Welcome to mid-December’s issue!

We encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place in downtown Davis, CA, at 2pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church (all are welcome, we’re simply using their room as a community space). 4pm Pacific time is midnight Greenwich Mean Time so we can count down to midnight. Please sign up here to attend.

The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.

Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.

This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

This month explores various forms of life and death, and how and when we pass through the veil or cross the famed Styx of Greek mythology. Our theme is quite appropriate for the solstice a week after this issue’s release, a time of natural passage from one season to another.

Natasha Leung explores the impermanence of seasons and sensations through a meditation on a burn from a candle. Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem celebrates the festivities of Christmas along with the opportunity for renewal presented by the new year.

Sophia Fastaia shows the sun and moon finding each other’s light in a joyful, childlike encounter.

Mary Croy voyages through the vastness of nebulae in space and also fields and meadows here on Earth. Channie Greenberg presents images of trees, a mashup of vista shots of the whole tree and closeups of a few branches or trunks.

Robert Stephens highlights the power of memory to contain a lush panoply of disparate scenes and to bring life to the dead. Norman J. Olson reflects on appreciating centuries of human history by traveling with his wife.

Lachlan McDougall sends us atmospheric moments of subtle natural or supernatural tension. Fernando Sorrentino crafts a compelling caricature of a man immobilized and slowly decimated by fear.

Ashley Mann’s pieces lament the artificiality of the culture that she sees as replacing whole natural foods and authentic human connection. J.J. Campbell reflects on the ways we anesthetize ourselves in an uncertain world: substances, eroticism, fantasy, perhaps even cynicism itself.

Marley Manalo-Landicho mentally dissects himself, wondering who he really is under the constructions of his ego and his physical body. John Culp’s poem describes the dissolution of ego to make way for loving connection with another person.

Vernon Frazer’s poetry pans out to the edge of human consciousness with a dizzying array of linked words. J.D. Nelson arranges words and syllables to evoke and distill meaning and thought in pieces specifically designed for our publication. Sayani Mukherjee draws on mythology, fantasy literature and nature to conjure a wild dream. Alan Catlin’s characters and settings teeter in and out of sanity, drawing on Ouija boards, psychedelics, fevers and outer space.

Jim Meirose’s surrealist piece draws on a children’s trope, with an anthropomorphized rat and mouse loose in the library, but then goes in a more adult and ludicrous direction. Daniel De Culla contributes his signature earthy humor to the issue, with a story of a gentleman’s bodily functions.

Beth Gulley renders ordinary life in short haiku-like poems, exploring weather, public swimming, and home repairs through wit and careful observation. Damon Hubbs sends up scenes of imaginative speculation and drama within domesticity, characters who stand out in pink earmuffs or flowing robes amid their daily environs.

Peter F. Crowley harnesses only slightly exaggerated humor to describe the end of dysfunctional relationships.

Z.I. Mahmud laments the tragedies of both Creon and Antigone in Sophocles’ famous play, highlighting the quixotic quests of each character for law and order or romantic or familial love.

Exploring family tragedy in a different way, Jaylan Salah probes the power of the calm, understated themes of loss and mortality in Satish and Santosh Babusenan’s new film The Husband, The Wife and Their Dead Sons.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem illustrates how war steals a society’s innocence as well as its people’s lives. Ahmad Al-Khatat’s dark piece also mourns wartime losses, so extensive the sun itself could lose its fire.

Alison Owings’ piece highlights the small and large hopes and dreams people have for a better world. Jeff Rasley looks to the work and lives of gifted but tortured writers and artists to explore how ordinary people might resonate and ultimately find their way to wholeness. Charley De Inspirator shares his journey towards spiritual healing and salvation through religious faith.

We hope that this issue represents a way forward for you, through curiosity, wonder, healing, dreams, connection, or transformation.

673-

Sontag reviving Godot in Sarajevo.
An act of faith. Hope. Or madness.
Durrenmatt. Remember Durrenmatt. 
No. The Visit. “Better to watch than
think about later.” Applies to Beckett too.
The Physicists. Endgame. Life in a trash
can.  A domestic arrangement. Waiting
for the man to come. For. The. Nuclear 
winter.



674-

Writing in semi-trance. Like
Yeats. Like his wife, Georgie.
Who cheated at Ouija board. 
And what about James Merrill’s
paramour. Was he a cheat at
Windhover. At Sandover.  
Seemed awfully convenient.
Having that gift. Not a Nabokov.
This is. A Gift “An oak is a tree. 
A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. 
A sparrow is a bird. Russia is 
our fatherland. Death is inevitable.”
 
	679-

A History of Present Illness
The Doctor Is Sick. Dr. No.
Fleming or Everett. Both.
Illness as Metaphor. Cancer.
Ward. Medicine for Melancholy.
(Again) Homesickness. Stories.
Subterranean Homesick Blues. 
Songs. Blue Bayou (Again and 
again). Dark as the Grave Wherein
My Friend Is Lain. Giving up the 
Ghost. Writer.



		680-

Operation Delirium. Wars without
Killings.  Clouds of physicochemical(s)
instead. Like the movie. The Fog.
Shadow and Fog. Like a frat party.
Seduction involving roofies.
Interrogation involving LSD.
Defenestration follies. Flexible flying.
Like a Leonard Michaels story. Wear
your Air Jordans and soar. Your Keds
treads. Hard landings happen.	 Go
ask Francesca. Woodman.	

 
					682-

Sex in outer space. The concept.
The practice. No shortage of male
volunteers. Not a Playboy presentation.
Not NASA sanctioned either. Yet.
Raunch-O-Rama. Presents. Trailers
and features. A sub-rosa media giant
in their chosen field. A real growth
industry. To pun or not pun that is
the question. In the morning. In the
evening. Ain’t, we got fun. Tits on 
the Moon. The poetry collection.




		683-

Meme wars.  Like chemically induced
paranoid thinking. Mass delusions.
Better than brainwashing. Social media.
Consciousness raising or consciousness
debilitating. Tactically induced seizures. 
Dizziness. Fear. Operation Delirium in action.
Twitter. Panic. Hysteria. Hallucinations.
Migraines. Suicidal ideation. Like planking. 
Only fatal. Virgin Suicides. What a waste.
C.I.A. Fucking C.I A. Living in the USA.

 
685-


Imagine a cocktail party of 1957 army 
officers. And their respectives.  And
an LSD punch. Not a moment in Fear 
and Loathing in Las Vegas. Book or movie.
In real life. Just to see what would happen. 
Imagine the whole base’s water supply
laced. Superiors “were pissed” when
they found out about the punch. It sounded like
a good idea in theory. At the lecture.
In the position paper. After the euphoria came
Severe depression. Anxiety. Abject fear(s).
“I feel like I’m fixin’ to die.”
With Country Joe. Take a trip with Peter
Fonda. Hare brained scientific experiment 
Or good clean fun. None of this is made up.

. . . urger (b)

roadside peaches
bro + ken androids




spock’s legendary green

ape
far-flung




the sound of the tree

machine box
momentary ember

one sparrow




barthroom

tart frog famished
rose hat head

santa fe
nm




2 eyes made

co    rn
co    b

p     i
p     e



-------------



bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

Not Another Holiday Poem

grandmother’s 
annual holiday poem
was nothing like The New Yorker’s 
annual holiday poem

the top bard of Walton, NY
poet laureate of St. John Street
wouldn’t think of starting a poem
with “Greetings, Friends!”

she was more 
Miss Havisham 
than Grandma Moses 
in those later years 

when the wraparound porch 
on her black & white Victorian 
collapsed like a poorly measured 
fruit cake 

and the delivery man 
who dropped off groceries 
& cases of Genny every Friday 
would find her 

on the old wooden swing 
kicking out 
over 
the abyss

noting the times & the season
hark, with each pump 
of her schoolyard legs. 


 
Suburb

such a fuss 
was raised last night 
by the chickens 
in the neighbor’s coop 

you would have thought 
kids were staging boxing matches 
in the foreclosure
on the corner 

or Mr. Connolly was finally 
putting the misery 
out of his sour puss 
wife

or a delivery man 
who knows that evil 
works against us
on a daily basis 

was fighting 
the high-casualty event 
of middle class 
life

by arranging 
a tufted boudoir chaise 
in a perfect pelt 
of moonlight. 

 
Mount Vision

it’s a small town
nothing to do
but fantasize
so when news 
cropped that the radio tower
on Mount Vision
had picked spectral music
out of the sky

the disappointment
was as sharp
as finding
a plastic toy saucer
at the bottom 
of a technicolor
cereal 
box
 
the rise and fall of the west

‘You’ve gotta’ be fucking kidding me,’ 
I say, half under my breath ‘are you 
sure that’s right?’ 
The woman 
behind the cash register 
is wearing pink earmuffs. It’s December 
but there isn’t a bite to the air 
or as much as a flake on the ground. 
The pink earmuffs are her way 
of saying ‘sorry, fucker 
I can’t hear you bitch 
about the cost of potatoes
because my ears are huddled 
in pink earmuffs.’ 
I’m so pissed
about the cost of potatoes
I wanna’ tell the woman 
that her pink earmuffs 
make her look like she feeds 
on the homeless.
But she won’t hear me anyway,
so what’s the point. 
Then, in a mock hospitable voice
she adds, ‘sir, potatoes fueled 
the rise of the West.’  
The last item scans, chirps. 
‘Paper or plastic?’ 
‘Plastic,’ I say 
doing my part to hasten the fall. 

 
the last roundhouse on dead end street

south 
of the rib, in the flatlands
dram shops & the 
roundhouse, upstate’s 
industrial colosseum 

the Canadian Pacific 
razed it in 93’ but demolition began earlier 
36 of 52 brick stalls 
scattered like a game 
of pick-up 

amongst the ruins 
& rotting Pullman mail cars 

a woman 
with a dismembered 
goat hoof between her legs 
says to an ex-con: 
tastes are becoming hard to satisfy. 

A Summer Memory

Trees

in bloom, reckoning the sky
towards a cloudless night.
Sultry summer rain
hisses on the sidewalk—
bloom of Jacaranda	
purple against a slate grey sky.

Wine of holidaymakers	sound of laughter
navel orange splash	cooling upwind of 	(rain)
Long pull of books and films	drag towards
the night of oppressive heat and 	(rain)

Here is the season
of purple blooming
around us wrapped
like a garland wreath;
lively dances
performed for the summer dead
 

 
Tuft of Light

lizard beaked sits
riotous in motion; silver
shredded ribbons; blood and dead 
leaves;

(breathing in the stink)

calm cup of tea
dissolve atmosphere of
hate words; nastiness; just blood
and dead leaves;

(open to the sewer)

skin smooth over porous shale;
seawater laps
the deck of the ship
urine soaked and alabaster;

(soap bubbles over shale)

bring order, bring results
into present time;
blood in the pissoir; ice; smoke; just blood and dead
leaves 
 


Sound of Laughter

Sound of laughter		children playing
I haven’t the time		to stop and look
I'm losing the thread		of innocence
You see, I was unnatural		and my time
was fleeting along		with the ermines

Sound of laughter		cold light of fish
the pool of algae		ran rivers of blood
I was Unnatural, it was the time 		I was to lose
fleeting moments		of moonlight
took their anger out		on a lonely boy

Sound of laughter		one wet rock
A flock of seagulls		to shit upon it
Sound of laughter		delicate bones set in the ear
they break at a moment’s		notice
Sound of laughter		it’s all I can do
to stay in touch with		children playing
I haven’t the time		to stop and look
 

 
Dreaming

All was gone through layers of night
As I wandered through my sleep,
All was gone through rays of light

I wandered here as though I might
Wander knowing that children weep
All was gone through layers of night

Bludgeoned, I held my form aright
Through holds of sleep’s yellow keep
All was gone through rays of light

Obscenity, profanity held to height
Wafting bleats of nettled sheep
All was gone through layers of night

The pornographic lust grew bright:
A penny, a dollar, sir, just for a peep
All was gone through rays of light


Awake I felt the dirt and blight
Lost in the theme of dream’s full sweep
All was gone through layers of night
All was gone through rays of light.
 

 
The Balance

I have hurt my hand.
I do not know when, or where
Or how, 
But I suppose it must
Have been in the delicate
Balance between sanity
And the dark place we fear
To go.

It is not useless.
Just a slight twinge
When I perform a task, 
Simple things
Like arranging my affairs
Or the flowers
Of state.
It is not altogether

Unpleasant, 
Although it does pain me
And I do not know
How it happened
Or whether
There is a purpose
To this injury
That plays on my conscience.

I would ask you,
But I know
That you are not there,
Not altogether
Useless
Just a slight twinge
When performing a task.

I have invented a person
To talk to 
And hold,
I do not know
When or where
Or why
But perhaps in the balance
Between sanity

And affairs of the state.
 

 


Miles Davis

He was cool when people was still playing
hot!
Be-bop that horn zoot rollo

Like a golden tide river stretched out for miles
Pulling me by the ears
Old Devil Moon just be-bop-a-lu

Wail that siren like for fires
Hep cats playing
Hot! Cool! Anything you want!

Lid those eyes over Bitches Brew
You toot hoot full zoot get a snoot
Full of the hippest

Jazz fever bopped along funk rollo

Versions of Heat



with the drip of wax 

down a scar on my hand

to replicate a lost spark

i wonder at a candle unaware of an ending

of burning out an only tasting metal

i wonder at a candle

when will it be spring again?

summer may be long and dreary

warmth that suffocates a breath of air

but not the burn

of when your skin has tanned too much and pinches a fiery red

that shouldn’t be possible without wind

until too much blows it out

blows out the red of leaves

the gold (of winning, of shining, and of burning)

into brown

metal can taste different no matter what

but the color will always be dark

opposite of burning

Unjustified Fears

by Fernando  Sorrentino

(Spanish title: Temores injustificados)

Translated

by Naomi Lindstrom

I’m not very sociable, and often I forget about my friends. After letting two years go by, on one of those January days in1979 — they’re so hot — I went to visit a friend who suffers from somewhat unjustified fears. His name doesn’t matter; let’s call him — just call him — Enrique Viani.

On a certain Saturday in March, 1977, his life changedcourse.

It seems that, while in the living room of his house, near thedoor to the balcony, Enrique Viani saw, suddenly, an “enor­mous” — according to him — spider on his right shoe. No soonerhad he had the thought this was the biggest spider he’d seen inhis life, when, suddenly leaving its place on his shoe, the animalslipped up his pants leg between the leg and the pants.

Enrique Viani was — he said — “petrified.” Nothing so dis­agreeable had ever happened to him. At that instant he recalled two principles he had read somewhere or other, which were: 1) that, without exception, all spiders, even the smallest ones, carry poison, and can inject it; and, 2) that spiders only sting when they feel attacked or disturbed. It was plain to see, that huge spider must surely have plenty of poison in it, the fullstrength toxic type. So, Enrique Viani thought the most sensible thing to do was hold stock still, since at the least move of his, the insect would inject him with a definitive dose of deadly poison.

So he kept rigid for five or six hours, with the reasonable hope that the spider would eventually leave the spot it had taken up on his right tibia; clearly, it couldn’t stay too long in a place where it couldn’t find any food.

As he came up with this optimistic prediction, he felt that, in­ deed, the visitor was starting to move. It was such a bulky, heavy spider that Enrique Viani could feel — and count — the footfalls of the eight feet — hairy and slightly sticky — across the goose flesh of his leg. But, unfortunately, the guest was not leav­ing; instead, it nested, with its warm and throbbing cephalothorax and abdomen, in the hollow we all have behind our knees.          

•••

Up to here we have the first — and, of course, fundamental — part of this story. After that there came some not very significant variations: the basic fact was that Enrique Viani, afraid of getting stung, insisted on keeping stone still as long as need be, despite his wife and two daughters’ pleas for him to abandon the plan. And so, they came to a stalemate where no progress was possible.

Then Graciela — the wife — did me the honor of calling me in to see if I could resolve the problem. This happened around two in the afternoon: I was a bit annoyed to have to give up my one siesta of the week and I silently cursed out people who can’t manage their own affairs. Once over at Enrique Viani’s house, I found a pathetic scene: he stood immobile, though not in too stiff a pose, rather like parade rest; Graciela and the girls were crying.

I managed to keep myself calm and tried to calm the three women as well. Then I told Enrique Viani that if he agreed to my plan, I could make quick work of the invading spider. Opening his mouth just the least bit, so as not to send the slightest quiver through his leg muscle, Enrique Viani wondered:

“What plan?”

I explained. I’d take a razor blade and make a vertical slit downwards in his pants leg till I came to the spider, without even touching it. Once this was done, it would be easy for me to hit it with a rolled‑up newspaper, knock it to the floor and then kill it or catch it.

“No, no,” muttered Enrique Viani, desperate, but trying to restrain himself. “The pants leg will move and the spider will sting me. No, no, that’s a terrible idea.”

Stubborn people drive me up the wall. Without boasting, I can say my plan was perfect, and here this wretch who’d made me miss my siesta just up and rejects it, for no serious reason and, to top it off, he’s snotty about it.

“Then I don’t know what on earth we’ll do,” said Graciela. “And just tonight we have Patricia’s fifteenth birthday party …”

“Congratulations,” I said, and kissed the birthday girl.

“. . and we can’t let the guests see Enrique standing there like a statue.”

“Besides, what will Alejandro say.”

“Who’s Alejandro?”

“My boyfriend,” Patricia, predictably, answered.

“I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Claudia, the little sister. “We can call Don Nicola and…”

I want it clear that I wasn’t exactly wild about Claudia’s plan and had nothing to do with its being adopted. In fact, I was dead set against it. But everyone else was heartily in favor of it and Enrique Viani was more enthusiastic than anyone.

So Don Nicola showed up and right away, being a man of action and not words, he set to work. Quickly he mixed mortar and, brick by brick, built up around Enrique Viani a tall, thin cylinder. The tight fit of his living quarters, far from being a drawback, allowed Enrique Viani to sleep standing up with no fear of falling and losing his upright position. Then Don Nicola carefully plastered over the construction, applied a base and painted it moss green to blend in with the carpeting and chairs.

Still, Graciela — dissatisfied with the general effect of this mini obelisk in the living room — tried putting a vase of flowers on top of it and then an ornamental lamp. Undecided, she said:

“This mess will have to do for now. Monday I’ll buy something decent‑looking.”

To keep Enrique Viani from getting too lonely, I thought of staying on for Patricia’s party, but the thought of facing the music our young people are so fond of terrified me. Anyway, Don Nicola had taken care to make a little rectangular window in front of Enrique Viani’s eyes, so he could keep entertained watching certain irregularities in the wall paint. So, seeing everything was normal, I said goodbye to the Vianis and Don Nicola and went back home.

•••

In Buenos Aires back in those years we were all overwhelmed with duties and obligations: the truth is I almost forgot all about Enrique Viani. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I managed to get free for a moment and went to call on him.

I found he was still living in his little obelisk, only now a splendid blue‑flowering creeper had twined its runners and leaves all around it. I pulled a bit to one side some of the luxuriant greenery and through the little window I managed to spot a face so pale it was nearly transparent. Guessing the question I was about to ask, Graciela told me that, through a kind of wise adaptation to the new circumstances, nature had exempted Enrique Viani from all physical necessities.

I didn’t want to leave without making one last plea for sanity. I asked Enrique Viani to be reasonable; after twenty‑three months of being walled up, this spider of ours was surely dead, so, then, we could tear down Don Nicola’s handiwork and ….

Enrique Viani had lost the power of speech or at any rate his voice could no longer be heard; he just said no desperately with his eyes.

Tired and, maybe, a bit sad, I left.

In general, I don’t think about Enrique Viani. But lately, I recalled his situation two or three times, and I flared up with rebellion: ah, if those unjustified fears didn’t have such a hold, you’d see how I’d grab a pickaxe and knock down that ridiculous structure of Don Nicola’s; you’d see how, facing facts that spoke louder than words, Enrique Viani would end up agreeing his fears were groundless.

But, after these flareups, respect for my fellow‑man wins out, and I realize I have no right to butt into other people’s lives and deprive Enrique Viani of an advantage he so treasures.