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Joseph Lewis CL Bledsoe Ray Succre Beth Stolar Kehayes Joanna M. Weston Howie Good

Shayla Mollohan Shayla Mollohan, Barbara Taylor, Moira Richards Scott Malby Kelley Jean White Misti Rainwater-Lites Alan Britt

Pam Britton Reese Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Carey Link Ashok Niyogi Thomas D. Reynolds Joshua Cristiano

  

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Remains by Joseph Lewis To the untrained eye there's a tangle of shrub and a blur of trees in the distance— oak, poplar, silver maple and pine, leaves faded to brown. Patchwork of sunlight on the ground. Weeds waiting to be pulled. And the grave of a cat that died. Blue curtains are part of the scene, another landscape for an open eye— trees recovered before the light fades, moss on a fence where flowers have dried.     The Pool by Joseph Lewis A girl in a bikini reads a novel as a guy with a dog walks by. The wind blows through the pines. Soon enough it will all disappear: another summer will leave the sky and the pool will be empty again. Then it will be filled with leaves, all the brown leaves of another fall, and the chairs covered with snow.     Reader by Joseph Lewis I am a reader from early days. Now I have a detective novel, an anthology of ancient poems, and a book on identifying trees. But I'd rather look out the window at the green leaves turning in fall and listen to the birds in the morning followed by the crickets at night. Let me see a harvest of leaves like pages from all the books written since history began get buried in the winter snow.     Rejection by Joseph Lewis Waiting for another reply from a defunct magazine. But now I wonder why. Outside the trees are bare but a little color remains. I've never been anywhere. Unless you consider paper trails the way to a new horizon. Or maybe they're really sails. .   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page     1 Across by CL Bledsoe dirty window blue gravel           no one driving dark green blood  pine trees            blocks all gravel hardens to asphalt            twirls a line of ants barking           close     7 Across by CL Bledsoe A shaky light reminiscent of a streetlight blown by snowy winds.  Ground blanketed with snow frozen hard like white mud.  A breath.  A thudding just under the wind that may be an alarm, somewhere  beyond the highway, or a tree branch whipping in the wind.  The smell of perfume, just under the sharp cold.  You remember the brand.  It's something you haven't smelled in years.  A face you can't recall.     9 Down by CL Bledsoe Snow falls onto the shoulders of the world, here, where it's too high to see anything but everything; it piles on us all.  This is why you can't stand.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Blaring Autumnal by Ray Succre Burning lights flared red and covering crosswalks in tread like cow-spotted diseases, I’m late, every time nostrils wink, I’m late, and lately come after importances. I pullulate through town in the air above bays below planes beside water.  No belief of mine longs for less, and no leaf of mine belongs up for more, but scattered and scraped along trestles, enough over streetwalks and side roads, these leaves, these small epigrams of what it means to age, to have a view from a head of eyes and else. August and September whelmed a long Summer, and October is incarcerating. I’m late, and lately come after. I’ll do my whole season in a week     Waterhead by Ray Succre A small trailbridge, insect running its legs together behind a bird frantic crashing its face against a tree, chok chok chok a spigot that ceases when the scowling rush of spatters near hushes it gone. Rain fills the holes and water fountains from dropoffs, lowest point, pool and puddle, making a corkboat from discard winetops.| The vapors rise, at first reminiscences of vitality, but then ugly— waterwings, coarse, skunky grasses, the strangled reefs of poisonous cress in foul silt and other various modes. The habitat fills, runs over, inhabits still more, about a mercantile of feathers, muddy legs, the flit of lives.     Megatherium by Ray Succre The winded copse is erectly dying— yelling an appearance of ascension, casually banked across the closing eye of a Megatherium, behemoth lingerer, lately and dismally bored. He has ambled his flesh everywhere, and thrown his snout into all the brush, yet still passes in age to a meek flit, a wane-spark, folding into his mind, a proxy of bone in the blazes. Was there a difference between his age and mind? Central a stream, the skanky hide rumbles beneath iced water, a fur-mantled animal, drowned simply, central adrift, streaking the current like a curled scream. It is his mereness for the world.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The tightrope dance by Beth Stolar Kehayes of two in confusion I mistake silken words prefaced with the weight and what has clung over thinking what you will, while my hair hangs over your chest,   the truth gapes while you tweak and attempt to manipulate those who puppet you.   I am searching for the bones of my breath, the marriage of color   in surreal caress, the musk of your neck. Where lips are like goose down, a cloud aches nibbling at the edge of your words as I swing from the bar   and careen into the net after brushing your arms, missing the grasp.   I hate when that happens…     Twenty Years in June by Beth Stolar Kehayes It was over the slice of seasons winds died to a slur and beauty manifested in declaration. She clung to thoughts prevailing time could not erase and though he did not want her he craved warmth and affection in a blurred labyrinth where her beauty was a beacon in bygone moments. Holding himself, a candle, a chant, praise of prayer in song. While she saw a menagerie, African violets on a sill wishing their way out in brilliant purples and blues, the neon flanges of feeling and the way hair recedes, and how eyes do not change. For years she has pruned branches on a Prairie Fire Crabapple waiting for the burgeoning of pink attempting to design with the sun which way their arms will turn. While he couples with others pretending to feel what is real. After twenty years, her hostas have burgeoned into elephant’s ears with long stalks of white honey and the promise of seeds.     The Sand Dollar by Beth Stolar Kehayes The petals cracked as I fed an African Violet, ruffled greens on a sill. The test remains halved with its five doves scattered, at my feet. The Echinoid is a mystery, primitive beauty. Five keyholes in which to feed the flower hatch marks like Leonardo, cartilage fragile, as ghosts of the sea. The fantasy I could recreate were I with rapidograph, charcoal, and soft granite pencils. The mouth has gaping chambers, where stalagmites mingle with stalactites and I can see a monk among the caverns as well as plankton being swept by cilia. A dove’s wings crumble from my thumb and I am left with an anchor. And four doves to set free. I am inspired to draw the beauty of your spine against the calcified cusp of what I am unsure of yet hold in my palm.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Packed Into Time by Joanna M. Weston a pair of jeans wrapped round a lamp once worn to a poetry reading patched to watch a dog-sled race      on a frozen river stories walk in those jeans of writing, cooking, airports      lost children, found pebbles today they lie in a sealed box while I remember how to pack light—      candles beside the toaster      fluorescent orange fabric      round a black flashlight— light packed into time and strung on roads between one map and another holding the last town in a back pocket in case the cartographer erred and laid the highway between streetlights instead of stars or hid it in a suitcase among poems, shampoo and underwear while movers crated the chair where you and I used to sit carelessly contained in one another     Changed by Joanna M. Weston I capture a falling tree hide it under my shirt where it roots in my body then extends branches and leaves until I stop walking and bend to the wind     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Vowels by Howie Good I remember do you memorizing how many feet are in a mile how many pounds in a ton the speed of light sitting in our assigned seats which was the real lesson though we didn’t realize it our backs to the windows the sun the glaring yellow of crime scene tape Miss Dolan saying quiet how many weeks in a year how many days begin repeating in stupid singsong a e i o u—and sometimes y     Strangers and Angels by Howie Good A stranger, they say, might be an angel unrecognizable in the diffuse light and the enigma of his arrival who looks at you as through eyeholes cut unevenly in a brown paper bag and relates with ghostwritten words the events which are about to transpire, who feels a terrible need to confess there’s another person with your name, the scarred face of a sunflower after the birds have scavenged it.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       For Our Last Afternoon Tea in Coupleland by Shayla Mollohan Sundown escapes to the polished parquet of parlors. You bow correctly from the waist and I curtsy premonitions of a moon. Hecate's crisp eyelet hem brushes our legs as she serves us the past and apple cakes before returning to the North Star and we taste try to smile against lemon on lips and fourteen carat rims. We are proper in straight-backed chairs woven tight apart dustings of sugar droplets of cream turning mahogany to ash in starlight tea from a rose-etched pitcher         pouring black         pouring black.     Recovery, Weekends at Home by Shayla Mollohan Now she learns to write poetry by a single long crack of light, a closet kind of living. Skims the noiseless air for nets of words and notions while fears whit a likely list. Surgeon in a green waiting room. Spider belly-down in a worn slipper. Shadows too fast to follow and hallways cut sudden at walls. Stranger at the back door in the rain. Friends that render so much at costs too dear to pay. Baby breath, sweet with apples. A pink casket too small to bury. A hand in a crisp apron pocket. Kisses too hesitant to matter. A smile cast across a candle and arms that promised more. Sugar left melting in teacups. . . last week's contaminants awash in the tonic of Monday, her hot shower, steaming.     Daughters I:  The State Place by Shayla Mollohan The building is gray cement and       you kick where they'll keep you with the toe of your best-only       black patent mary janes, because you are five and aside       genetics and wishes. . wish. . .you could have been my       sweet-jelly girl, were this world much gentler than it is       and I would have baked teacakes like stars and bread       for the table, come supper. And I, your first baby, years of       of insurgent afternoons to be this lone growing girl-thing       who plucked those apples from bent trees not mine or yours       behind the stone backs of mothers, that neither of us could       ever escape.     Illusion—A Cinquain by Shayla Mollohan Women return from war raped and denatured while congress funds budgets for necessary safety gear withheld.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       cat seasons... (a collaborative rengay) by Shayla Mollohan Barbara Taylor Moira Richards red azaleas blaze  rival near-summer's sunrise the cat's tail curls strongly determined roots by hook or by crook that wind flirting with my kite promising her the moon   from lotus lilies splashes in silver ponds leaping green frogs solar drama salamander races for shade   unblinking kitty keeps watch at the spot where mouse disappeared   purrfect peace                   a secure level place to be sure, to be sure a lake sleeps in off-season autumn, haven   ooops! a toasted marshmallow slides off the stick   on guard over her shoulder the shadows catch up   from the bell-tower an owl's soft who whooo blossoms fall float east where light breaks upon her bay.       Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Just another bad poem by Scott Malby Picture the subject. A mug shot of a poem that went terribly wrong. Who is really to blame for its coughed up fabrications and bits of hoaxes? At 10 it was discovered fondling imaginary landscapes. At 15 it was accused of putting to the torch a party of harmless adjectives. At 23 it was jailed for smothering Crater Lake with rhymes. A mongrel of a gargoyle it survived for years by defrauding gullible English departments. At 28 it was sent to sing up the big river for stealing petty change from the pockets of elderly performance poets. Who is to blame now that it's back on the streets. More dangerous than ever.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Rubaiyat of Oily Fry Pans by Kelley Jean White a rubaiyat’s a rhyming verse of lyric praise I here reverse to something rather more mundane to tell a tale of bingeing’s curse once I was slender and quite comely a blushing bride, one weakness only: popcorn, well, two, chocolate, ok, three, cake indulgences have made me homely the mirror says I’ve grown too large I’m rather like a garbage barge I turn my head and walk away guilty of food crimes as charged the evening’s still the house is quiet my children grown, I’m on a diet I haven’t used the stove for weeks it may not light, I’d better try it I should cook something lean and healthy if health is wealth I might grow wealthy but face it, I can’t stand the stuff I’m devious, I grow quite stealthy instead I think I’d rather bake and nothing healthy will I make I break some eggs, I stir in sugar— chocolate, three layer cake! I splurge and stir up cream cheese frosting I’m not aware of what it’s costing me in health and in appearance (well actually, it’s quite exhausting) I’ll try to do something better than eating cake, I’ll write a letter or read a book or watch TV who am I kidding, why not get fatter? I have a bag or two of chips sour cream & onion dips in case I’m seized by midnight hunger in case my resolution slips these verses have become quite droll I’ve let the meter and rhyme control whatever meaning I might have meant apparently the form has stole I’ve only healthy food on my shelves I think up a plan involving stealth Sneak out at midnight to the car Drive to the all-night diner, why kid myself?     Summer, Eve Story by Kelley Jean White When Joe first summoned us to dine he sent a fat manilla envelope: the skin folded out, crisping, scales stapled across thirteen pages of three-holed notebook paper, a wonder, dust (perhaps, now, in your father’s attic.) This Joe, one summer, turned down the chance to be the only Teen-age Living Dead. This guy, Romero, came to the store his dad and uncle ran in Pittsburgh, looking to buy clothes cheap for this movie he was making, and sure he needed a couple more guys, but Joe preferred to sit in the tall grass and catch bugs. . .his baby Eve points— Bopbop—as one Dead lurches across the TV (I never could watch; I knew Living Dead in their bowling shirts were people. All too real.) Joe wrote an opera in Cookeville Tennessee (go figure;) a piece to be performed in the Arts Center built on top of the jail; wrote a part for the inmates to knock out on the bars (why not? Scriabin wrote for the trees, rocks, and angels, but not for God—God would know his part and just join in.) and the name of the snake: Solomon.     Sunrise Towers by Kelley Jean White In the towers, only two windows Out of all the rows and columns are lit They’re above each other Each one shining with the same yellow light Hung with identical gray curtains In each a little old man rocks Back and forth, on the forward swing Each white head is framed By the wreath identically hung In the identical center of the window Each holds an identical newspaper And they rock with the same Identical rhythm Behind each man, sits a little old woman, Rocking, in identical speed with Her man, as her knitting needles Click out a quickening crescendo Of speeding time. But then in the Lower window The little old man freezes His head surrounded by the wreath The symmetry is broken The paper drops Above the rhythm goes on The needles click unceasingly But in the lower window The whiter-haired lady rushes Forward with little mincing steps And pauses with a spoon and bottle His head snaps back, she walks slowly To her chair and picks up her knitting And her little old man Creaks forward and back With the same rhythm As the window above And each lady nods and knits Until the building crescendo Of clicking and rocking Drown out other sounds And turns into the most Awful rhythm of life Symmetry     Swallow by Kelley Jean White She’s like the swallow that flies so high; She’s like the river that never runs dry. She’s like the sunshine on the lee shore I love my love and love is no more.                       –Newfoundland folk song If I were a swallow And my love were an eagle I’d fly by his side When morning came by We’d soar through the clouds No chains to the ground We’d fly side by side My lover and I. But I’m not a swallow Though my love be an eagle I awake and I find That he’s gone from my side And I cry with no sound My feet chained to the ground And then once more I cry For my love he can fly. No I’m not a swallow And my love he’s an eagle And I cannot fly So I watch at the sky And I strain at my bonds But I’m tied to the ground And I sit here and cry For I cannot fly If I were a swallow And my love were an eagle I’d fly by his side When morning came by We’d soar through the clouds No chains to the ground We’d fly side by side My lover and I     Swamp by Kelley Jean White Tree limbs weave the dancing end, the place of wounding, eager, fat, sunlight, dayheat, split to rend from the nightswamp’s heavy portend thick with branches, stricken at, tree limbs weave the dancing end beyond laughter, cross wind extend, lay heartsweed barren, dry and flat, sunlight, dayheat, split to rend sunk limb comfort can’t pretend blessing forbidden this bent format tree leaves weave the dancing end clocking childhood nightmare trend arthritic fingers tying tit for tat sunlight, dayheat, split to rend daybright lightess, must not intend rebirth’s roaring bubbled vat. Tree limbs weave the dancing end, sunlight, dayheat, split to rend.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Pink Anemone by Misti Rainwater-Lites a decoration in his dead sea my anatomy is simple i kill with my toxins he liked my dance from afar my color up close he was easily smitten and ensnared typical leo thinking with his heart he would have been better off born on a hillside blooming with daisies he would have fared better on dry kelly green land the depths are not designed for the innocent gypsies who have no idea where they are headed     The Taste in my Mouth by Misti Rainwater-Lites cannot be washed away with cold bottled water there’s a bitter death on my tongue no peppermints can resurrect my mouth has closed up shop become asexual a dusty spinster alone in a room with endless cups of belladonna tea     There's Never Enough Closet Space by Misti Rainwater-Lites winter clothes clothes that don’t fit shoes and purses that might come in handy manuscripts journals correspondence lipsticks too pretty to toss chicken salad recipes paperback biographies frustration envy desire regret hope anxiety fear where the hell do i put it all?     god i give you by Misti Rainwater-Lites my cotton candy desire my survivor limp all the books and kitsch i have no shelves for mother’s motto has always been “give it all to god” i don’t have much to give you i have a world to give you the world you created in six days the world i carry like war casualties on my shoulders     Boogie Manual by Misti-Rainwater-Lites my little space monkey you are senseless and specially challenged and I love you let mama show you how to boogie while the world burns let mama take the shards of glass from your paws and bandage ‘em up so you can wave ‘em in the air come, let’s cuddle, darling simian while peter cetera gives us the falsetto news what doesn’t kill us makes us pee in the pool and throw slippery condoms at drunk fraternity retards tomorrow there will be tacos with secret sauce and key lime pie spiked with rum if you are extra good     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Ultimate Innocence by Alan Britt When was the last farmer wholly in love with his milk cows? 1860’s, you think? Perhaps 1914, or thereabouts? Or it could’ve been during the dustbowl years just before FDR’s sympathetic intervention. Too bad Gene Wilder’s taxi circling the moon once too many times finally tossed him onto cold skid row to slake his impossible lust with a single, trembling drop of Woolite. Sorry about that! Too bad the Confederate train snaking the Blue Ridge mountains didn’t pause long enough for its boxcar of genetic mules to slake themselves on tourist ticket-stubs. So, how do we climb like gardenias the sultry torso of present-day civilization during a primordial hurricane named Katrina, or George W. Bush? How, indeed, do we skate the innocent length of this melancholy ironing board stretched yoga-like before us? And how do we know that white polo balls flattened into retirement won’t grow extinct like dingy cauliflowers routinely ignored by our diminutive selves along the produce aisle? Who knows? So, I mounted that black and white pinto I’d been dreaming about these past six months. He said, Let’s go to the caves of the outlaws from Wyoming or Kerouac; I’d like that. But, instead, I reached for Saturn, barely recognized these past 50 years, only to find her rings squashed in an ashtray, only to witness the demise of briefly what once was the ultimate innocence of raucous crows now oozing tiny drops of insidious ink from my adult imagination.     Something Special by Alan Britt When you think about it, all those wonderful art movies that Brando never actually made left us instead sifting the rude ashes of his comically demented misfits roaming the harsh Mexican Diaspora. Then along came The Missouri Breaks, with Marlon, the most terrifying regulator of all time, easing a Creedmore rifle from its scabbard while dressed like Kierkegaard in full-bonnet, granny get-up. Now, despite whatever else you could possibly say about it, that’s something special!     The Molar by Alan Britt * Sweep away that feeble molar decaying next to a root canal. Get the broom and sweep for all you’re worth! Muck the stalls; it’s Friday! Sweep away all indecisions that debilitate your life. Sweep away those nasty political centipedes breeding beneath complacency. Sweep away the Savoy truffle of your indiscretionary years. ** Water damage always puts me on instant alert. *** When the volcano erupted, I remember now, we were huddled below a fresco, a vague impression but a tattoo of mythical proportion every bit as symbolic as our universe appears to be today. **** So, sweep away that feeble molar, lazing in a hammock beside a root canal. Get the broom and sweep for all you’re worth!     Partisan Objections by Alan Britt I remember years of grief before the joy began. Long before the moon dug her rhinoceros horn into dawn’s sultry thighs spread-eagle across my rooftop. I remember days we’d all like to forget. Candy cane bell-bottoms outlined by Long Island fog don’t even begin to tell the whole truth. Too many after-hours aperitifs, I suppose, at favorite Italian restaurants. Seems there’s been a discovery on Quasar Five. Time to resign my life (such as it is) over to the black tuft of bouvier fur stretched across the basement’s Burberry carpet. But, god, as we travel below these clouds, fueled by lithium kisses, we pass desperately close to my partisan objections.     Geronimo's Raid by Alan Britt It’s almost like a dawn raid by Geronimo against a Mexican village, peacefully asleep, so far as anyone knew, so far as the babies knew. Even today, those surprise Geronimo raids are enough to upset the Pentagon enjoying otherwise hospitable affairs with nefarious dictators, so far as anyone knows. I’m almost of a mind to declare Martial Law against Geronimo, except for all those legends about his brujo soul seeping like genocidal smoke through the beautiful crags and crevices of our beloved Nineteenth Century immigrant foreheads. It’s almost like a dawn raid by Geronimo against a Mexican village, babies sleeping, so far as they knew, so far as anyone knew.     Everyone Wants to Burn by Alan Britt Every day I devote myself to her, thunder shreds my gauze dining room curtains; bison clouds nudge power lines and suburban warehouses. Everyone wants to burn as bright as blue plumes billowing from I-95 Philadelphia sanitation incinerators at 7 AM, rush hour. But, today, the road not taken is the only road left. So, my fellow horses of instruction, shake your gilded halters if you must but beware that beautiful blue wolves prowl these beautiful blue hills we’re so fond of calling home, and remember that the scam always unfolds when you least expect it. However, for the scam to become a legitimate scam it first must pass the test of guard dogs fast asleep on Sunday piles of unironed laundry. But let me tell you, 68 pounds of determined dog can relax like nobody’s business atop wrinkled denim asses and ungodly wads of barracuda-striped business shirts quietly shielding at least three pairs of slightly-stained and exhausted, khaki illusions.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Circle of Autism by Pam Britton Reese ballballballballball circleballballball ballMYballballball platecirclelidcirclepipecircle orangecircleball ball ball       Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Not So Funny by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Why do people Laugh at me in This place? I am Not so funny. I’m serious and I don’t play games. The doctor must Be dumb if he Thinks I’m crazy. I’m more normal Than him and all The people here. I just won a Boat race.  Someone Wants to take my Win away from Me.  They claim I Cheated.  But they Are the cheaters. They fill me with Medications Which leave me with No energy, Like some zombie.     Live in Vegas by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I could live In Vegas. I gamble All the time. Sometimes I Win. Sometimes I lose. I Am not so Lucky. As You can see I am here. If I was Lucky I Would be in The streets. I Like walking All over The city. But my bad Luck brought me Here again To the shrink’s Playground, where The shrink fills Me up with Mind-numbing Medicine. I cannot Keep my eyes Open. I Cannot speak Properly. I drool like A rabid Dog sometimes. In Vegas I would be The top dog Playing cards Or the slots. I would be Making big Bucks because I have a Good system.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page     In The Margins by Carey Link Shadows slide between mazes of brick and mortar. They sit against the closed back doors of alleys, on benches, beneath bridges. Sleep in the reflection of a corner lamp light, with only the street name as an address that changes by the hour... Memories of past and present are carried on the shoulder or pushed along. Advertisements are taken out on cardboard to appease sideways glances— and a stranger’s second-hand trade. Whose fortune is measured in silver and green, fresh linens, and stocked pantries. The patter of rain is only wet. Warmth is layered regardless of the season.     To Come Into Being by Carey Link I watch cycles of time make a oval house of my belly, as you grow beneath the pulse drum of a water cocoon waiting to swim into the palms of my hands from somewhere between heartbeat and breath darkness and light. Your first movements and sounds are flutters. What colors will the light make your hair? Your eyes?     Menagerie by Carey Link Someone gave me a monarch— black veil melted around indigo wings dried, flattened, thinned— price, barter, and silhouette to be put away on the wall, in the corner or drawer.     Memorial by Carey Link He kneels beside an oval in the ground, to lay the bowl, leash, and collar with her. Wrinkled folds of his down-turned mouth move in whispers. She walks a crooked line— Black and white blurred. Her appetite gone, and calls to “Come” go unanswered. Home beneath rivers of roots entwined in sidewalk.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       At 4AM by Ashok Niyogi moonset nascent moon crescent moon at rest in his matted hair eternal river pooled on his crown ever awake meditating blue lotus with a thousand petals serenading saints eyes real pure of  illusion in shadow of moonlight faint on cheekbones tones that smile on red lips three lines of sandalwood three manifest worlds third eye with fire one truth guarded by serpents older than time serpents who will witness dissolution into him asleep in an ocean unmanifest one seed in which is held all delusion in preparation for his next play     Passing by Ashok Niyogi Always larger than a very large life, cause and action and cause thereof, larger now than virtue or vice, pain and pleasure, nudity or disguise— he lay on his bed of upturned arrows with the heavy burden of having to choose his time of death. To exercise this final choice, he would have to learn the mathematics of the stars. This death they say is like the changing of clothes, but in his venerable age he found even this, an incredibly difficult task. The arrows gave him acute pain. At time of death, it was moot whether it would rain. He who was slain was never slain, it was all about the refrain of freedom from birth and death and countless passions in between, the ability to keep feet dry through the deluge of continuous tears. This was then the time to stay and not to go, for death ever walks the passageways of life, and life must be his choice no death, never fear.     Exquisitely Alone by Ashok Niyogi one cup of Darjeeling tea with fat free milk and aspartame after four sips light a WD&HO Wills Classic and puff with tea extinguish cigarette after five and a half puffs and finish quickly rest of tea savor tannin and nicotine on upper palate clean ‘snowed in’ in basement Moscow snifter of Armenian brandy rotated over a candle flame just so at thirty degrees until the brandy turns golden sip and the charcoal in belly will smolder and warm esophageal blood crank up very high blood sugar with ‘pineapple delight’ from Alpine Pastry then in room with zero ventilation light six sticks of ‘liberty incense’ from equatorial sandalwood forest and deeply inhale until head swims consciousness disappears in bliss too late for the brake pedal incline too steep either crash against pine trunk or over and into the deep not inebriated so don’t weep   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Chicago Marathon—1999 by Thomas D. Reynolds For A.M., who died at age 36. I imagine him nearing The twenty mile mark, Among a group of ten runners, Heavy mist dulling the sounds Of their footsteps on Chicago streets, Miles past the last conversation. The body steadily resists his commands, As it would again only two years later, But for now he is winning the battle, His lungs continue to pull in enough air, Legs churning away in the damp cold, Ankles absorbing shock after shock. A camaraderie exists between these ten, A brotherhood of exaltation and pain, If only for a few moments before several Begin to pull away around a sharp turn, As he studies the backs of their heads To memorize them for the years ahead. Maybe that was his vision at the end, Surrounded by such steadfast companions, With only a few more miles left to run.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       closet cocoons of the upper west side by Joshua Cristiano sequence of heart beats like a moth against electric apartments. eyes in and out between pumps (nascar tracks loop inside closed and open circuits). the persistence of collisions over near-perfect glass ignites ornaments purple to red. he wraps an arm around her (freshly washed) silk skin. thumps behind sight as velvet fingers cocoon the two.     scales a rampart to drop flowers into the sea by Joshua Cristiano a persistence of ambulances tread through wires & glass to rebuild & plant bombs behind cages. (lends a hand & crooked smile down cracked allies into steady pulses. allows a breath & proves multitudes arrive at discomfort.) an autopilot & formidable foe of slaughtered sacrifice pumps again under whiterock alters in smoke & swamp.     black & white details crowd binds back & forth by Joshua Cristiano the things I did & didn't do have origins deep imbedded beneath my skin— I can change skin & saw bones, come back a new man (better looking w/ combed hair) but no. no second chances (you say) for the godless. all I have done has been written in india ink over pallid pages (back & forth). the little things erode & all I can do is cross my legs & wait for you to come back through my familiar doors with empty hands.     mechanical birds by Joshua Cristiano standing upright used to be a neat trick around the fire, now it's cliché. why walk when you can drive. the car- flattened hills used to roll, now they lie open like a coffee-table atlas. a mile up, everything looks the same from the ulcered insides of mechanical birds. all I can do is meet you at airports & keep my fingers crossed each time I fly out to sea.     365 days & a quarter by Joshua Cristiano 1) I carry dust denied & wander deep beyond the wreckage into taller buildings. I ride elevators to top floors; (potted plants & glass) I gaze across rivers, blacktop roofs & smoke. 2) I sleep between library aisles, do my shopping & tear yellow pages from their spines like bbq ribs in july. I scatter confetti along the cement, celebrate & count down the new year.

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