fall 2014
Table of Contents
Return to Home PageWhen I Call My Mother Matthew Walsh
Never Quite Coming of Age in Pontiac Michigan
Glen Armstrong
White Goddess
Afterward
Nettie Farris
It's Usually Something Like This K.V. Skene
Brooklyn Botanic Garden
Jason Primm
The Old Guys at the Pantry, Breakfast, 5 A.M. Mark Jackley
self-p0rtraits
Daniela Elza
Prey Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
In my version of heaven
Adrienne Drobnies
self-p0rtraits
1.
it has been years
and the hours are still stacked
against the odds gleaming
I must have known you no other way
but this—a disappearing tail of lights
in the mist
and the lyrics of the song get obscured
just when I most need to hear them.
2.
we sit you and I
like cold separate facts
bound in the conviction
of our own existence
a point of view
with no where to go.
a good conversation is a form
of transportation we do not
seem to take anymore.
it is not in the facts
but in their harmony
:says Rabindranath Tagore:
that truth is found.
we sit across from each other
hard cold facts
with no where to go.
3.
we are the dark matter we have been
looking for. at night the silence
is so palpable I can bite into it.
I have been putting these shards together
to see what we amount to—
end up reclaiming the pots emptiness.
we disappear down the corridor’s
black hole. I keep repeating—
open your blue mind
and ports of call will become visible.
water + me = a small existential moment
I can swim in against all odds.
4.
the GDP of our together climbs to
dizzying heights
Gross— indeed
Domestic— definitely
Product— no thank you.
the crows sound angrier this year
and I do not know why.
we get processed through pale hallways
the unbearable stink of painfully polite.
those fluorescent pretensions—
so bad for your eyes.
just the title
says the man behind the desk
no poem please.
we sign papers with the velocity of
celebrities. disappear into posh rooms
full of words from which
no one comes back.