Gloom Cupboard

New poetry by DB Cox, Jack Henry, Ari Jankelowitz, Mike Meraz, Karissa Morton, Rich Murphy, Dawn Schout, and Michael J. Solender

Michael J. Solender
This Cloud I Know

This cloud I know
swears he’s my pal
he looks befuddled
and not the least bit avuncular
rain and hail
lay foreboding
in his belly
though he offers
me succor
if I promise
not to tell tales to
the meteorologist
who broke up
with his
sister
cirrus or nimbus
I’m not sure
his angered streaks and puffy
chest
offer nothing
in the way of fancy
like the morning rays
of my true friend
and solar kindred spirit
sol lets me win at cribbage
and fears not eclipse
as he knows
the moon will go away
just as soon as it
is
done

Dawn Schout
Awakening

Full moon rouses from behind
snowy, bunched mountains, transforming
the lazy blue sky
to a silky pink curtain,
pulling the colors. Sun
is ready to say
goodnight, sinking lower toward the sheet
of the horizon, spilling yellows,
oranges between mountains
with its yawns, blinking through
citrus trees.
Rope outlines the yard, an attempt to keep
rattlesnakes away. Waist high
weeds have been gone for a year,
but snakes still visit.
She has no problem stepping
on tarantulas now. One good thwack
and they’re dead.
She rests on a pool raft, fingers
dipping in water, feeling
it but not able to hold it.

Mike Meraz
Fourteen

I remember
when I was
fourteen
riding my bike
listening to
O.M.D.
(So In Love)
not really
ever having
been in love
not knowing
the nightmare
standing
before
me.

Ari Jankelowitz
In the Middle of the Day

I carry
the naked boy.
his wounds sutured by hope
that events
will turn toward the gleaming sun
and lift him from this hell.

an old woman
steps on an old land mine
and we watch her disappear.

we are moving too slow.

reaching the makeshift
hospital
I deposit
I let them have him
I dispose
of the not-dead boy.

and catch my breath.

Behind me:
tanks saunter and crush
tortoises
next to an edifice
that used to be a playhouse
where actors
played war
before the madness
before the hurricane
of death.

Rich Murphy
In Skin Sin

Dripping into need, empathy drags January.
Intravenous pities patients. Sufferers
beg the cold, sweat small stuff.
Molasses competes in kindness. Sweet
revenge grips handouts in quiet.
The gravity in riverbeds denies oil
upward mobility so spare change
or peasant uprisings begin
with sympathy on mountain tops.
When blind roam streets,
the sleeping lob peaks, a coincidence
until the fun wears holes in sheets.
If money bags spring a leak
or lose a limb, a Bleak Corps
member bleeds for the Red Cross,
but leech encrusted bodies
bleed post and beam.
Privileged palm whorls may care to dip
a toe (wade around in) clod-hoppers.
The callused hoof buckles
up under its freight.

Jack Henry
sober eyes

there in the sky
above my house
above my bed
clouds
gather
disagree
and move on

a mid-winter setting sun
paints outside dotted lines
purples and pinks and random blues
cloud cracks reveal
rails of light
heaven’s spotlight
on damning sins

little girls
in pink jackets
play softball
and giggle about things
they are not sure of -
father’s watch intently
discourage a lone
pedophile
with fists and
baseball bats

soccer moms
purchase groceries
dream of youthful days
watch young men
let the warmth spread
before blushing
i look at her
as she looks at them

rain threatens
or so they say
winter rebels against
printed expectations
alone in my wasteland
lines before me
a rolled bill in hand
i prefer the blindness
of amphetamine
to that which sober
eyes see

DB Cox
heshu

“On October 12, 2002, Heshu Yones, a sixteen-year old Iraqi Kurd who was planning to run away from her family home in London had
her throat cut by her father, because he believed she was dating a
non-Muslim and had become too westernized” — from Harper’s Magazine

& when he had slaughtered
his wayward daughter
the one he could not comprehend
him crazy–out of control
like some blind & willful beast
when his anger was spent
& the silent room began
to whisper its accusations
what then–
did he scream out her name
did he bend
to touch her perfect face
& gaze into staring black eyes
did his bloodstained fingers
trace the dark waterfall
of her hair to where it flowed
into the crimson river
just below her throat
did he now in utter despair
turn the blade on himself
& write a fitting end
to this demented one-act play
or did he coldly lay the knife
on the killing floor
place a call
& wait

Karissa Morton
Deviation of the Chaste

I. somewhere along the line, i realized that
     a. purity feels like inattention

   b. i am an animal full of rhythm
    c. i twitch like ashtray grave
      clinging to dead cigarettes

II. pornographic intent leads to pockets full of enlightenment
     a. the restless fulcrum softens with impatient breathprint