Brooklyn accent-
the students liked her
despite themselves.
they seemed to feel
the passionate woman
hiding behind her eyes.
on parent-teacher day,
six mothers wore pant suits,
three fathers squeezed
their bellies behind
student desk
the kids played
with their erasers,
tapped their feet-
everyone pretended
interest in verbs,
nouns, sentences.
after the lesson
Miss DiFalco
read a poem,
The Highwayman,
by Alfred Noyes
she had memorized it
"I'll come to thee by moonlight"
she recited, eyes burning
"look for me by moonlight"
she whispered, cheeks red
"Tlot-tlot in the frosty silence!
Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!"
she cried out!
the fathers leaned forward,
forgetting the desks
cutting into their guts,
the mothers narrowed their eyes,
the boys stared at her breasts,
the girls fixed their stockings-
finally, the highwayman
rode up to the old inn door;
whip in hand, he reached
for Bess, the landlord's daughter
the one with the long black hair-
Miss DiFalco
hissed those last lines,
closed her eyes,
clasped her hands,
willed her shaking body
to sit quietly again.
the class stood up
and applauded.
it was her finest moment.
#
A Ninth Grade Story
Monday morning:
Joey Carlucci turned Mr. Gatto's VW bug upside down.
His friend Butchie threw Mrs. Kimmelman’s desk out the window.
It landed on Mr. Camiel's 1962 two tone 4 door Dodge.
The cops found 82 unpaid parking tickets and red lace underwear under the seat.
Josephine Caruso passed a note to Richard Dorso.
It read in part, I love You. you can put it in Me today.
She signed my name with a lot of hearts and a postscript,
suggesting that he call me Huckleberry Pie.
Richard Dorso’s girlfriend Angela Palumbo came to my Spanish class.
Said she'd wait for me after school.
I told Joey Carlucci who liked me so he slapped her.
During lunch, he had a fight with Richard Dorso.
Angela and I smoked cigarettes and glared at each other,
twins in ripped black stockings and sneakers
She was 13, a year older than me cause I skipped 8th grade,
The cops arrived (again) before you could tell who won,
though Joey Carlucci was starting to look a little soft
around the eyes, like he was afraid of getting hurt.
Everyone who didn't run got JD cards and notes
asking their mothers to come up to school.
I rode the bus home alone except for Butchie,
who kept whispering "Huckleberry Pie" at me.
I knew I had to fight Josephine Caruso,
but all I wanted to do was to go home
Eat milk and cookies; the milk had turned sour
so I drank a cup of coffee and went back out,
looking for Josephine Caruso.
#
Naming the Wild Flowers
(original published in Journal of Heroin Love Songs, 6/08)
Ruth was long and blonde
She lived in the yellow house
up the road
She drove a pick-up
Painted houses, taught school
Baked pumpernickel
with secret ingredients
like mashed potatoes
She left the yellow house
to live with Allen on Bald Hill
His face was hidden
behind a bushy beard
Glasses and a hat
His head was usually down
He picked it up for Ruth
Turned out to be quite handsome
Wild flowers grew by the door
Ruth recited their names slowly,
like a child learning the alphabet
Fireweed Goldenrod
Spring Beauty
Starflower
Jack in the Pulpit
In a little girl's voice
She called out each name
Years later they came downtown
It was winter, she wore a pair of pants
around her neck, she had no scarf
After an hour, it was Allen's turn
She buried her face
in a stained cabled sweater
Her skin was as yellow as
the house up the road,
She spoke in a rasp, broken
teeth, cracked eyes
Burnt matches fell
from her pockets
They left hand in hand
Nicotine fingers entwined
She looked back at me once
The wind whipped her hair
Into her eyes, covered her face
She used to smell like lemons
I remembered her
Sitting on a country step
Could still hear her
In a child's voice
Naming the wild flowers
Prose Poem: William Doreski
My Former Muse
Last night the weedy red hair of my former muse descended to veil from me the decent rooms, the decent wife, the decent town, and numb me into visions or versions of what might have been. Lying in a pasture in Vermont while the October wind opened our pores and looked in, we stroked each other raw. Perfect weather for the disaffected, the Taconics on their toes, every wrinkle brazen, every tree brisk and complex. She asked me to stay and find some menial job as bartender, perhaps, or bus boy in the restaurant where she waitressed, her hair knotted, her uniform too short to cover her sunburned thighs. I couldn't solve our lives so quickly. The soughing of the Battenkill below us sparked a language more inspired than mine. Trout leapt freely at the close of their long heartless season. Last night she returned to make up, but the silence has deepened and her red hair's going gray. Her children must be grown. Perhaps she married someone braver than me, perhaps she lives alone in that serene lack of motion that reminded me of sunning reptiles, her awkward features relaxed, her meatless scarred legs folded under her, every detail fixed in repose as she waits for me to abandon my worn old ego and with free will enter her own.
Last night the weedy red hair of my former muse descended to veil from me the decent rooms, the decent wife, the decent town, and numb me into visions or versions of what might have been. Lying in a pasture in Vermont while the October wind opened our pores and looked in, we stroked each other raw. Perfect weather for the disaffected, the Taconics on their toes, every wrinkle brazen, every tree brisk and complex. She asked me to stay and find some menial job as bartender, perhaps, or bus boy in the restaurant where she waitressed, her hair knotted, her uniform too short to cover her sunburned thighs. I couldn't solve our lives so quickly. The soughing of the Battenkill below us sparked a language more inspired than mine. Trout leapt freely at the close of their long heartless season. Last night she returned to make up, but the silence has deepened and her red hair's going gray. Her children must be grown. Perhaps she married someone braver than me, perhaps she lives alone in that serene lack of motion that reminded me of sunning reptiles, her awkward features relaxed, her meatless scarred legs folded under her, every detail fixed in repose as she waits for me to abandon my worn old ego and with free will enter her own.
Prose Poem: Muriel Karr
Consider This a Fairy Tale
Once upon a time there was a woman who had a problem. Her mother had died some years before, but she had been unable to bury her mother's body anywhere. Now she was determined to find a way to bury her mother.
As a result, she had a struggle. The sheriff said no, you cannot bury her in your yard. The cemetery said no, you are too late, it's against the rules. She couldn't find a mausoleum or a crypt. Even ashes wouldn't do.
So in the end, she ate her mother's body as the food she needed in order to continue - slim as a reed waving in the sweet summer wind on solstice eve.
Once upon a time there was a woman who had a problem. Her mother had died some years before, but she had been unable to bury her mother's body anywhere. Now she was determined to find a way to bury her mother.
As a result, she had a struggle. The sheriff said no, you cannot bury her in your yard. The cemetery said no, you are too late, it's against the rules. She couldn't find a mausoleum or a crypt. Even ashes wouldn't do.
So in the end, she ate her mother's body as the food she needed in order to continue - slim as a reed waving in the sweet summer wind on solstice eve.
Prose Poem: Todd Moore
switchman
walking down the railroad tracks with a baseball bat and had a hunting knife stuck in his belt every once in awhile he'd stop at a freight car switched off on a side track and bang on the door with the ball bat when he saw me watching he said have you seen kansas city bob wears a stocking cap and has only one good eye the switchman said haven't seen him i replied i got his glass eye he said i wanna give it back then the switchman held out his hand he was holding a real eye and it was swimming in blood
walking down the railroad tracks with a baseball bat and had a hunting knife stuck in his belt every once in awhile he'd stop at a freight car switched off on a side track and bang on the door with the ball bat when he saw me watching he said have you seen kansas city bob wears a stocking cap and has only one good eye the switchman said haven't seen him i replied i got his glass eye he said i wanna give it back then the switchman held out his hand he was holding a real eye and it was swimming in blood
Prose Poem: Catfish McDaris
Ballad of Pete Best or the Short Life of Van Gogh's Ear
That night we were cooking
on stage, sizzling cool
The audience leaning forward
catching every nuance & syllable
I nodded for you to
do your prearranged
Zeppelin Hendrix style
fretless bass solo
You ignored our plan,
I looked up & a punk
had your guitar
You were standing in
the back of the room
grinning with your squeeze
Folks were getting crazy
when this dude got funky
I knew then, it was time
to hire Ringo.
#
Letter Bomb From a Pacifist Poet After Frijoles
If I could seal
a fart
in this envelope
It would be my
reply to your
form rejection slip
Unfortunately the
volume of rejects
I receive
Prevents a personal
reply to each &
every one I get.
That night we were cooking
on stage, sizzling cool
The audience leaning forward
catching every nuance & syllable
I nodded for you to
do your prearranged
Zeppelin Hendrix style
fretless bass solo
You ignored our plan,
I looked up & a punk
had your guitar
You were standing in
the back of the room
grinning with your squeeze
Folks were getting crazy
when this dude got funky
I knew then, it was time
to hire Ringo.
#
Letter Bomb From a Pacifist Poet After Frijoles
If I could seal
a fart
in this envelope
It would be my
reply to your
form rejection slip
Unfortunately the
volume of rejects
I receive
Prevents a personal
reply to each &
every one I get.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Call for Submissions
The is now accepting submissions for a new theme issue: prose poem. Length to 500 words.
Please send to craigtheeditor [at] gmail [dot] com.
Deadline is September 30, 2009.
Please send to craigtheeditor [at] gmail [dot] com.
Deadline is September 30, 2009.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Dreams: Lyn Lifshin
BAD DREAM
the night was hard work, dreaming,
the strangers in the house
stain the air. I was going to be
abandoned. I could tell and finding
my crystal beads tossed on the
floor, apt to be cracked, turned to
rose dust didn’t help. Or the man who
seems an intrusion stinking up the
bathroom. Before I slept, I was
appalled I had forgotten my Abyssinian
cat’s birthday two days ago though
I remember it was the date Harper and
Row took my book. Was I the cat,
abandoned in my Sunday depression
though I always remember my cat before
her died Feb 11, 2002. The guests
seem oblivious to me, they are cocky,
the singy, touching types. I wanted out,
to get out before I was abandoned.
Then I wake up shaking, horrified thinking
it’s never been so long since I talked
with my mother. And then, like the
man with Alzheimer’s, going thru his
daughter’s death each time he sees
her in her coffin, remembering, awake
I can’t go to see my mother,
she’s dead
#
DREAM OF NEEDING SPACE, OF THINGS CAUGHT FROZEN
fast shots of a dancer
in muted clothes
shooting thru space
needing a lot of space
around the greys and
guavas nothing
red Gitana's favorite
color nothing bright
as blood but muted
colors frozen in a
cube of glass every
thing suspended it
can't grow or die
What I say is caught
in ice that won't melt
#
LUST BLOWING UNDER THE DOOR, BRIGHT AS STRAW
Your smile’s like sun
flowers he said
as tho
embarrassed his
hands were
pressing
awkwardly the
ring on his
second finger
close to her
eyes
from that room
a wheat sea
lust
blew under the
door bright
as straw
and his warm
parts on
her belly
those small
bones that changed her
small
bones to water
And not even
knowing
his name
until later
when the floor fell
the room
turned into a
painting
and the paint cracked
#
BAD DREAM # 279, JUNE 22
I go back to Vermont, to Middlebury.
It’s been a while, another life time?
And the uncles, the dead ones hover
in shadows, ghostly, their lips and
cheek bones on faces that some
how aren’t there but then, nothing is
as it was. The beautiful bookstore
with the flat above it where I dreamed
in my lavender back bedroom of
starring on Broadway or writing a book,
now looks like collapsing bricks about
to be bull dozed. This can’t be. There’s
no bookstore, no sign there’s ever
been one. The bricks shift, the building
looks like something too dangerous
to enter after a hurricane, a house of
tooth picks one small breath could
make fall down. Even Main Street, a
perfect New England small town
where Life magazine came to photo
graph this perfect calendar frame, the
red and green lights strung for Christmas,
children on sleds and of course the traffic
police who checked out every boy who
came to pick me up for a date my
mother would wait up for me from.
Have I been comatose a hundred years?
Where is the town I knew? What could
be left but mice and droppings in the
mostly abandoned street. Drug vials litter
the street instead of flower boxes and
geranium. When did the town become
a slum, a torn blighted disaster? The
only color is gray. It’s as if the mortar,
whatever held all that mattered together
dissolved. A heart beat. Just the touch
of one brick and everything I thought I
could keep will crumble
#
BALLROOM
I want to be
air and flame,
my arms wings,
my feet beating
the ground
for take off.
I want the
grind, the
shimmer of his
pelvis, my
skirt flaming,
want him to
hold me in a
frame nothing
wild escapes from
the night was hard work, dreaming,
the strangers in the house
stain the air. I was going to be
abandoned. I could tell and finding
my crystal beads tossed on the
floor, apt to be cracked, turned to
rose dust didn’t help. Or the man who
seems an intrusion stinking up the
bathroom. Before I slept, I was
appalled I had forgotten my Abyssinian
cat’s birthday two days ago though
I remember it was the date Harper and
Row took my book. Was I the cat,
abandoned in my Sunday depression
though I always remember my cat before
her died Feb 11, 2002. The guests
seem oblivious to me, they are cocky,
the singy, touching types. I wanted out,
to get out before I was abandoned.
Then I wake up shaking, horrified thinking
it’s never been so long since I talked
with my mother. And then, like the
man with Alzheimer’s, going thru his
daughter’s death each time he sees
her in her coffin, remembering, awake
I can’t go to see my mother,
she’s dead
#
DREAM OF NEEDING SPACE, OF THINGS CAUGHT FROZEN
fast shots of a dancer
in muted clothes
shooting thru space
needing a lot of space
around the greys and
guavas nothing
red Gitana's favorite
color nothing bright
as blood but muted
colors frozen in a
cube of glass every
thing suspended it
can't grow or die
What I say is caught
in ice that won't melt
#
LUST BLOWING UNDER THE DOOR, BRIGHT AS STRAW
Your smile’s like sun
flowers he said
as tho
embarrassed his
hands were
pressing
awkwardly the
ring on his
second finger
close to her
eyes
from that room
a wheat sea
lust
blew under the
door bright
as straw
and his warm
parts on
her belly
those small
bones that changed her
small
bones to water
And not even
knowing
his name
until later
when the floor fell
the room
turned into a
painting
and the paint cracked
#
BAD DREAM # 279, JUNE 22
I go back to Vermont, to Middlebury.
It’s been a while, another life time?
And the uncles, the dead ones hover
in shadows, ghostly, their lips and
cheek bones on faces that some
how aren’t there but then, nothing is
as it was. The beautiful bookstore
with the flat above it where I dreamed
in my lavender back bedroom of
starring on Broadway or writing a book,
now looks like collapsing bricks about
to be bull dozed. This can’t be. There’s
no bookstore, no sign there’s ever
been one. The bricks shift, the building
looks like something too dangerous
to enter after a hurricane, a house of
tooth picks one small breath could
make fall down. Even Main Street, a
perfect New England small town
where Life magazine came to photo
graph this perfect calendar frame, the
red and green lights strung for Christmas,
children on sleds and of course the traffic
police who checked out every boy who
came to pick me up for a date my
mother would wait up for me from.
Have I been comatose a hundred years?
Where is the town I knew? What could
be left but mice and droppings in the
mostly abandoned street. Drug vials litter
the street instead of flower boxes and
geranium. When did the town become
a slum, a torn blighted disaster? The
only color is gray. It’s as if the mortar,
whatever held all that mattered together
dissolved. A heart beat. Just the touch
of one brick and everything I thought I
could keep will crumble
#
BALLROOM
I want to be
air and flame,
my arms wings,
my feet beating
the ground
for take off.
I want the
grind, the
shimmer of his
pelvis, my
skirt flaming,
want him to
hold me in a
frame nothing
wild escapes from
Dreams: Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
THE BOOK OF ABSURD DREAMS
The bird of wisdom carries the words
I speak in my sleep
across the sea,
who recite the words to a man who looks like me.
My double takes my words to his grave.
They become a book
in his coffin.
My double’s corpse is ravaged by worms.
One of the worms ends
up in a bird’s gut.
This bird flies across the sea reciting the words
from the book of
my double’s corpse.
I dream of the absurdity of such a book.
The bird of wisdom carries the words
I speak in my sleep
across the sea,
who recite the words to a man who looks like me.
My double takes my words to his grave.
They become a book
in his coffin.
My double’s corpse is ravaged by worms.
One of the worms ends
up in a bird’s gut.
This bird flies across the sea reciting the words
from the book of
my double’s corpse.
I dream of the absurdity of such a book.
Dreams: Craig Sernotti
DREAM
I took a shit in a toilet
that couldn’t flush.
Didn’t know it was broken
at the time.
I had to shovel it out with a
toothpick and rubber gloves.
Everyone pointed and laughed.
I flung a log at them.
They ran away.
I finished cleaning out the bowl.
John Updike said I did a good job.
I shook his hand,
then removed the gloves.
I took a shit in a toilet
that couldn’t flush.
Didn’t know it was broken
at the time.
I had to shovel it out with a
toothpick and rubber gloves.
Everyone pointed and laughed.
I flung a log at them.
They ran away.
I finished cleaning out the bowl.
John Updike said I did a good job.
I shook his hand,
then removed the gloves.
Dreams: Kurt Newton
waiting for the crash to happen
rainy gray
drive to work
wipers slide
a soothing metronome
ahead the white lines
wave and blur
as heavy shadows
red tail lights
diffuse behind
the foggy window
coffin cool
you could be sitting at home
in your favorite chair
dozing off to your favorite
late night television program
as the world beyond
your four white walls
battles distant wars
spills distant blood
and crumbles
or you could be in your bed
your body numbed and tired
wrapped inside
your bleached white sheets
as your mind escapes
to distant lands
and falls in love
with strangers
or you could be in your car
as rocket shells explode around you
and your lover turns out to be
the figure on the dash
and the TV screen transcends
into a thousand starlit pieces
and you close your eyes
but there is no sleep
because your dream has continued on
without you
- first appeared in Asylums and Labyrinths (1997)
rainy gray
drive to work
wipers slide
a soothing metronome
ahead the white lines
wave and blur
as heavy shadows
red tail lights
diffuse behind
the foggy window
coffin cool
you could be sitting at home
in your favorite chair
dozing off to your favorite
late night television program
as the world beyond
your four white walls
battles distant wars
spills distant blood
and crumbles
or you could be in your bed
your body numbed and tired
wrapped inside
your bleached white sheets
as your mind escapes
to distant lands
and falls in love
with strangers
or you could be in your car
as rocket shells explode around you
and your lover turns out to be
the figure on the dash
and the TV screen transcends
into a thousand starlit pieces
and you close your eyes
but there is no sleep
because your dream has continued on
without you
- first appeared in Asylums and Labyrinths (1997)
Dreams: Howie Good
A DREAM
The chair was tilted back. My mouth was open.
He reached in with a pair of pliers.
They were the pliers from my household toolbox.
I became aware of music, something classical,
playing discreetly in the background
The tooth was stubborn. He grunted as he yanked at it.
I wondered why I was there, what I had done.
In the outer office, voices were arguing.
He yanked harder. Sweat dripped down his face.
I looked at the brown stains on the ceiling
to avoid looking further at him.
We stayed like that for hours, perhaps days.
It got so bad that even the birds,
with their wild, tiny hearts, flew away.
The chair was tilted back. My mouth was open.
He reached in with a pair of pliers.
They were the pliers from my household toolbox.
I became aware of music, something classical,
playing discreetly in the background
The tooth was stubborn. He grunted as he yanked at it.
I wondered why I was there, what I had done.
In the outer office, voices were arguing.
He yanked harder. Sweat dripped down his face.
I looked at the brown stains on the ceiling
to avoid looking further at him.
We stayed like that for hours, perhaps days.
It got so bad that even the birds,
with their wild, tiny hearts, flew away.
Dreams: Puma Pearl
mrs. god’s kitchen
mrs. god was tired of the kitchen
every day was the same
the red and yellow checked cloth
hung just so around the small round table
lenny bruce cracking tired jokes, eating
strawberry pie with whipped cream
janis singing endlessly to jim morrison
his eyes burning holes in the linoleum as
he sliced bananas into crescent moons,
sprinkled them over fruity frosted flakes
mrs. god was tired of staying home
her husband had all the good times
directing traffic, finding parking spaces
bailing junkies out of drug busts
granting wishes, fervent dreams
home runs, negative pregnancy tests
found keys, cell phone messages
good haircuts, matched socks
empty laundromats, exact change
answering the most popular prayers
bringing smiles and sighs to believers
mrs. god was tired of the weather
seventy- eight degrees and sunny
every single gosh darned night
she was tired of floating weightlessly
as she stirred pots and tossed dishes into
rainwater mixed with tide and bleach alternative
she was tired of disheveled rock stars
sarcastic comedians, revolutionary heroes
nancy spungeon’s voice, che guevara’s eyes
she hitched a ride one night with jerry garcia
they ate ice cream with the big dipper and the little one
even god couldn’t find her for awhile
he had to stay home and cook and entertain
nobody seemed to really notice he was gone
mrs. god was tired of the kitchen
every day was the same
the red and yellow checked cloth
hung just so around the small round table
lenny bruce cracking tired jokes, eating
strawberry pie with whipped cream
janis singing endlessly to jim morrison
his eyes burning holes in the linoleum as
he sliced bananas into crescent moons,
sprinkled them over fruity frosted flakes
mrs. god was tired of staying home
her husband had all the good times
directing traffic, finding parking spaces
bailing junkies out of drug busts
granting wishes, fervent dreams
home runs, negative pregnancy tests
found keys, cell phone messages
good haircuts, matched socks
empty laundromats, exact change
answering the most popular prayers
bringing smiles and sighs to believers
mrs. god was tired of the weather
seventy- eight degrees and sunny
every single gosh darned night
she was tired of floating weightlessly
as she stirred pots and tossed dishes into
rainwater mixed with tide and bleach alternative
she was tired of disheveled rock stars
sarcastic comedians, revolutionary heroes
nancy spungeon’s voice, che guevara’s eyes
she hitched a ride one night with jerry garcia
they ate ice cream with the big dipper and the little one
even god couldn’t find her for awhile
he had to stay home and cook and entertain
nobody seemed to really notice he was gone
Dreams: David Lawrence
I’M NOT DREAMING
In this dream where contours are outlines of edgy behavior and hallucinations are meager shakings from the salt of parched reality I am not dreaming.
My life travels in front of me like a cloud in which words are kites posted with hieroglyphics of my failures.
I tell you its not a dream. But you aren’t there to catch my drift. I think of the drift of a boat at sea and snow falling at Vail when I was young and still could afford to ski.
It’s not that I fail to remember my night time dreams but that my dreams want nothing to do with me. They disappear into their own glamorous world of retrocession and ignore me because I am too soaked in reality like a self-immolating wick.
At night my mind is vacant and stripped of dreams. During the day I wander around like a discarded image and hang onto a mirage that is burying its camels in an oasis of sand.
#
COUGHING DREAMS
I choked on a dream.
I lit your cigarette in the hope that you’d die.
I couldn’t remember an image
Except you burning in your sheets throwing
Matches at me.
This was a nightmare.
Or was it?
I didn’t know you or the dream.
I was full of negative hallucinations.
My lungs couldn’t take it all in and my sinuses
Dripped bizarre antagonisms.
In this dream where contours are outlines of edgy behavior and hallucinations are meager shakings from the salt of parched reality I am not dreaming.
My life travels in front of me like a cloud in which words are kites posted with hieroglyphics of my failures.
I tell you its not a dream. But you aren’t there to catch my drift. I think of the drift of a boat at sea and snow falling at Vail when I was young and still could afford to ski.
It’s not that I fail to remember my night time dreams but that my dreams want nothing to do with me. They disappear into their own glamorous world of retrocession and ignore me because I am too soaked in reality like a self-immolating wick.
At night my mind is vacant and stripped of dreams. During the day I wander around like a discarded image and hang onto a mirage that is burying its camels in an oasis of sand.
#
COUGHING DREAMS
I choked on a dream.
I lit your cigarette in the hope that you’d die.
I couldn’t remember an image
Except you burning in your sheets throwing
Matches at me.
This was a nightmare.
Or was it?
I didn’t know you or the dream.
I was full of negative hallucinations.
My lungs couldn’t take it all in and my sinuses
Dripped bizarre antagonisms.
Dreams: David McLean
the body
the body is so obvious
and it needs memories
to be its meat, it needs
dreams and nightmares
so it can listen to the fingers
of the rain scratching dead
at the window
this evident body is me
though evidently it is not me
and it is poisoned deliberately
by each insolent minute,
by every second that piles
its eternity in me,
by each torture
floating in the blood,
by the coffin floating
thoughtlessly through our need,
by each forgotten drug
the body listens to the fingers
of the wind, they scratch at the window
like fingers clawing at a coffin lid,
like a thirsty corpse the wind sings
the body is a meaty machine full of dreams
full of devils and dead men,
we are children falling asleep
where only nightmares are still listening,
life is a dream and it's impossible to wake from
the body is so obvious
and it needs memories
to be its meat, it needs
dreams and nightmares
so it can listen to the fingers
of the rain scratching dead
at the window
this evident body is me
though evidently it is not me
and it is poisoned deliberately
by each insolent minute,
by every second that piles
its eternity in me,
by each torture
floating in the blood,
by the coffin floating
thoughtlessly through our need,
by each forgotten drug
the body listens to the fingers
of the wind, they scratch at the window
like fingers clawing at a coffin lid,
like a thirsty corpse the wind sings
the body is a meaty machine full of dreams
full of devils and dead men,
we are children falling asleep
where only nightmares are still listening,
life is a dream and it's impossible to wake from
Dreams: John Kuligowski
AN OCEAN LAY NAKED
To dream of the sea is to dream
of the salt in your blood,
and yesterday afternoon an
ocean lay naked, stretched before me.
I saw a seagull’s abstract eye reflect
the shape of a woman foundering in the water
her wet hair shaking against the curve
of her spine, sensuous as the smoke
from a stick of incense curling unhurriedly
to the vaulted heights of a mystery temple.
I lost something in the water,
the breakers crashing against illumination.
To know the salt in your blood is to see
a particular of the cosmos
cut from motion
whole in itself
the seagull’s eye peering down,
detached from the carrion eater dressed
in rags of vestal white.
Picking at the ocean’s dream, you see
yourself, finally, equanimity
faltering, nothing sacrificed to you
for what was lost.
To dream of the sea is to dream
of the salt in your blood,
and yesterday afternoon an
ocean lay naked, stretched before me.
I saw a seagull’s abstract eye reflect
the shape of a woman foundering in the water
her wet hair shaking against the curve
of her spine, sensuous as the smoke
from a stick of incense curling unhurriedly
to the vaulted heights of a mystery temple.
I lost something in the water,
the breakers crashing against illumination.
To know the salt in your blood is to see
a particular of the cosmos
cut from motion
whole in itself
the seagull’s eye peering down,
detached from the carrion eater dressed
in rags of vestal white.
Picking at the ocean’s dream, you see
yourself, finally, equanimity
faltering, nothing sacrificed to you
for what was lost.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Call for Submissions
The is accepting work for its second theme "issue." This one's based on dreams - a piece retelling a dream, a piece inspired by a dream (or dreams), etc.
Submit work (poetry or prose) to craigtheeditor AT gmail DOT com. All rights are yours, same as always. Reprints are fine, just tell me where the work first appeared so credit can be given.
Deadline is January 1, 2009.
Quotes, The's first theme, can be found here.
Submit work (poetry or prose) to craigtheeditor AT gmail DOT com. All rights are yours, same as always. Reprints are fine, just tell me where the work first appeared so credit can be given.
Deadline is January 1, 2009.
Quotes, The's first theme, can be found here.
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