. . . 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.
Poetry from Damon Hubbs
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.
Poetry by Lachlan McDougall
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
Poetry from Natasha Leung
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
Short story from Fernando Sorrentino
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.
Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna
Merry Christmas (ii) It’s been a long time coming! A once-in-a-year event nearing I’ve been getting ready for yuletide Taking every circumstance in great stride It’s about me making plans for the following year Working hard so that New Year’s Resolution won’t be at the rear I have to live with the moment as I press on Positioning me in the light of thorough reflection is the impression It’s about savoring the festive period Caring about my neighbors is the watch word I have to celebrate with people en masse To wish them a fruitful Merry Christmas!
Poetry from Robert Stephens
Living in dreams The dead do not die When you expect them to. They live on, Ghosts trapped In the minds of those, who loved them, feared them. The living don’t live When you expect them to. They exist In the trudge of reality, Living in their dreams. Dying in their lives. Ghosts live in the dreams of others Family friends and lovers. And the living live in their own dreams With lovers friends and family, With strangers exotic places a hopeful future, With the past of their mundane world. The dead don't die, The living don't live Because of dreams. Unusual places I have been Each with their own moment salted into the web of my memory A tenuous painted contrail A trail traveled many places The smell of a place evoking It is the one stool ramen stall next to a small westernized Chinese hotel In Wuhan It is fool's gold sparkling on a dreary day in the cold rocky shallows of Donner Lake in California It is the dry smell of a late summer day at the hot train station in Havre Montana Each a unique serendipitous memory, each a thread One of many woven to be clutched in the hands of Lachesis Measured and imbued by a fate An unintended interesting life.