Listen to the poem below.
His palms leave sweat next to the three drinks on my writing table.
One, once ice water, no longer with any ice, two, the coffee once hot,
without creamer, 2 pink sweet and low packets and 2 heaping
teaspoons of Ovaltine, now cold.
Pickup the old windup desk clock, force the gears backward to the
lean hours of January 2nd.
This takes a lot of wrist, makes sure the turn-screw cross-threads,
gets the gears temporarily stuck.
I put my finger in the spiral muzzle of the revolver.
Just before it …
Published in Issue 1
It was the middle of winter as I sat on a chartered bus along Heidelberg Street. It started to drizzle.
Detroit has great potential, I thought. It doesn’t matter if the automobile industry comes back with a vengeance or not. “There is something great here,” I said to Sara, an acquaintance traveling with me. “What, like the weather?” joked Sara. We were experiencing below-freezing temperatures.
As Sara pondered my thoughts, I looked out of the window at the dilapidated infrastructure and modern artwork. We were stationed in front of the Heidelberg Project, a creative …Read article
Listen to the poem below.
You see them too?
Those boygirls, leaning against the counter
as the coffee machine steams,
performing the art of waiting without
looking bored. They hold their shields tight
around their bodies, but
wear winged earrings, casing
the shell of their ears,
preparing for flight,
prepared for the call. Dressed in white shirts,
opened deep enough to see
the curves beneath, the bones
beneath, black skinny ties
necks like a trophy,
tight black jeans that suture the knees,
the hips, the ankles. Drinking
cup after cup of witch-thick black …
The atmospheric conditions are right, I guess:
something at any rate has scattered stars
of frost beneath a late night’s cloudless sky.
They flare and vanish as I walk the lawn
behind the dog. Perhaps he smells starlight
hidden beneath the bushes; urgent sniffs
that pause to classify the gathered data
mean to a dog – that it must sniff some more.
I know the feeling. Deep within the brain,
primeval snorts and sortings still go on,
processing night. Its mysteries. Its fangs
sudden, bright and final. Nothing to fear
from neighbors’ lights or distant highway sounds,
On highroads, highways, motor roads, motorways, no ways straight ahead, lift weights for dead ends. Brainwashed, over soaked, over cooked in microwaves, wiped out by surf waves all in disgust for their brainwaves. Over exposed and under educated, under cooked and over protected immature amateurs, above their heads and below the surface. Low income and high consumption, high esteem and low attraction for self defence, only interaction for social obsessions in all occasions they say yes. Yes to the hookers, yes to the pimps of no morals, no ethics or personal hygiene. No genes for high intelligence …Read article