This Doesn’t Take Place In Florida

I live alone in the woods but
I am still less alone than
Most people in human history
Because I have a phone

In a few days I will go to a funeral
In a big city
Where someone will tell me his life story

He grew up in Florida
Has returned to Florida
It was hard for him in Florida

Which sounds exactly like
Everywhere else 

I have been to Florida
But not for a long time
So it is not part of my life story
But most people have the same life story
If you just insert your own details
Mentally replacing “Florida” for
Your personal “Florida”

I have considered my life 
In its totality and strangeness
More recently than I’ve been to Florida

So basically I was in Florida

If Florida is a metaphor 
For the place where things happened 
In your life story
Instead of it being the state called Florida

Sometimes I wait for a new life
I wait for it to emerge from the trees
I wait and I wait
And it does not appear
But that does not dissuade me
From trying again at some point in the future

At a funeral people will try and tell
Someone’s life story
Since that person is not there to tell it
They do a decent job usually
Considering it is not possible



 

The World Where it Rains


The rain is continuous and forever
Nobody knows how long it has been raining
It has been raining since we can remember
So long that now we don’t call it raining anymore

In the raining world I decide I will
Quit my job and move far away
Then go grocery shopping
To celebrate
That it will always rain

Before anyone speaks to me they are beautiful
In the aisles they are being beautiful
They have come out of the rain to be with me
And we will frolic among the groceries

But then they speak to me
And ruin it all

I think of the specific flavor of candy I want to buy
And I can’t recall the brand
Or maybe they don’t make it anymore
So yes, we can want things that are gone I guess

We unconsciously pine for the sun
That we no longer even remember
Or who people could have been
Before they started talking

I think about
When I move and
When this is no longer “my” store
I will love it so fucking much then
But not before then 

Somehow
That night it stops raining when
I am at the gas station
It is just me and the gas station
Oh and also the guy that works at the gas station
I remember that I miss everyone who is not me and the guy at the gas station

In the world where it is not raining now
It can be different
Because when something changes you know
It has just begun changing
And soon it will be the rest of everything changing
Forever
And it will continue this way
And I will move far away
And be in the sun


 

Leaves (Leaves)

A mental image of me covered in leaves
Exponentially decreasing in size relative to the pile of leaves
Completely minimized by nature (leaves)
Until eventually everything else becomes secondary to leaves

To the massive foliage dome of leaves
Nothing else matters but the leaves

But these are just imagined leaves 
I made up for this poem 
So there are no leaves actually

And the world is as it is 
And I say it is a pile of leaves
In a poem about leaves

Which is to say
Metaphorically and not literally so

No Word for It

There’s a paradigm of friendship between females

named sisterhood,

there’s a paradigm of friendship between males

named brotherhood.

The paradigm of friendship (everything up

to but not including sex) between people

of opposite sexes is a siblinghood unnamed,

but let’s call X.

The shattered man may win sympathy

from an unaccountably friendly woman,

feel her reviving his cadaver piecemeal,

feel her magnetize selectively

the fragments of him no more posthumous –

which shards, recalling prior composition

commence re-congelation now anew,

undevastated and rejuvenated.

What present could be gentler or more tender,

what surprise could nullify such grief?

What sweeter gift than life might some girl render –

who may withhold frustrate desire’s relief?

Remember how she loved you as a human

who cannot be your lover as a woman,

return her love in kind with some acumen,

flirt up some other babe.  And watch your groomin’.

That Isis-girl who caused your resurrection

deserves your love to verge upon true X-hood:

all guys who have new life through her selection

experience enhancement of their sex-hood!

 COFFEEHOUSE TRANCE

Motto:  If the Pope is the poet of the Love God of Jealousy,

              the poet is the Pope of Desire

Sinking into trance of automatic writing,

nothing of the coffeehouse coming through

but nymph-visions passing or alighting,

the dazed transcriptionist receives the new

afflatus with confidence he’ll get it down

in efficient-est simplicity.

He sees two couples about the town

in the haven of youth’s felicity.

They start comparing parents’ love-lives:

one girl’s was riddled with infidelity,

jealous harangues tanked up in dives.

The other girl’s own folks’ terse civility

was all they could spare for one another

ever since the Mother’s found-out fling

a decade prior made just some other

platonic mockery of desire’s real thing.

Now one of the two guys being juggled by

those two girls had a Dad mostly gone

and a Mom who hooked a bit, the boy nearby

in the next room while the revels went on.

The second dude, friend of the girls’ other guy,

had parents who were ever deep in love,

met not each-other’s straying with some wry

possessive judgment, but forgave – above

all, each deferred t’other in own bod’s claims.

All four offspring, in their a-quatre menage

to remake human love, bent modest aims –

staring Venus’s decolletage….

Sinking into trance of automatic writing,

nothing of the coffeehouse coming through

but nymph-visions passing or alighting,

the dazed transcriptionist receives the new.

…

We continue to express sorrow over what’s happening in so many different parts of the world and encourage our readers to support people and the planet.

Also, we are hosting our Metamorphosis gathering again! This is a chance for people to share music, art, and writing and to dialogue across different generations (hence the name, the concept of ideas morphing and changing over the years). So far photographer Rebecca Kelly and English/Spanish bilingual poet Bridgett Rex are part of the lineup and more are welcome! This event is also a benefit for the grassroots Afghan women-led group RAWA, which is currently supporting educational and income generation and literacy projects in Afghanistan as well as assisting earthquake survivors. (We don’t charge or process the cash, you are free to donate online on your own and then attend!)

This will be Sunday, December 31st, 2-4 pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church at 317 East 8th Street in Davis, California. It’s a nonreligious event open to all, the church has graciously allowed us to use the meeting room.

You may sign up here for event reminders. RSVP appreciated but not required.

This month’s issue concerns our positions within time and space, sometimes pulling us deeper within our own psyches and intimate relationships and at other times drawing us outward into a broader universe, or simply destabilizing our normal perspectives. Join us as we venture Within and Without.

Niles Reddick’s dramatic pieces highlight the danger and mystery hidden within everyday life. Bill Tope’s piece illuminates the fluidity and risks of young people’s lives and travels during the American 1960s.

Helena Jiang explores how our mental states color our perceptions by taking us outside on a bicycle ride through the eyes of a grieving boy and out on a sailing ship through the eyes of an artist.

Sheila Henry illustrates the visceral experience of depression to encourage empathy for those who endure mental health struggles. Alma Ryan dramatizes anticipatory grief for the loss of a person who cares, but cannot truly understand her.

Thoreau famously claimed that many men live lives of quiet desperation. Returning poet J.J. Campbell must surely be among them, as his speakers seek to dull their souls as their hopes drift away.

Ari Nystrom-Rice illustrates the journey of a person facing intractable damnation.

Filip Zubatov tells us to stop lying to ourselves and set goals and take action and make the most of our lives. Jerry Langdon comments on the brevity of life with solar mythology as a metaphor and reminds us to tell our loved ones we care while we are still here.

Taylor Dibbert reflects on how many people only seek marital counseling when it’s too late. Kristy Raines looks back on romantic love and on life’s ups and downs from a mature perspective.

Abdurazokova Murad urges parents to set down their phones and pay attention to the growth and education of their children and also reminds us to make the most of the limited lives ahead of us. Bakhora Bakhtiyorova speaks to wise, balanced parenting while at the same time encouraging all people, especially young people, to seize the day and achieve their goals.

Sabrina Ishmurotova’s poignant poem illustrates a young girl’s longing for her lost father. Mokhinur Askarova speculates on who would miss her if she disappeared. Faleeha Hassan’s speaker remembers a complicated relationship with her mother, where love commingled with grief.

Boqijonova Madinabonu reflects on the love of family and how mothers are often the glue that holds families together, even after children grow up and move out.

Qodirova Madinabonu Mirzamaxmud praises the care and guidance of teachers in her poem of respect to them, while Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa reminds us of the innocent wisdom of children who have not yet learned prejudices.

Annie Johnson evokes love that is both spiritual and interpersonal in her poetry, which celebrates the light and joy of Christmas.

A. Iwasa reviews the second issue of Signal, A Journal of International Political Graphics and Culture and concludes that the magazine holds wisdom from a variety of political and philosophical traditions.

Hauwa Jibrin cries out in anguish at war and brokenness in his country while Santiago Burdon expresses his support for the Palestinian people to find peace and self-determination. Aklima Ankhi celebrates the independence of her homeland of Bangladesh and shares her hope for peace in the world and freedom for all its people. Mahbub joins her in rejoicing in his home nation’s birthday, taking pride in his country’s founding as a victorious struggle of formerly oppressed people.

Daniel De Culla reminds us that the shiny veneer of the holiday season is not enough to cover over systemic injustice and brutalities, including religious leaders’ sweeping child sexual abuse under the rug.

Noah Berlatsky calls out the financially exploitative nature of practices within the writing world and the struggle of many for just a chance to be seen.

John Mellender’s poem speculates on the true nature of courage, what gives us the strength, or foolhardiness, to throw our bodies against the iron bars of life’s injustices.

Mesfakus Salahin’s tale concerns a clever boy determined to keep honest and preserve his self-respect. Sayani Mukherjee speaks to remaining near the light of truth, even if you are alone with a small candle.

Stephen Nwankwo expresses his determined hope for the future of his country.

Bill Tope’s second story highlights the struggles of many young women to be believed and understood after sexual assault. Set during a time just a few decades in America’s past, the story shows an otherwise loving and caring mother who wants to empower her daughter, yet has her generational blind spots.

Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photography of children sightseeing in the city is tinged with wonder and joy, encouraging all of us to glimpse the world through fresh eyes.

Daniel De Culla’s images highlights juxtapositions, disparities and conjunctions within environments both natural and human-built.

Phil Demise Smith’s graphic novel chronicles and halts the movement of time and how it organizes chaos into a series of moments, the present.

Brian Michael Barbeito’s poems capture lush natural and seasonal environments: the sea, fields in spring and trees in autumn, in language both atmospheric and philosophical. In a similar, but more personified and romanticized, vein, Sreya Sarkar renders snowflakes into ballerinas that distract the sky and a lost thoroughfare.

Brian Michael Barbeito’s artwork aims to capture the spirits of places, both extreme closeups and panoramic vistas that incorporate nature and human construction and pose the question of how exactly we define “place.”

Don Bormon conveys the endurance and sturdiness of trees, both physically and ecologically as the backbone of so many ecosystems.

Texas Fontanella’s visual art connects a dizzying expansive explosion of angle and shape and color.

Z.I. Mahmud outlines ways in which the technical craft of cinematography affects the visual impact of storytelling in movies. Steven Mayoff probes the similarities and differences between writing prose and song lyrics.

J.D. Nelson brings more of his signature ‘graf’ poetry, with one liners stringing together images and sounds like a garland.

Grant Guy’s visual poetry melds Morse code, squiggles and graphics, absurdist humor, and oddly placed inspirational messages. Mark Young’s work juxtaposes varying units of sense into pieces that, oddly, flow together.

We hope the same is true of this issue, and we wish you a very happy holiday season.

Too Late


If you find yourself

Thinking that

Marriage counseling

Might help

Your troubled marriage,

You are

Almost certainly

Too late.






Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

The Boy who Looks at Nowhere

Walks with his eyes closed,
And hands in sashes;
Leaves limpid footprints everywhere,
When the kerbs croak,
As if at night;
Tries to be abnormal
Even to the abnormal,
Till guilt catch up with him—
Umber empire chocolate:
If chewed quickly off,
No bitterness would linger
On the buddiest tongue.

He starts on his bike,
In deliberate swerves,
Waddling in puddles black
With skins of mud,
Unfeeling
When bits of grits snap into his shanks in fits.

At the store he stops,
Stooping for a plant whose voice has taken flight,
Whose sheen has dimmed
Like his granny’s eyes.
At home he fidgets,
Feeding her with vitamin pills,
Then wash them down with a nozzle
Refitted from the muzzle of a favourite gun.
At night he talks to her
In kinky gutters,
Fearing that the brine of his tears
Would soak her dead:
On the brim of the night,
At the height of her desk.
Quick as a travelling sand,
Frail like a buckling band.

He sings only when it thunders
So that no one hears his howl.

Sail In

All are sailors in winds,
Rigging the bunts of umbrellas,
In shapes of
Guns, cigars and forearms.
But some are only eaten away,
Gnawed by the gusts,
Into turbid pieces.
The wind,
At the palimpsests of their emaciation
In my mind.
But under stirs
Fake leaves wave too,
And some songs sound better on reflection.
Then I’ll view them as stories of mine,
Written in malaport style and the very
Wrong voice,
Thus from which I move on to a next,
Better one to compose.

The rain wafts,
Dyeing the paves black
As if ink
Into a flattened pool.

Teacher

Winter. The snow has learned the purity from you teacher
Spring. The flowers have learned the beauty from you teacher
Warm shines of the sun pattern is you
Your knowledge is light in the darkness, too


If this world is an ocean, my precious jewel is you
If this world is a flower, my wisest gardener is you
If students are stars, you are my endless sky
You are the brightest sun that lights my way.


Teacher this world would not meaning without you
The human step would not reach the moon without you
The honorable name of "teacher" would not heard in the world
No one's value, the honor would not glorified like you


All respect to you, all thanks to you my dear
After all, my wonderful world is you my dear