It goes deeper than this— Past the last exit on the highway, Where the yellow line ends. Lost among seas of black, Asphalt interspersed with recycled glass, It goes deeper. Not long ago, pages turned and the book was finished: No inky blotches, No lipstick rimming the drinking glass, No aspirations drained. Staccato marks replaced with Temporary reassurance, A Persian rug rolled out, Invited to take wing, The mud shaken from worn boots: Icarus had taken flight. Lace curtains are drawn to reveal the Unexpected: Someone has spilled Bancha on the carpet, and it has fallen from the sky. A rose was found blooming in September. Deemed a miracle we Offered a sacrifice to Icarus: Take us Away! And not long after we hit the ground Did we wonder if it went deeper: Was the eye of the storm Molten or calm? Was the fertile core of our ability so Unstable in its glory as to submit to vertigo And tumble down until it could not fall deeper? |
My father is a fisherman and out on the lake he is a warrior. My mother calls him the king and once I asked her if that made her Queen. The answer wasn't clear, as nothing is with mother. She just smiled bearing her corn teeth and rubbery gums and told me I was his princess. Tonight I will shed like a snake and wait to grow new skin. My father is no king and my mother less a queen. I am no princess but more like one of the many fish that rumble in the sea. I am attentive to the bait and sometimes unwillingly I bite. I am a swimmer but not in the water. I swim through the days when they get to feel like races and the finish line is a contrived blur. But tonight I feel the water beneath my body—in the fortresses in my mind—and the silver gills I have created to breathe. Tonight I see my father as a fisherman with big boots and a dirty mustache cursing at his inability to catch. My mother is the wife of a fisherman, a woman who has taken to cooking what he brings home and not questioning. I am the daughter of a fisherman and the daughter of his wife; I have learned to catch and I have learned to let go and sometimes the best feeling is doing both at the same time. One year my father fell off his boat into the murky waters. He looked ashamed and as he helped himself back up he shook his head and said, "I'm getting too old for this." Never had he looked more like a king, more deserving of a throne. A tear fell off his chin as he and I sailed onward even after the fall. I asked him if he was crying. "No," he said, "that is the sea." |
The World May Have Its Many; I Love One and Only One Here sleeps Belvedere Keep, sleeps serene, yet revered, Where he flew where she fled (there she fell, there he'd err); Where sweet Ceres-Demeter between them ne'er were Seen yet fewer; where hecklers, where eyes never peered. Ents, elves, ether-bred efts, everpresent efreet Then elected they'd speed the extreme sleep they'd see: They expressed, "Persevere, then be heedless; seek glee! Expect never new precepts' deeds these here delete! "Refer, `E'er effervescent, resplendent empress,' Even, `Ere, perfect presents there've never been yet'! Refer, She he represses whenever he's met, He'll be `never enfeebled,' he's `never excess'!" When September receded, where's decrement here? When December refreezes the greenest demesne, When the Seventh Hell's Messenger enters the scene, He'll see Belvedere's essence preserved keep her sphere. When the Deep Nether-Dwellers, revered referee, Eden's seeders, met next, less Selene they met— "We detect her 'tween hedges—" "Where?" "Belvedere." "Let Her then ever descend, whence she fell. Q. E. D." "There she feels—" "She secretes—" "She'd engender, yet 'tween Erde's men never stepped; there the ether she flew," Ere her peers, jeered these Depths. The relentless breeze blew… Essence fled her, yet never descended he'd ween. Even yet—see!—whenever They secreted deep Repress Re's ere new sheen, the red Eve represent, He'll regress; needless fetters he'll never relent. Scenes the weeks he—he—spent here, mere deferent sleep. |
I, was home when you came, C'est comme la Madeleine we had tea. Me, neurotic like Quentin Compson, I watched my shadow climb the wall, waiting, waiting for it to reach the ceiling, I knew it would, So I stood, pushing it out of frame, making it curve. Your face is that of a timeless beauty, you have no shadow. Indeed, we are incomparable. So I, took our difference, and placed it between us, in our gap, and we balanced, careful not to chip the china, spill the tea. |
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Throughout the morning Don and Nicole had worked in shifts, stoking the firebox every fifteen minutes to maintain a steady rise in temperature. In the afternoon I joined them. After repeatedly singeing my hair and the tips of my eyelashes by trying to look down the chimney, I was able to confirm their hopes that the kiln was at red heat. I could just make out a dull red glow from within the kiln. Although we were elated by our progress, the rising temperature of the kiln was concurrent with its increased consumption of lumber. At present, the kiln demanded the constant efforts of two people. This afforded the third of us a brief rest from the heat. In this manner, we worked at fueling it into the night.
It was truly a haphazard beast, constructed from an eclectic mix of found items and surplus from the studio: old refractory bricks, chicken wire, fencing, steel plates, an old shell of an electric kiln, some industrial-size tomato soup cans which we had inset to make the chimney, and a copious amount of fiber insulation. We had constructed it the day before and gathered three truckloads of firewood, hurling logs in great arcs off the back of a pickup truck in the twilight. As it became dark, the kiln slowly came alive. The pace at which we were required to stoke the firebox now quickened, and consequently the large heap of firewood began to diminish rapidly. The heat emanating from the firebox necessitated that we wear long sleeves and pants. We wrapped our faces in cloth as well, and wore both sunglasses and welding gloves as protection from the scorching heat. At about this time it began to drizzle. The gentle coolness of the rain was a pleasant contrast to the acute heat of the firebox. One had merely to take a step to either side of the kiln's glaring heat to be enveloped in a soothing mist. Soon ash had collected in the firebox to such an extent that it began to hinder refueling. While shoveling piles of burning charcoal out of the way, we proceeded to fuel the kiln as before. To our delight and relief a soft red flame began to lick out of the chimney—a sign that it was near temperature. Puncturing small holes into the middle chamber, we poured large quantities of salt into the fiery atmosphere. Provided it was now at the proper eighteen hundred degrees, the salt would melt instantaneously onto the surfaces of the pots to form a glaze. Always watching the flame out the chimney, we continued the firing until one in the morning. The last hours of the firing were both the most intense and the most spectacular. The sight of orange embers floating gently into the blackness and the quiet purr of the flames induced a calm broken only by the occasional flare bursting out of the chimney. Having fueled the kiln relentlessly for sixteen hours, we sealed it up and went to sleep. The kiln cooled quickly overnight, and we assembled in the morning to open it, gathered like little children around a Christmas tree waiting to open their presents. No one knew what to expect, or to what effect our efforts had been rewarded. In forming the clay and feeding the kiln we had done our part. We were now anxious to see what life the fire had left to our work. All at once we cracked open the shell of the kiln, vigorously tearing into the sides and peeling off the membranous layers of fiber and half-fired clay. Like a chick hatching out of an egg, a pot slowly became visible emerging from its shell. Expectantly, we fished out one after another, newborn from out of the earth and out of the fire. |
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Back skull press moving into eyes
my shirt falls down and we all fall, there is not enough leg fat to hold us up, this isn't about speaking or looking it's just the swallow, it ruins people I know I should scream in other places it's just kicking around it's scratching our faces (tearing our mouths) our ears are bleeding this is paining you you know how tired you are I am standing in this your face is gray do backwards swallow we aren't even breathing our bones are just moving our heads are falling They are sweeping stripes stuck in my iris the stripes are rolling, Fruit eyes Her forehead is crooked she began wiping her face and drying, these nights. Brain weeding, these floors aren't moving These corners are holding her shoulders her frame wood boards shooting you're lurking again it's the fluorescents. |
Walking side by side, our sandals make footprints in the cracked sidewalk, The pebbles we kick cast oblong shadows down the street, As our own blue-gray shadows grow to enormous heights before us. Grinning like giants, we lift our knees and stomp, Watch our mammoth legs reach the tops of buildings in a moment's time And fall again to the pavement at our feet. The glass in the asphalt beside us glimmers like a thousand beautiful gems Encased in impenetrable blackness As the hot-pink sun reflects itself in these thousand tiny mirrors, puddles, oceans, Glass candies sparkling with an irresistible inner light, A thousand unearthed bits of fool's gold, just brought to the surface and More beautiful that way. Unpolished and rough, these are our gems: Timeless and dependable, we can come back tomorrow and No one will steal them. Our sandals burden us, we kick them off, watch them perform acrobatics before our eyes, Red and green blurs of freedom and abandon Before they hit the ground we are off—dancing across a cold stone driveway Running in the wind with our bare skin we kick up our heels. In freedom, the first thrilling moment on a tricycle, Spring's first lie-around-in-the-grass day, refreshed with lemonade, full of Watermelon seeds to spit, to watch them fly in curving arcs. We look at the first stars, there, above us; we watch, heads tilted back, and spin, Arms thrown wide, making helicopter-circles, shakier and shakier until we crash Marble-eyed and flimsy to the ground, Watching the last smoky tendrils of light escape orange-gray down to the end of the block. Summer-filled, We retrieve our fallen sandals And pattern the sidewalk with our footprints until the last light fades. |
Soliloquy of a Newly Deaf Writer Can you hear me, love? My voice is for you now. I think in time I'll forget what it sounds like. I think beyond the sadness of bird song, your little whispers, thunder threatening dark, is this. And even now, it's all in the faith, I trust my mind that tells me I'm yet speaking sense. I always thought there would be peace in absolute silence, you know. But there is none, because I create for myself the sounds of your sobs, laughter, I play myself concertos, bass lines; I scat to myself in terror of forgetting sound. Do you know that as we speak I replay our words with some semblance of audibility— our words, written and spoken, slide off scraps of paper and lips to ricochet about the cavern of my mind; god! It's so empty now… you would not believe. It's hard to remember that logic does not go hand in hand with hearing, that the sounds I once took in were only an illusion of protection against a hell of insanity of a flavor I never thought about before but which now is the only real fear. Yet how horrific, to have no proof! I could be saying anything and you—terror!—would not understand and be frightened, my little love. But I know that I remember pigeons, fallacious ubiquities, senility of meringue, we dymorphosize the water spout. It's all about trusting the biology of the body, I suppose, the rationality of nickels, the telephotized rotary shams, inseminated optimism and rum. I love you. |
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Every time I walk your dog I can't help but notice that he only barks at old men —I know now that when the dog was still a puppy an old man kicked him— and now almost eight years later he hasn't forgotten constantly suspicious always ready for revenge Only here, only your dog would hold a grudge for eight years 2. Pringles and TV with our feet extended to display our tinted toes I notice a tear just about to fall off your chin This is his sweatshirt you say with a muffled voice swallowing hard There are boundaries lines we have to stay on and in between oceans are oceans but tears are tears 3. La Oreja blasts while we twist on hairpin turns up and further higher to the top a must-see destination because here the Virgin Mary appears to children You whisper that your mother cries every time she visits and that we must cover our shoulders when we enter the church |
There is nothing safer than being here tonight, fire raging. Watching sparks fly into the sky like fish in water, the heat and the cold colliding in the air, making my face glow. I am here among people I know, and I belong here. And still, there is nothing safer than being in this tent, my face wet from raindrops. It is storming tonight and my feet are cold and water comes thickly from the sky, but outside, the sky stretches for miles around the earth here where I lie; I am an island. Despite the cold air, I know there is nothing safer than the place where I sleep tonight. (Except perhaps this lake, with my face smiling underwater, my friend's face open to the sky. Perhaps.) But then tonight, moving from one of the havens here to a place that could be safer, I hear voices and grow cold in the harsh cold of this night, my face goes pale and drains. Anything would be safer now than this, a moment where the sky is obscured and leaves me here, prey to a darkness that, tonight, can't protect me. So tonight, I run from the sharp cold of the outdoors and arrive here, in this room, bury my face in someone's shoulder, look at the sky outside this window and hope I am safer in here. Tell me that the cold won't catch me tonight, protect me from the sky and its darkness; let me see in your face that now there is nothing safer. |
Jelly limbs curling, Kiss the sand, hover ghost-like Waving while leaping. Christina Porter |
Days are passing patiently and I am reminded daily that the end of childhood is near That the tunnel I have been taking has two ends And I am approaching the cross of conclusion Glad for holy liberation, but also sick with separation fear As I realize that there is infidelity to forever So goodbye to everything I once knew Thank you to all, you are immortal Suddenly I am looking back over my past times As though I were looming above them, not of the land But in fact I am all the more human for swimming backwards To watch my life through the end of a pipe, to reminisce So let me be the impostor, let me spy upon myself: I was the girl who often dreamed herself awake Always trying to light the candles and water the trees With something crazy in the eyes, and meat between the teeth On bad days I called myself "my little pain" And on good days I would fill the bathtub and soak in my success Crouch satisfied beneath the unlit candles and think That the place where neck meets chest Must be god's most beautiful creation And oh the sweet characters I have met on my journey The two times I grazed young love, the theory of opposites And their extremes often led me into the arms of pain And longing for the middle ground Two fellows, like day and night And I asked "where is my dusk boy?" Of course there were the dames, the schoolgirls That were my devout friends Whose arms were the net beneath the trapeze Who were agile as acrobats on their way to my heart To stay forever like a determined tenant Like stones, never to dissolve or to be lost to the grasses We found our way through the brush together Sometimes providing an axe, a hammer, a reason to live And the wisdom to be glad you did I now know things as beautiful as this follow you always So goodbye to everything I once knew Thank you to all, you are immortal |
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The day ended
much as it began, with quoted Yeats and salty sex— the pleading coo of a window fan answered by the sputtering doves. We went off sandal-footed and were the conquistadors of a subterranean café, who paused to take quarter from the heat. We, victors over day and night who walked and smelled like beasts, were captives of the largest of stars. Free of our sweat-stained shackles we glided, on our bellies, glutting ourselves on the flesh of the vibrant. Silently self-satisfied, we allow ourselves to bask in a different warmth. |
Photograph by Julia G.
ways in which death and candy do not mix I. Tom and Jerry oh no, you sticky-fingered pussycat, you've managed to trip over your last rake your rodent treat becomes less sweet as the prongs grow larger in your sight. II. Chocolate Bunny …here I lie and I feel my heart is breaking under the weight of such profound grief and my eyes are squeezed shut; my eyelids are frosted. my caramel center suffices for lungs and high fructose sustains me while I await my unveiling in the hands of some stubby-fingered child. my death is forthcoming. for a second, I wonder why my feet do not bring luck to me. III. Psychopathy? if given enough Jolly Ranchers, I will strangle anyone I will assassinate the Pope and I will sit still for an hour, quietly crunching. |