Month: February 2013

Detroit, 1932

By Kate Healey

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There is a profound depth to you,
your irises ebb out towards me,
from above those arrow head cheekbones,
sublime in their listlessness,
infinitely vast and achingly familiar.

Swaddling my head,
like smoke levitating against the ceiling, is your voice.
A voice like bourbon,
encompassing my ear drums.
Obliviously I gravitate towards you,
only to be disarmed and overwhelmed
by the visceral reaction I have to you,
and the fragility of our connection,
the absolute complementary juxtaposition we constantly demonstrate is aweinducing.

Formally I know nothing of you,
but I know your soul so well,
for it is a fragment of my own,
splintered from the the continuum of consciousness,
a relic from a past life that I am certain that we shared.

Kate Healey

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By John Grey

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Thought over it
as rain piled on…
the roof, the windows, everything…
considered pure refusal,
the remnants of my energy,
as rain reached out,
tormented my reverberating psyche…
there was repent the carnal alley ways
or bathe more often,
or stop lapping up snow-melt with my tongue,
or give the tanned young man in my head
the tattered family Bible,
that he might someday spray his altars
with fine jasmine or unadulterated piss –
but then I figured coldness
was my only mercy,
black clouds that swamp my head
bursting, going with the rain…
fact is, I cannot
though I have,
I must not,
though I should…
through mud, through scrubby hills,
through the door of friends
and out the door of strangers…
no more feeling that isn’t
fingers on my chin,
no looking further than the walls
of the room I’m in…
damn rain, I’m staring through the window pane,
it’s all reflection with runny eyes and nose,
surprised to meet a man of my shrunken dimension
I vow to never think of her,
to shoot first, speak less,
take money where I find it,
and soon enough the rain will stop,
sky clear, maybe even warm up a little just
enough so I need not vow again…
spend my last years
blistered on the beach

John Grey

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Memory, The Body

By Cara Schiff

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The body cannot forget.
Shoulders slump to protect.
What’s left to regret?

Rolls of flesh beset
her bones. Armor to deflect.
The body cannot forget.

The toxins leach in sweat.
Pills leave lips spit-flecked.
What’s left to regret?

Each touch tallies against a debt.
Her skin numbs with neglect.
The body cannot forget.

Fingers stick to a cigarette,
yellow chemical and man intersect.
What’s left to regret?

To medicate hides the threat
of the memory a body can collect.
The body cannot forget
what’s left to regret

Cara Schiff

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Two Pieces

By Benjamin Grossman

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The challenge is not to blow out the fire. The fire should only shiver, shiver as if in need
of the flames of another fire. And the candles should never weep. They should have
wounds but never scars. And before you gather your storm, words must wake,
happiness must season voices, a group of lungs melting into a chorus of one. The
wish needn’t be wrapped in wrapping paper either. No, the wish should undress itself
until its clothed only in the flickering light. And as the darkness falls gray should rise,
fumes fragranced by the scent of your younger selves. See, the challenge is not to blow
out the fire; it is to convert that fire into smoke.

Another Lamb In Need Of Slaughtering

I imagine you walking along the edge of the shadows, using “Q-tips” to remove the
skeleton-layered truths about your ears, sticking a finger down your throat to expel
your blame-filled stomach, even warming yourself up with your own tears because
you’ve tired of fire. I imagine you then closing your eyes so that you lose your shadow,
wishing for your horns, your barbed tongue, your hooves to ripen and decay. Perhaps
you pluck out your eyes when they don’t. …

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