Márton Koppány

The Aha Moment

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***

Stephen Ellis

Immortal

The moon, full

and orange at

the horizon,

out of an east

that has been

misplaced, rises

from a declivity

of pines, and pales

through the garment

of atmosphere

become thin. Maybe

the sky becomes

a trench in which

blood flows

upwards, as an orange

streetcar on

the rails of some

foreign city,

nothing I could have

expected, but

gradually brightening

with advice. If

you don't know in

what ways you've been

dislocated, don't just

stand there and apologize

on a telephone:

Suffer the evolution

and live with

the imagined slights,

looking to find

in the thing no longer

lost, the full

veins on the backs

of the hands of

another's experience.

***

***

Mark Prudowsky

Vacation Home

Among the four: the engineer, the contractor 

who built the home, a grader and her husband,

the wife listens. That the drainage be rebuilt 

and be rebuilt better all are of one mind. As to cause,

she considers if the reason the four don’t concur 

is that when one points a finger, three point back.

She also considers what the couple next door 

made of the cracks in the foundation stones 

enlarged by ice and what they made of the view

afforded by the west facing wall made up entire of glass

as the house slid off the ridge, turned on its back 

and traveled to its new home.

***

Rodadero Beach

Head on its paws in the heat of end-day,

the bitch I feed is nursing―maybe that

lean-to on the only parcel of sand not fronted by condos.

She feigns

neither disinterest nor sleep; well

mannered, she does not snap but

wraps gently the sausage, the a la plancha

in my hand in her mouth and returns

to her vigil of vendors as they shutter stalls;

tourists and teens half-eaten snacks

and the salt-wind being watched by the moon.

While the cops and drunks irritate one another

she’ll eat a last meal before she returns to her pups

and the dream in which she never waits.

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Márton Koppány

The Half Marathon

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Bob BrueckL

                              Doubloons of Unsynced Slabs of Boodle

 

 

 

                              A rictus of cursive faff grubs the splayed-out

                              mooch in the hinder parts of smote ennuye

                              wringing the dregs out of the squiggly

                              maneuvers.

 

 

                              Oaves of slime-flux bleed into the air like

                              swapt night-sweats sump-pumping the

                              homeobox of orrery boom-ba bone-meal:

                              my digit is frigid.

 

 

                              Antipudic moments, flutter-tonguing the

                              naked-muzzled, splat-quenching star-jelly,

                              ablaut the mammilated bladder-fiddle in the

                              homojunction.

 

 

                              Headlong belches wrench the tension in the

                              bippy clacker's stultifying simultaneity of

                              offish swoons degusting the craquelure's

                              zvook chich

 

 

                              Scut fus zatch ort flouts the cony flitch rife

                              with braided burps thumper-tucking the

                              agapic torple-emiction chumbling the

                              teetotaling smot.

 

 

                              Unsorted cracks of plunging necklines

                              outlast the isthmuses of miasmatically

                              argent squeeks flounching the unstuck dimps

                              dawing squeamishly.

 

 

                              Snippets of veneer, blobjects of dict,

                              unevenly engorged, puff up artifices of

                              encapsulated extrapolations overlapping the

                              mock-shade glorg.

 

 

                              Amurcous sordor moldavites the glairous

                              gladioli bespattering the septically imbecilic

                              slutch-coctions of the least deft ooid cooties'

                              ichor

 

 

                              Worped hyena butter wheedles the

                              flagitiously frowsty skanq jumentously

                              puddling the collapsed soufflé of my boubou

                              zelfportret headshot.

 

 

                              Olid eleisoning sook me off while fribbling

                              away the drat tard drut exposing the

                              scansion rind lilting flitchy strips of limpy

                              inoculations

 

 

                              Cowless twunts vacuole the nidorous goiters

                              egesting the cadaverine ludology gulching

                              the curdling screwpile of piecemeal head-

                              scratchers.

***

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Allen Bramhall

My Beth Poem to Whirled

The history of day is a poem itself. It tells the house to enfold and embrace. The topic sits with power 
merge with function clock. To be a person in the light, landing in the sense of land, includes the hand that says it 
hands. This is the thing, if love could attain, all along linking piecemeal. It can, and has all the time. 
All the time, that brusque moment. To embrace the house as love fills it, that's why we have hands. A time intended, 
and tended, with a well, out back: these are running statements, you and me. With arbours and bee hives and 
visual trees: an orchard for the time, and the bees: exactly all the bees in their nature.

A deer is an envy.

“Greensleeves” edifies.

A pond is a planet.


People hold hands, truly. A hand is a vast continent, and a love is still waters. The day is the history of
Monday, or fall, or mostly sunny (until night). Night is the prime nature of when night as a feature, in terms of 
light as the caldron of when light could be by, fulfills a dark feature. When night is a feature true to love, you 
are a word in love. So we inhale land, clouds, other clouds, and the place where we could place, ourselves. 
The day is inside and out of that. Language is the poetry in the language of that. That is what we want.

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Volodymyr Bilyk

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Felino A. Soriano

from Espials

40

            —after an image by Silvia Scheibli

spiraled hole

                         holy

inverted halo functionality:

placed

                                                by wind’s strongest finger

pulsating                      push                 ing

                                         until

night’s

vocal infatuations

blur into open-door

allowances

                          —light or when light’s hanker

connects

with a watching tree’s unobserved sobbing:

this azure

zigzag’s wholly

always                                                              away from

warming hands of the holding unnoticed, their (and our)

knotted hands’ efforts

blind by which culture’s Cyclops

contains

                        origami same-size abilities, their

pluralized efforts to

erect stone

amid stillness of need

                                                            we examine what is realized

watching death by hands, unholy

*

41

meditative acronyms

in the spelling of nuanced                    understanding

                                                 each

                                                                         stare/absorbs-stares

                        wandering, an eye

recalls an institutionalized watching/waiting

spectrum, delving then into formulating tear, its sear, strong, syllabic,

broken

down

             by altering emotional content, the text in isolated versions of spoken embarrassments

not yet

wilted or

by-then written the improvised living becomes cliché

sostenuto

within hands and their lined delineation

yours, theirs, ours, thus

subjective in the carrying of closed-eye

preparedness

*

64

arms and their purpose

                         nisus

              neoteric

pulsating

    promise

                                                             pluralized

                                      personal

reactionary

to the improvised

impersonations of undulating degrees of language and

the nostalgia of learning steps in the context

of movement’s

interrelated embraces

thus

                arms

and their

pluralized purposes           pleasing if                          reciprocation is the dual method of

engage configurations

*

65

watching the saddened crow

             curl away from the ambition of curating calls

 the

sudden

 alteration

altered, though thematic

in the range of rage from passive indication—

silence then

                         in the alphabet of solace’s anemic call to legs’ oscillating fulcrum

—this change

rearranges realms

and their ceiling cannot reuse its dangling embrace

             watching blurs become clarity in the context of internal infatuation

*

66

recessed                                   in the acclimation of tonal time-making

                                    mysteriousness

sorted synonyms

allowing for the function of fiction to suspend conversational

controversy

resaid

pluralized

informational, insinuating rarity of percentage’s hungry greed

this watching of movement engaging

ergonomic ease of the body’s positional clarity

             similar

 to the ongoing remedies

partitions create against openness of uncomfortable delusions suspend among a

range and direct running from self in the momentum of

age’s rearranging perspective

*

67

light’s italicized murmurs

making softened the whispering

gold of shallow homes of hallway

shadows

                          shine-shimmering

against oscillating home of

the ants’ architectural hiding

*

68

aired whisper-rhythm

             tossing

the small of it

                                     leaping

                         land-holding

feet the walking ensues within fragile

movement of oscillating practice, this            turnstile

of seasonal becoming

mores devour truth in the contextual

calmness all mothers interact with

physical admiration

             the

lengthening of elongated-already discoveries an

altruistic laughter of praise

vibratory subsequent echoes

arching near where

running hides into safe or

satisfying ending

*

69

interrogation of silence

             causational pause the

response s

                                     fall toward                 isolated fathoms of

imagination’s

inductive range of

immanent

isolation

*

70

recreated

                         (as in the fallacies of assumptions’ predetermined facsimiles

                                                or

                                                                         within the spectrum shadows’ silver

                                     aged

                         emblems

             embalmed in the rhythm of paused configurations)

moments engage wholeness’

systematic contributions, these

organic

  railways

walked                         wandered                   all tense in the yesterday of memory

overcoming lyrical tears

there

             slide of burning contours

recalling loss

and the gregarious gain of revelation, welcomed

*

39

fingers of woolen fog                                                  its

                                                                        dangling

                                                affirmations, aerial

                        layers

natural cultural identity

                                                             reaches                                   as when

Monday’s saddened entrance

hovers onto burgeon’s

undefined happenstance

veiled though known

and

             positioned

             to uncover ease of clarity’s amalgamated complacency

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