Fragile Arts Quarterly Winter 2009~2010
Brave Revolver Studios
http://www.cafepress.com/BraveRevolver
Prints of original paintings, photography and poetic clothing by Christina Harrington
Brave Revolver Poetics Clothing Words you wear.
"He Blew His Brains Out #2" Posters, t-shirts, greeting cards, magnets, and more!
Inkling #2 Posters, t-shirts, greeting cards, magnets, and more!
"Strength" (framed panel print) $45.99
"Strength" (mini poster print) $19.99
"Gilted Lover Missing U" (mousepad) $15.99
"Inkling" (magnet) $5.99
"Low Tide" (large coffee mug) $14.99
"Currently" (blank inside greeting card) $4.99
"Vomint" (large framed print) $49.99
"Thirteen" (large framed print) $49.99
"Apparently" (magnet) $5.99
"Cactus" (mini poster print) $19.99
"Hey Fever" (mini poster print) $19.99
"Television Monster" (mini poster print) $19.99
"Untitled" (mini poster print) $19.99
FRAGILE ARTS QUARTERLY / Winter 2009~2010 Moongaze Publishing, Pittsburgh, PA Contact us: moongazepub@myway.com Obtain free PDF back issues at: http://fragilearts.tumblr.com All works in this issue of Fragile Arts Quarterly are the copyrighted property of the creators of said works and are used by permission. Cover photo & page background Silver Sand by Brenda Cheason This page photo by Raymond Sapienza
Sharon Messina G – 20 Summit Pittsburgh, PA September 2009
Lola Nation
Clean and Sober Clean and sober It’s the shampoo and condition syndrome, Switch brands from healthy brainwash scams to spiritual cleansing Drowning in repetition Following the siren on the bottle thinking there’s a median just because Aristotle once said that a person must go to both extremes to find their center Of course, at times like this he’s a mentor Should I or Shouldn’t I Pixie twins of indecision residing on my shoulders whispering new plans to take over the world one day at a time but forgiveness and apologies are not nearly the same I crave redemption, but I’m sorry I came.
Beatback Cover
Can’t pick up the phone today I see, clearly – the ungrateful display, like cheap artwork at a church bizarre...
Last weekyou were happy to have
City Slickers
your fingers knuckle deep dragging in my honey
I get you You’re just a creep back into my life, sideswipe, leave me be type.
The pavement a canvas to oil slick paintings reflecting our images while those crazy kids are singing to me, that whatever, I want I'll get did I ever add a regret to the list never Aderral attention span mind soaked in wine coffee stained teeth grind light another cigarette to confirm my lust for life, while I let Jonnie in again He leaves the lights on all the way home when I finally call he tells me, I don't need them I could do this, regardless of wherever I roam, do I need more time, freedom I lie and say no when the truth is I haven't any idea
The last cigarette of the night The last cigarette of the night. Amber thoughts and fleeting realizations before bed, I wish I could keep these thoughts organized in my head but the piano keys are too sharp and I wish you’d strum guitar instead I could sleep easier being bored Heartburn heartache, too much beer Too much, too much never quite enough I had everything It’s still waiting I’m contemplating the fastest way back to Albuquerque Will you point me in the right direction I’m lost next to good intention Please, forward my mail to this address unknown Please tell them I’m so sorry I lost my phone one day I’ll reach out and touch someone The ballet at hand on foot, says run There’s a desert ahead a long hot walk I thirst like I never have before I want not for food, substance, or health I just want to make that last stretch before death Lola Nation
Slim Letaief http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus http://slimletaief.blogspot.com
Slim Letaief
Dennis Ergle http://www.dennisergleinteriors.com
Fall to your Feet
Today I stumbled and I fell. And a blanket of despair enveloped my being. But all is well... for this is yet a new beginning. Blinded by the shade of fear hope escaped my flimsy grasp. But alas, the light will reappear, for God has placed me in his lap. I looked away for just one second. And with that glance... lost all direction. But with my monsters I will reckon. For through my fear I shall take action. And today...I arose.
The Poison Web
Somewhere, hidden in the corner of the subconscious, an angry seed festers and begins to take root. Fertilized by hate it grows silently into the consciousness. As it journeys from the Darkness toward the Light it blooms. With thoughts of revenge. And plans for retribution. Like a spider plant its vines weave a web. The human spirit...its prey. But with the courage to cultivate, and the patience to prune, an angry seed can grow into a heroic hostile. Housing the hate. And building a wall to protect the innocent spirit from its own subconscious anger. Thus, anger fueled by its own hate, emerges from the Darkness and into the Light as a secret garden. And what a beautiful bloom anger yields.
Renate van Nijen www.renate-kunst.nl
Angelic Passion
Seaside Meditation
Ceramic Ball #1
Ceramic Ball #2
Renate van Nijen
Donna in blu
Free as a bird byRenate van Nijen
Three-dimensional nonsense, too much explanation, whereas what pops up in my head makes sense. Too much noise, almost annoying. Cyclists being blown away with the wind. Free as birds. They don’t see much, hair playing in front of their eyes, a pleasant feeling in their faces. The wind creating a fresh soft feeling as if a gentle force can be pleasant. Flapping umbrellas, sweeping coats, dancing leaves. A flying hat. I decide to sit in it. The hat takes me to an unknown destination where I will never arrive, perhaps that is him. I feel embraced, encased in a cocoon loosely spun around me, leaving my spirit free, making me whole, complete again. I feel an exciting sensation, discovering sensuality in everything that is, nature, myself. I absorb it, allowing the feeling into my pores. The hat takes me along. A flock of birds flies in the sky, they are very close, I can almost touch them. Their beauty so powerful. Where are they going? I decide that they are leaving. Suddenly the wind subsides and the hat ends up in a red convertible. The sun starts shining, warming me. I feel total happiness and look around. The car is parked in front of a high hedge. If beauty lies hidden in a rocking branch with red berries, then where am I? In the rear mirror I see a casually draped white pullover on the back shelf. The mirror shows a limited world, but when I watch long enough I discover more and the restricted world becomes spectacular. A brightly coloured bird secretly nibbles on a berry. Someone approaches the car. He is roughly attractive. A pleasant Mediterranean look with a carefully created nonchalant short beard beneath his bright blue eyes, which, strongly contrasting his dark curly hair, stare dreamily into the distance. He puts the hat on his head. I feel his messy curls and smell his freshly washed hair. He carries me along to the station and takes a seat in a stationary train. He puts the hat on the small table. I look out of the window and see a salamander escaping between the pavement slabs on the platform. The sun intensifies its bright green colour, touching me in my belly, almost tangible. The train slowly starts moving. There is an ocean of sunflowers. I want to dive in, have a swim, inspired. I am an artist and take in the yellow glow of the sunflowers. Small picturesque medieval villages lie along the track in the hills and grant me a view of a time past, too strongly present to be pushed away by the overwhelming sound of the
pounding hip-hop music coming from the windows of a shiny black car waiting at the railway crossing. In spite of the speed of modern time, life seems to stand still. I go along in the peace and quiet and feel satisfied and happy. In the distance the blue-grey silhouette of a mountain chain, fossilized in time, dominantly present within my view. It stills me. At the next station he picks up the hat, puts it on his head and gets off the train. He leaves the small station and crosses the square, sitting down at a wooden table outside a café in the small village. A few cyclists wipe the hair out of their faces and park their bicycles against the ages-old olive tree in the middle of the square. He orders a glass of wine. I crawl out of the hat; I’m an exciting energy. I don’t feel lonely because I know I am part of a whole, realising that I am a cloud, floating above the hilly landscape. It’s freedom, and while I swell up into a dark wet substance, I decide to come down in the form of a sensational drop, full of tension, warm and at the same time refreshing and exciting. I want him to recognise me and make sure he will notice. With a well-aimed landing, slightly splashing, overwhelming and very present I land on his nose. I see that he is startled and shakes me off, with regret because subconsciously he is aware of my sensuality. I end up in a colourful cane chair and suddenly he notices me. He starts talking and his voice is deep and warm. I want to suck on it, but decide to take it into my ears becoming a memory. I look inside myself, distracted by the confusion in my throat and lower body. I can see the tension that I am feeling, my fast beating heart. Blood running through my veins faster than usual, nervous beating in my solar plexus. I recognise the symptoms of attraction, of falling in love which will dominate my life for a brief moment or for ever. I sense a vibration in my lower belly, warm waves taking away my breath, inadvertently flowing through my body. I am aware of my entire being, consisting of only energy, now so realistically present, like a fire. A fire of love and passion and the desire to love and be loved. I feel feminine and attractive. Leaving behind daily worries about deficiencies in a non-existing past. He is extremely attractive, looking deep into my eyes, asking if I want to come with him, to hide in a tree house. We both laugh and he takes my hand, it feels familiar. I suddenly know that I belong to him and so does he. We climb into the tree and sit down on a colourful carpet in the tree house. He pulls me towards him and puts his arm around me. We look around us in silence. We can see the sea, blue as it should be, a little wild and pleasantly moving. We can hear the waves rolling over the colourful pebbles on the beach, soothingly… shhhhhsss, shhhhss, … creating a wonderful romantic melody together with the rustling of the leaves in the tree. After some time the compact clouds disappear, making space for a beautiful veil which hangs in the sky like an invitation. Pink, almost lilac, behind a gentle wall of light turquoise, very intense. A few floating clouds pass by,
like an enormous hammock. Birds fly, allowing themselves to be guided, touching the careful clouds. We also want to enter that wondrous world. He gives me the confidence and together we take the plunge, falling onto a soft veil, sensual, with appropriate passion. He takes me into his arms, softly kissing me. Looking for me with his wet tongue, from my mouth to my ear, my neck, further discovering my body. I hear the soft groaning, sweet sounds from deep down inside him and he whispers‌. I need you. I understand what he means. My hands explore his body, recognizing it and giving myself to him, sharing. He helps me to feel free in my body. His touch changing me into a magic ball of emotions. Alternating warm, goose pimples, wet, electric and shockingly uncontrollable. I enjoy him as much as he enjoys me, absorbing the smells that belong to him, never to forget them. I feel more beautiful than ever and totally fuse with him, unifying with the clouds, never feeling lonely again. I realise that I am part of a whole. He knows it too. He looks up into the sky where he sees a bird flying. That is me, with a smile, free....
Distant Attraction detail
Renate van Nijen
Michael Mc Aloran
excisor marks (wasteland) i restive to sense a transparent tomb of tears of the impossible flesh martyred the blood ii spine of all truths empty of whispers bootheel of the sky pressed down upon like death iii my death oppresses the long shadow of my being severed intoxicated
iv I burn my blackened teeth corrupt bones the bled eyes of a calf
v scar-tissue unforgotten the tongue left loose in the blazing sun an apocalypse of night
vi words are fragrant thorns in the mouths of the unborn
vii rifts of cold teeth line the pathways I vomit to moisten the earth
viii in the cold cut of the breeze of this endless night I may sever my tongue and eat of it
ix inhalations of razor-blades the stretch of the skin love is but a wasteland of burnt orchids and concrete tears
x excisor marks of the sky the candle blown out
at the edge of the sky
head of a heavy frost open-ended sky of flames
of the butchered animals kiss more reluctant the eye
a shimmering of cloud through which the lightning breaks
wind tearing the open grave of the heart a pulse shattering resplendent
at the bottom of the well sacred songs are sung in a debris of words the skin is shorn
to burn the light out of the sky wormed tongues fragrant with destitution
at the edge of the sky only the soldered teeth belong
in the foreign breeze
to taste the vellum artifact of night clamour of unrest the shivering flesh a dead-end trail usurped the flow of the tide naked ripe ripped the steam rises hollow death beneath a meaningless sky as words drift out of focus shadows rest without conscience as fingernails claw bare white walls the leaves drifting listlessly in the foreign breeze there is no room beneath a sky of shadow endless drift
black blood to shine in the light of the black sky the churning flesh, an avaricious need the crackling of dead leaves nothingness melds, with the absence of air drifting shadows in the turning of the sky my bones my bones will seep the marrow yet pregnant with laughter, the abyss all that I see the walls bleeding their emptiness inhalations of razor-blades and the sheared light drifting downwards like petals to dissipate upon my ashen skin... grated inwardly, I drift echoes of where I have been like a trail through the dark
Michael Mc Aloran
Claudia Phares www.claudiaphares.com
literary osmosis II self portrait
I want to be like Yoko Ono self portrait
the journey
Nat
Where were you?
self portrait
Claudia Phares
Beck
the shadow that never was self portrait
blue
barely
Claudia Phares
Roseanne Aiello Morales www.Myspace.com/kinderkitty.
Confident Skin
My pieces are floating in the midday sun the fur is beginning to fly, like puffball milk weed from a little girls lips blown in the wind to cover the miles from here to there to eternity. It hit the fan a long time ago when I spoke my mind and my brain shut down. The drama club sent back my application, I'll have to take my act elsewhere. Truth will not sail here, the calm seas flattened by a spate of snake tongue, oily medicine for percieved symptoms while the disease progresses unabated. Leaving me naked and unprotected out in the heat when the rains don't come, I will dance for the shamen in this arid oasis being totally free in my skin.
Mannot
When is a man not a man? Epiphany
Woke in a cold sweat from a hopped up chopped up wet behind the ears anal dream shitting the rainbow through Dr Dentons tooth in a cup of bubbly madness. Realization hit me like a bullet in the dark stark empty box a pillow and a velvet lining defining my future as useless shuffling. And I knew right then right now I would never be 21 again. Primal scream in the ruthless night and back to sleep.......... to dreams.
Baggage shackled in the lower class hold shipped, wrecked, parcel post to nowhere.......................(tool) trimming, planting (trees where strange fruit grow) A number on a page (tatoo) name, rank, a series a numbers in an infinite set (kill one) see the fields where the millions sprout (replacement parts) monkeys in the wild a child beaten down because he thought he might be more (human) than that dog scratching in the dirt with no money (no value) a negative sum in a calculator or an agitator stirring up the status quo (bullet in the head) because there is a replenishable supply of whores and toys chastened, drugged enough to spit out the puppies for the next assembly line (thrown a bone) a penny for a pound (of flesh) then send them home, a dirty nest beneath a crushing foot (cockroach splatter) antennae ripe for the coming out party after the f bomb is dropped. (The under rock will rule the Earth)
My Days Are NOT Numbered
I was born, as we all must be named and numbered molded, and stamped taught all THEIR mores their words, their rules and marched out, a manikin to walk in their world. Shoved in a box manhandled and pushed in until I BECAME the box or thrown out like the trash within it. (A parrot speaking memorizations.) Your house must be OUR color your garden planted with OUR flowers you will learn what we tell you, and speak as we speak. We will mold you, and tattoo you play the endless looping tape that was played before you, and will be played again when you're gone. And if you are different if you rebel we will ban you burn you crucify and betray you, then turn around and martyr you, to show how far we've come.
But........... I REFUSE the box refute the logic negate the dogma. I run my own show and play it to the world. I am not white nor black nor brown or yellow. I am not a color, or a group, or a land or a people. I am ME. I am Homo Erectus. I am HUMAN. And the RACE is on.
Roseanne Aiello Morales
Slim Letaief http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus http://slimletaief.blogspot.com
Mather Schneider
I RECOMMEND CALLING A TAXI I was bartending and we got a telephone call: “Hey, this is Sally, I’m at the police station, I just got a DWI and they won’t let me leave without a ride, can someone come get me?” Chuck volunteered, drained his beer, got up and left. An hour later we got another call: “Hey, this is Chuck, You’re not going to believe this but I just got a DWI, can someone come and pick me and Sally up?” George stood up digging into his pocket for his car keys. He slid his pitcher of beer at me. “Can you put this in the fridge,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
I BITE I took my cab to the tire place for a new front left. They said it would take 45 minutes so I walked around in the early sun smoking a cigarette. Behind the tire place I saw a little black gate I had never noticed before and went through it. Suddenly I was in this little eastern meditation garden with lots of plants and peaceful things. It smelled like a greenhouse, and there were these tables and chairs on a brick patio and frogs chirping from small pools and fountains and birds singing and there was a little restaurant but the sign said "CLOSED". There were other signs too: “NO SMOKING” “NO YELLING” “NO TOUCHING” "NO RUNNING" and there was a gigantic bird cage with a gigantic yellow and blue bird and a sign that said "DON'T FEED ME" and another that said, "I BITE”. There was a little pond also with yellow and orange fish and it was all very nice and it made me feel good and I thought I might stay awhile. But then a little bald guy in eastern robes came out of nowhere, looked at me with a smile as big as a lily pad and bowed toward me,
Mather Schneider
John Clowder http://www.etsy.com/profile.php?user_id=8639152
The Morning Star
Under the Open Sky I met a girl whose freckles formed the twenty-eight constellations. Each appeared according to its cosmological location. At Capricorn I kissed her, and she explained to me the simple agriculture of season, soil, and seed. She lead me to her capitals and I toured the sites under the guidance of her night. Aquarius curled at her thigh and the herdsman cupped her breast, but it was the eagle that the water bearer wet. The eagle, where underneath we met. We sipped the dipper, we linked lips with Leo, and placed our hearts in the hands of Perseus, the Hero. Within her the Zodiac concerned what my astronomy discerned, to navigate by her stars and celestial shapes with the cadence of a lover's grace. In the morning she dawned the day as I watched the sun candle to its routine stay. Breakfast was light, so was the talk. I asked her the date, to which she responded the eighth noting that my horoscope recommended I not lose faith. "Honestly", I said, "it never felt more safe."
Red and Wolf
Signing Off It was after night in my bed, but midday in my dreaming. There I stood, interposed within a funeral service for a friend we buried in reality some years ago. The burial was taking place at the bottom of a deadend street, whereabout a coffin atop a dais exhibited the deceased, so those attending could autograph the corpse. When my hands inherited the quill I inspected the departed's body for a space to write. Her feet were occupied by the names of her parents', her ankles--her siblings'. Teachers, and mentors inscribed her legs, while her loins looked an overcrowded place with many lover's monikers inlaid. Around her belly it was bare, marking where her children might have wrote, had their mother's life made it to theirs. A vest of coworkers aside acquaintances, whose names she could not have all remembered, dressed her chest. There was nothing inked on her neck spare that tattoo I told her not to get. Her head was speckled with the initials of friends, with sometimes the occasional heart thrown in. On either palm she held the names of her highest choir confidents, who stood by her even when she'd left them nothing to defend. And I, I betokened her cheek, where once I kissed her, where once she turned 'pink'.
Gabriel
The Fox Imp
Azazel
John Clowder
Jillian Parker
Photinia from the mouth of dark shards so clip to the ground where wind is afraid of blood a shattered vase a scream lives there cherry blossoms sift onto wild camellia sorting pieces a glass bird mosaic blinks awake its cries the birth of flight the ash of the rose into the eye of the sun red red red ochre
Mrs. Yang Paints a Rainbow
She moves away from the manicured lawns and plants her penny-loafers in the foxtails. She fills her palms with pineapple grass. All along the river-wall bicycle bells dingle-dangle, sport-suited joggers shake their salt-and-pepper heads, lanky legs flash in leather sandals-they are dark and they are comely-blonde pony-tails bob behind squeaky strollers, with all of the walking and all of the talking; maybe they will come up with a good idea, like funding schools instead of fighting wars. Or perhaps not, but she will do her part. She pushes up her broad-brimmed hat, straightens the collar on a white buttondown cotton blouse, vestments of a high priestess of morning. Raising her hands above her head, Mrs. Yang paints a rainbow.
WATER. TREE. LIFE.
Roaring up the 50 during a downpour, ugly ducklings in search of a tribe, we find one in a gym; there, a boy with braces on his legs shoots hoops over and over, and almost never misses. There might be a maypole that answers to my name, and a boy twisting 'round it, with ears that listen but do not hear, thoughts a-whirl and eyes a-glaze, still stuck at a passing billboard: Silicon Suzie, bursting out of her brassiere, luring clients to an establishment by means of her airbrushed charms (what is a man to do?) I try to see her as a man might, in all of her pink-satin-clad promise, am flattened by the attempt. Into my fantasy flashes a newspaper headline: “Mother of Five Arrested for Defacing Billboard: Apprehended in the act of depicting a tree of life onto and around the female figure, she splashed an enormous teardrop onto the fake-tan cheek before relinquishing her bucket.” (what is a woman to do?)
At the goodwill outlet, double doors dilate, give birth to table heaped with stuff; ten people drop everything, run towards the table, pawing, turning, lifting, strangers engaging in an intimate, frenzied encounter. My hand passes over their leavings, touches brushed flannel cotton, seed pearl buttons, thin, white ribbons. A tag: Victoria’s Secret. The price, only a few cents. I buy it, and a shirt for my daughter. When it's washed and dried, I hold it to my cheek and close my eyes, then deliver it to my girlfriend as a gift. A call from Marisolita in the morning: “My dear, I tell you, I sleep like a queen.” Rain blasts against a sycamore leaf, a henna tattoo on the serpentine sidewalk. Just a few degrees cooler and the shape of the water would crystallize, revealing its own branching veins Perfect in its imperfection. Like life.
A path insinuates itself down the levee; Marisol and I pass under oaks and sycamores and sniff the reeking air, that stench I now associate with Sacramento. Marisol sets me straight: “No, eet is jus’ a skunk. I tell you truly, a skunk.”
Jillian Parker
Brenda Cheason http://www.flickr.com/photos/decorsculptures http://www.zazzle.com/brenda2010/gifts
Energy
Jigsaw
Theatre
Richard
Planet Orange
Brenda Cheason
Marc Beaudin http://crowvoice.com
Another Blue (Ardea Herodias) The voice of the heron carries the rasp of pterodactyls, archaeopteryx, and other, older, unknown flyers; it is an unmarked watery grave that reaches out suddenly with taloned fingers and startles the man swimming alone among cattails and imagined turtles. He once, years before, carried a dead heron close to his chest like an infant– this old friend and father, teacher in the school of lake water and moonlight, omen, bringer of dreams, Found, finally, floating in the reeds at lake’s edge, waiting. He placed it within the arched willows of his sweat lodge, offered tobacco, and asked for feathers. Later, gliding in his canoe back to his peninsula, he watched the heron’s spirit fly from the lodge, bank above the still water, and disappear over the mosaic of trees climbing the hillside. Today, standing thigh-deep in the water of the marsh, he rubs that memory between thumb and finger, enjoys the sun sinking into face and shoulders, and tries to ignore the insistent buzzing of an airplane sounding like some small insect at the window, trapped and waiting for death.
My Bones (Haliaeetus Leucocephalus) In the blue blue sky of dream eagle rises, pauses vertically in thunderbird motif that could resemble, but doesn't, a crucifixion Then: rolls, dives, veers, rises; pauses again– a page in a book or mirror of something I may not have lost– again & again, this dance It's long after waking that I remember having had this dream though all through the morning I could feel its flight in my bones.
Linguistics (Corvus Brachyrhynchos) The crows near my home are gathering their winter murder like holes punched in the grey-white sky to show the obsidian wall behind They trick the sun as Coyote tries to but always gets distracted by his own dancing shadow (these, being shadow, have none) Their movements are silent negotiations between death and religion, their words hold every dream of flight on the tip of my tongue, They speak and I am speechless, They sharpen the November-dulled edge of the treeline and I check my cheek for blood. Boots crunch snow heading toward the sluggish river Alone, hungry, and all I want in this life of sand and glass and thorns and bread is to understand the language of the crows.
Distances (Zenaida Macroura) The thing about mourning doves is that they always sound far away even when they are right inside your head.
Then I will count myself among the few: the happy ghosts that sing themselves to their own untroubled sleep.
No Bird: Memory (Cyanocitta Cristata) Discussing how much the house has faded and wondering if any of the apple trees remain, This memory came rising from the mist of all those things I thought I'd forgotten: Summer vacation at Grandma and Grandpa's my cousin Billy and I wanting to play "Indian" but needed feathers for our hair So, string tied to stick, to prop up an apple crate, we scattered bird seed under the trap and waited Taking turns holding the string hearts pounding like hail our idea was to catch a blue jay and just "borrow" a few feathers I since have learned that there’s no such thing as a blue jay, there’s no such pigment in a feather, it’s merely an optical illusion, a trick played on us all, which may explain why, during hours of whispered waiting, no bird came anywhere near our trap but doesn’t at all explain why, to this day, whenever I’m in the woods and have let myself drift from the the vital here and living now, it’s a blue jay that suddenly scolds me back into the moment that darts from the trees flashing a colorless blue.
Marc Beaudin
Marc Beaudin
Plum Late morning sunlight pulling the blanket from Lake Michigan (asleep and dreaming of ravens), climbing the cedared bluff, and pawing at the windows of a shoebox diner.
Lighthouse at Manistique
Her at the next booth a cascade of hair over bare shoulders
Walking the breaker into the April fury of Lake Michigan wind tearing at my clothes and with each wave shattering on the limestone: an icy spray blasting across the slippery walkway and holding a momentary rainbow in its grip
Me road weary smelling of last night’s campfire
I have ignored the warning signs, forgotten common sense, am aware of the pain that waits if I am swept off, down to the chiseled rocks, and the only reward for the journey: a few moments in the wind-shadow of the lighthouse–watching gulls ride the daggers of air– before having to make my return
I can’t hear the waves questioning the silent rocks I can’t remember what I ordered for breakfast and I can’t see her eyes or her mouth
Yet I continue, undaunted, into the blue, streaked with sudden rainbows, step after perilous step and all the time, plastered to my cold, wet face: a ridiculous, madman’s smile.
Her dad disapproving of my beard and ragged clothes of my too-long looks at his too-young daughter
Which is just as well, because as she takes a bite into a fresh plum I can only imagine her lips, nearly the same color; her teeth, breaking the fruit’s resistant skin; juice gathering at the edges of her mouth, pausing momentarily, and then running down to the edge of her chin and allowing one delicious drop to fall into her waiting lap. To have actually seen such a moment, a man such as I would have completely forgotten why he was on this road, where he was going, and what he would possibly do once he got there.
First Phone Call Standing in the rain to have a quiet place to talk to you A little too happy to see your name on my phone A little too happy to hold your voice in my ear A little too happy to feel you as the dance to the song That plays relentlessly in my head like this rain.
Nomad In that dark country that is your mind I am a nomad, passing from province to province w/ only the occasional smoldering firepit to mark my existence there. In the “wine-dark sea� of your memory I am that depth-hidden fish that scientists search for hundreds of years before knowing that it even could exist. Tomorrow, while brushing your hair, you will imagine fingers trailing musically along the back of your neck all the way down to the small of your back and you will almost speak my name.
What Ever Happened to Niévas García? He was the fastest kid in school running with arms straight, fists at his sides, leaning like a crow into the wind On my birthday, eighth or ninth maybe, we raced our bikes peddling hard and not tiring around the block again and again Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh Past the houses of friends lined up like worn sheets on a clothesline mismatched and catching each word spoken by the murmuring wind Past the chain-straining dog on the corner seething not exactly in anger (I kept my distance, not exactly in fear) Past the haunted church where, we knew, a giant lived (who else would need ten-foot oak doors?) it was against the grey stone of its back wall facing our alley that I smoked my first cigarette and scared the hell out of Junior with a planted wooden cross that had the awkward letters of his name scrawled across it like paper cuts JUNIOR (that was the only name we knew him by, he was famous for swallowing a handful of dimes in the hospital, and while I’m at it, what ever happened to him too?)
Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh, everything becoming a blur except the black flow of Niévas’ hair snakelike in the air between us– And then the front tire of my second-hand bike jammed somehow and I enjoyed the timeless freedom of suspension like a bird or a held breath cradled by emptiness until my face struck the cold apathy of pavement and the world came flooding back in bloodied and real That’s the last memory of him I can recall though I’m sure there were others We moved from the neighborhood and all those people faded; became shadows about which I can never be sure of their true form or color or shape But I remember that dog on the corner and imagine that he finally broke loose and never came back even though I suppose that most of those people are now either dead or in jail or worse, dying slowly working in some box But then, sometimes, I can almost hear that chain dragging fast over the broken concrete away and away from this world.
Marc Beaudin
Dee Jordan aka N.L. Snowden
www.inandoutofmadness.net www.sneakaboardpress.com
Coffee Break's Over
Abstract Mania
playing with fire
Self Portrait 2002
Dee Jordan
Michael Aaron Casares
Across the Mind Smooth star, glass body, stone black deep engulfing me. Caressing the black of you, releasing the head clouds and bane, you lie tender in your youth as I coolly wonder while beneath the covers
Diamonds for Departure
if for this shall death we soon
Liquid diamond droplets
discover?
fall from my eyes, they are the essence of you. Tender lips, my tender ghost, are the host of the warmth you provide. Your sunlight, your sacred beaming light like auroras streaming through the daytime melts away uncertainty and doubt into crystal water. Be happy, my ghost, don’t melt away. I simply let you go, you simply stepped away, so that I could see your face, before I had to go.
Routine In the apple, the flame licks to its core. The yellow tongue curls. It sears the flesh. Sweet turns tart, then brittle and bitter and dead to the tongue. But for all the mild discomfort, the pungent shock upon the pallet, the smoke is fine going down. The smoke, like a woolen cloud, itches the throat down the neck, down the passage to your world, down esophagi into the womb, and siphons out through every tube into the brain and into the blood where from there it becomes like mud, and serves into the very pores and becomes thought and becomes more, not just the tangible that once was breathed, but a shattered wall in which one sees the second nature of his life.
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Contributors Sharon Messina is a free spirit, flitting around the globe, but can often be found in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.
Lola Nation Originally from Venice Beach, Calif. and currently living in Kansas City, Missouri. Lola Nation’s writing has been published in literary magazines such as the racy Cherrybleeds Zine and urban ThugWorks Magazine. Her current projects include finishing her fictional book All the Men I Slept with Volume I (accounting for a woman’s witty memoirs from teenage-hood to early 30s) and a musical (adapted from Shel Silverstein lyrics).
Slim Letaief 30 Years Old Student Pilot Gear: Canon EOS 450D + EF 100mm 2.8 Macro USM + EF 50mm f1.4 usm + EF-S 18-55mm IS http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus
http://slimletaief.blogspot.com
Dennis Ergle: I'm a 36 yr. old gay male born and raised in Atlatna, GA. I live my partner Steve and our two dogs in Woodstock, GA. I'm an Interior Designer with my own business Dennis Ergle Interiors. http://www.dennisergleinteriors.com
Renate van Nijen: I am a Dutch professional artist living and working in Spain. I create and exhibit paintings, ceramic sculptures and other types of hand painted design. I previously lived in Italy for 5 years and since 2003 I have been living in Spain. The culture and the colours of southern countries clearly influence my use of colours. I have held over 100 exhibitions of my work, both in galleries, large business enterprises such as AKZO NOBEL in the Netherlands and various national and international art and cultural festivals. Exhibitions of my work have taken place in, among other cities, Rome, Paris, Amsterdam and various locations in Spain. I also write sensually themed, often somewhat surreal flash fiction with a twist, in English language and am in the process of getting my book, which includes 7 images of my artwork, published. (11 of 24 stories from my book can be read online via www.authonomy.com – search Renate van Nijen). My art website is: www.renate-kunst.nl
Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976), his family moved to the south of Ireland due to 'The Troubles. He elected to study Fine Art & Design, but left after one disillusioned year. He has travelled extensively in Europe, living for brief spells in both Holland and Italy. He has been writing poetry for almost a decade but has only recently begun to submit. His work has been published by 'Poetry Monthly International', (U.K), 'The Gloom Cupboard', (U.S), 'Counterexample Poetics', (U.S), 'Full Of Crow', (U.S), 'The Delinquent, (U.K), 'Eviscerator Heaven', (U.S), 'The Recusant', (Scotland), 'Lines Written W/A Razor', (Canada), 'WritingRaw', (U.S),and is forthcoming at 'Clockwise Cat', (U.S), 'Origami Condom', (U.S), 'Why Vandalism?', (U.S), 'Gutter Eloquence', (U.S), and 'Deep Tissue', (U.S). He also likes to entertain himself with paint, alcohol and cigarettes...His first published book of poetry, entitled 'In The Black Cadaver Light', was published by 'Poetry Monthly Press'.
Claudia Phares was born Montreal and is now living in Melbourne. Lately, she has been developing a body of self-portraiture and has been involved in various photographic collaborations with local artists in Melbourne. www.claudiaphares.com
Roseanne Aiello Morales is a 52 year old poet from Miami, Florida. She is published in various magazines in the United States and Great Britain. You can find her work at www.Myspace.com/kinderkitty.
Mather Schneider is a cab driver in Tucson. Also a poet and story writer. His work has been seen in the small press for fifteen years. John Clowder: The pieces herein are all collages created traditionally with the use of cutting utensils, deceased horse, and human hands. Red and Wolf, constructed as a valentine to a friend, represents my most intricate effort, being comprised of nearly eighty individual fragments. The poem Signing Off was a winner in the annual Florence B. Palmer poetry contest. http://www.etsy.com/profile.php?user_id=8639152.
West coast wanderer, recently relocated from Alaska to California, Jillian Parker manages a menagerie currently consisting of five children and 8 cats, hoping in the process to figure out what she is going to do when she grows up...
Brenda Cheason was born in Oxford U.K. in 1946. She attended Bath Technical College,UK and worked in the technical field for many years, while also studying well known artists. Brenda has won awards both in the UK and US. Her fine engineering degree has helped her to develop and design abstract art which in this modern world brings people to reflect on colour, culture and development in an abstract world. http://www.flickr.com/photos/decorsculptures
http://www.zazzle.com/brenda2010/gifts
Marc Beaudin, poetry editor for CounterPunch, is the author of The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Other Poems, several chapbooks, and the novel A Handful of Dust. His work has been published in Avocet, The MacGuffin, CounterPunch, Temenos, Pirene's Fountain, FlashQuake GlassFire, and several other journals. His radio broadcast "Report from the Mountains" is heard weekly on WUCX Delta College Public Radio and is archived at http://reportfromthemountains.blogspot.com. He lives in Livingston, Montana. More information can be found at http://crowvoice.com.
Dee Jordan, author of In and Out of Madness under the pen name of N. L. Snowden. www.sneakaboardpress.com www.inandoutofmadness.net
Michael Aaron Casares is a poet and artist living in Austin, TX. Michael has recently had several of his poems appear in online and print journals. He has two poetry chapbooks, Ghost Roads and The Terrorist, both published by Virgogray Press. He has two new chaps forthcoming, Green Tea America (New Polish Beat) and The Winter King (Shadow Archer Press), which is a post-modern, metaphysical epic prose poem about a man's journey into the arctic heart of his subconscience. Michael is a part of an art group called The Black Light Contingent whose work is on display at The Calcasieu Gallery in downtown San Antonio, TX.