What It Lacks It’s the lyrical accent that's lacking, the sharp snap of expressionist dramaturgy, the steadfast steer of the infested line whose absence is bewailed pathetic, stupid are the subjects your life is trivial and hopeless by now; being poor, you suck up raw chatter and companions and pull them in the nobleness of verse traded for a few threepenny tricks rhyme the most humiliated and rightly so you're dead to sense too under your pretty shroud of postmodernism I take you along in my daybook as seed, fruit and offspring of mine on regional trains and eatery tables Maurizio Brancaleoni has had poetry and prose featured in numerous journals and anthologies. In February 2023 he published his first short story collection “New Parables and Other Oddities”. He has a bilingual blog where he posts literary gems, interviews and translations.
Poetry from Lewis LaCook
What birds think of you The content of the woods when you stop to listen is you listening stopped not that the birds do stop not that the birds mind the contents of their minds for some minutes look through you at worried mud after all the content of the ground beneath your feet carpets their dreams too and you leaning into the cut smell of chlorophyll sprawled buzzing in a heat wave of blankets why can't you sleep Sweating below zero Through cracks in an outer pane woods glow these echo what we leave in other people when they die your eyes don't belong to you when you talk to yourself you talk to them You pedal for an hour but you're still home the view changes even if you blink and will continue to even if you get away your breath stares back at you on glass Moons drip over a desperation of sleeping roots you fill it on nights that thin your time owls listen for the crackle of fear in snow before you go to where other people wait Lake affect Waking, Lake Erie piles up in her window. The cold green water swirls old shipwrecks open for her dream-gummed eyes to allow her dead husband to rise like white rocks from the waves. Algae blooms and a coal-colored pollen falls over all the rust. The face from her doll head cake turns on a scratched-in smile so that we may better see the chorus drowning with their hands tied. When we die we become the smell of liquor. You who suffocate on your hunger, you who choke me up on the cold green cemetery lawn, how did the germs grow so fast to choke your heart? On the form a blank hungers for his date of birth. His dead wife watches from her window as the shipyard rusts into the Black River, chocolate taste of lead on her tongue. Egrets reel. These days when I mow the cold cemetery lawn her mother's bitter lips tin an August morning surly with clouds. What you can do with a white bandana, with the smell of liquor, is near grace and almost grateful for how it coats everything, the cars, the lawns. Real egrets. Instead of going to you become. She is waiting for Lake Erie to fill her with ceaseless motion. She is suffocating with her mouth choked up on mercury and tin. The minnows' silver eyes dream in gum. I towel the germs off and when she lifts me white from the tub spill them on the floor like a smear of cake. The blizzard of '77 Ripples on the surface of the Black River chart the rise and fall of good times for egrets. With the frame smudged around her and with her face pinched to show her mother what she's made she holds the doll head cake out from the front of her body as if to hold it any closer would invite her mother's criticism. You pass through dusk with fireflies scintillating like airborn embers around you. Germs coat the windshields, the sidewalks, the lawn slashing the windows in the wood-paneling in the Blizzard of '77. In the back of your throat a small doll with her mother's face mutters crests into the troughs where egrets wheel and swoop. War ripples across the continent, staining the Black River water the color of dead minnows floating belly-up against the splashed wings of egrets. Snug within the safety of the frame your father's smile points to the pins in his lapel. But no-one asked her to prom. Your white bandana makes you one of the good guys. On Marshall Avenue the grass sparks with flint light and the Blizzard of '77 plows your heart under, where a bag of warm takeout begins to think. I mow your lawn these days a hundred miles from the nearest pile of slag. In summer children climb to the top and launch empires into cold green waves. The Black River cups in their hand only the unlovely boats. Egrets repeat themselves in the sugar crinoline of her doll head cake and your heart coats the back of your throat like plastic. I'm porcelain. Ask your father to mow the lawn on Kentucky Avenue before these lengths of shadow choke him out into the cold green waves of derelict mustang grape. Have him look you in the face. Germs scintillate like a porcelain dusk of misremembered fireflies that land on your arms and your shoulders and climb down your throat to choke your heart up. I dream in your ashes, another empire impaled on her mother's criticism. We're all scared. The calligraphy of great lakes In print you make your mark with my voice on hold curved the way my bones point in your direction I wish I had listened to the roses papering their season in a room of no walls you open every window to hear me tell it from the street where our bikes propellor Are you trying to teach me how to fly or swim against your body slipping into spills greedy the light strained through to colors and so sinking the sky can be worn like a hat flotation device toughening the sugar that clings to your fingers My breath the flavor of paper in the sun’s plastic streets where you lead me blind through the trees of your mark Count Chocula With pollen in part as your throat, sprung cotton among shag of light, at in instant oxidized, toxic flavors of childhood’s improbably tomorrow Their vehicles were trapped in what could carry in legs, dried and picked off protein birds dare colluding with information as murmurs as blue The water invasion will vanish nights off everyone waits to come out, carry dead out to fields forever talking, long without breath Imagine a wafer infestation of the host resurrected, useless terms, tasting like on the head of a pint, shrubs of printed word Imagine the light vampire like your father’s shame you could smell on the seats on hot summer days catch the arrogance of dusk
Poetry from Nathan Anderson
In Choreographed Shoes LeT the HEAT :::::::::::: in ########## ##########OVERGROUND ########## ##########UNDERGROUND a new space for listening gra gra gra gra grad gradual removal of the swing (((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( what a way to((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((move it LEG UP [mouth down] LEG UP [month down] '''''''''''''''and i have seen it!!!!!!!!!!!!!'''''''''''''''''''''''''' .o.h..h.o.w..b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l..i.t..w.a.s.. look (sound of nothing) Montevideo (in outline) (or stereo) L I F T *with *your am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am am AMPLIFICATION condense into ra############## ra############## ra############## ra############## the carousel in coloured red now Out [there] going [zoom] as seen within as ...........planetscape so touch [a[n[d FEEL 0000000000000000000000000000000000 such--------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------+ + + + 0 0 0 0 0 tight collision name? [given] source? [given] armistice step lean step 000000000000000000000000000000000000000 000000000000000000000000000000000000000 000000000000000000000000000000000000000 00000000000000000000000000000000000000 a shackle Petrichor [has] [as] a name sleeping in the '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''SHADE'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' the ■ millennium after the sight of .......................APES grovel grovel i think i'll go back up the building //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// it was////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; cooler ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; in ############################################# ############################################## there ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THAT'S ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●WHAT ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THIS ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●WAS ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●ABOUT ! (also pronounced PING!) The Piano Listens a solution ))))))))))))))))))))))))))to ((((((((((((((((((((((((an ////////ANSWER ON THE shu (on the) shu (on the) shu ++ ++ ++ ++ MELTDOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! mumma... mumma... mummmmmmmmmmmmmmm... [i think (i know) ]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]] this fish has been .........................seen here ###################################before YES?
Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him here or on Twitter @NJApoetry.
Poetry from Taylor Dibbert
Insta Inertia
By Taylor Dibbert
He’s still,
Holding on to,
His Instagram account,
Hasn’t opened it,
In years,
Not sure,
What the,
Password is,
Doesn’t matter,
No chance of,
Him checking,
This year,
No chance of,
Him posting,
Ever again,
Then why even have,
The account,
His friend asks,
He breathes in calmly,
Thinks for a moment,
And then explains,
There are so many,
Great photos,
Of my dog London,
On there,
I’d hate,
To lose them.
Taylor Dibbert is a widely published writer, journalist, and poet. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”
Short fiction from Peter Cherches
Strandgallier
I wanted to buy a new strandgallier, as my old and trusty one was on its last legs. The shop my father had bought it from just before I was born, Lindemann’s, was long gone, and I couldn’t think of anywhere nearby that might carry them, so I decided to look online. No luck on Amazon, so I tried Ebay. Surely someone must be selling a strandgallier on Ebay. Even a used one in good to excellent condition would do, but there were none to be found on Ebay, used or new. Then I thought maybe Google Shopping might yield results from some further flung corners of the internet. I typed “strandgallier” in the search box but got no exact match, which is not to say I got no results. The first match was a Strandberg Boden Masvidalien NX 6 Cosmo, an electric guitar. Kind of amusing to see an electric guitar when what you’re looking for is a strandgallier. But an even bigger stretch was the Safavieh BCH1000D Bandelier Bench. Did the search algorithm think my typing was slurred? What good is a search engine that conflates strandgallier with bandelier? And I certainly wasn’t looking for a Stranda Descender Split 22/23 Splitboard. I haven’t the slightest idea what a splitboard is. I just wanted a simple, garden-variety strandgallier.
Could they be discontinued? It happens all too often. A great product that fits your need to a T (or is it tee or tea?) just goes the way of the dodo. Nobody steps in to make a replacement, perhaps because it’s too much of a niche product.
I just might need to find a repair shop, I surmised. There are people who can repair anything, right?
So I searched for “strandgallier repair,” but got no satisfaction. There was a tweet from a cake baker praising the customer service at the Aldi UK in Banbury, where “After delayed mother & baby delivery a poor henpecked CSA helped me find the products I wanted!” Surely, “henpecked” is not the word she was looking for, or was the poor CSA complaining about the trouble and strife while servicing the woman? Maybe “harried” is what she meant to say. And fat lot of good a GORE-TEX repair shop would do me either.
This was all taking too much time, so I decided to give up, for the time being. My strandgallier may be on its last legs, but it still does the job, albeit with lots of crunching and wheezing sounds. So I guess I’ll just live with the noise until it breaks down completely, and then I’ll worry about repairs. Who knows, it’s been going for almost 67 years, it may even outlive me, in which case my nephew Danny, to whom I’ve bequeathed it in my will, will have to deal with it.
A Dry One
It was pouring rain, and the gift was getting drenched. The stupid man hadn’t brought an umbrella, even though there was heavy rain in the forecast, and anyone could have seen the dark, ominous clouds just by looking out the window.
It was an anniversary gift for Delilah, his wife. They had been married 25 years, a milestone, though he couldn’t remember which metal. They’d had their ups and downs, sure, but what couple doesn’t? Michael had his share of affairs over the years, a whole string of them, but they were mere diversions. Delilah, on the other hand, was only unfaithful with one other man, Michael’s cousin William; they had met at Michael and Delilah’s wedding and first slept together the following weekend, when she had snuck out under subterfuge. The affair was still going on, all these years later, and Michael still hadn’t a clue.
When Michael presented her with the anniversary gift, Delilah was appalled by the soaking piece of crap. What kind of gift was that for a 25th anniversary? Or any anniversary, for that matter.
So she walked out on Michael and moved in with William, who had a dry one.
These pieces will appear in Things, Peter Cherches’ new chapbook from Bamboo Dart Press, on April 15.
Poetry from Karol Nielsen
Metallica
I went to the coffee shop and as usual ordered two iced hazelnut coffees with milk. When I went to pay, the cashier who is my buddy lowered her voice and said, “I have a question to ask you.” I thought she was going to ask me to something serious. Then she said, “Does your office give out Metallica tickets? They cost $800!” I said I would check but had no intention of following through because I already knew the answer. The next time I saw her at the register I said, “My company is too small and doesn’t give out tickets. My father used to get baseball tickets but now he is retired.” She light up and said, “Thank you for checking! Tickets cost $900!” I keep going to the coffee shop to order my two iced hazelnut coffees with milk. The cashier is still my buddy even though I can’t help her get Metallica tickets.
Slack Bot
I often get a chuckle out of the Slack bot. When a manager posts on Slack, the bot says “head honcho” or “small business tyrant.” This morning, one of the writers on a different team said he was going on vacation. His manager wished him well and the bot slyly responded, “never heard of her.” Nobody ever acknowledges the bot’s posts, so they hang there like taunts for a belly laugh.
Funny Bone
Growing up, my older brother was the funny one. He didn’t tell jokes so much as making wisecracks that often involved farts. I was the serious one who had no idea how to make people laugh. When I grew up, I wrote serious memoirs about war and trauma. Then I discovered my funny bone through poetry. I read my humorous poems at open mic poetry events. It was delightful to hear people laugh at my lighthearted, little poems.
Karol Nielsen is the author of two memoirs, including Black Elephants, and three poetry chapbooks. Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. One of her poems was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.