Wednesday, March 14, 2007

April 2007



Mark Rothko






Featured Poets: David Michael Wolach, Pamela Tyree Griffin, J.R. Salling and Carol Santoro

David Michael Wolach

Letter to a Peepshow Stripper

Hello, woman. It's been a long time. I'll be brief.
Between trysts I went to the ridge and saw the city at
night. If you walk along the guard rail fast enough
the lights sparkle like splinters of glass under a
lamp. The trees do this, their leaves in front of
you, the spaces between--affording glimpses. They do
not move. Overhead, invisible air planes: the
rumble, distant, murderous. And when the car flashes
up, goes by, when it blinds you suddenly--there. And
now the eyes adjust, go back to watching in the calm
darkness. I can't fix on one place. The ridge is
such that you must look at all of it, as one looks at
the past. To focus on a single lamp or neon sign is
the same as walking down the alley. Up here there is
no city, but lights, not darkness exactly, but a kind
of sea. I stood at the rail for a long time, woman.
I don't know how long, exactly. The gravel was loose
and scratched at the botoom of my shoes. My nose went
numb from the cold, and the sky: blue-black, no stars.
I didn't think of you at all. But these days my wife
paces up and down the hall, mutters to herself,
distant, quiet. When we are alone I don't know what
to do. Everything seems beyond me, woman. The war.

Paternal Eye

His father took the glass eye out,
placed it on the coffee table
next to the empty tumbler.
"To keep an eye on you while I'm away", he said.
That eye watched TV with him all day.
It looked at cartoons in the morning.
Talk shows after lunch.
Sitcoms until evening came
and the automatic lights in
the hallway went suddenly berserk.
Clap on. Clap off.
His father never really came home.
Instead he became god.
And now, after many years lost,
that glass artifice:
it probably rests at an angle from
which all sins seem perfect, necessary.

David teaches philosophy at The Evergreen State College, specializing in Wittgenstein, philosophy of language and Cultural Theory. He spent six years as a union organizer in New York where he also taught philosophy at Barnard College. He's twenty-eight years old, relatively new to sending out his own writing but has acted as an editor and publisher for several years. He currently serves as Managing Editor for Wheelhouse Magazine.


Pamela Tyree Griffin

Blind Date

Stood in the rain and I debated
To stay, to go and so I waited,
'til the day became the night
and I realized with certain fright,
that you would not come.

I gripped my hands and I stifled
thoughts that with my heart you'd trifled--
that I the calm, the undemanding
would be left in the rain standing
and you would not come.

My hair became a matted mess
and glued to me became my dress.
Powerless was I to move my feet
as water spat out from the street.
But you did not come.

Afternoon and school children passed
and when heaving, I'd seen the last,
I knew then but could not mention
the cruelty of your intention--
that you would not come.

Now the city has gone to sleep
and my own company I keep.
But I will stay and man my post
sleeping in a box at most.
Maybe then you'll come.
Then you'll come.
You'll come.
COME.

Only Two Years

Gone. Spent.
And no matter how much I try to
will it into being,
I know now that passion
is never going to return.
Once so strongly felt--it is now a withered bloom
on a gnarled vine.
This is what we have become.
This place is where 'I DO' has brought us.

Days blend into nights.
Nights blend into weeks.
Weeks blend into months
of sameness and sadness.
Endless petty disagreements now ruin my
well planned ever after.

I hide my tears; remnants of my frustration.
I walk the hall that is my heart
tethered like a heavy weight to
This place
This time
And to you.

And I wonder at the guile
that has trapped me here--
imprisoned in this place
of open windows and doors
where I can freely move yet
I cannot breathe.

I cannot breathe.

God please take me for

I

cannot

breathe.

Pamela has been writing since the age of five. Of the many types of writing she enjoys, her first and best love is poetry. Her work has been published in: Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Chick Flicks, Long Story Short, Salome, Chaotic Dreams, Flash-Flooding and others. You may reach her at pamela_writes@lycos.com

J.R. Salling

Amoeba Man

Your barnacle encrusted eye
presses against a coke bottle
while I flagellate in a plane of sweat
away from the probing light.

You used to watch me discard
the odd pseudopod
and grow new limbs,
but the old concentration falters;
once sure fingers
slip while adjusting focus.

You hang up the lab coat
spattered in angst and fatigue
and take the footpath home
taunted by the chant of fetid streams.

J.R. Salling is an antiquarian bookdealer, specializing in the history of science and medicine, which is often reflected in his creative writings.

Carol Santoro

Purple

I shall not wear purple
not this year
nor next

I will continue to
act silly when I feel like
cry when I see commercials
about dogs in cages
laugh at myself
when I try to shoot baskets
swear at the TV
while playing video games
drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
bitch and moan
when things don't go my way
bitch and moan
when things do go my way

But one thing I will not do
is wear the color purple.

I'll hang around in lilac for a while.

Carol is originally from Chicago. She and her husband retired to Fort Wayne, IN three years ago. Working for 20 years in the mental health field, she took what was left of her sanity and ran away to where life was a little slower, a little calmer and a little more affordable. Her interests include poetry, bird photography, crocheting and whatever else life has to offer.

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