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Blessed Reposed image

Blessed Reposed by Douglas G. Campbell

 

The Cupboard is not where we store our politics (though you could probably infer where we stand after a relatively superficial skim), so I’m not referring to the U.S. presidential race when I say that it’s been a difficult summer. Some people are safer than ever, golden parachutes and all; others are living through violence that would not be out of place in the medieval era. If there’s a bright spot, it’s the collective human urge to catch the colorful, preposterous creatures planted in your immediate virtual environment. I’m talking, of course, about Pokémon Go and the way it’s injected the prosaic backdrop of our cities and suburbs (there’s room for improvement in rural areas, I hear) with life and whimsy. Yes, it’s artificial, but we’d never hoof five-kilometer laps around our neighborhoods to look at the same tired scenery, would we?

I won’t make the obvious analogy between a goofy monster hovering over your cracked sidewalk and the effect literature has of remaking the trusty old human experience. I’m taking a different angle with the fact that the monsters in your proximity have a shelf life of about 15 minutes before they’re rotated out for a new crop. It’s mortality (our pet obsession) at its finest: a quest—largely meaningless—to acquire all of the spoils we see. We will never succeed. But we might just spend enough time at it to run down the clock.

~T.M De Vos, Editor

Poetry

Evidence by Catherine Arra

Threshold by Gary Beck

Unfinished Business at the Halfway House by Jean Berrett

How long before I… by SuzAnne C. Cole

Without by Alexis Fedorjaczenko

An Unconventional Breaking and from Anger this Motivation by A.J. Huffman

Suicide by Gayle Newby

Elegy by Sharon Scholl

Return and Stranded on Horn Island by Richard Weaver

Nonfiction

Far from Heaven by Scarlett Gray

Fiction

Resurrection by Howard Brown

The Visible Man by Beth Sherman

 
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One remembers. One forgets. Snow drifts down and specks the tops of things. A man crosses the street to buy a sleeve of scratch cards from a kiosk. All the newspaper headlines are gloomy and ecstatic. A cheap pack of cigarettes now costs twelve bucks. Running into an old friend is like two roads converging in a wood. Turns out, one was just the long way around.

Today, we leave winter behind with an issue full of cacophony and bad sense. We leap into tales of ill-fated scuffles and ill-conceived plans, and we explore cave spaces and gorges and spare rooms and hospitals. We ask how one is supposed to know the right way to act at a party, and we wonder, and the end of the day, if politics comes down to a button and a smile.

~Bram Shay, Editor

Poetry

There Ought to Be a Manual by C. Wade Bentley

Burning Wishes  by Guiseppe Getto

One Poem by Couri Johnson

Spare Room by Suzanne Richter

Evil Wise Girl by Dvorah Telushkin

Nonfiction

Bad Creatures by Ana Prundaru

Muslim Apologies by Alia Hussain Vancrown

Fiction

Cambridge Close by Raquel Moran

Of Masters and Marionettes by Faith Thomas

The Magician by Dylan Henderson

 

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The American electoral process is a lot like poetry: it’s an amazing, empowering process that fills one with euphoria and hope, and then it’s over.

But seriously folks. I just want to apologize to all you that follow gloomcupboard.com and its poetry section for not getting a poetry issue to you for October. As some of you might know, I am a full-time college student and I had midterms the past couple of weeks. That’s over with now. Once again, sorry.

In the following issue we have poems penned by some that, by this time tomorrow morning, might very well be behind bars.

Why do so many good poems come from the Midwest? You fuckers just drink, read Upton Sinclair and walk the cold, cultured streets in pea coats all night or what?

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze

Poetry Editors
Gloom Cupboard

Born into this world
By Diane Webster

I never asked to be born.
I was comfortable floating
along with my lifeline
of food and oxygen and blood.
Warm, not a care in my world
except to kick my boundaries
until I fell inside a whirlpool
sucked into cold, bright, noisy
foreign world where I cried
my demands whether met or not
always needing help
knowing I would be kicked out
of this world too for a world
I never asked to be born to. (more…)

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Teachers and students are some of the worst people on the face of the earth, those which arrogantly pursue truth in the cobweb-covered and archaic spectacle of academia. It’s a demented process. So much so that recent studies have shown that 99.8 percent of English majors and teachers suffer from schizophrenia, deviant sexual gratification, subversive political ideology and repressed homicidal impulses.

The following is not poetry. The following is proof.

Sincerely,
Your Poetry Editor
Luis Rivas

THE EX LANDLORD
B.Z. Niditch

With the heart of Cain
behind his one cloth napkin
under a pinched chin
at T.V. dinner time
unshaved for his faith
or gangland injury
wearing a pentagram
he won
at carnival time,
a once ruddy catcher
in a minor league,
pawn broker
stud poker player
or house Dick
depending
on whom you meet,
surprising tenants
every first day
of the month
with unauthorized letters
to threaten everyone,
stoned on cheap beer
claiming to be ex-military
in Angola
or was it Cuba
with his annual cigar
at Christmas
spitting out
of his moist mouth
offering to show us
forged lottery tickets
used Trojans
or fascist posters
of the Forties. (more…)

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