Monday, May 28, 2007

June 2007

This issue features Lisa Engelbrektson DeWolf, Daniel S. Irwin and Steve Meador

Lisa Engelbrektson DeWolf

A Kind of Mourning

It kind of happened
One day
Un planned
It just came
And there you were
When you were still
Perfectly still.

I hardly said goodbye
But left you
In a shallow water grave,
forcing me to
Suffer your vacant space
Half waiting-
For the accident to unfold
And re-take place.

A Stain on my Sleeve

Down the stairs
I turn and look
say goodbye
down and around
and through the gate

And now I'm home
I take off my shirt
and notice a stain
a mark
from your corner of the world
by invitation only, I'm afraid
and I hope I will
but know I wont
ever wash it out.

Washing it would leave you
on an island in yours
hope it goes through
These things I take without taking
They're relics of yours and mine
this love we make without making
is beautiful
and thine

Love him to Pieces

Love him to pieces
as he breaks you down

and leaves his last comment

etched in your heart
replaying in your mind-

reminding you

that you can't shake his smile
his lips or his eyes.

Love him to pieces,
though you didn't want to at all
because if you knew this would happen

it would have dissolved.

Love him to pieces
as he cums and goes
and hope he'll be back

to break into pieces

your heart that can't beat
your face that can't see
your mouth that can't speak

of the pieces

that have broken and shattered
and scattered away.

I found Lisa at hiding under the name of L. Jane English. Check her out! Her writing is honest and delightfully intense.

Daniel S. Irwin

Mary Bailey's Grandson

Mary Bailey's grandson
killed himself today.
Blew a big chunk
Of his brains
Right out.
His sister said that
he had a lot
of problems.
Now, not the
Least of which
Included a window
To the inside of his head.
I always though
He was a jerk, weird kid.
Always gave me trouble.
Don't miss him.
I got other cousins
Who are regular people.
Hope he ain't givin' Gramma
A hard time.


Feeling that the find
Was more of an anti-climax
To his lifelong efforts,
At the end of the day,
The renowned archaeologist
Simply throws his loose change
In the cup on his bedroom dresser.
Seems the Holy Grail does
Serve some purpose after all.

Daniel is an artist and writer (both a matter of opinion, he says, but I think he's definitely both). His work has been published in various magazines, e-zines, and journals in the US and abroad. His latest can be found in Cerebral Catalyst, The Local Writer, and Zygote In My Coffee.

Steve Meador

Against The Grain

Tales of the prolific spawn heroes,
usually rats and rabbits.
No mention of sparrows,
yet they arrived in waves that blackened
portions of the sky. Feathered tsunamis
that attacked in banzai charges,
for the kernels of corn dribbled
off trucks and carts parked
at the Rising Sun elevator.

The owner called us his gunnery crew.
He supplied the Daisy rifles, boxes of BBs
and a shooting gallery that bested
the booths at Cedar Point,
plus a pledge of a nickel for every head.
A quick lesson was given in silence,
leaving warm ball in his palm.
We made about fifty bucks the first month.

The owner flew out of his office once, flapping
his arms, as we were about to shoot a wounded bird.
He snatched it from the blacktop,
and in an instant another nickel was earned.
“Don’t waste the ammo on the wounded.”
I didn’t blink for that nickel,
but the sparrow did, its eyes between
the owner’s thumb and finger,
just before his arm whiplashed down.

Banter with an Editor

I like your pluck. Have any more?
You have a truck?
An old Whitman.
Ah, only starts after warming in the sun. Cockpit?
Freudian instrumentation. Jungian clutch. Burnsian tires.
Sees the way...Aye, says I, rides a bit bumpy.
You like the dark? Dance with rococo?
Not too much, slightly faux cocoa.
Then I shall stay cool.
Not too Frosty, though.
The old truck, poetic bed?
Never more, quoth he.
How many styles?
How about one?
How about two?
Snail them, that’ll do.

Fire In A Bottle

Glass wands stained our wounds
a brighter-than-blood red.
But the fire of merthiolate
produced more misery
than the injury itself.
While civilian kids
were magically swabbed
with mercurochrome,
the military provided our parents
with the power of the flame thrower
in a little brown bottle,
along with instructions
on how to assure us
that germs were better killed
when thoroughly torched
with pain.

Steve Meador has been fortunate to find his work included in several journals, including: Wind, Boston Literary Magazine, Flutter, and Autumn Sky Poetry. His chapbook, A Good Sharp Knife, was released by Pudding House Publications, which will release Pack Your Bags later this year. He currently lives in the Tampa area, where he is a real estate broker.

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