Fredrick Zydek
Sleep Thinking
These thoughts live beyond the limits
of time and space, know the lyrics
of the songs of the tide, the names
of all the spirits that live in stones,
the outrageous practices of the prince
of lost places, and the color midnight
made the summer I got my head out
of my ass and my ass out of Seattle.
These thoughts have a tending instinct,
return often to old nests where they
check on eggs that will never hatch
and chicks that will never fly on their
own. The devil walks the corridors
of this kind of thinking though even
he is aware that his name was coined
by a higher power. It makes him nervous
and me a reluctant saint. Many of these
thoughts have neglected endings, long
for different landscapes and forget to take
inventory of what goes on in the clouds.
I have a brutal kinship with this kind of
thinking, desires to touch peace, to lead
a search for deep time, to comfort things
lost, to be a spy on the roof of the world.
Jude Dillon
The small death
That story fell out of my ear
A trapdoor under every sentence
Light gets up under the leaves
The city almost pretty
With the old wish
Unwritten elsewhere by no one
Across a night of clanking trains
The bottle cap flips
A cork floats
In the glaring factory
The unblinking eyes
The dullness of aluminum
Small birds disguise with chirping
Faces scrubbed with laughter
Arrive at the ruins
Coming easy to the parade
I see you
So far away in the moment
But light is an intuitive thing
Helen Harvey
love behind the curtain
the meeting of aches and pains is silly, and best re-imagined backwards.
they signal their intent to the audience to be partners. they mean no romance by it.
if they had known about echoes in the glen, or the history of gravity, or the polarity of female and
male, no doubt it would have changed things
but instead they bid you admit that theirs is not even a parody, merely a weak repetition of a
common existentialism,
a hope that lying on one’s back will preserve, will, perhaps, amuse one, and without expense.
bad enough that they pretend. still, better than a cheap pun before the curtain drops,
and, running between players and sadists, vice (which has its limits, which only potentially exists)
passes for indigestion. this of course pains those ruminating in hotels and ditches, those whiling
away hours on trains.
citizenship being voluntary, and the stage apparently unimportant after all,
carrying on with the ritual, indeed, is all to be thought of, despite disturbances,
despite the inconvenient and sudden reconstruction of a fourth wall.
now voices are nothing, even musical chords, even when magnetically recorded and replayed,
cannot lighten the mood.
and nakedness impaired by vision is so much less attractive.
bones and bellies are rattling. don’t you feel shot full of sludge?
performance is the only waking, after sleep spills heart’s blood.
bellyache is as meaningless as sorrow is as meaningless as love.
Robert Aquino Dollesin
Bad Milk
In the kitchen, Mom twists the cap off a fresh jug of milk. She fills a glass and after taking a sip, she screws her face up and says, “Milk’s gone sour.”
Dad rattles his newspaper, turns the page without answering.
“You need to bring it back to the grocery store and get a refund,” Mom says. When Dad flips the newspaper to the next page, Mom adds, “You hear me? You even listening?”
Finally, Dad lays the paper down on the table and says, “If you think it’s sour, you take it back.”
Holding the milk jug in one hand and the filled glass in the other, Mom stomps across the kitchen and holds the glass in the air in front of Dad’s face. “Drink it and tell me it isn’t sour.”
They stare at each other. Dad’s bottom lip twitches.
“I never said it wasn’t sour,” Dad says.
Mom stays stern. “Drink it!”
He takes the glass from her hand and brings it to his nose, sniffs it. Then, keeping his face stone expressionless, Dad empties the glass in three gulps. Mom sets the jug on the table. “If you can stomach bad milk,” she says, “then you can finish it.” She whirls and heads back to the stove, where she slides a pan over the burner and turns the knob.
While the bacon sizzles, Mom keeps rambling. She scolds Dad about the rusted Rambler sitting in the driveway. “Keeps breaking down,” Mom says, “and he still refuses to get rid of it.” Mom brings up Dad’s wardrobe. “I can’t believe he wears those frayed and faded clothes in public.” Mom even mentions the dog. “Humane thing would be to have the old fleabag put down,” she says. “But that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Pretending things you keep around are still of use.”
For a few minutes Dad stares down at his hands on the table. They’re trembling. He raises his head and gazes a long time at Mom’s back while she’s bent over the stove. Then Dad picks the jug of milk up. He refills the glass and empties it. He does this again and again, pours and sips, pours and sips, until finally, the jug is empty.
Justin Heifetz
Erek Smith
Reading Neruda
i was in
the bookstore
reading a little
neruda
when the TV
near the magazines
played a commercial
for a show called
“American Greed”
and i laughed
and laughed
and laughed
at the
redundancy
of the title
Eric Bennett
My Red Murder
There’s a murder in my pocket. A hot red bludgeoning I finger when I’m nervous. From time to time I pull it out and throw it against the wall. Bounce. I catch it on the rebound.
Sometimes I forget my murder, leave it on the bookshelf next to my bed. At various times throughout the day I reach into my pocket and feel its absence, like tonguing the empty space of a pulled tooth. I promise I’ll never forget it again because a workday just isn’t the same without it.
Once in a while I share my murder with a close friend – but only in emergencies. Some people don’t have murders of their own; they make do with toys and trinkets. My best friend has an indigo disdain but personally I wouldn’t be caught with a disdain. I suppose he finds the little bell inside soothing when he’s upset or nervous. My mother has a slap she ties her hair up with when it’s hot or on dressy occasions but my father doesn’t like her hair pulled back.
I took my murder to the beach once but it got hot to hold and soaked up the salty water becoming too heavy to bounce. When I dropped it on the boardwalk it simply went thud. I don’t take my murder to the beach anymore.
Please, don’t put my murder in your mouth. And don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re done playing with it. Once I got canker sores because I didn’t wash my hands and face after handling it. I keep antibacterial soap with me now.
I used to sleep with my murder on my pillow but I had to stop because it started to affect my dreams and I would wake up feeling restless and irritable – I began biting my nails too. One night I awoke and caught it whispering red verbs in my ear so I put it in a velvet lined box at night. I don’t have problems with it anymore.
I was thirteen when my dad gave me my red murder. He wrapped it in brown paper and a black bow, it wasn’t even my birthday. He’s had a gorgeous boring that he tucks behind his ear for as long as I can remember so I’m not sure how he got to be so good with red murders, but he taught me everything I know: the bounce, the squeeze, “around the world” without a string, the flying verbs, and so on. He’s really good with my murder.
The palm of my right hand is a shade of red from constantly catching my murder. It used to be tender too but I’ve developed a tolerance for the sting. I may have tennis elbow from all the pitching but I’m careful to soak my elbow in Epson salt on the evenings I play with my red murder.
I’ve never lost my murder. Knock on wood.
Once my son turns twenty-five, I want to give him my red murder. My hope is that he’ll pass it on to his son and so on and so on. If it holds up, my murder could become a family heirloom passed down from generation to generation. How great would that be?
Christian Ward
Translations
Sonnet
by Amado Nervo
Your face seems
to blush at dawn:
Do not open your eyes,
because it is dark!
Close – if the light
offends you-
red lips,
because it is sunrise!
Waste in shadow,
light: you are still mine!
Dark Eyes:
very good night!
Mature lips:
very good morning!
Original Spanish:
Sonetino
Alba en sonrojos
tu faz parece:
¡no abras los ojos,
porque anochece!
Cierra -si enojos
la luz te ofrece-
los labios rojos,
¡porque amanece!
Sombra en derroches,
luz: ¡sois bien mías!
Ojos oscuros:
¡muy buenas noches!
Labios maduros:
¡muy buenos días!
Six Months
Six months already dead! And I have tried in vain
a kiss, a word, a breath, a sound …
and, despite my faith, proved every day
that there was only silence behind the tomb…
If I were dead, what sea, what disasters,
what vertices, what mists, what tops nor what abysses
would tease my febrile and omnipotent desire
to come at night and kiss on the forehead,
to lower the light of a divining star,
to tell his ear: Do not forget me.
And you, who perhaps wanted me to love you more,
are inexorably silent, in such a way that I do not know
but to doubt everything: the soul, destiny;
and start mourning in the middle of the road!
Then, with evidence of eternal desolation,
I knew that there was only silence behind the tomb…
Original Spanish:
Seis meses
¡Seis meses ya de muerta! Y en vano he pretendido
un beso, una palabra, un hálito, un sonido…
y, a pesar de mi fe, cada día evidencio
que detrás de la tumba ya no hay más que silencio…
Si yo me hubiese muerto, ¡qué mar, qué cataclismos,
qué vértices, qué nieblas, qué cimas ni qué abismos
burlaran mi deseo febril y omnipotente
de venir por las noches a besarte en la frente,
de bajar con la luz de un astro zahorí,
a decirte al oído: No te olvides de mí.
Y tú, que me querías tal vez más que te amé,
callas inexorable, de suerte que no sé
sino dudar de todo, el alma, del destino,
¡y ponerme a llorar en medio del camino!
Pues con desolación infinita evidencio
que detrás de la tumba ya no hay más que silencio…
Prayer
by Edith Södergran
God, you are almighty, have mercy on us!
See our well of adoration – it wants to grow deeper.
Seven days and seven nights
we celebrated the water
from our well for you.
Seven months and three years
we asked for your mercy
in the same place:
Let us enter into the quiet chamber, where you contemplate matters.
Original Swedish:
Bön
Gud, du allsmäktige, förbarma dig över oss!
Se i vår tillbedjans brunn – den vill bliva djupare.
Sju dagar och sju nätter
fira vi upp vatten
ur vår brunn för dig.
Sju månader och tre år
på samma ställe
be vi om din nåd:
giv oss inlåt till den tysta kammare, där du tänker över tingen
Rula Jones
The Weight of Things
Something crawled into me and died. I shall have to birth its dead carcass to rid myself of it. I close my eyes and there is a black lagoon before me. I would communicate this to the doctor bent over me but I have not the medium to do so. “I am fine,” I say to convince, to assure, but his eyes squint with concern and something else, detached professionalism. His job is to care. An exchange of currency for concern. I close my eyes again, and there it is again, the black lagoon. I am wearing the rubber boots fishermen wear. They glisten with something wet and a light source I can not find. In the distance there are tall, bare trees, black against the grey sky, like apocalyptic hands, attempting to rip down an existence. Such an easy task it is, like a child ripping up a water-color gone wrong. They mixed all the colors to see what would happen, and now the child knows it is a mess and must be discarded.
The sound of ripping. A cough. My eyes flutter open. The doctor is staring at me expectantly. He is young and privileged. What does he know of sorrow? What does he know of sorrow that has soured into indifference? He thinks he is intelligent. He thinks because he knows how my intestines are curled around my liver and where my heart is located that he is an expert on me. The arrogance! The indignation!
“Go away,” I murmur without emotion. He folds his hands on his lap, looks down at the stark, white-tiled floor, but does not leave. A fly has made its presence known. It buzzes in front of the doctor and he swipes at it with a clipboard but misses.
“The people from the board of mental health will be here soon. Then you can talk to them.”
I nod so he can leave and feel he has accomplished something. The people I must convince are coming. I will have to play a part or rather imitate the part I once played. I am not like the people in residence here. They have not bothered to brush their hair, put on make-up or collect themselves in any form. They have given up all pretence of being presentable. I, on the other hand, can still string my words together and pirate the prose of the well-adjusted.
Such a predicament! The nurse asked if I would stay and try and I said I would but I have changed my mind. Now they won’t let me leave until these people who are coming say I can. Who are these people that will judge me? What logic do they possess that I have not to hold so precious a position? And what will they weigh?
I notice for the first time to my right that there are two large men standing very still and close to me. What are they doing there? Perhaps they are waiting for something. The elevator door in the hallway opens and from its dark interior emerges a frail and beautiful black girl escorted by a nurse in white. She is crying softly and begs “I want to go home.” Over and over she says this, but no one has the decency to reply. They sit her next to me on the other side of the long bench. She looks at me briefly, barely acknowledging my existence.
“I want to go home,” she begs again a little louder.
“Please hush now. You are not going anywhere until you are better,” the nurse replies.
Desperately the girl threatens, “You can’t keep me here. I’ll call a lawyer!”
The nurse smiles at the girl as if she had told a joke. Something about the nurse frightens me, makes me nervous. She has that stricken look of forced normalcy that is too unnatural to be sane. I have seen that expression before on people who claim they understand the will of a god.
“If you don’t quiet down we will have to put you in a room until you are ready to behave,” the nurse warns.
“Careful!” I think to her. I sense a forced conversion.
She looks at me as if she has heard my thoughts then bellows “I want my lawyer!”
The nurse glances briefly at the two men and they spring into life as if mind-activated by her. Each man grabs one of the girl’s arms and lifts her up from the bench. Her light-blue hospital gown swings open from behind and her supple bottom is exposed to the fluorescent dim of the corridor.
“You’re hurting me!” The girl shrieks. Tears stream down her bold cheekbones and fall freely onto her gown. Mucus collects in her opened, anguished mouth.
I feel a strange desire to laugh hysterically, but the inappropriateness of it quells the urge. She is carried off on a cross of white men. The pressure from the men’s hold causes the wounds on her wrists to bleed through the layers of gauze wrapped around them.
“They are bleeding her,” I think. An autopsy for the living.
I watch a drop escape and plop to the floor with a faint sound like a wet mouth opening. They place her in a glass room not far away, lock the door and return to where they were standing before.
A fury of love rises up within me. If my own fate did not rest on my own behavior, I would revolt on her behalf and throw a chair into the glass, freeing her. In any case, I suspect the glass is not so easily broken. The girl crumbles into a ball on the floor and weeps into her crouch. She has not bothered to cover her lovely bottom. Decency has been forfeited. She has been reduced to animal.
The elevator door opens again and I peer anxiously towards it. I notice that the elevators do not have buttons to press but a keyhole. A man and a woman, decently dressed, walk out and then the man turns, places a key in to the lock and turns it. These are the people I must convince. “Look normal,” I instruct myself and then immediately I realize the attempt causes me to look anything but.
The insane nurse leads the two towards me and says very slowly as if I were dumb, “These people are from the mental health board. They will decide if you are fit to go.” I suppress an urge to smack her, then smile and hold my hand out to the man. He is at first surprised by this formality, this hint of outside decency, then takes my hand and shakes it.
“We will need to review your history, and then we will conduct a short interview and make our decision from there,” he announces. There is a glint of logic in his eyes, so I feel a little relieved. The woman is more reserved and does not smile. I will have trouble with her. They go into a nearby room with opaque doors and I close my eyes waiting.
Looking down, I see that I am standing in quicksand. My legs are naked but for the boots, and caked with mud like when I was a child. This thought makes me happy and I have an absurd desire to splash around and delight in the cold warmth of it. I think I should like to sink deep within its folds and let it smother me into its womb. Perhaps it is I that must be birthed.
“We are ready for you.”
I look up, confused.
“We are ready for you now.” She repeats. I stand up shakily then make a final, decisive effort towards the door. I take a deep breath then smile to them as if to say this is all a huge misunderstanding. I watch myself fold and curl words with rapid eloquence like origami and notice that their shoulders have already relaxed before I have finished my first sentence.
