POEM | WOLVES ON MY LAND 

Panic days and nights,
As fear roams and rumbles my land,
Causing tough tears from helpless eyes,
Grieved groans from thirsty gullets
And craving clamour from hungry stomachs,
When all is embattled,
Of the infestation of cruel creatures ---- Wolves.

Black wolves.
They everywhere parade in packs,
With styles of superiority;of proclaiming leadership,
And desperate hunts towards the weak.
While the dreads of their detrimental feet,
Tremble and torment the land into disharmony.

Wicked wolves.
During dawns and dusks do they appear,
With their lowered noses to perceive preys,
And the enraging echoes
Of their howls shred the hearts,
And the wailing woofs of their barkings
Shudder away the dwellers' glimmers of hope.
All ears too weary
To persevere the grumblings of their growlings.

'Joint hands lift the load better',
Asserted our asleep ancestors.
So arise,my lands,all together!
In bind,in bundle,in bunch,
Let your souls awoken,
With tied and tightened spirit of repulsion,
Against the arbitrariness of their invasions,
And tender your voices in consolidation,
To silence their ascending crescendos.


For my land is vast for promising plants to sprout,
And not for wildness to tear into dismantlement.

Wish
~Franz Wright

In the vast window of the laundromat
it’s early spring. A man bulked in winter
layers outside the storefront stops to watch
a jet’s vapor trail across the sky.
The world is far gone. Virtually all that’s left
for me to do is wait, seated inside
this spacious place with the dynamic hum
of machines doing the labor of a village
full of washers at a river. The sound
would as soon sing like plain folk doing chores
yet from the machines it echoes mechanically
for me to hear, woom woom, to hear and sift,
to reword: wish wash wish wash rinse rinse rinse—
into the pitching whir then whine, a lot like
a jet plane taking off, of the spin cycle—
making the clumsy metal gizmo quake
like a cold wet kitten.
				In the window
I sit beside, dimmed with the wind bringing
banks of clouds, up in the metal frame
a spider dangles, weaving in the joint
between the frame and ceiling. For all I know
the weft she looms describes Zeus’s desire
thrust into the sky, to turn another
nymph into this brook, into that reed.
Uncompromising witness, how inspired
to work her craft, her wish was not a death wish,
only her waiting. Because I don’t know
much about spiders, I remember Ovid’s
myth of Arachne, using my education
to pass the time, until my clothes are ready
to toss into the acrobatic dryer.

The river is time. The sky is raining minutes.
She’s almost had a year to bury him
like rain falling to bury the world away
because when he ceased to be there, where he’d been,
he was suddenly everywhere, in each unmown
blade of grass. Each unchanged drop of oil
that lit the dashboard light. His soul stretched tight
across the evening sky. It landed on
the fence at morning to sing with her spoon and cup.

He came to night again. It was still raining.
He had flowed to the ocean, still there he was
flowing beside me. I held my fingers
around his wrist feeling for his pulse. He was
a drip in the ceiling I’d put a stove pan under,
a dark spot spreading from the corner of the room
determined to go ankle deep, knee deep.

The spider spoke about my friend as from a far source.
Any hope to quell her would be pointless
a beaver would already know at the river’s width.
There was no narrow bend to dam her, the sky
a constant dark and drumming only patter
outside the laundromat. So we talked.

His last legs had battled back so many times.
I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t come out again.
The listener with the spider about his friend
could never imagine a battle I could not
stand back up from. The dead were speaking to him

and his widow told me my friend remembered
Virginia Woolf’s being asked about her morning’s
writing. She said she’d gotten them
off the porch, meaning her characters.
She had advanced her story at least that far.

That’s all he had to say. He didn’t need
to say anymore. He meant he couldn’t get them
off the porch. They were huddled out there
under the porch roof, edging themselves at the rain.

The poem is dedicated to Franz Wright, winner of the 2004 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. 
The Hastings Room Poetry Reading Series, which I help curate, hosted Franz for his last live reading in November 2014, and I came to know him and his wife toward the end of his life that year.

Michael Todd Steffen is the recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship and an Ibbetson Street Press Poetry Award. His poems have appeared in journals including
The Boston Globe, E-Verse Radio, The Lyric, The Dark Horse, and Constellations. Of his second book, On Earth As It Is, now available from Cervena Barva Press, Joan Houlihan has noted Steffen’s intimate portraits, sense of history, surprising wit and the play of dark and light…the striking combination of the everyday and the transcendent.

looping

sun swallow tailpipe         imagine
                                     if
                   you will             (dis)engage
     enough                                          the
                         wheel had            inspired
then blanched

                               waves thrust     (had to)
         (could                     not                        once
have)                          you                   still
                   if                      hollow
                        then
(mis)applied                             spot     checking

            wings to beating lids
            overwhelm               sun
swallow




numb & flickering combos

friction
        fumes

ghosts casting plumage
trouble catching spores

of magazine dramedy
merging ratio cynic
worm hello empty

verbal plights fringe

         an inherited zebra

transformational
anytime

think

            free
            feet

plain zapping wrapper
doubled
             etc.

smoke
& smell
         & confab
    & twigs

son
thought
sorrow
slob
leveled
digging
doubt

that larval tongue
             disposed
                      sharpened
        in
          come
heavier sword

yorn pencil
adverbs
            twitch 

damp
   pitch
      pretense

making coral slump
thin invested dowel 
swear an elbow swoon

rubble
       rabble

fading pretense align
dewy rolled naps
left cigarette soaked

                          hurry
                  fit             a
bowl.



archive mint

gone long
femur flush
fresh park
trenched symptom
          overwhelmed
     chief      |      portal      |
joke store evangelical
             conversation
             piece,
     stiff upper
bridge,
          insulin
    gap [tape
                me
aghast          spun
]. beam
   tower [change
of l,i,f,e
        function
    , crumbs ,
lust , calendar
.           finish bu
z           z          e          s
  a           w        ,
link meta
    Jaw [sold
enough recent
    verbiage in
toward t
       o     o     k
]. bolt blister
s      a       haste
.


Busted Structures

Repossessive nomenclatures 
             ; The Machine
               That Kills
               Bad Breath
; (restless on the verge of
   sickening zero gravity /
         windswept gym
         floating like
         a NaKeD
         trash isLAND).

Frontier
           plastic
       umbilical skin
; TaG      ,     You
                  ’     Re
          It.    Ooooooh
,   had
       met amphibious
un,
   plumed (tidal
                 germinating
          asphyxiation
cross
roads).

Taught crossing
          angelic STRUM
   , BoMb   ,  tonnage
s
ew
  er housing complex
romance.

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, M58, Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, Nauseated Drive, and experiential-experimental-literature. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

Just That Damn—Bassoon!                                             

B-Bassoonios.

Blisterpeckmania mustafa come o-er me, officer, to plunge the knife fast and hard into this plank so many times. But I knew, and will tell you—as I have told all others I know to the point that I also know, yes—I know that’s why they’ll not have no to do with, no to do with me, nothing to do with me, not at all, because—I’ll sign-seal this ack anywax you want, to melt my signature over with, th’t she; didn’t love me. Didn’t want me.
Just that damn—bassoon! 

Play that big cylindrical, brick, Guatemonia! Play out for hot-damned, that damned brick! She got letters. She got letters. She got lots and lots o’ letters; see them showering down over, all over—just like some old TV a la Como—and, yes. She was even beginning to swipe out beyond her visions, to snag in some new ones to form; and, get this, m’ yes, get. This. Get this and get this; yes this; Pop big Bassoon Family Arkestra, she meant to call it. Retch! Or, mayhaps some ‘um of a son of a brass-banded sycophant said, Do this, and do it, do it, and all—and that would dig her under more deeply, but, what? Why, big officer? Here I am all just a-practice; all just a-practice, ta plunge my knife down, into this plank. My knife. Because in-because; didn’t love me. Didn’t want me.
Just that damn—bassoon! 

So; anyway. As I catch this breath, there, hey, gotcha—I ended up well, no. She it was left; and how it was, was that the spot where the long of her ‘assonio lay down encased safely i’ black every night, was morning, when—by luck I was moved to rise pre-fourayame t’ vomit—that the long where she left her instrumentinio every single day, now lay empty and I even double-checked after retching—like after retching—you know—the after-retch fog we all commonly call it, but not one can imagine what any of the other’s after-retch fog beholds back like. That cleared, aided by a wave of maybe my left, or no it was definitely my right-spreading outpalm, I beheld she was gone, and; here were are now as we are here now and even five six one word moments ago even as we’ve been here here, has, inexorably—just like her, become—a pseudo-history—for what reason it’s pseudo I won’t bo-o-o-ore you wit’ now, just; didn’t love me. Didn’t want me.
Just that damn—bassoon! 

Gone! Yes, gone!
Tossed from the theatre; can’t behave before wild-played bassoonios. Or two or three.
But when’s none, then; okay.
With his wife, whop’ bought tickets.
Okay, Jan. This night better be good I seek san’ said so; here it is.

So here came the next she, slotted all solidly, then. Great! ‘cause she’s a real plop. We clicked. No taste for bassoonery here (a memo to confirm that upon entry, please) (a day’s anticipation regarding B-Bassoonios.) and even that much of her residue, flushed way by time, yas the floors were very clean, very smooth, yes the days were ‘lso eh eh eh, there’s nothing real to bitch on no mo’, mommy, so that’s our little Sonboy, you are so good, we always, your pappy and I, knew you’d be good. And your it would be good, and the her you finally bumped into all a-fusion would be nothing if not perfectly good as well, and, as parental controllers be damned, they’re always right cause we have then ‘e have then and it we got to have them may as well turtle-up gundra-down and feelin’ all right.

All swanny?
Hoke.
Watcha’ doan’, Uncle Pete?
Meditating.
Walk on the back barnyard.

Within which how gosh how I swear up to God hung way too many pictures of her dead sailor-sons. Thuswise, Genie; the bag-chapter this history’s, every morning of this great big good marriage that long narrow floorslot where that other’s ‘ssoonio lay each and every now happily contained nothing—no, Sam, it’s fine. Let it stand—and that was good. Rearrange—the cosmos’ fat smiling slid up me her and them slid us out slid in the mud of click contentmentition, but, pseudo. There it is, Mr. Super. Here’s your three eighths open-ended—from the dark-nenunderisque o’ his Studebaker of it may have been any make any model any car any color, just make sure—to not spoil the boy! Make him do his own welding! E-e-e-oine day confused after an overnight new year there it was all sneaky on the other side and it did all click but my fear came back came; didn’t love me. Didn’t want me.

Just that damn—bassoon! 
It suddenly lay there again. O right there.
Now; brace yourself, sailors, as this seems a sign of brewing trouble, so passing well clear of this big surprise, the morning came up on over, like it does, how it does, if you just let it come without duck or dodge, it washes over, purifies and simplifies, and any bad humor good not white truck oh, yes. Run outside clutch’d dollar bill’d memory flattens, and flattens, hear the Good Humor ice cream jingle come on, mommy; until the way ahead’s perfectly smooth so after sliding from the bedroom very carefully not looking at the thing once on the other side of the doorframe some money, mommy; that awful wakend’y upp’ng sense of the world being too hard to handle down the stairs please a little money, mommy; the gravity flowed everything down to the next lower flat into the room of the morning’s expansion over deep smelling egg toast coffee buttering muffintoasts bread and frypopping bacon—filthy plate knife and spoon—the sense being that, food will waken all pores, and it was at the big food room table across from her, that we floated to the center the question, slash statement, of eh eh did you see that thing out my side of the bed this morning that’s never been there even once since the wedding hip hitch kick ‘ick ya yo whoooa—what’s that thing anyway?

Forked her way down onto the plate with a tap tap, shifting side chairwise, she said, Oh, you mean the bassoon. That what you mean? That bassoon?
Yes. That’s what I mean.

Yah. I was cleaning the attic yesterday—had to be done sometime or later ‘fore our end-up’s arrive, but so, eh, there was this probable bassoon in a big padded case. Not knowing at first what it was, I looked inside; and here there everywhere inside, curled ‘round the black barrel was this picture here, see tee hee, see—here. Reaching for it pushed out her hand slid it out laid down flat. As I did always wonder so how they make those machines spit the turnpike pay tickets out flat like that. Machines so sturdy that in rain shine hot cold dark light into th’ most blinding blizzardry, the spat of the charges-slip never fails to function—not once. Not once. Or at least not once ever I could see. Picking the picture up showed there we were me he and she her being her and me, after her first bassonionostio recital. Shaky as her performance had been, we stood for this picture, in perfect symmetry, wearing perfectly interchangeable smiles ’fore some flowers and—for Hackensack, it says, this exit, that money, no problem. Perfectly pictures sharp as knives ticket, think, I got it. And I drove off away after saying, Oh, God. Yes, I remember that. I—I’m surprised she didn’t take the bassoon with her when she left.

Ot.
Left? 
Havoonehmetra?

Yah. I—I suppose we ought to send it to her, she must have been in a hurry. 
Uh?
Y’ ‘ee’ hurried to leave, hurried, eh eh hurried up the hell up to leave awk.

Y’ know?
Cabanaman. Like that.
What? 
P-practi-chinneo.

I thought you said—said she passed. 
Oof; slap; sudden confusion; burrowed her face; thus acted fast, so what, mister cop; do not witness the suffocation of anything first hand; such sights are life-altering so ‘o s’ so so dip; uh ah that bassoon was so loved that bassoon was so loved heck ah didn’t love me. Didn’t want me.
Just that damn—bassoon! 

—here it is praises all pr’ hear what what’d I say? Why the look—thank God something got said to her while we were under, must have been said by God hisself, maybe, but; whoever, who knows, ‘s here; how can you send it to her, you said she passed quickly; snap, just like that. How can you went it, we send it, you, we, us, when the ground’s where she’s at? Was or t’will be and never, and if never, as you say; why did you say that? This big bassoon; that is what this it, isn’t it, right? I swear to God, no! I was right about it, wasn’t I? Crap, no, oh I don’t know my instruments that well. I scarcely know instruments at all. But—was it indeed a bassoon? And—why’s you say what you said? Very odd.

Look down up left then ahead, soothe, I—I don’t know. Now and then, well—please don’t be angry but I wish I could hear her play the bassoon one more time.  
Yes, her bassoon; that didn’t love me. So-so didn’t want me.
That. 

Just that hot-damned.
Bassoon! Yes indeed, it was. 
Hey, listen, she said, come around, arm around.
What? 
I am so sorry—but—tell you what; let’s knock off to the shore today. That’ll lift things.

Okay.
BlasterShout’s splinterfix; to be used sparingly; but, so; yes, thank God. What a slip, and a fall. But no wise fatal, praise God in high heaven. We went to the beach of waves down the sand set in the scorch of in rest of the day sans umbrella. Out through the mottled green foamy surf’s surface sure there were unknowns, sure, maybe grief loss fear and sadness heaving inside those waves, but; gesundheit; o the words grief that fl’ loss ‘ow out those f’ fear ‘eelings, the twis’ sadness ‘ted, ‘mpossible to thank the Lord enough that slip was gotten away with, then, at home. After she shrouded herself back the sliding glass doors gave way to the release of the loudspraying scaldyjet of her shower, yes, sneak, sneak, yes, as a shower once started must go through to the end without—interruption—quick get that bassoon take it out back behind the garage that’d do until the right time to bury comes over. Be it gone. 

Want it gone now, but, but; nothing’s by the bed where it was means hurry the shower’s half over she must have put it back hurry in the attic bu’ hur’ there was no time for that how could ‘ry ‘t it cannot be but okay hurry ‘cause the water’s shut the doors rattling in their steel tracks don’t lay a finger in there then slide or you will come up bloody, after all you’re not so special. Anybody’s finger would but bap boop so; get it wherever it is soon as possible. Destroy it and that will be the end of that. My my, that was a quick shower, dear oh, yah, well I guess maybe it was. Excuse me step aside from blocking the way to her dresser; didn’t want me didn’t love me just that—null, nothing, that out of bound address is forbidden and so must be dead swat call an ambulance there’s something in that creek back behind here. 

Swat!
Swat’
All gone big sudden fly how. Satisfying. But; then. Ko.
Honey, I got a surprise, a big one, great big one, h-hey remember back ‘n I found that bassoon?
Okay. Why?
I’ll cut right down to it. I’m taking up bassoon. Want to play it. Ain’t that great? 

Flash—vacuum, mass, airsuck’d from ‘round me; and, but—I held she said oh o the look in your eyes was so sad that day I been haunted truly haunted, y’ I been truly very haunted o’ the empty in your eyes; so had to do something, you know how it is, when you simply have to need to do something to fix something bad; something wrong; terrifyingly sad empty cold dry dead, well I have. So, officer, see? Now can you see? I have why I am out here practicing haunted, why I’m plunging this knife hard deep loud into this plank dozens or hundreds or less may times? 

It’s practice, I have been, practice, it’s haunted, truly haunted. Yup yes yah I got to do what I got to do right the first time, eh eh ah up, grip, down, slam; the vibration up the arm—means you’re alive haunted up, grip, down, slam; the vibration up the arm and again haunted must stop it up grip slam vibration can’t let bassoonery happen again, but, practice up, grip down slam haunted no no more bassoonery never again stop up grip down slam do it right, officer, I’m sure you get it, officer. Can’t not love me. Can’t not want me.

Just that damn—bassoon! 

Jim Meirose’s work has appeared in numerous venues. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), and “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose

                THE MAN WHO THREW TANTRUMS

		Catsup bleeding down the wall,
		shattered lunch plate on the rug…
		The old man’s angry.
		
		Sometimes he throws glassware.
		Sometimes, yanks a tablecloth.
		Meals spiral to the floor--
		a sodden mess of fries and gravy,
		cracked cups, pasta-coated flowers,
		and one lone ice cube rolling to a halt.
		Take that, you wimps!

		That old man’s anger is fierce.
		Smash!  Crush!  Crucify!
		Call my lawyers!  Sue the bastards!
		Get revenge.
		Like a child, he can be distracted,
		but he holds a smoldering grudge.

		Barr, the Attorney General 
		who hushed up Muller’s report
		won’t knuckle under this time.
		Finds no evidence of election fraud,
		and tells the world on prime time.
		Damn the man!  You’re fired!
		Firing’s not enough—
		flings crockery
		while minions cower.

		This angry man refuses to lose.
		Calls a mob to D.C.,
		winds them up with lies,
		ignites them with his thirst for revenge.
		But the crowd’s not big enough,
		not yet bragging-sized.

		So he tells Secret Service to ditch weapons-              
                detectors, let everyone in. 
		“They’re not here to hurt me.”


		The volatile man unleashes his mob,
		says he’ll join them at the Capitol.
		Plans a speech on the steps,
		or perhaps in Congressional chambers
		where Pence is receiving electoral votes.
		But the Secret Service driver has orders.
		Can’t guarantee safety amid an armed riot.
		So the angry man lunges.
		One hand grabs the steering wheel;
		the other, the driver’s throat.
		Furious.  Desperate.
		He needs to be there at the Capitol
		to browbeat Pence,  threaten Senators,
		make them all submit to his army of thugs.
		They need to see his power.

		Driven home instead, he sends an angry text
		naming Pence as enemy.
		Rioters broadcast the text,
		erect a scaffold,
		go hunting.
		Aides send many panicked phone calls.
		Says the angry man, “Maybe he deserves it.” 

		This is the man with a nuclear button.
		Hey—
		
               that would yank the rug out from under those            
               traitors!
		Then they’d be sorry.
		This man is ready to explode.
		Crazy-angry.

                CARTOON OF THE WEEK

		Behind the barricade, a crowd heats up;
		seethes with fury, eager to lash out.
		The young suit on the safe side feels their vibes:
		tense—like an aimed bow, ready to fire.

		Walking towards the Capitol doors, 
		he raises high a fist--a sign:  I’m with you.
		You’re Trump’s army, but you’re also mine. 
		And our side has the power. We will win.

		The mob responds with shouts, and starts to push.
		
                The doors, now closed and locked, hide dire      
                change—
		a nation’s ballots have deposed their idol.
		This cannot be allowed. Trump says he won,

		and he speaks as a man chosen by God,
		a golden man who favors billionaires,
		is praised by evangelicals, and those
		who trust his words and never ask for proof.

		The outraged crowd becomes a forward surge—
		smashing windows, clubbing cops, a rout…
		They swarm inside, checking floorplan maps,
		looking for Pence and Pelosi, armed and grim.

		Congressmen who gathered to do their job
		fear and flee.  But look—down one long hall,
		a suited figure sprints, hell-bent for safety.
		Now they’re not his mates. They lust for blood.

		The man who raised his fist to these rough troops
		is running for his life. A video clip
		preserves his panic for posterity--
		with sound track.  Lilting music cheers him on. 





		

a bottle or two
 
my shadow has
always wanted
to kill me
 
perhaps i never
paid enough
attention to it
when i was little
 
perhaps i never
offered him the
right drugs
 
i know damn well
we knocked back
a bottle or two
 
perhaps my shadow
is a bigger asshole
than i am
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ever coming true
 
wishing for death
does me no good
anymore
 
countless years
of no wishes ever
coming true will
break you eventually
 
open mouth
 
insert hose connected
to the tail pipe
 
i'm sure there are
sexier ways to go
 
another thing i was
never blessed with
 
at least by most eyes
-----------------------------------------------------------------
no confidence in that belief
 
i can laugh about
it now but that is
with plenty of
years between
it all
 
i'm sure my life
was supposed to
be different than
this
 
although, i have
no confidence
in that belief
 
i truly don't want
to believe that this
was supposed to
be my destiny
 
sadly, i'm not
that cynical
 
yet
 
a few more years
 
and the bitterness
might be the only
taste i have left
---------------------------------------------------------------------
dark amazing eyes
 
it's another set
of dark amazing
eyes
 
hello from the
sweet lips
 
i like to imagine
it's actually come
fuck me
 
but i try not to
verbalize that
dream
 
at least not yet
-------------------------------------------------------------------
even beauty can give you
 
all the shouting
shows are worries
headed for oblivion
 
your kiss tasted
like a cold
sunshine
 
even beauty can
give you a cancer
that will kill you
 
i don't envy the
woman that wants
to clean up this
mess

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Cheap obituary

Shot nerves clasp
undue cause 
wrested from the brain.

They put to press
makeshift scrawls
their ill-bred worth.

A sick greed for more
knows which god
trite errors played
when night curtailed 
this conjurer’s show—
some revolt four-squared
slow to touch
if matriarchy approves

a loveless life 
indelicately owed 
this one
fought for hinting trysts
plausibly taled 
if funeraled loose.

It breaks that fast
naked words
shape of etiquette outdone.


Leave 

To wed these blithe earth plumbs—
their end before they start.

Now they shelter their wombs
for fear they should be got

un-groomed from shot-out fields
civilization took, playing each
in games their worth
small lives little understood.

Through dirt and sludge
of needs made real
they take these in
duplicates of what enthrals
if done as work forgives

to come returned 
in left behind
lost time their broke youth bid.




Concert at Palestrina

Light climbs the ground 
relic poises.
It bribes in gain
of loved one’s devotion
pursed lips speak from,
loud their faith enticing.

Now it’s a truant kiss combative
the notions flesh scrapes of
unharnessed ambition
patriots adore.

Still, there is no mark here
save that which chants freedom,
our paled superstition
restless becoming 
the postwar world.

It’s the subtle involvement
of a heart’s notes love gives to
so that what she comprises
are the scales of justice
we hope for
a concert outlining.





Coma

Our love formed of passion
thrown to fevered pitch.

It was of secret devotion,
that surabundance involved
prelude to a cause

where bonds were just such purchase
trite notions bled,
exchanged for remission
governance hid
along our boredoms at death.

Now to marrow it goes
and quick along
what traces each judgement
slight errors trend
of a séance attending
we neat grow from—

these, some mere throng contestant
the peace against your bed,
hand-held and endeavoured
wishing you’d contort in.

Our love formed of passion
and this, here in end.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.