Prose
|
|
Maxed
Out
Sue
Ellis
|
The Orthographers (conclusion) Kane X. Faucher
Art
|
American
Gothic Robert
L. Harrison |
The Art of Carolyn Schlam
Prose
|
|
Maxed
Out
Sue
Ellis
|
The Orthographers (conclusion) Kane X. Faucher
|
American
Gothic Robert
L. Harrison |
The Art of Carolyn Schlam
|
CONTRIBUTORS
Eileen Green Alexander
(photography) grew up on Long Island, with a photographer Dad, lives now in
Maryland, since about 1980. She is a school teacher and a mom
with a passion for photography, especially of people and animals. eileenmikirose@gmail.com Other of Lifshin’s recent prizewinning books include Before It's Light published winter 1999-2000 by Black Sparrow press, following their publication of Cold Comfort in 1997. Other recently published books and chap books include: In Mirrors from Presa Press and Upstate: An Unfinished Story from Foot Hills and The Daughter I Don't Have from Plan B Press. Other new books include When a Cat Dies, Another Woman's Story, Barbie Poems, She was Found Treading Water Deep Out in the Ocean, and Mad Girl Poems. A New Film about a Woman in Love with the Dead came from March Street Press in 2003.
She has published more than 120 books of
poetry, including Marilyn Monroe and Blue Tattoo. She won
awards for her non fiction and edited four anthologies of women's
writing including Tangled Vines, Ariadne's Thread and Lips
Unsealed. Her poems have appeared in most literary and poetry
magazines and she is the subject of an award winning documentary film, Lyn
Lifshin: Not Made of Glass, available from Women Make Movies.
Her poem, No More Apologizing has been called among the most impressive
documents of the women's
poetry movement, by Alicia Ostriker. An update to her Gale Research Projects
Autobiographical series, On The Outside, Lips, Blues, Blue Lace, was
published Spring 2003. What Matters Most and August Wind
were recently published. Tsunami is forthcoming from Blue Unicorn.
World Parade Press will publish Poets (Mostly) Who Have Touched Me, Living
and Dead: All True, Especially the Lies. Texas Review Press
published Barbaro: Beyond Brokenness in 2008 and World Parade Books
just published Desire in 2008. And Drifting is just online.
Red Hen has published Persephone in 2008. Coatalism Press just
published 92 Rapple Drive and Goose River Press will publish Nutley
Pond. Clevis Hook Press just published Light at the End, The Jesus
Poems, and Finishing Line Press published Lost in the Fog; also, Ballet
Madonnas was published by Mastodon Dentist. For interviews, photographs,
more bio material, reviews, interviews, prose, samples of work and more, her web
site is www.lynlifshin.com. onyxvelvet@aol.com |
by George Anderson
In wide, expansive summers
before the railway
deemed the Digby line uneconomic
we’d meander as far as the peat factory
bucket in arm gathering wild blueberries.
Once, I placed my ear on the track & heard
the turntable like rumble of the Dayliner.
Kneeling on the overhanging foot of the bridge
it HEAVED past, shaking the framework,
grunting savagely in diesel. My courage
flattened like the dime I had placed on the track.
It all jolting past now like the ploughed up carcasses
of the Macintosh apple orchards. The canning factory long
wreathed in tight coils of barbed-wire before it self combusted.
But aye, today we’ve got a divided 4 lane highway &
a French owned tyre plant that spews sludge thru the valley.
Lunch Duty at Northern Campus
by George Anderson
the hooded walkway shuffles
up to the top school as if to catch a train
a tradesman fishes in his nest of tools
a nailgun coughs in the shadows
hardwood trees sprawl near the library
diced like barked zucchinis
a girl eats pasta on a slatted bench
her head in a thick book
teachers chat about beckett outside the canteen
smiling at students as they pass
boys slap at tennis balls
under a great grey canopy of steel
possums dream of fresh tumbling fruit
in high green boxes
the sand drenched rubbery courtyard
blinks in dumb bewilderment.
Forest At My Window
by George Anderson
When night puts on her pajamas
And brushes her teeth for the night
My lock is unlatched
My window flung open
When the ghost gums yawn
Their eyes glazed, half open
My curtains are drawn
My lights switched off
And there is nothing between you & I
Only the dim light of the moon to greet us
I have seen you shaken to your core
In ghostly flashes during hot electric storms
Your hair wild tossed into the air like dice
At other times you have watched me while I slept
My head on the pillow filled with odd thoughts
Casually sweeping aside the outer world of facts.
Off Barrier Highway #32
by George Anderson
The landscape along the highway to Broken Hill
is sparse, ragged—
the knarled, splintered stumps of
stunted mulgoa shrub
poke out of the red dust.
As we pedal our bikes the sky widens
vast blue spaces specked with grand white puffs of cloud
the thin steel belt of the railway
unfolding on our left
into the flat, heat-pulsed distance.
We pass a road sign: KANGAROOS NEXT 195 KM
then another: LAVENDER GARDEN 117 KM
*
Evening approaches and a strange red hue of light bathes the land
Every bush, every pebble, every leaf seems so wonderfully clear—
as if seen for the first time.
We set up our camp & I stumble across a large prickly wattle
and amongst the pegmatite rocks on the gentle slopes above
the bursting purple & gold flowers of Sturt’s nightshade shrubs!
Another Open Window
by George Anderson
I used to sit
by an open
window and
it flowed out
of me in one
long
uninterrupted
stream
sweet
chaotic
unrestrained
naked
and jagged
like an open
wound
cleansing
*
Now it
flops
spurts
dribbles
splatters
often to
an
un
de
ter
min
able
con
clu
si
o
n
Pragmatics of Belief—Absent Inquiry
by Robert Cullen
Scarlet and ruby sumacs
luminesce in the late afternoon
autumn sun,
shimmering, viscous,
sliding from hillock to swale
as upon more distant shores
washing
red tide waves of burnished flame.Breezes gather, the sea heaves,
birch-masted schooners billowing
lavender-bellied white fluff sails
lean starboard,
crossing shaled meridians,
medieval grailed husks,
sun pummeled fields of Maya
heaping
life bringing maize in baskets
of green reed woven,
grains on gray metate ground.A scorching, sun-dust heat repeals,
crazed the implacable lust-God
of polished jade masks,
gold gloss tribulations,
merciless
the cold stone vacuous eyes
as crimson flows deepen,
crusting
along the jagged edge of night.
Origami Swans
by Robert Cullen
Hungering deep in the wolf howl,
frozen tundra of spindling heartlands,
half-light blight of invisible pangs
pumping blue blood visions through
tempest veins,
groveling wood grubs and Pleistocene
gruel,
scraping with splintered claws
the dark sides of lunar surfaces
for bat wings and mammoth bones . . .peregrine beaks
|streaking memory banks
to bleak wind shadow bowls
rabbit holes . . .where I
fashion origami swans to float
on open water dreams.
Coming Down From The Mountain Unenlightened
by Doug Draime
We trudged down the mountain path
to the water
like warriors beaten.
Our whiskey bottles empty,
all of our mescaline eaten.
Five days without bathing, we threw
ourselves, filthy
and stinking, clothes and all,
into the ocean.
The two girls stripping down to
their panties and bras.
Thomas claimed he saw
a flying saucer.
Lucy swore she had
a brush with Big Foot
on a rocky ridge above the jade cliffs.
But the rest of us
knew that mescaline
was the cause.
And we mixed our trips
with a few cold beers
to level them out a little.
I laid in a foot of water
staring up at the mountain,
thinking how normal everything appeared.
After five days of
psychedelic musings
and discussions of
astral projection, change shifting and time
travel, nothing in the world
looked any different
We dried ourselves in the sun and
headed down 101 for home, still unenlightened
by Doug Draime
Not everyone wants
To hear the truth
Though everyone gives
It enough lip service
“Just be honest with me, “
they’ll say, “tell me the truth.”
Their eyes oozing sincerity
And openness.
So, you tell them the truth
And watch their castles tumble
She Knits A Perfect Blue-Green Quilt For Me
by Doug Draime
she says
sometimes in my sleep
I dream I’m
falling
falling
falling
down through the cosmos
down past planets, novas, asteroids
down through cloudy skies
down through static gravity
down through deadly smog
as i’m searching for a perfect thread
down through hundreds/
thousands of threads
all blue-green
threads
varying shades
of blue-green
threads
she says
it’s like trying
to discover
to unravel
the mystery
to understand the truth
of the answer to everyone’s question
what ever that question may be
because out in the cosmos
there are billions & billions of them
she says
when I wake up what choice do I have but to knit
this perfect blue-green quilt for you
by Doug Draime
There is nothing more
powerful and noble than
the chirping
of a little bird of Oregon,
on this late May
afternoon, here in this moment,
with you.
There is only this moment,
with you,
now, and
the chirping
of a little bird of Oregon,
noble, beautiful
and powerful.
by August Franza
I suppose I should be doing
something more useful
than writing mere poems
but
I find everybody else
doing so much less.
This Morning
by August Franza
She raises her dark head against the white pillow
just for a second
against the curve of her hip
which powers her love.
Stimulus Package
by August Franza
Darling, you must be stimulated, you have no choice.
Why do you resist?
Everything is down there in your economy.
Forget about debts, darling.
This is no time to think of what we owe each other
or the mistakes made in the past, our infidelities.
Stimulus is all, the answer to the cold, unmoving body,
The organ of our situation.
If I Loved You Never
by August Franza
If I loved you never
There would be no Christ,
The wind would be a secret
Like closing time.If I loved you never
Languages would forget
And the century would stop.
What chance would I have of being born?
For Heaven's Sake
by August Franza
Guy kissing a girl in a parking lot in Salem, Va.
O, what a kiss.
He wrapped his arms around her for heaven's sake
and she fell in with her prettiness.
Joy jumped out of his head and caught me quick,
for heaven's sake.
I'm a thousand miles away, still being him
for heaven's sake.
by Swati Goswami
Log cabins speckle the yawning valley
against the mountain rapture.
Pathways snakes up the range,
gooseberry shrubs colour
the cold stony trail .
Squinting against the dead sun
chilly winds dampen spirits
leaving my hair cold and pallid.
Aching spine dissuades
legs to trek
At a distance
A faction of monks
traces the swirl
gracing like red Zarberas.
Million lines mark serene faces
carrying sparks to praying eyes.
Crimson robes flutter
revealing gleaming heads
on bare swaying shoulders;
oblivious to the plummeting temperature,
naked feet define a destination
As the file draws nearer,
eyes are blinded by untamed winds,
Stillness wraps numb feet
and mind freezes.
As they walk past me
sacred energy overwhelms.
Peace descends
and steadily warms my heart.
Tied to a Tree for Safekeeping
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Just once there was a moment
without the wind─
when all trees were cosseted
when chaos wasn’t served
for breakfast
while the sunlight rang in the morning
without pandemonium slipping
through the weathervane
in an eerie silence
unequally divided;
the was outstretched hand
or pointer upon the axis. Bedlam
didn’t wait in the iris of an eye
panning the crowd
for an empty face
entering easy as light
through an expanding pupil.
Just once there was a moment
without the wind
when the cumulus blue
was unmoving
and cymbidiums cried,
for more disorder
to drench their grassy-leaves
until they’d lie upon the soil
like sleeping bodies
without eyes
in a breadth so great
the earth was one solid
shade of weeping.
Honeymoon Girl
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Ballerina-bloom, as you lie inside my palm
barely opened, tiny little bud, one baby flower,
your perfect nudeness
the scent of strawberries
in your hair, as you lean
against me, shifting
soft flesh from left to right clinging to my skin,
tight, a baby sundew, drinking nourishment like soup
I remember you, deep within
my belly, calling my name−
announcing your arrival
with long months of hidden
hiccups and tippy-toe-dancing, That night in Venice
a peach Bellini seducing the candlelight to a tawny
glow. I heard the rain outside
the window’s veil,
a cadenced strum, one thousand
castanets on glass.
He wore an august smile.
It was the beginning of us.
Lady of Fatima
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Lady of Fatima
I stand before you;
blossom-hands and heaven-eyes.
The clouds whip across a river-sky
where you wait beyond the horizon.
Why must I linger inside this fleshy-hollow?
Lady of Fatima
with your oyster-light,
I hear the cries of forgotten children
their dead mother’s and fathers boneless and cold.
I carry the name of someone who loved me
from deep in a furrow where the long grass weeps.
Lady of Fatima
where the fawn runs free,
through secret groves and millions of oaks
the white moth circles, like tiny kites
with unbroken strings, and I long to emerge
from this spirit’s shell, this transparent chrysalis
to become a pearl thrown back once again
into a bottomless sea.
by Robert L. Harrison
He remembered every lost tooth
like departed children
who were raised with care.
Brushing and cleaning them,
flossing and rinsing
every day
looking in the mirror
with a smile.
A mouthful of pearls,
he thought
until like children
they grew up and went away.
A gum drop took the first
on a ride out of the mouth,
a second departed and a third
until the tooth count
reminded him of
a carved Halloween pumpkin
in the morning mirror.
Life does not make
grumpy old men
only missing teeth do.
The Newbridge Road Bridge
by Robert L. Harrison
The gas bellies flow in
a stream of light at dusk.
Each rubber wheeled pod
form into a straight formation.At this overpass
no tolls are taken
by outstretched hands
and only your feet
can get you across
the sea of travelers below.And so I view this stream
of lights,
at twilight’s end.
The coming and going,
from bank to mall
from home and job,
from lover to lover.Even those who exit here
do not wave to me,
but pass by
a darken stranger
standing on
Newbridge Road Bridge.
Drip, Drip, Drip
by Robert L. Harrison
The spil
li
g
of words
can start
like a
f
l
u
s
h
from the toilet
or from a steady
faucet dri
p.
Whenever, the spilling continues,
as your fingers reach the keyboard
and the words begin to flow.
Those who are inspired by the f l u s h
spil out their verses
l
until the toilet water is level again.
Those who hear
the fauset d
r
i
p
can write on
until the leak
is
fixed.
How mother would have loved the internet
by Rebecca Katechis
Mother would have loved the
Internet, you say and
we think the
same thought
Oh and email she would have loved email
There’s something to
put us into reverie.Imagine the
possibilities hints and hellos and
warnings here and there the
Dangers of drug interactions and wisdom
of cleaning regularly and
a good Blue Cross plan and even
the meaning of life.Ah , mom, when you learned to
attach
What clippings we might
see coupons and deals and
reasons families fight and
ways to love your sisters in
all their mishegasmom would have loved
google and the
deals and
haven from schlemiels
how smart–how much smarter–
we could be
just by hitting send.if only I had your gmail
address there would be
pictures of
my Greek wedding
(we broke the glass, I promise
and then a few plates for
balance.)I’d show you Alex in all her
years of becoming and
her bargain fine
toddler clothes and
now, off to Columbia
which you could have researched for me.Here, mommy, is
Ari’s Ella, and Caro on her own and
making art and how we keep
circling back to your
beaming face and
the so many things you knew.you could send me back a photo
of you playing mah jhong
laughing with Aunt Lee in
heaven you could
tell us about Tobs.I’d let you know that
I look for you all
In the clouds when I am
flying I look for you all in my
heart all the time
I honor you by never
paying for shipping.I’d let you know that
Caro draws you and I write you and
Alex is loved so well because of youMommy, If only
You could send me a short
email saying you know.
by Joseph Lewis
A spotted dog with a lady at the leash
And a cover of sunlight on the grass,
The shadows of two pines divide the ground
As a brilliant red car makes a pass.
Green leaves wilt in the tropical air
As everyone waits for the sun to take flight.
The road grows dim in the coming dark
As the air gets cooler with the moonlight
Key West
by Joseph Lewis
The walls of the motel room are white.
The double bed has a striped coverlet.
No need for blankets in this climate.
Even in a photograph the sun is evident.
There's palm trees in the parking lot.
The swimming pool is bluer than the Atlantic.
On these walls made whiter by the sun
the simple frames of more seascrapes,
a couple on an empty pier leading to the ocean,
the sun resuming its red afterglow,
and a solitary sail on the horizon.
But the room's enough for now.
To lie in bed as the wind bends the palms,
even if the picture is just in an album,
or a travelogue of a future destination.
by Lyn Lifshin
it’s never the women,
not even the overweight
ones squeezing out of
their polyester pants in
blue or pink. Their
thighs might seep over
the side a little but you
can deal. They have
no way to go. No, it’s
the men, not even
just the enormous broad
shouldered types, it’s
almost as if they know
enough to be careful
but the ones in 3 piece
suits, their arms spread
like wings, as if they
owned the space, owned
the air, had the right,
all rights. I try to find a
place for my arm when
he turns the page. It’s
as if everywhere he can
reach is his, air doesn’t
belong to anyone. It’s
as if my body, my elbow
had no rights. Imagine
such pressure under the
table with a dark eyed
lover and it would be
something else. As it is,
it’s like an immovable
handcuff, a swath of
chloroform over where
I try to breathe, a 2000
pound dog nuzzling,
lapping and licking and
taking a bite of MondayThose Crushes That Crush
by Lyn Lifshin
they start off harmless, the
look of a man who has
always been your type
tho who knows, he
could be an axe killer.
If he holds you in his arms,
just feel the warmth, the
ease of his gliding. Don’t
let your mind work
overtime. You are paying,
as you would lets say
a gigolo. Let’s say he
holds your hand a little
longer than other ball
room dancers, that he
notices, remembers
exactly what you wore. Let’s
say you’re heard stories
of his losing one job
for fooling around with
a student at a different
school, would you want
to be warned or hold
on tighter to
the fantasy
Not Cold, Baby No
by Lyn Lifshin
but lava. that
strangeness, wanting,
not sure, wanting
the strangeness. Here
mounds of the darkest
grey, the cold,
scars. Your words,
a quilt
He Wants the Me I Was
by Lyn Lifshin
posed in driftwood
houses in a purple
hippy dress, laced
boots. What was it
one teacher called
them, razzle dazzle
boots of s and m.
Thick heavy hair,
that’s the one he’s
in love with, the
one I’d be, catching
trains from one
location to another
Before the Fantasy Blurs
by Lyn Lifshin
the way starfish
crawl on the tidal mud,
lie still, are invisible
as the real stars.
I want to hold on,
imagine we both
knew what we wanted,
keep that glitter,
intense, blaze of last
light before we know there
is nothing more to
do about it
by Amelia Makinano
Lutine finds the highest part of her pasture
where her mane brushes the sunlight
until it intoxicates the eye,
whiting out a forever-dimmed world.She carries a robin
over three fences
before the weeping willow pond.
The two balance as one
as they glide into the water,
one sandpaper tail swats a last fly.
by Carla Martin-Wood
Jeremy in his wheelchair
giggles at his sister
draws a syrupy smiley face on pancakes
knows only this
unlimited early blue sky
pops a wheelie
squeals in unfettered exuberance
possible only to children
who write poems everyday
in languages unknowable
and gaze in fixed amazement
at a world new each morning
fragile as a snowflake
undamaged.
Witness
(in memoriam)by Carla Martin-Wood
I can testify that you lived
to the end of the rhyme,
to the final iamb,
to the shadows of the couplet
we formed on your bed,
in a room where the only sound
was our breathing as one,
where the pools of your eyes
drew me down,
your mouth an animal,
seeking refuge in the caves of my body,
your soul grown dark like moss,
hidden between the lilies of my breasts,
so that hunter Death lost
his quarry for a moment,
seeing only one lying there,
until night dropped below the skyline like a stone
and morning came at last,
the small, grey sparrows of our lives
fallen to earth unnoticed.
For a swinger of birches
for Robert Frostby Carla Martin-Wood
We swung on birches, you and I.
You took me down to the pasture, too,
and taught me well along the way
to question what a wall should do.You led me down the left-fork road.
I found it rocky, bare and steep,
for I was soft with city ways,
but you had promises to keep.You showed me how to clear that spring,
and how to know which road to take.
You versed me well in country things,
the difference a choice can make.You were acquainted with the night—
a child, I didn’t understand.
Your poems began in sweet delight;
in age, their wisdom takes my hand.You told me nothing gold can stay.
Your legacy gives that the lie.
Your lover’s quarrel is in time out;
we’ll get back to it bye-and-bye.
Carduelis Elegans
for the Scottish Songbirdby Katina Ravenswood
Goldfinch
Until April silenced
Bursts into grace, flame, song
And sudden glory
Thrilling us all
As the new blooms do
Finally unfurling
in promise
Poem for the Letter I
by Katina Ravenswood
I can now patrol
city streets, eight guns
blazing, shootin' 'em
down left and right
Suddenly, no one sees me
Impulsively, I could hold up
a crowded bank, grab all the fifties
and hundreds and calmly
walk right out. Right past the
armed guard. Incredibly,
no one stops me
Insouciantly, I might jump
naked out of a red and orange
paisley hot air balloon,
five stories tall, landing in
broad daylight in the middle
of Times Square,
trailing a stream of 40-carat
diamonds and marabou feathers
from my emerald and ruby
tiara and no one would
even notice ...
Are congratulations in order?
I am now, the Invisible Woman
Inevitably, I have turned fifty.
Plainsong for the Rocky Mountains, I
by Katina Ravenswood
First green
appeared today
Although it was
a weed, I
simply
thanked it.
by Iolanda Scripca
I am Summer
Nobody can deny
The stage is ready and feathers fly
I turn and turn
Obsessive pirouettes
Warmth can't hurt me
Because I'm Summer
Leave the curtains drawn
Blown by Santa Ana Winds
Hummingbirds on my ears
Shells on my caressing breasts
A dizzy dance with time
Goes on and on and on...
At least I know who I am
I am Summer
I fade away but I'll come back again...
Dali
(The Persistence of Memory)by Iolanda Scripca
liquid memory
time stuck in corners of life
museum is closed.
One Last Dance
by Iolanda Scripca
Weeping willows on dead Swans' Lake
Ballerina shoes too small, hanging on rusted nails
I keep on waking up from giggled dancing lessons
Mother still alive in the waiting room— proud...
Shaking fingers crossed, holding my fans' bouquets
My hair not gray, teasing life on pirouettes
It started snowing glitter of way long childhood gone
I scream a violent silence through a double paned sliding dream
It's time—the time when clocks face me without hands—
I shyly grab some "What if's" and remember to tie my shoe laces
" Stand straight, chin up"—a stage light on a solo swan
A last and gracious slide on an untangled musical key....
Brancusi
(Dedicated to the Romanian artist—Constantin Brancusi)by Iolanda Scripca
Infinite column
On a table of silence
Gated my birth kiss
Painters’ Exhalations 95
—after Philip Absolon’s About Last Nightby Felino Soriano
Secrets must weave
esoterically
stitches mending wounds
from egoist’s insults, hand spreading. We
like birds in a congregating lean or
askew stance, document though in pain
allowed occurrences, answer the absent or
devastating questions.
Painters’ Exhalations 96
—after Dawn Clarke’s Narrative Landscapeby Felino Soriano
Moss more beautiful than the portrait of road kills’
mangled fur. Just as sad
though in
the loneliness
of chlorophyll tinted skin protruding space
expecting human touch
not to run towards
distance’s antiquated door,
slamming
with contempt,
exacerbating fear.
Quiet tongues embark on touching
adjectives
while watching leaping frogs tap in dancing
scenarios atop lily pads’ paper bodies,
too
dragonflies zigzag in drawing with
turquoise pencils
abstract versions of mazes man
will never determine real. Here
where consecration gathers up to ten stories
high
delivering cryptic
homilies the spiritual
devalue due to misapprehension.
Painters’ Exhalations 97
—after Dirk Richard’s Memories
by Felino Soriano
Memories misplace and place you
behind barbed wire. Rusted wire
rail thin damaged
prison form
delegating movement to partial
understanding of physiological
standards.
Memories fold onto the face
of pre-prisoner. Language
man’s, the only existing of preconceived
falsities. The here is a place of otherness
a found pocket of land one forgets
to manage into direct eyesight. Forget
then, then recall your body whole
prisoner not yet occurring
and the tongue speaks gardens
instead of cliché
sewer derelictions.
Gaza lullaby
For Najib Hussein al-Hossari: March 30, 1996-April 13, 2009
For Aisha bint al-Hossari: January 3, 2004 -April 13, 2009by Constance Stadler
Najib!It will happen tonight, this night!
Remember the card you sent Auntie
About leaving Khan Younis with Aisha
And flying
On the steed of the Prophet, Buraq
Oh, such wings
You would sing
Of such wings
And so white!
(oh your dammas and kasrahs were so perfect,
And the kasrah, the kasrah is not easy to write!)
It will happen, habibi, it will happen tonight!
No more bombs will fall
You must be good, heed the call
Of Papa and your brothers who are waiting SO high!
Yes, Aisha can take her dolly from Amreeka,
The one who cries like a baby…like a baby,
she cries.
Aisha,
My princess!
You must ride with your brother!
So brave, ma habipti!
Like Aisha, your namesake
Who rode on her camel
Such beauty, such wisdom,
like a warrior, such fight!
No, Mommy must stay
As you soar over night sands
You must stay with your brother
Buraq is so high and so wide!
Yes, Mommy is sad now,
She does not know you felt nothing
As the machine guns
Of Hamas or, mumkin, Israeli
Made you disappear in small drippings
Oozing into the light.
Go to sleep now, my darlings.
Yes, they wrap you in white swaddling
To put you your bodies to sleep far away from this
garbage
strewn blight.
That is over, my darlings, look the night star is calling!
Mommy knows you are safe now, so take wing
(Malesh! Yes, with your blankets)
Yes, of course, yes
My angels, I now kiss you good-night…
Coquette
by Constance Stadler
46 yearsOld
Crown Heights born
n’ bred
New perky plump boobies
Botox slaughtered smile.
Never been to Paris,
Or Marseilles
Or Provence
Doesn’t really matter.
For every day
She is there.
Dyed blonde chignon
Red Beret angled, so
“Eiffel Lust” red lipstick
Frou-frou blouse
Mid thigh slit
Near to split
Laced up lambskins
Squeeze calves,
paper thin
But
Adorned dans le
mode
She embarks
In chansons.
Taxis, always taxis, cause
For a fiver,
They’ll “believe”
any crap accent
And don’t stare
At the freak show
Sauntering, saucily “bye!”
Drops drip
by Constance Stadler
Drops dripThe elderly faucet
The rust stippled gutter
The impaled index finger
The canvas that weeps.
Drops drip
As the years consume bodies
As the sea brinks at shallows
As the infant sucks fiercely
As endings prove true.
by Richard Spuler
It helps if I take clonidine first,
just to take the edge off.
Xanax works better,
but I like it more than I should.
I'm relieved when no one
is checking their mail when I do.
They would go about wondering,
Is the shaking contagious?
Don't worry, I'll never tell them,
but they'd be right either way.
My body's filled with trepidation,
and I'm allergic to every day.
The key and its lock
don't speak the same language.
Neither willing to yield, and I have to translate.
It's no different with my mail.
At first, I hold it at a distance,
suspicious of unheard of toxicities,
anthrax in my bills and junk mail,
and for a moment I want to put it pack.
But next time would be no different.
Only Sundays and holidays offer any relief.
Those days I spend time writing just to myself,
and there's no need to labor with my mailbox.
Coming Back, Lean
by Richard Spuler
Coming back, lean hard against these walls you've made, and the ones
less of your doing. Press them for their texture, walk their height
and length, learn their gravity. Find the corners, lean hard against
the corners and come back. Sit on the ledge to know what a window is,
and is for, and for whom. Your windows. Lean soft against them, lean
soft against the walls,like shoulders, coming back.
Confusing Words and Homonyms
by Richard Spuler
I keep a list of these at my desk.
I find it indispensable,
because words are confusing
and my homonyms not up to par.
The list is hidden in a drawer.
It's secret, so I never open it.
I expect the same courtesy of others.
That assures we're all on the same page.
I'm embarrassed to admit to confusion,
and to be honest, I despise homonyms.
But because the list is both secret and hidden,
I have to be sly about this depository of words.
When I'm confused, I keep my distance from that drawer.
Instead, I just forget confusing words and homonyms.
I'm just fine with liable or libel, and don't intend to altar a thing.
There's nothing wrong with a wrong word, as long as it fits.
The Poem Tells Us Death
To Gottfried Bennby John Sibley Williams
The poem tells us
death’s geometry
is not round like earth,
supple and cold like endless sea,
but plotted upon contiguous
right angles, drained of abstraction
into sharp corners and red alleys,
a razed mountain
and human rubble,
all organs and cavities and words,
a pure mathematics.
An expression of love
in copper transit,
itself labored over like a poem,
his many graveyards
know no shadow or ghost.
Where is the vacuous depression
expected of darkness
and the vicious emotion
bound to its description?
His world writes
between wintry doctor’s hands.
Silence the symphony!
the poem tells us,
and weave a landscape
of precise incisions
and dull spoons,
of colorless blood
and knives like flowers
thrown amongst the summer-faced children.
Carve the dawn in language
and translate it unevenly
so both living and dead
can read the same day
and ending us in twilight,
mince me, this demanding poem,
and drink me like sand
in your ripening garden.
Palace Gardens
—Schönbrunn, Vienna, far too deep into Summerby John Sibley Williams
Dried fountains of history,
varied foliages and wells
and a rosebush
aware only of its thorns.
Once a plaything
of the temporarily crowned-
barbarian or Roman,
fowl hunters, nearly beheaded queens,
knives and mortar,
vestiges of a forgotten heritage,
now shade where cameras babble
and words pour like unkind waters.
Wrestling images of marble and sand
sprout limbless
from immaculate grass. Green hills
older than attempts to name them
rain from the horizon.
The hangman has grown languid
long enough ago
that nothing really lives anymore.
The roses’ petrified beauty,
a postcard, a delicate lovers’ stroll
gazing everywhere but within.
A colossus, spires with eagles
stolen into gold. Countless pathways
all leading away.
Don't Fear
by John Sibley Williams
Don’t fear the vast green depth of night,
peopled by oscillating shadows
and competitions with ghosts and the unseen
mincing of waves. How they bellow
into the cliffs, all three,
with one voice.
Your silence rustles the reeds
and they run from you
leaving behind a mask of salt.
Between each tulip’s tight lips escapes
all that is born this moment-
the searing grass embers, the ravenous wind,
your hands of sudden jasmine,
and eyes harvested coal.
The not-so-distant gathers
around you. The aluminum mountains
unroll to wrap the stars
in the silver lining of naked time.
But a faint trace of song in you,
my invisible love, and the moon’s profile
would smooth its glass edges.
Just a dance atop this sea,
blind together in everything,
and the night would devour itself,
oblivion cave in, and the dead
quivering deep in your eyes
draw back from this sandy line.
O my unyielding flame, bewitched
by black mirrors. The humble
dunes that pave your breasts,
the white sands drifting over your belly,
the brutal surf of your love
all maintain the simple truth
of a ship’s return.
Such a deep promise
the silhouettes speak. Such languages
imbue our air. Hold my hand now
while tracing your unsteady borders.
Relieve my fear
of arriving so late in your summer
and finding eternal autumn.
|
Maxed
Out Sue Ellis |
The
Man Who Tried to Listen Eric D. Lehman |
by Sue Ellis
race
sprayed vinegar-water over the glass show case and wiped it down with
paper toweling. She looked up as Mac, her landlord, entered.
"Good morning, Mac. How can I help you?" She tried to smile away the
twin furrows she could feel forming between her well shaped eyebrows.
She'd been in business for two years and still hadn't managed to break even.
She'd built an excellent customer base, but the rent was exorbitant. She'd
nearly thrown in the towel two months before, but Mac offered to lower the rent
by five hundred dollars a month temporarily, "to keep my favorite tenant
in place."
Fat chance. Grace knew his building had sat empty for a year before she, an
inexperienced sucker, had come along.
Mac laid a parcel on the counter between them. It was wrapped in brown paper
and tied with string; something that might have come from a storage trunk.
It
lay in stark contrast to the sparkling jewelry and evening bags that were
displayed in the glass case below.
"What's this?" she asked, knowing she wouldn't like the answer.
"My late wife's dress." Mac leaned nearer, his pungent aftershave an
assault to her senses. "Here, let me show you." As he reverently
untied the string, Grace couldn't help but wonder what he was up to this time.
Mac lifted the dress by the shoulder pads and swept it off the counter, holding
it to one side like a matador's cape. The dress was a nineteen-forties vintage
cocktail dress—black crepe with diagonal lines of beadwork on the bodice.
Small tarnished buttons trimmed each cuff on the long sleeves. "I saved
this because it was a favorite of mine. Naomi was about your size. I'd like to
see you in it on Friday. I could come by in the afternoon."
Incredulously, Grace gaped at him for several seconds before responding. "It's a beautiful dress, but I couldn't—
really. Not my style—you
see?"
"Nonsense. You can pull it off. Sweep your hair back for the day.
I've
brought a comb too." Mac reached into his tweed jacket pocket and produced
a silver comb embellished with rhinestones.
"No, thank you." Grace's could feel her cheeks becoming hot.
Mac held his hand over his heart in mock dismay. "I might see my way clear
to reduce the rent for an extra month . . ." He let the sentence dangle
like a baited hook.
Insufferable old goat. She'd been fool enough to chat with him before she knew
his true character. Told him how much the boutique meant to her—that her heart
and soul were wrapped up in the enterprise. Angry tears glistened in her eyes
as she aimed the spray bottler directly at Mac's forehead and carefully
enunciated the words, "Take a hike."
by
David Erlewine
y
son Jonathan thrusts the paper in my face. “Dragon!” I nod, looking over
the rustling paper at the TV. Carol’s parents gave him a washable marker set
at his birthday party today. They also gave him flimsy-looking coloring
paper. A sneeze could probably tear the stack in two.
“ESPN Classic” is showing the 1991 game where Kevin Walker destroyed Bo
Jackson’s hip and ended his football career. The past few minutes I’ve
watched Bo dragged down again and again. I still can’t decipher the precise
millisecond where things ended for Bo.
No one at the bar that day even realized he was hurt. We just laughed at Bo
getting caught from behind by “Walker”.
Four years later, Jonathan was born, ten weeks premature. Later that afternoon,
after both sets of grandparents had come and gone, a vein in Carol’s left leg
clotted with blood, and while I was getting a cup of clam chowder from the
hospital cafeteria, she lost consciousness. The official diagnosis was something called “pulmonary embolus”
Three days
later, my mother sat in the passenger side, her hand on my shoulder, as I drove
Jonathan home.
Now, “Eight years ago today” is the headline ESPN Classic runs across the
top of the screen as Bo remains on the ground.
“Dad, the dragon!”
I pause the game. The little dragon breathes red and yellow fire. Its tail
swings off the side of the page. Its eyes are bigger than headlights.
The boy
can draw. I remember laughing the night Carol, early in her first trimester,
dragged down a shoebox from the attic to show me pictures she had drawn in high
school. One had a tall, bug-eyed owl springing from a CD player while young
girls on a couch pointed and pushed to get away.
“Great job,” I tell Jonathan. He just stands there. “It looks real.
Why
don’t you draw another one.” As soon as he's gone, I watch Bo get dragged
down again, though there's no point. It will always look like a routine tackle.
I turn the TV off.
Carol was so nervous showing me that shoebox, telling me it was no big deal.
She just wanted me to see. I made a joke about the pregnancy doing weird
things. I said she better not cut off one of her ears. She smiled and took the
box back up to the attic.
In the play room, Jonathan sits at a table, his back to me. His little chair
looks on the verge of cracking.
I sneak up to the attic. He won't believe the things that his mom drew.
I'll
See Myself Out
by
The special needs bus is late. Donnie is a creature of
routine. He wears a football helmet and begins banging his head against a
utility pole. Beryl hugs him to her chest. He immediately quiets down.
It’s
like petting an alligator’s stomach. She asks me to go back into the apartment
building and get him a scarf as well as her brown turtleneck. There are three
other mothers waiting with us. They are all from Serbia and start talking to
Beryl in her native language. I don’t speak it that well, but gather they are
congratulating her because, for the past month, she has had a man, an American
no less, to share her bed. Halfway to the front entrance, Beryl yells for me to bring
back some Marlboros as well. I’m glad to get out of the cold. The crisp air
has cleared my sinuses, but now that makes the building’s cooking smells that
much stronger. Why anyone would fry onions at 7:00 AM is beyond me. I sprint up three flights and take a break. I’m way out of
shape. Last April I ran the Boston marathon, but, since taking up with Beryl, I’ve
let myself go. Cambridge streets are dangerous for night jogging, especially in
this neighborhood. I keep promising to use the stairs as my personal exercise
machine but never do. Magda Coveliski lives on this floor. Beryl hates her.
It
has to do with something back in the Balkans. Magda is from Montenegro which
seems to be reason enough to have enemies. As many times as Beryl has explained
the political situation to me, I can’t remember why Serbs hate the Croats who,
in turn, hate the Herzegovinans. Everyone hates the Bosnians. And don’t even
get her started on religion. I also suspect that the ill-will she bears Magda is because
the perfect Montenegrin revenge would be for Magda to lure me away from her.
As
if on cue, Magda opens her 3A apartment door and adopts a sultry pose in the
doorframe. Her burnt-orange robe gaps enough to display plenty of cleavage. 
“Look—for pancakes which I’m practicing making Vermont American way. You want to sample now, no trouble?”
I take the bottle from her and study the label. She cozies up next to me and re-emphasizes “Made in Vermont” on the label with several fingers of her French manicure. Fresh from the shower, her bottle blonde hair combed straight back to air dry, she begins to shiver. The cold air outlines her erect nipples. She has two teenaged children. God knows where the father is. She has mentioned more than once that they are normal (a slap in Beryl’s face) and do well in school. I hand the bottle back and suggest a pancake rain check. She looks puzzled until I explain what the expression means. I turn and go up the next few steps. She yells after me that she’s taking an educational course with the H and R Block peoples. If she does well, she can do income taxes for her countrymen living in Cambridge. There is a suggestion that I might be able to help her out with some English words, a tutoring type of thing. She would find a way to repay me, maybe in pancakes. She says “pancakes” in a voluptuous way and cocks her head inviting a reply.
I tell her I’d be glad to help out a little bit, but stop in mid-sentence because I hear screams. Magda thinks it’s probably someone’s TV or that new family from Skopje who beat their kids. Her face twists in hate as if, back in the Balkans, they would be marked for extermination for such a crime. I wave goodbye and zip up to the fifth floor. When I open the door, I have trouble remembering what Beryl wanted so I grab mittens, scarves, hats and sweaters. I’m about to shut the apartment door, hoping that Magda isn’t naked on all fours on the landing, when I hear more commotion outside. I go back into the apartment and look out the front window. Donnie is lying in the snow. Beryl is bent over him. About ten feet away another woman is on the ground. A crowd has gathered. I drop the clothes and head down the stairs two at a time. When I get to them police cars are pulling up. I kneel next to Beryl and ask what happened. She screams “Where were you!” and then, while pushing me away, begins comforting Donnie in Serbian.
The super’s daughter speaks decent English and tells me that two black boys rode up on bicycles and fired their shiny guns into the crowd. At first she thought they threw firecrackers, but people fell down and there was lots of blood. More police arrive. I am pushed back until I tell them that I live with the boy on the ground. One woman is probably dead and her little girl, no more than six, is bleeding from her mouth. Donnie was grazed in the arm and head. His helmet protected him so he just got stunned for a moment. He’s thrashing around so it is probably a seizure that’s the main concern. He is given a shot by an EMT to calm him down. Beryl is out of control, lashing out at everyone. The medic threatens to sedate her if she doesn’t stop. She sees me and recommences her attack. “Where were you? What took you so long?”
I start to explain and see that Magda, an overcoat thrown over her bathrobe, has joined the bystanders. Beryl sees me glancing at Magda and goes nuts, pounding on my chest with closed fists before launching an all-out Magda attack. I put her in a bear hug and drop to the ground, hoping that my weight will eventually calm the struggle by tiring her out. With everyone else attending to the dead and wounded, we are left alone to fight our private battle. Magda stands over us like a wrestling referee. Both women are shouting at each other in totally different languages. Beryl seems to be losing energy although that could be a ruse to have me let up and then she will go all out.
Suddenly someone shouts that they see one of the shooters across the street on his bike. The young black boy, no older than Donnie, drops the bag of chips he was eating and speeds off, slashing between buildings where he disappears among the rabbit warren of empty lots and alleys.
When the shooting first happened all represented Balkan countries were drawn together. They formed a united front against the slow police response time and the ambulance crew which left the little girl untreated while they tended to another victim. As things sorted themselves out, they looked for different targets. The super’s daughter says this would never happen in her homeland. “People are killed because they are hated, in America it is for fun.”
It is considered suspicious that, after I disappeared, the shooting began. Perhaps, as the outsider, I’m involved. Everyone at the bus stop is looking at me, wondering if I am part of a criminal plot or just a man out for a good time with their women.
Beryl promises to behave if I let her up. She wants to go with Donnie in the ambulance. I tell her I’ll stay here, lock up the apartment then come to the hospital. I get off her and she runs toward Donnie on a gurney. He’s been knocked out and strapped down. His forearm flesh wound has been taken care of by a gauze pad and bandage. Beryl asks for her sweater.
“I forgot it.”
“You were gone for fifteen minutes and came back empty handed!”
I offer no excuse, but Beryl glances at Magda and begins shouting at her in Serbian. Magda shouts back, pointing to her breasts and grabbing her crotch as she delivers a verbal counterattack. Hand gestures are made. Both women make the universal throat slashing sign. This cannot be good. Fortunately Beryl and Donnie pull away in the ambulance. Magda is quickly at my side, hoping that Beryl will see us close together.
A cop comes up and wants a statement. I detail the bus stop events. Then the personal questions begin. I am Beryl’s boyfriend. I teach ESL at the Barnabus Center. That’s how we met a month ago. She’s on welfare. I’m not. Neither of us is on drugs although there is plenty of traffic in the building. I’m asked for names but really don’t know who is involved. I’m not aware of any gang activity in the building, but in this Cambridge neighborhood I suspect any one from the Balkans would be considered an intruder. As the interview finishes white flakes float down. It takes me a few minutes to decide it’s snow flurries and not industrial ash. I’m sure I’m suspected of something by the police as well as the building residents. I’m given Lt. Heffernan’s card. I’m to call if I want to tell him anything.
I head to the building’s front door. Magda is no longer around. It would be easy to sleep with her now, but I’m not in the mood. I wonder how I can get by her third floor lair, but there is no way. I take my time on the first two flights. Stealth is everything in defeating Magda’s radar and sonar. I speculate as to why I’m doing this. Couldn’t I just walk away as I usually do? But I’d have to leave my laptop, clothes and some library books. So it’s probably worth my effort to go upstairs. Just before the third floor landing I begin a world-class sprint. I’m almost make it. She must spend hours by the peephole. She is fully dressed—a tight green sweater, black skirt, no stockings and strapless high heels. She wants to know what “fiduciary” means. She has a textbook tucked under her arm.
“It’s someone who holds something in trust for another.”
“What is “trust” meaning?”
I yell over my shoulder that I’ll explain it tomorrow. She begins to climb the stairs after me, but I’m much quicker to the apartment, let myself in and shut the door. She knocks. I lie and tell her I’ve got to pack things for Donnie and get to the hospital. She wants to know if she can help me. I thank her but say no.
I grab my backpack and toss clothes into it. Some may be Carl’s. He’s in jail for at least another six weeks, but I’ll sort out any mix-up later. I find my library books and drop them into my laptop case. All my worldly belongings can be carried in two hands. This is either very sad or a good thing. I slip my jacket on and check the peephole for Madga. She’s either off to the side or gone back downstairs. I debate whether I might quickly assuage both our sexual urges, but Beryl would have to live with the aftermath of Magda’s gloating. Beryl deserves better than that. No, it’s best to leave cold turkey, like ripping a bandage from an old wound. I think about the boy on the bike, the supposed shooter, how he melted away. Invisibility takes years of practice, I suspect. Right now I’ll settle for a five block walk, and then hop on the Huron Avenue bus to any place where I, women notwithstanding, can live in peace.
My Ave Museo
by
Loretta Giacoletto
Lorna, the drama queen. My first impulse is to hang up the
telephone. Instead I play along with, “Please don’t tell me Mom’s still
tossing garbage over her balcony.” “Okay, I won’t. Now she’s flushing it down the toilet.
Her landlord had to call a plumber. Not once, twice. ‘One more time and she’s
out,’ he told me. I was so mortified, I could’ve had myself committed.” I sigh, loud enough for Lorna to hear. “Maybe we should
consider some type of assisted living. For Mom, I mean.” “Get real,” Lorna replies. “Have you forgotten how she
terrorized the hospital staff after her stroke?” “The doctor called her recovery miraculous.” “Next time, be very careful what you pray for, Olivia.
Trust
me, Mom cannot live alone. It’s just that simple. I’d take her in a
heartbeat but she and Greg never did get along.” “So punish me for Arthur’s myocardial infarction,” I
counter. “I’m the struggling widow; you’re the one who lives in mansion
Mom can’t stop bragging about. That and your incredible cooking.” “The woman eats like a sparrow and you know it. This is not
about who’s got the most space, even though my kids are still in high school
and your Mandi is… well, need I say more.” “Mandi’s out of rehab. She took a job in Chicago.” “Well you could’ve said something before now. After all, I
do care about your only child. Since she’s functioning in the real world
again, perhaps you could redirect your boundless energy toward our ailing
mother.” “Lorna, pu-lease. Between this cramped condo and my museum
responsibilities, I can scarcely find time to breathe.” “So liberate yourself, forget that never-ending project.
It’s
time to move on, for your sake and the family’s. If you can’t bring yourself
to call The Salvation Army, just say the word and I will.” Under no circumstances will I abandon my museum work. The
collection is as much a part of me as my DNA. After poor Arthur’s unforeseen
death I downsized to this condo and hired a handyman to convert the larger of
two bedrooms into my personal tribute to shoes. My Ave Museo, I christened my
hail and farewell museum. Custom-built shelving, calligraphy signage, and
recessed lighting pay homage to my love affair with footwear. I arranged the
vast collection in chronological order and catalogued it on index cards, along
with Polaroid photos and pertinent information such as date and place of
purchase, original versus discounted price, and special occasion, if any. I
estimate my shoe count to be well over two thousand, which only averages out to
a pair a week for the past forty years, starting with the black suedes acquired
when I was a mere fifteen. Mom paid four dollars at a St. Louis factory outlet
for the 5AA, classier-than-anyone-else’s penny loafers. From the moment I
slipped my Cinderella foot into the lined interior, I was hooked. Securing quality shoes at bargain prices has evolved into a
lifelong passion. From warehouse bins to end-of-the-season overruns, I never
pass up a bargain. With eyes half-closed, I can navigate one hand through a
clearance pile and discover the softest of leather shoes, so lightweight my feet
barely acknowledge their presence. My criteria for purchasing include style,
comfort, and price—variables that fluctuate with my mood, weight, and current
finances. Lorna has upset me so I wander barefoot through the maze of
shelves until I reach the early years section. Pressing a pair of clear plastic
sling backs to my breast, I conjure up memories of my first date with Arthur,
who was twelve years my senior and climbing the corporate ladder. I wore the
sexy heels with an ankle bracelet and strapless sundress. Arthur caressed my
tender instep with his tongue and suggested modeling as a possible career for
me. “Unfortunately, my narrow foot and high arch don’t fit the standard for
American shoes,” I explained before letting him make love to me. I married Arthur in white linen, three-inch T-straps;
sentimentality prevented me from ever wearing them again. After years of trying,
we finally conceived. Every Sunday during that dreadful pregnancy he escorted me
to St. Jerome’s, where I gave thanks for the alligator pumps that soothed my
swollen feet. Mandi’s birth was unremarkable, except for those horrid slip-ons
covering my feet in the delivery room. To my regret, the adorable child never
developed into much of a shopper. Even as a little tot she threw tantrums at the
sidewalk sales. I finally gave in and left her at home with Arthur. They bonded
while I shopped, not that I’m complaining. Only once did I pay full retail, from the brown and green
sirens that called to me from the window of Vogue Boot Shop in St. Louis, a
premier store that met its demise during urban renewal. Although the open-toes
patchwork design only complimented a few outfits, I justified the expense as a
confirmation of my worthiness. Most of my shoes reside in their original boxes,
marked with the retail price and the discount actually paid. Orphaned shoes are
displayed in clear plastic containers, not out of disrespect but for Ave’s
pleasing conformity. Some of the orphans represent the crème de la crème,
those incredible bargains from Italy—the slenderest of heels, the pointiest of
toes. “What’s with you American women and your love affair with
all things Italian?” my orthopedist once grumbled while he examined a
throbbing joint protruding below my big toe. “American women have no business
trying to squeeze their gun boats into shoes designed for Italians.” “I beg your pardon,” I said. “My grandparents came from
Torino.” After going under the knife for a bunionectomy, I endured a
nasty recovery that lasted as long as my promise to avoid further involvement
with the Italian leathers. By that time Mandi was starting high school so I set aside my
everyday Keds and went back to work part-time. Within the year my job with an
incentive travel agency evolved into a full-time career that took me around the
world, enabling me to acquire shoes in every color and heel style. My practical
blacks in assorted heel heights suffered the most wear and tear; burgundy could
easily have qualified as basic, if only I’d found them at a decent sale price. “Be sure to wear cushioned walking shoes,” I warned my
traveling clients, not that I always followed my own advice. Bold European women
who pounded their stiletto heels on unforgiving cobblestones inspired my sense
of fashion, even though the soles of my feel often rebelled. After touring
Beijing’s rain-soaked Tiananmen Square, I deemed a pair of tattered sandals
unworthy to return home, a rare but necessary decision to accommodate new
purchases from Hong Kong. Thinking one of the hotel maids could use my castoffs,
I set them on top of the wastebasket. The next morning the sandals had been
returned, so clean and polished I felt obligated to give them a reprieve. The black athletic Nikes that rubbed silver dollar blisters on
my heels resurrected a memorable evening in Amsterdam when I hiked two miles to
the government-approved Blue Light District. Teen-age prostitutes wearing lacy
underwear posed like bored mannequins in display windows, offering their bodies
to eager tourists. Or pathetic druggies. I was more curious than shocked.
If
only I’d been aware of my own daughter’s spiraling descent. When Mandi got pregnant, I demanded a proper wedding and was
determined to find the perfect mother-of-the-bride shoes. Over a three-week
period I bought ten different styles, two of which were wedding appropriate but
I couldn’t bring myself to leave the others behind. I finally settled on the
sequined paisleys for Mandi’s wedding. They pinched my toes throughout the
day, an omen I should’ve recognized as disastrous since the marriage ended
four months later, right after God took Mandi’s tiny newborn. Then Arthur
died. A series of depressions followed. Years of therapy, setbacks, and
recoveries still haven’t resolved issues too painful to contemplate. What I really need now is closure, but not before a good stiff
drink. Or two. I mix a batch of margaritas, pour a generous dose over crushed
ice, and put the glass to my lips. Closing my eyes, I let the salty sweet combo
trickle down my throat. After a while I pick up the telephone and punch in a
series of numbers. I sip some more, and wait for a click on the other end.
The
familiar hello sounds sleep. Not a good sign. “Brace yourself, Mandi.” “Mom, you’re such a drama queen. Please don’t tell me
Grandma’s still tossing her garbage over the balcony.” “Okay, I won’t. Now she’s flushing it down the toilet.
Naturally, the landlord wants her out. Your Auntie Lorna thinks I should take
her. But as you know, I’m so cramped for space I can hardly breathe.” “Why don’t you sleep on the sofa and give Grandma your
bedroom?” she purrs. “Mandi, pu-lease. I need a clear head to catalogue my Ave
collection on the computer. I’ve been thinking, maybe you could—” “Maybe you could teach Grandma to use the computer. Or, if
she can’t handle the computer, how about giving her my old job—dusting all
those damn shoes you can’t live without.” What does Mandi know, her and those ridiculous German clogs
she insists on wearing. “Like hell,” are my final words before I hang up. I check the clock. It’s two in the morning, another plus for
having a personal museum. My Ave Museo never closes .
race
yourself, Olivia.”
First published in The Powhatan Review, Winter 2006.
The Man Who Tried to Listen
by
Eric D. Lehman
ater,
his mother would blame herself. She had used primitive speakers to soothe her
baby in the womb, and upon his birth immediately placed a stereo near his crib,
playing old albums of The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, and Joni Mitchell.
The
baby responded with glee, stretching his tiny arms toward the sounds, twitching
with magical waking dreams. He seemed to have been born for a musical life.
At age three, the delighted mother bought her son a toy piano, but he showed no interest. As he grew, she tried other instruments, buying him lessons and tutors, but he showed no aptitude at all. The teachers shrugged and told her that he was meant for other things. The baffled mother finally gave up, seeing in her son a contradiction too great for her understanding. How could her precious boy love music so much, and yet not be willing to play it? She consulted psychologists, who said that such problems were not serious enough to warrant their attention. The mother gave up, piling unused instruments in a closet, trying to accept her son’s strange, sponge-like behavior, wondering what his future held.
One evening, while searching the miraculous dial of the radio, loving each sound that seemed born of the air, the boy happened upon a classical music station, and heard Beethoven’s “Choral Fantasy.” What was this? A new kind of music, a happy sound too complex for his untrained ears to immediately absorb. He listened to the piece several times, loving every second. Suddenly, he knew what he would do when he “grew up.” He would listen to everything ever composed for the human ear. It was simple, really, and shocking that no one had ever attempted it. Perhaps they lacked the necessary commitment. He would be the first, famous or anonymous, right or wrong. He had found his calling.
So, the boy spent his childhood exploring the radio. When sent on play-dates to houses without music, he would cry and refused to be mollified. He sulked through schooldays and listened to music from the moment he returned home until the time his worried parents told him to sleep. He begged for a set of headphones for his birthday, and the grudging parents obliged. When forced to leave his bedroom, he wore the headphones at every opportunity, shunning schoolmates and activities, amazed by the supernatural progressions of notes, the way they pulled feelings from his body that had not existed a moment before.
As a teenager, he stole through school, earning an “A” only in Music Appreciation. Graduating high school at the bottom of his class, he made sure that he could wear earphones at his new job, loading trucks at the local warehouses. The money he earned went directly to CDs and the occasional concert. He attended these alone, in the very back of the theatre, closing his eyes as vibrations traveled along his arteries. Sometimes in his new apartment he would listen to several pieces at once, and the dissonance of the various compositions seemed to fuse and separate. As he silenced one after another, the harmony would emerge, the melody would clarify, and one strand of eternal beauty would trumpet across the world.
As technology improved, so did opportunities to integrate music into his life. He downloaded thousands of songs and symphonies from all corners of the earth. He found new ways of acquiring music, using whatever legal or illegal methods available. He cut out all but the cheapest foods in pursuit of his hobby. Inevitably, he lost his job loading trucks, having caused one too many accidents through inattention. When his manager told him that he needed a job he would enjoy, he shrugged. There were simply no jobs that involved listening to music, except “critic,” but he had no understanding of that. All music was magical, all music was good. So, he lived on welfare, taking small checks from the government and spending them on rice, oatmeal, and sound.
When the listening man woke up, he ate a bowl of soggy meal and put on headphones. Later in the day, he took them off and cranked up the speakers of his beloved stereo system. He became known to a small number of music lovers who interacted on the internet message boards. They sent him rare pieces whenever they could. He tried not to repeat songs, knowing that he must be dedicated to reach his goal: becoming a repository for all sonic art. Sometimes he became frustrated upon finding a new genre or a new composer. But after a few weeks he would listen for more, his ears tuned in to beauty that the computer seemed able to force from the ether.
On a summer day, one of the music lovers mentioned that he had recently seen thousands of manuscripts in a European museum, music that had never been recorded. The internet conversation turned to this subject, and the small group of music-lovers bemoaned the fact that millions of such pieces existed, most of them tucked into libraries and museums, the vast bulk of them simply lost to the ages. They had learned these simple details in school long ago, of course, and were only repeating them out of their own frustration and helplessness before the universe of sound. Sadly, no human being could possibly catalog or listen to every piece of music.
The man who tried to listen stood up and turned off the computer, searched the racks of CDs on the wall, and found Beethoven’s “Choral Fantasy.” As it blasted on the stereo, he went to the small gas stove on which he boiled his rice, and turned a knob. Time passed, the notes each seemed distinct and special, the dissonance of voices cohered in harmony, pure life echoing in every true and happy sound. The fantasy swelled to a conclusion, thunderous applause broke out, and the man who had tried to listen lit a match.
by Diane Payne
“Dad, you’ve known for years that smoking causes cancer,”
I muttered during one of his rants. “I wouldn’t have smoked then.” “As a kid, I was always begging you to not smoke while we
were eating.” Dad laughed. “Remember how I’d always put the chicken
necks on your plate?” “I’ll probably never forget. Remember how you’d use my
plate as your ashtray?” He laughed again, denying that he’d ever do such a thing. Yeah, right. We lived in separate states, so we usually spent a few days at
each other’s homes during our visits. Every visit, he warned my teenaged
daughter and I that he’d probably never see us again. My daughter would look
at me, uncertain what she was supposed to say or do. Then he’d talk about how
his wife, my stepmother, wanted to be cremated because it was cheaper, but he
didn’t want to be burned. “Ain’t that what the Hindus do?” he asked my
daughter because her father is Hindu. “I think so,” she told him. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said, but I sensed he
thought there most definitely was something not quite right, and feared he’d
say more. “It’s definitely cheaper. What do you want to do with your body
when you’re dead?” he asked me. Both my daughter and I were in the process
of getting ready for school, not really prepared for this urgent farewell
discussion. “I’d be happy just left in the woods somewhere.” “Your mom’s weird. You know she’s serious, don’t you?”
he asked my daughter, who looked sickened. After a year of pondering what to do with his body, Dad
decided to be cremated and pre-paid for the funeral and the food for the
reception. Dad seemed happy to know the ham sandwiches were paid for and he had
two cemeteries prepared for his ashes. He wanted half of his ashes next to my
mother, who had been dead thirty years, and he wanted his wife to do the same
with half her ashes when she died, the other half would be placed in a cemetery
near where he lived and his wife’s family had been buried. The hospice nurse thought she’d know when Dad was about
three days from death, and I’ve been a hospice volunteer, so I knew guessing
when one would actually die is a bit of a crapshoot, but my sister and I lived
in separate states from my father, and were hoping we would have time to fly
there so we could be with him once we got “that call.” We got “that call”
in the middle of the night, and I got on the phone to arrange airline tickets,
but by morning, Dad was dead. My sister and her kids, and my daughter and I met at the
airport and rented a car for the three-hour drive to Dad’s house. While we
were flying, my dad’s wife and our brother started hustling, really hustling,
and the day after we had arrived had been set for the memorial.
hen my
father was dying of lung cancer, he started to display his greatest enthusiasm
to want to live. Most of his life, he had lived rather recklessly and seemed to
welcome the idea of a quick, unexpected death. By the time his lung cancer was
diagnosed, it was already stage 4, and the prognosis was rather bleak. He chain
smoked the majority of his life, yet seemed enraged at the tobacco companies for
not warning him that he may get lung cancer from smoking.
“Keep looking, you’ll find them,” I said.
His wife kept laughing remembering the good times when my dad was able to drink like a fish. “Put that picture up there,” she said, “they’ll probably be there tomorrow.”
My sister and I discovered that there was a surprise awaiting us at the funeral home. After all Dad’s talks about his funeral plans, and finally agreeing upon being cremated, we were led to this broom closet, and there was unembalmed Dad, three days dead, lying beneath a green sheet, looking absolutely dreadful. “I wanted you girls to have a chance to see your dad,” his wife explained.
Neither of us said anything.
“Doesn’t he look good?” she asked.
I figured she was suffering from fatigue and stress. Three days dead. The green sheet. The gurney shoved in a closet. Ugh.
The funeral director had us sign legal papers regarding this viewing that he did not support.
Then she noticed my dad’s brothers and sisters and ushered them toward the closet. The funeral home director intercepted her, and reminded her it was illegal to have an unembalmed body out for viewing.
“We paid a lot of money for this funeral,” my brother intervened, and started pushing our dad’s body to the room where the memorial was about to take place. People were already seated. The funeral director chased him with legal documents that needed to be signed and kept saying, “It’s illegal to do that in our state!”
Non-relatives were shaking their heads, laughing. My brother continued pushing the gurney, and my aunts and uncles dutifully walked up to see my dad lying on the gurney, and declared that “he sure looks good,” and I wanted to point out he looked a whole lot better in most of those pictures lining up the wall. The funeral director looked miserable. I’m sure he wished we would push our dad’s body outside and just finish the service anywhere but inside his funeral home.
Finally everyone sat down, and I don’t know who the man was that got up so say a prayer, I think he was my brother’s fishing buddy slash preacher friend. People stood up to tell drunken stories of my dad, except his brothers and sisters said more serious things because their other drunken brother had died the year before, and the remaining siblings were not drinkers, except for the one who kept saying weird things in the lobby and drinking out of a flask, but he didn’t get up to say anything, and our step-mother kept leaning over to my brother, sister, and I, pleading, “Don’t you want to say anything about your dad?”
For once, the three of us did the same thing. We just stared straight ahead.
There was no more to be said.
Gift
I lit my first cigarette and was
savoring my scotch and water when I noticed her knocking one back. “Looks like
you need a friend,” is what I said, as I slid onto the stool next to her.
It’s
usually what I say to people as I move in on them. They don’t think it’s as
corny as it sounds to me, because the truth is, it is exactly what they need.
I
hone in on it. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I hung in there.
Hit the
payoff. Eventually, I put her in my car, brought her home. Strong coffee usually
helps them balance after I’ve coaxed them to spew their emotional garbage. My husband is in the kitchen, pulling
his hands out of the dish water. He places his dripping, sudsy hands on his
hips.
meet them at bars.
My husband pours a steaming mug. The woman lifts her head from where it had been cradled on her long arms and says, “cream, two sugars,” then settles her nose into the soft wool of her sweater. My husband shoots me a look. I shake my head “no.” Black coffee is what she needs, but in fact, never gets around to drinking. She passes out at the kitchen table. I hate when that happens. I cover her with the old granny square afghan draped over the back of the couch, the one that has comforted more than a few. I have one last cigarette in the kitchen beside the woman sleeping off her drink. My husband mentions her family, her children. I wave him off. “If they cared so much, they should have prevented her from hanging out at bars in her emotional state.” My husband considers this for a moment, shrugs. “In the morning?” he asks, tips his head. “Oh, well, you know” I say, rubbing out my cigarette, becoming tired despite the nicotine rush. “She’s on her own then.” I say this carefully, because he needs to know my limits. “Right,” he says, turning out the kitchen light, his left foot dragging with fatigue.
Heading upstairs, I see a shadow in the hallway, the soft ruffle of a nightgown. Our daughter is afraid of the dark. Again. “Mommy,” she calls, and I wince. My head is starting to ache and I need to get off my feet. I glance at my husband, and give a small pout, point to my head. He scoops our daughter into his arms and I wave the slow wave of the weary to them as I head to the bedroom and shut the door. Really, I’ve done what I could for today. Strays are my thing. I comfort them. It’s a gift.
Thoughts from the Big Sky
by
Jerry Vilhotti
rofessor
Nietzsche for one tried to kill God, as if He were an addiction like he himself
plowing his sister in the dark like a deranged father knocking up his daughter
in a cell in his big house, saying religions were going to be slave masters out
to control the poor inhabitants of "Aqua" by perpetuating their fear
of death and the unknown to making minds become so warped that little or no
thinking would go on to any depth; then, he added vehemently that greed would
slaughter God in attempts to find a self worth and indeed become their mad-off
god.
The philosopher was countered by Professor Gilgamesh who said the womb was more
powerful than the brain and wanted an "un-chosen" people to write a
book of their beginnings—hanging gardens and all— to see if it would be
stolen and then other fictions added—just for fun. philosopher
Pessimistic Shaupenhauer could not agree more saying Nietzsche was a mad man off
his rocker trying to create supermen among self-haters!
At this point others on the panel begin to interject some of their ideas
like Benny Zoroaster insisting a Son of Light should be introduced with twelve
apostles to see where that would lead while Doctor Agnostic said that since even
they themselves did not know their origins it would be a sadistic game to play
on inhabitants still living in caves or not very far from the ones they recently
left conquering to some extent their fear of lightning and thunder.
Professor Heron, the machine guy genius, said he could make one thing that would
have people visiting "holy places", his voice indicated the sarcasm of
it all, to inject a coin into the machine and that weight would make a lever go
down to produce just enough "holy water" to cleanse them of the dirt
they felt which to their minds would become a miracle and then overwhelm them
with huge doors opening to the tune of thunder—making the business of religion
flourish until a real cure came along if indeed they had it in them to find real
cures and not pseudo panaceas to lessen the fear in their hearts and take away
the stain on their souls.
Doctor Shrub and his father Mister Cheeeny suggested to make many of the
inhabitants be very very poor like childs dying of hunger yet able to work for
the super rich like one percent and then see if they could survive in tents
which could be called Shrub Tent Towns. Mister Hoover Damn agreed
vehemently by slamming his GOP on the table sighting a compassionate way that
that would indeed test their mettle and make sure a great war could happen
between a great leader wearing a mustache and doing a little freaky dance while
a great city called Paris was burning with fire emanating from her genitalia and
his pupil Mister Boner and Mister Turtle Face put their little Gops up on the
table standing on their toes to show agreement, compliance and followship.
And so the experiment on a new discovered planet began and all the scientists
and super elite of the planet Control—a galaxy away— awaited excitedly like
little children being presented with a new toy on the morning they called The
New Fourth Order.
The Orthographers
by Kane X. Faucher
Conclusion In time, I would learn their names,
although names served a different function, closely reminiscent of medieval
naming where a surname like Cook, Butler, Smith, would announce one's
profession. Each member of the Guild was assigned a letter at birth they
would be accountable for. The man who had rescued me was named—and
responsible for—the letter P. Each of the 26 members were given to
profound reflections on their respective letters, experimenting with phonic
variations, drawing elaborate tables of connections where the letter was
prominently in use, the geometric permutations of the letter, and so on—a
whole of one's life devoted to one assigned letter each. They were also, I
learned, each responsible for the manufacturing of their assigned letter using a
large typesetting apparatus (I would later discover that the black sands that
dominated this stretch of desert were actually a mix of stone dust and black ink
from these machines). By contrast, my name, composed as it was of ten
letters, must have seemed to them a jumbled incoherence. Each letter had a guardian and an elder
advisory council. The guardian would be entrusted to train the novice at
thirteen years of age when the child was taken from the parental home. At
the age of 26, if the novice passed the educational requirements in the study of
the letter, he would take the position of the new guardian while the old
guardian would be given a seat on the advisory council. The training was
of a demanding rigour not found even in some of our most renowned schools.
Concurrently with the training specific to the letter, the novice was expected
to read the Book of Aleph (Liber Alephi) so as to lend the requisite
spiritual gravity and instruction as to why guardianship of the letter was
necessary. I was given no indication if their studies included
mathematics, geography, history, or the natural sciences, but their knowledge
seemed to embrace all fields of study as it pertained to the study of the
letter. Despite the rigour of instruction,
their studies were pragmatic and the subjects gracefully economical. A
history of American presidents, for example, would most likely be considered
highly peripheral except where letters were somehow involved—the repetition of
W in the initials of Woodrow Wilson would have some relevance to one studying
the letter W. Neither was their education so exclusively specific as to
disregard the importance of other letters in the alphabet. I've already
mentioned their quasi-theological text, Liber Alephi, but every six
months they were expected to pass a test on a letter outside their
guardianship. This survey knowledge of other letters gave the student
insight on how letters connect as a whole. By the time they reached the
age of 26, on top of mastering their own letter, they would have gained
approximate knowledge on the remaining 25. This was consistent practice in
their pedagogical view of gradual development and the cohering of orthography. For obvious reasons of guild privacy, I
was not permitted to read the Liber Alephi, but the guardian of Q was
kind enough to tell me select notions from their devotional text, doubtless
taking care to omit a great deal so as not to subject the book to the eyes of
the profane. The Guildmaster's suspicion of me as a
foreigner was waning, almost as though I had ceased to be of any alarming
significance. His nonchalance trickled down to the remainder of the tribe
who took very little interest in me, my travels, or the land from whence I
came. In fact, they seemed to lack that bone of curiosity most others are
born with, and so my incessant questions must have seemed odd, if not mildly
offensive and exasperating. I more than made up for their signal lack of
any astonishment while they regarded me like one would the presence of a
chirping migratory bird. I cannot reliably say just how many
weeks I spent pacing those winding stone corridors and black sands, alighting in
one workshop or another (they were all of homogenous size and contents save for
the difference in letter). To say that I was permitted to observe their
work is too formal an acknowledgement when, in fact, they took increasingly less
interest in my presence. In each of the 26 workshops, all hewn in stone,
there was a monumental letter (also of stone) in the centre announcing the
workshop's charge. By the evidence of small stone chips strewn around
these sculptures, the letter was always being refined and reshaped. A
baffling array of instruments and measurement tables bespoke of perpetual
modification and analysis. To say these people took letters seriously
would be a crude understatement: for them, the letter was a religion, a
way of life, and the reason for existence for which no higher purpose could
exist. The fact that I had no trade in the letter placed me in the
maligned position of being inferior. What also astounded me was the
staggering volume of archives each letter had associated with it. For
example, in workshop F, a copy of Anatole France's The Garden of Epicurus
had every F in the text reverentially circled in ink with a single bold
underline. The guardian of F could tell me from memory how many times the
letter F appeared in the book which he said was factored into his ongoing
statistical analysis. I learned from him that F appeared on average 97
times out of 1000 characters in the period preceding World War II, but appeared
106 times subsequently. When I inquired after the discrepancy, the
guardian made motion with his hands suggesting there are some mysteries about a
letter only the guardian of that letter is entitled to know. The guardian of Y was much more
forthcoming, almost friendly, when I visited him. He even elected to show
me a book that pleased him containing Jacques Derrida's Ulysses Gramophone. “Not here how
the philosopher counted the number of instances of Y-E-S in Joyce's Ulysses,”
he said. “When it comes to the inscription of
letters, there are no accidents.” “Do you
believe that authors intentionally add a set number of particular letters in
their works?” I asked. “Yes and
no. Rules govern language and predict what can come next in the
construction of a word. There are no words in any language where an X is
followed by a K, but Y follows L frequently. Sound and structure determine
orthographic interconnectivity. Each letter has a limited range of options
for what they can connect to, and this is determined by the small range of
sounds it can fit with unless modified by another letter.” “Like how G
can be hard or soft, 'grab' or 'lodge', right?” “Yes.
Determined by rules of convention, mutations in language, borrow terms, and the
like.” “Can you
explain why my being here is not considered an accident?” “There are
rules some cannot see, but still follow without knowing it. Certain
connections in the universe follow broad patterns that may extend as far back as
time's beginning. Every choice made in life, as in letters for the
formation of a word, is an exclusive one that annihilates all other possible
choices. Granted, there are some choices that are more highly probably
than others. Y follows L commonly even though K following X is
theoretically possible but not probable. In your case, you came to the
desert. You knew it was a possibility that you would be cheated, become
lost, all the risky and perilous misadventures that eventually brought you
here. Some choices are more likely than others. You could have come
here and strangled me or talk to me—the latter choice was more likely.
If someone greets you, it is more likely that you return the greeting with
something in kind, and highly unlikely that you take that occasion to slit your
own throat or recite a passage from an encyclopedia or peel a grapefruit.” “I couldn't
have known in advance that I would find myself here since I did not know 'here'
existed.” “As I said,
choices are made according to rules, but not everyone is aware of the
rules. Choices are sequential, and most people make them in specific
circumstances without realizing that these choices are formed by all previous
experience.” I would not be granted much more
insight into this strange tribe of orthographers, for the Guildmaster summoned
me to say that he had arranged for my departure. It was time for me to
make new choices. But, at the heart of my attempts to understand these
people, I continuously came up against the wall of their true purpose. To
what end this guardianship of letters? The answer would be given me by way of a
riddle. “Words are
clean, and names are clumsy,” the Guildmaster
said. “Some must dedicate their lives to the
protection and regulation of the word's smallest and most fragile units so that
words may continue to thrive. The things we name—feelings, objects,
ideas—cannot survive without the concurrence of letters that guarantee the
sense and sound. We fashion, we study, we develop so that others may be
free. It does not trouble us that so many take these tiny units for
granted, or do not understand the vital significance of single letters, but
neither do many who eat think of the harvester, those who use tools think of the
toolmaker, those who blindly obey the laws of the land think of the one who
wrote them into existence. Go forth, Jason Johns American. The
letter is yours to wield, and ours to comprehend.” And so it was done. A member of
the guild escorted me for several miles, that tribal fortification swallowed by
distance and the stirring of another storm. My guide left me at the
nearest small town, gifting unto me only one statement: “It
is written. The infinite Aleph knows, and men believe they are free.
It is the way of the Aleph and the way of men, their differences united by the
pattern of the letter.” That was the last I ever
heard or saw of the orthographers. Since then, I endeavoured to locate
where they might have been situated, poring over maps and researching any
mention of them. However, I turned up nothing, and resolved to think the
whole affair a hallucination brought on by desert exposure. The idea still
torments me from time to time, that there is a group of chosen people given the
duty to uphold the building blocks of language. Who appointed them? I can
no longer jot down even the most frivolous thought or compile a simple list
without feeling the tug of what I so carelessly employ.
could flatter myself to believe these mysterious people were impressed by my
precociousness, but it was more likely their boredom and isolation that allowed
me to tarry longer in their domain as they had made no motions to do as my guide
had announced in speeding me off. I was slowly introduced to the mysteries
they so carefully guarded. Perhaps by the curious twist of their
metaphysical outlook and its complete exclusion of any possibility of, or place
for, accidents, my simply being there was an act of a higher will, linked
perhaps to predestination or fate. In time, they relaxed the derogatory
predicate of trespasser from my name and began treating me—not with excessive
hospitality—with a measured laconic tolerance. Seeing that I was
harmless and more or less grateful to having been saved from the harsh desert,
there was less reason for them to be secretive. As a nomad, I could
present them with little to no jeopardy.
|
|
American Gothic
Robert L. Harrison
|
heavyin |
K. R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch |
|
honeycomb |
K. R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch |
linger1
K. R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch
lingers
K. R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch
|
lingersing |
K. R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch |
|
cityscape |
Derek McCrea |
|
shrimp boat |
Derek McCrea |
|
Florida light house |
Derek McCrea |
|
sun |
Derek McCrea |
|
echinacea |
Derek McCrea |
|
anti |
Peter Schwartz |
chicago
Peter Schwartz
externalist
Peter Schwartz
|
ice study |
Peter Schwartz |
|
presto |
Peter Schwartz |
|
Paint Party Central |
Mikayla Rose Alexander |
|
"Guess" Girl |
Mikayla Rose Alexander |
|
Cousin Judy |
|
Eileen Green Alexander |
|
Chardonnay |
|
Eileen Green Alexander |
|
|
