Poetry from Maurizio Brancaleoni

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

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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.