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.

I tell the black dog
that his coat is so shiny—
good boy licks my face


---


black beans at midnight—
last night's dream of Christ's return
made the day feel strange


---


the two hens eat oats
& blueberries in their coop—
cold wind before snow


---


could it be Venus?
wispy clouds race in front of
a twinkly planet


---


truck backs up & beeps—
the dog sniffs the deflated
orange basketball


---


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 first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

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.”

Math Time

Math time is just before the first recess,
And children can’t wait to play outside, 
But they love math and know they’ll have 
Exploration and computer time 
When they return if they remain focused.
Except this particular day, our class got an 
Unexpected but pleasant surprise, a messenger 
Pigeon flew right into the classroom, and 
Students forgot all about math faster than a
Tick-tock in a hurry. They excitedly called out,
“Teacher, there’s a bird in the classroom!”
Teacher stopped teaching math and quickly 
Turned off the light and asked students to close 
The blinds to keep them and the bird safer.
Teacher asked students to remain calm.

Students wanted to catch and play with the bird.
Teacher carefully caught the bird and placed it in 
A shoebox. Recess bell rings, and teacher has 
Yard duty. What to do with bird. Under 
Teacher’s armpit it goes, and students are excited.
Students forget about playground equipment and 
Stick by teacher like a tick on a deer.
It was a long recess for sure but bird survives.
Once back in the classroom, students get to 
Pet their temporary pet.

Because everyone is in love with the pet,
They forget to close the classroom door 
And the messenger pigeon flies right out....

In Choreographed Shoes

LeT


the








                                                HEAT




                         ::::::::::::
          in




##########
##########OVERGROUND
##########
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.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
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*with
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                    AMPLIFICATION 



condense                                     into 



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                                   coloured
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 Out [there] going [zoom]


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name?                                            [given]
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armistice 
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a shackle 
 
Petrichor [has] [as] a name


                                                   sleeping in the
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the ■
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.......................APES



grovel
grovel




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the                                         building

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////



it was//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
cooler
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
in 
#############################################
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●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THAT'S
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●WHAT
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THIS
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                                                         ! (also pronounced PING!)   
The Piano Listens


a solution 

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                         ////////ANSWER

ON THE


shu
                                  (on the)
shu
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shu


                 ++
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                 ++


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.

My Shame 

My Old Man for reasons unknown to me my entire life was a racist. He despised black people, referring to them as niggers. We were not allowed to associate with, buy records or listen to music by them and we weren't allowed to talk about any sporting event they participated in. The Old Man wasn't very fond of Jews or the Irish either.
In the summer of 1966 Martin Luther King Jr. planned a demonstration to march in Marquette Park on the Southside of Chicago in early August.

The park was near my neighborhood.  There were actually early evening meetings in local Churches, American Legion Halls and on the front porches of homes discussing strategies on how to disrupt the march or stop it completely. Even the local clergy, police and community leaders attended the meetings in support of the cause. Kinda pisses you off when you think about it.
My philosophy concerning demonstrations is; if no one shows up to acknowledge the protest, or pays attention to them, the demonstration becomes ineffective.

Two years earlier my oldest brother Harold told the Old Man he was joining a civil rights movement with other College students to register black people to vote in Southern states. 
The Old Man became so enraged he excluded him from posing in the family photo.  He also cut off all college financial aid and my brother was not allowed to enter our house. The Old Man told him to kiss his ass goodbye because he was asking for trouble. There was a good chance he'd wind up getting lynched by the Ku Klux Klan.
A month before his intended deployment he found out his girlfriend was pregnant. They decided to get married which ended his involvement in the cause. A few months later three volunteers were murdered by the KKK and local police in Mississippi. The Old Man had an "I told you so" to justify his actions.

The day of the demonstration arrived with a large contingency of opposition assembled.  I followed the crowd of white protestors, including family and relatives, neighbors and friends to Marquette Park that August afternoon. The closer we got to the park the more vocal the group became. A man dressed in an Army type uniform started yelling commands. 

"Let's run these niggers out of our neighborhood." He hollered in a southern accent. When I got closer to him I saw a patch on his sleeve that said KKK Alabama. I don't think he even lived in our neighborhood.

 I remember feeling forceful and tenacious emotionally charged by the electricity generated from the crowd.
The Old Man with my next oldest brother, an uncle and two cousins were wearing expressions of venomous hatred.  There appeared to be a thousand white people gathered ready to do battle. I was caught up in the herd mentality.

The black demonstrators led by Martin Luther King Jr drew closer to where I stood.
They marched to a chorus of racial slurs and a barrage of bottles, rocks and bags of shit being hurled at them. 
"Fucking niggers get the fuck outta here." along with chants of, "Niggers go back to Africa" echoing throughout the park. The police stood idly by and did little to stop the crowd's harassment. 

I noticed on the ground in front of me a large piece of house brick. I knew this would cause serious damage. I have no idea what compelled me  to do what I did that day. 

I picked up the piece of brick, took aim and hurled it with force into the crowd of demonstrators. The brick struck Martin Luther King Jr. in the chest causing him to drop to one knee. He remained in that pose for a short minute then stood and continued the march acting unfazed by the incident. 

Instantly an emotion of intense remorse gripped my soul strangling it so tightly I became physically ill, wanting to vomit. My friends and others nearby began patting me on my back, giving me congratulations and laughing. I had to hold myself back from crying after witnessing the courage Martin Luther King Jr. displayed. He stood up, brushed himself off and continued the march.  He finished the march and even made a speech afterward without succumbing to the wound he had sustained.

I read about the incident the next day in the Chicago Tribune.
Here is the follow up article headline: Martin Luther King Jr. and supporters pause during a fair housing march through Marquette Park. 

King later said he had never seen “mobs as hostile and as hate-filled as I’ve seen here in Chicago.”

When Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. stepped out of a car in Marquette Park on Aug. 5, 1966, he was met by a crowd in an ugly mood. That was nothing new for King. During his civil rights crusade, he'd often faced Southern mobs. The year before, police and sheriff's deputies brutally attacked a march he'd organized in Selma, Alabama. 

But he saw something even more menacing in the faces of the 700 white protesters who confronted him on Chicago's Southwest Side.

"I've been in many demonstrations all across the South, but I can say that I have never seen — even in Mississippi and Alabama — mobs as hostile and as hate-filled as I've seen here in Chicago," King told reporters afterward. 

King and hundreds of demonstrators had scarcely set out on a march to promote open housing when he was struck by a rock. 

"The blow knocked King to one knee and he thrust out an arm to break the fall," the Tribune reported. "He remained in this kneeling position, head bent, for a few seconds until his head cleared." 

Aides and bodyguards closed in around King, holding placards aloft to shield him from the missiles that followed. King and the demonstrators had hoped to reach a real estate office on nearby 63rd Street, intending to demand that properties be rented and sold on a nondiscriminatory basis in the all-white Chicago Lawn neighborhood. Only a few of them made it before a riot broke out.

After reading the article I experienced a sense of guilt and shame that I'd never felt before. The act of hatred I demonstrated that day has haunted me my entire life.

I was viewed as a local hero for quite a while. My Old Man treated me with respect and kindness for the first time. He was proud of what I had done. However I resented every congratulatory remark and comment people made to me.
This story has never been told until now. I've kept it hidden inside for fifty-seven years. I was thirteen at the time and I will turn seventy this July.

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