Three Poems

by Ben Nardolilli

Collagraph Hill

A code is tabled up in the sky that we live out,

Bright suns of night mixed with the stretches

Of days which only shadows occupy,

Against the brick walls we rest or plot or scream

In accordance with the symbolism that drifts

Over the cracked horizon of our buildings’ decline.

Certain days we find full support and open streets,

With doors that are capable of moving aside

Through the expert notions of our knives,

Red reigns violently and we pay tribute with kicks

And slammed trashcans rolling in the alleys,

The moon then contributes its neon to our delinquency.

Sky, save us from the lull which brings stagnation,

Drags us coughing down the sidewalks

And across privately owned panels of hardwood,

Whatever is up there signaling, break the code

To keep the lights burning for each hour,

All the lightning you can manage for us, send it down.



Raku Rare

 
Trying to make something out of this moonlight,

Since the orb produces no music like a speaker,

I find blue seas, fallen skies, atmospheres

Down on their luck and pending for a renewal,

I notice a halo and see a face in between

The trees unable to show its features over branches.


All I can offer is a knot that bends into itself,

In love with its own dark complications,

A composition reaching out for illusions of space

But really just making more loops for itself

To keep whatever spirit it possesses

From leaking out through the grand gutter ahead.

 

Planes of movement are closed off bus routes

Are being carved out of the darkness,

The pearl in the sky gives off enough of a glare 

To show me where the sidewalks begin

And where there are spaces to walk with no cars

Trying to shake the asphalt under me into pieces.




Days of Morning

 

We lay our ribcages down side
By side and stare up at the ceiling,
Like ships docked in place,
We are ready to receive the cargo

Of a new day which cracks a dawn
Across the eggshell white
Maximum height of the shared room,
One day we may call this a cell

Look, but more importantly, listen,
I treat my time with you as a donation
Towards a more permanent union
And an American lung association.

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Margot Goldbach

By Raquel Wasserman

 

How she wished he would come back
my man come back please
The sound of Motown on their stereo
Before she birthed anyone or turned 30
Just the two of them, two 1970’s renegades
She, a writer for the Voice
He, a scientist at CUNY
Dancing in their mustard yellow living room
To Jr Walker’s band
This was Alphabet City, brother
Wine everywhere, beer on the rickety sofa, scotch, bourbon
Couples in the corner
Can we have more to drink?
And her screeching over the record
Out!!  You weirdos!

Yes, she saw now, how she out-scaled Talos
In much the way a grown Alice would leave her mentor
Alice inspired Lewis Carroll’s book
Her photos now a misty black and white
Girls made life easy
And in being chosen by Lewis the girls were someone for a minute or two
Girls in the girly sense
Before he discarded them for their hips and womanhood
Never bitter and never old
Forever an artist’s art
Forever a rose petal dream 

Margot was ethereal too
Writing the river blue prose he could never find and she was paid for
And still Margot crept to Talos’s side at night after a late party
Like a deceitful t-shirted kitten
A Pretty Lady
and enfolded her paper pale arms into Talos’s perfect Greek handsomeness
Her Lewis who would never leave her (even if Talos did). 

Her looks stood somewhere in the glowing hippie vicinity of Carol King
The ache of her croaky voice, her pretty frizzy blonde brown hair
Beautiful hair
But that beak that would never be perfect, but was in its way adorable
And Talos was the perfect knockout:
strong chin, dark hair, lush caterpillar eyebrows
the male mold of handsome. 

Break me, she thought
The two of them so good looking
And she trusted with the trust of a teenager. 

The girls.
He chose them because they were choose-able
Girls all in row, near the garden hedge
A profundum of teenage girls with pigtails and starched dresses to pale rounded kneecap
Their beauty obvious
Every one nice as pie
Lewis’s ingenues 

Fitting Talos would leave her for the raven haired girl that watered their plants
Opening like the orchid for him, and he opened liked the rain.
The ache she felt like no other ache. 

It bit into Margot until she had to close the door.
She wrote one note and posted it by the lock
Goodbye, My Grand Corruptor
You selfish piece of shit
She could not hold back her fury
And wondered why the wicked witch got no words
No nothing
Not next to Snow White or Alice or Lola
Who was always perfectly beautiful
Always, just as they were.

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Four Poems

by Michael Prihoda

next

another bag of garbage
taken to the basement
and I —conveniently—
forget what happens
next.

the big nothing

easy as I left.
until my hand
brushed
the center console
without finding yours
and my eyes
kept crossing paths
with the odometer
counting larger
and larger numbers
until I began
to understand
how big
this (only beginning) nothing
could be

chewing

apathy in the face
of a chewing llama.
he could eat
as well as not
and we could live
as well as not,
nihilism rampant
as our cracking eyes
wake slow from
self-imprisonment

the reason for our forty million fantasies

prolonged
interest
in what
doesn’t exist
because it
cannot
disappoint
us

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zeus cried for victory

by Winifred Harms

zeus cried for victory
while i was lying on the grass
dreaming of rendezvous
the quintessential moments
of my youth
floated with the wind
to a place i would never touch
so here i began my quest
my diabolical plan for
freedom
when life goes on reading
like a parable
along the way i ponder
the essence of beginnings
and play with words
on my tongue
the phrases you used
in our time
this goes on like fiction
torn from the pages of fate

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Two Poems

by Spencer Nix

Half-WiTT/2

So time yields itself to a plane.
     Have we drawn numbers so close and many,
to estimate its place in our minds,
where measurements taper off into a length at least somewhat adequately divine.
Form no opinion except bare foreboding
     where the littlest heads build themselves
Cages to have championships in.
Of course they all win, win, win, they're staring at an idol
in a spitting image of self-provoked imagination.

Where
          nothing
                       In itself,
finds all
Things
living
In.

-Untied

 

Nowhere.

+

May Pine trees grow from granite and thistle from light.
I am far from a center,
Make moon shape us a star path.
            
             May we walk in energy.
    Propel ourselves against space,
        cloudless and inconsistent
                    but in single
                     forward order
             recurring for a second infinite time.

    Picture perfect
      and Frameless.

                                 South Nowhere-

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