Filling the Hollow

resonator grotto

pushing headline disinfectants

devised a renewed pastiche

liminal fury for taint collectors

brought a binge pot dilemma 

its crude invective 

untamed the clot’s brand name

ghost fangs mental vending

threshed spotless reverb egress

past sound regrets tangled dry

as a flattened root 

plying the sharpened tonic grab

contortion clangs against vibrato

trembling with a haunted verbatim

in search of a breaking tremolo

to gambol freely

against the chamber’s echo points

Below the Land’s Bottom

pealing at robotic speed

the stranger left a missing hieroglyph

sleeping under the sinkhole

swamping the mendicant 

sporting a bearded vantage boast

where street invention

gaped a landmark palpitation

                     2.

verbal carnage soaring

vigil haze fattened the coming 

joggle a rough descent

retread derision encased 

any sidewalk dream plots worn

to comfort the decimation

with a congregation of friction studios

                 3.

lout fight a slow obstacle 

included fans of glower problems

fighting apprehension daze

reprobate misses figurine

torpedo grieving well black ending

rapier predispositions stick

bygones target simulacrum remover

WIDZENIA

Dwa lemury na drzewie… 
Rozumiemy, rozumiemy. Podłoże 
psychosomatyczne, 
czyli zespół 
wyjątkowo niespokojnych 
paznokci. 

A swoją drogą, czy ma pan jeszcze 
widzenia? 
Gdzie pan właściwie był, 
jak pana wśród nas 
przez tydzień 
nie było? 

Jak to gdzie? Odebrał sobie życie 
i po powrocie 
pije, 
stał się oszczędny i unika 
filetów z atlantyckiego dorsza. A jednak 
smażenie! 

Proszę podawać trzy tabletki 
na dobę. 
(Dwa lemury na drzewie…) 
I ma nagle negatywny stosunek 
do służby 
wojskowej. 

W takim razie cztery. 
Trzy po posiłkach, 
a czwartą jak znowu zacznie sikać 
po żywopłotach. 
Jeśli już raz odebrał sobie życie,
nie pozwólmy mu teraz żyć.

Sight

Two lemurs sat in a tree and chatted.

“We understand, we understand.

The subsoil is psychosomatic—

filled with a team of nervous nail-biters.”

“By-the-way, do you still have your sight?

Where were you? We didn’t see you

for a week.”

“How so?” He had taken his own life

and after reincarnating he drank heavily,

became unusually frugal, and avoided

eating filets of Atlantic cod

(even the fried ones).

A doctor advised him: “Please take three pills

each day.”

He returned to the tree; suddenly

developed a negative view

of military service;

so, the doctor upped it to four—

three after a meal and another

after urinating on the hedges.

“If he already killed himself once,

let’s not really let him have a life.”

NAD STAWEM

Psy zaczynają na siebie
polować.

Jak padnie ostatni,

nie będzie już kogo
jeść.

By the Pond

Dogs have begun hunting

each other.

When the last falls,

there won’t be anyone left

to eat.

NA DRUGIM PIĘTRZE

Mieszka mięso.

Ciepłe, tłuste
mięso.

Zwabimy je psiną
i wysuszymy

na haku.

On the Second Floor

lives a piece of meat—

warm, fatty

meat.

We’ll lure the doggies in

and dry them

on a hook. 

ŚWIEŻE MIĘSO

Jest lepsze 
od solonego.

Przyszłość 
nie ma smaku.

Fresh Meat

is better 

than cured meat.

The future holds no

flavor.

Expectations

I demand. I insist. However, my expectation is reasonable. The trillium shall bloom each spring and delight me with delicate, white trinities. They oblige, my devoted subjects.

I made Dad nervous as, I’m fairly certain, he smoked twice as much when I was around. He inhaled sharply, deeply, a generous contribution to his emphysema.

Even my wife once (charitably, only once) used the phrase, “walking on eggshells.” I’ll always harbor this even if she forgot expressing it. I’m sure, I hope, I must have relented.

Apparently, my expectations were far too high. I demanded. I insisted. I do recall my pleas, though not my intensity as such, as a nervous little boy, any child’s anxiety over uncertainty.

Now, at this age, all my sharp edges filed smooth, obviously, markedly wiser (one would expect), I’ve cultivated diplomacy, learned to compromise, entertained the value of silence.

And yet I remain lonely. Apparently, simply walking into a room, I continue to require far too much. I suppose I do expect some essential things to function still (without perfection).

I’d enjoy a few simple courtesies: please and thank you, how-do-you-do, pardon me. From old friends (and either of my sisters), a call, a letter, a lunch, just a bit of honesty will do. I vow to forgo the anticipation of integrity.

I expect (or rather hope, as anyone does) to be loved, at least valued. On occasion. As time permits. At your convenience.

Penance

Dolorosamente, I remain a penitent.

I crave absolution as I failed to reconcile an old sin,

deadly Superbia, its pages faded, brittle at the edges,

lost in a monastery crypt. The summer after dropping

out of art school, I sat on the sofa opposite Charlie,

the geology professor – the girl from painting class,

Mary Alice’s father, in their little suburban living room,

listening to their dear friend play an Impromptu,

a Franz Schubertiade. My only task was delight,

but I was a thoughtless young bumpkin, oblivious

to most etiquette, a yapping, blundering puppy,

blathering on, duro bruscamente, while her fingers

glided like water pouring over keys.

Through moderato, allegro vivace, andantino,

sharp scowls shut me up, a smack on my muzzle;

however, embarrassment didn’t take until years later.

There remain too many events for which I feel regret

(one or two may be labeled loathsome). For this particular

transgression, I thumbed my rosary with due obsession,

recited the Act of Contrition, elaborated in the confessional,

“Forgive-me-Father-for-I-have-sinned.” Regrettably,

there’s no one left to recall or care a whit for insignificant

atonement (and who’d forgive me four decades ago).

Now, nearly every day, I listen attentively to Schubert,

this beauty my penance, my Dolcezza.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

[Originally published in Fleury’s book  “Sparks in the Dark: A Lighter Shade of Blue, a Poetic Memoir”]

Thug Resume

Objective                     Don’t act too black, try not to scare the white man to get ahead

Education                    Ghetto University

                                    Major: Surviving Society

                                    Degree; Bachelors in Criminology

Work History              Head welfare receiver

                                    Robbery regulator

                                    Gang leader

                                    Sniper

                                    Straight white male dissenter

Affiliations                  Gang bangers unity

                                    Drug dealers industry

                                    Illegal gun sellers society

Awards & Honors       Achievement in “surviving the game”

                                    Achievement in “homicide targeting black males”

                                    Achievement in ‘confirming stereotypes”

Hobbies                       Gun slinging, police evading, inter-racial fighting

References                  Unavailable upon request

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–

The Answer?

(1)

Everything said

can’t keep it all in

spilling coke and peanuts

leaking ink

all over the state

night birds singing

why are we here?

(2)

Taking it

easy

slow poison

train whistling

way back there vacant corner

before the downhill grade

steam simple?

(3)

At the station now

loitering

others running

from themselves

she finds you

a ticket

tattoo

on her belly?

(4)

Hunger pains

driving you

hazy sleep

her head

in your lap

rollercoaster ride

hiccups high

for another

clap of hands?

(5)

Spitting bird seed

she keeps herself

hollow light

ring ready

complete opposite

maybe for you

somewhere in the middle

the answer?

spin the attraction


I believed it when you said: 
“Stay away from Okies.” 
“Stay away from swabbies busting bottles off the rail.” 
“Don’t bug Carlos.”  

Tonight the perseids will glitter for an hour, 
sputter. disappear.

I believed it when you said 
you’d find a job tomorrow. 





everybody’s falling 


Sure, my palms were sweating. The way she smiled at you, the way she took your hand and placed it on her hip. The way you drifted from the orbit of relationship. This is how it works, right? One stacked in the warp and reeling. The other standing still. 

Kathleen Hellen is the recipient of prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review. Her debut collection Umberto’s Night won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, Hellen’s work has been nominated multiple times for Best of the Net, the Pushcart and recently Best American Short Stories. She is the author of The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, Meet Me at the Bottom, and two chapbooks.She lives in Baltimore.