Virginie Colline

Coney Island Haiku

cotton candy haze

he rides down Memory Lane

merry kid again

(Photo: Bob Merco)

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Márton Koppány

Hello 

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Philip Byron Oakes

Looking Down

Polemic dandies emptying gestures of overtones 
pointing the way. Anecdotal circles felt full when
rounding off what could have been as much as if
it weren’t, a story with an end that doesn’t. 
Compound the peripheral with center staging 
journeys to the edge, of being within a distance 
prescribed as room to run no more. Tantamounted
on burly steeds, giving rides their chance to get 
somewhere while nowhere waits in the wings. 
Monumentally at risk of slipping through cracks, 
commemorating the fissures that opened whole 
worlds to a sinking feeling it’s true. A premonition 
in the residue turning time into treasure, at a 
distance stood still for the past to take its bow. 
Marginalizing a thoroughfare to having forgotten 
as a friend, with which to rely upon a future 
cracking backs and forth in the concrete world to 
come. The precipitous promise of a lean into a 
tomorrow one hurdle away from the likelihood 
of falling, into luck as the valley would have it. 

***

x 2

Duplicities one at a time till counted twice 
the weight allowed. Colloquial vittles stuffing
teddy bears on the laps of statues gone south 
for the winter. Due to be borne upon the 
backs baring burdens, for what they are as 
less the more they seem to be. Veritable 
horsemen riding stick ponies into the mind’s 
eye, on a monkey’s business climbing heights 
never to be heard from again. Clustered by 
halves cozied up to the whole, as meant to 
be what can’t be by virtue of two to the fore 
of the parade. Flabber gassing the trenches 
from well above it all. Juxtaposing for 
pictures wrought in single minded pursuit 
of the u-turns, down happy trails leading 
to belief in what comes with greetings 
from the box. 

***

Tapping 

Elliptically forthwith loosening feet 
foundered in step with legs lost to 
the dance. Piquant darlings of the 
aftertaste waxing nostalgic for the 
mouthful, lost to a flavor of silence 
as food for thought. Rambles 
through wrinkles in the time to be 
still for the dust to settle. 
Choreographed to last the falling 
into luck of the drawn upon, to 
make broken strides matter in 
gaits swung to clear the path
as integrally akin to where
it is it ends.

***
***

Eileen Tabios

TWICE, I FORGOT (1)

I forgot once longing for an intermission. But love is also a source of difficulty.
I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.



TWICE, I FORGOT (2)

I forgot the brother who gave me a rainbow trapped within enamel.
I forgot, for him, she released milk to orphaned baby birds.



TWICE, I FORGOT (3)

I forgot it was not a blood teardrop—simply, the last red pepper hanging from a 
string in front of a white wall.
I forgot soldiers whispering by a paltry stream, their eyes locked on the slimness 
of my ankles revealed through ripped cotton.



THRICE, I FORGOT (1)

I forgot moths as the sun disappeared—“the flutter of wings as they teased a dim 
porch light.”
I forgot entrancement with the layered auras of decay.
I forgot a water lily forms instantaneously.



THRICE, I FORGOT (2)

I forgot releasing breath solely to describe milk transformed by your scent.
I forgot Tequila Corazon de Agave alchemized from the heart of blue agave bred 
in the rich, red soil of the “Highlands” in Arandas, Jalisco, Mexico.
I forgot “Mutual Funds” is an oxymoron.



THRICE, I FORGOT (3)

I forgot the seduction of wet cobblestones.
I forgot the blinding whiteness of a thick porcelain mug sunning itself on your 
windowsill.
I forgot those dolls—for a moment, their eyes had relaxed.


***
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William Allegrezza

the dance

the water buffalo cried

as we fought, and though i

saw, i did not

let go as i should, as

we should.  the water

buffalo cried as we fought hard.

the tears were a

river through reeds, but i did

not let go, as

i should, as we all should.

***

we owe ourselves the act

i was told

assistance

is relief

so i carried handles

on a cart in the city

and all around people

were smiling and

the rain held off

events passed without

our notice

while on edges

they were waiting for help

with windows cracked

and lights left on.

***

Not Clairvoyant

you have fettered my hands,

and now i search the closet of hoaxes

for a way out.

i'm not clairvoyant, but i am

determined.

And though you

whisper over my shoulder about

the coming storms--the

smell of wind and rain, the darkened

sky, you are

afraid yet do not let me out

to help.

***

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Alan Sondheim

Paul Celan

I you, could Paul have Celan. saved I you, can't Paul imagine Celan. your can't I imagine could your have pain. saved Was when it I pain? read What you happened, I when wonder read you you Was wonder pain? if What speak sound at stupid all. here. sound I stupid have here. plumbed But could plumbed all. depths writing and you hate this writing when like won't this read won't I our radically ages unequal. would I'm be used radically to unequal. that, I'm it used and to our that, ages unequal not ages, much but else. not The much world else. is The hell. world radically is unequal hell. ages, No has one been will wrought know on what this has planet. been I wrought know on No planet. will everything awaits awaits slaughter. slaughter. I slaughter is painful and nothing asked asked this for wager. wager. waits Everything for waits the the has curtain often fall, the often bidding bidding else. of We something curtain We fall, no So control you over would this. have So to accept control It it evening not here evening where is are. here If and leave is earth evening either. you You leave must the like, evening, lack night evening, which night it into is which like, cosmos It descends. does Or for does you it. and me Or there waiting are for others eternity. waiting They eternity. not They have wait There that are long. technologies There at technologies for work who those that who long. means slaughter. escape never never you live have or did live. and did does my I mind live. let my escape. condemns At me. condemns not me. let wrote escape. so At mundane understand a me. style. I understand you mean you could. you. only only meet meet you. you save is full am possibility. could am you. sure The can given still I given I time. can time I change I things. can I. I changes things. things I none I happen. will write either.

I could have saved you, Paul Celan. I can't imagine your pain.
Was it pain? What happened, when I read you I wonder if you
could speak at all. I sound stupid here. But I have plumbed
depths and I hate writing you like this when you won't read it and our ages would be radically unequal. I'm used to that,
radically unequal ages, but not much else. The world is hell.
No one will know what has been wrought on this planet. I know
everything awaits slaughter. I know slaughter is painful and
nothing has asked for this wager. Everything waits for the curtain to fall, often at the bidding of something else. We
have no control over this. So you would have to accept this.
It is evening here and it is not evening where you are. If you leave the earth it is not evening either. You must know
what it is like, this lack of evening, this night into which
the cosmos descends. Or does it. It does for you and me but
there are others waiting for eternity. They will not have to
wait that long. There are technologies at work for those who
have the means to escape slaughter. They never live where you
live or where I live. But you did not escape and my mind does
not let me escape. At night my mind condemns me. I wrote so
mundane a style. You understand me. I mean you would if you
could. If I could only meet you. If I could only meet you I
could save you. The world is full of possibility. I am sure
I can save you still if I am given time. If I am given time
I can change things. I I I I I. I can changes things and none
of this will happen. I will not write this either.

I you, imagine Celan. your I pain. can't you when wonder read if you could I plumbed But when you won't this it used and to used radically to unequal. that, I'm radically world world much is else. hell. The know No this been planet. wrought painful know has for for nothing waits this the Everything to else. at to the fall, something the We of this. no would this. accept would not and evening it are. evening If where You not must evening what night of like, night of into evening, which this It Or does does me for will for are that those at who work slaughter. means They to live slaughter. live my But where escape you my not mind escape me so night me my escape. mind At wrote condemns so me. You mundane me. style. If you meet I only If you. sure The could world save am of sure possibility. save time given if time I can and things I none changes write I

I could have saved you, Paul Celan. can't imagine your pain. Was it pain? What happened, when read you wonder if speak at all. sound stupid here. But plumbed depths and hate writing like this won't our ages would be radically unequal. I'm used to that, unequal ages, but not much else. The world is hell. No one will know what has been wrought on planet. everything awaits slaughter. slaughter painful nothing asked for wager. Everything waits the curtain fall, often bidding of something We no control over this. So accept It evening here where are. If leave earth either. You must like, lack evening, night into which cosmos descends. Or does it. me there are others waiting eternity. They wait that long. There technologies work those who means escape never live or live. did my mind let escape. At condemns me. wrote so mundane a style. understand mean could. only meet you. save full possibility. am sure can still given time. time change things. I. changes things none happen. write

write me.

***

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Halvard Johnson

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Joseph Somoza

Living Theater

The sprinkler continues sending out its
arcs of gleaming water that
gravity converts to puddles.
It’s like a story being told, 
like the hero stories sung 
continuously the thirty nights of Ramadan.
A fly lands on a sunny portion
of my notebook as I’m writing,
sitting in my yard in the denim shirt I wore
waiting on a bench for the museum
to open in Madrid after we had had
tostadas with café con leche—
          years ago,
which translates to a million moments
such as this, each one a link to then,
          and then. 
“And then?” the storyteller 
pauses for effect, 
unlike the way the story actually
unfolds, 
each fold releasing all its secrets 
naturally, necessarily, 
without melodrama.

***

Out of Order

Because we weren’t tired, I guess,
we got up, dressed, 
and drove through the dark town
to have breakfast. 
It was the time to be tired in this 
middle-class town. The owners 
of the cars that would’ve been 
crowding the streets were still 
sleeping. A homeless man rested his
head next to his coffee cup at IHOP
when we walked in. Even the one
waitress told us how tired she was,
working the graveyard shift.
The coffee she poured to “warm up”
our coffee wasn’t 
any warmer. You’d think you could get 
coffee hot on a cold night, especially when
paying two dollars for it. 
But the waitress knew the night 
was for sleeping. Who were we 
making demands, disturbing 
the town’s rest at 5 a.m.?

***
***

Charles Taylor

Grand Theft Auto

Vampire is drawn to the medieval gothic churches with the skeletons in glass cases lovingly draped with jewels and with thin chains made of gold placed along the outside stone walls. Vampire always picks a quiet time in the church, a time when the shadows are thick in the sanctuary.

Will the skeletons miss their gold and gems? Vampire does not think so, and doubts there are surviving relatives who will notice. Vampire has an excellent glasscutter and they can’t put together a life on blood alone.

This one needs a new pair of shoes. The old ones were nicked up by pigs, plus, during his down time, Vampire likes to waste hours and hours playing video games. He wants the new version of “Grand Theft Auto.”

***

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Anny Ballardini

Harmony leads to music, Bach’s variations, an organ

  

Harmony leads to music, Bach’s variations, an organ

In vertical sounds ascending in invisible lines

Grace falling from above in waves made circular by a dome.

Hahnemann’s Organon heals in a like-suffering way

     -- you perceive harmony if you are harmony --

Harmony leads to music, Bach’s variations, an organ.

Linearly dignified like clear light – suffused like twilight,

Silvery stream water rushing the length of vivid shivers,

Grace falling from above in waves made circular by a dome.

Intuitions fear the distancing from quivering light,

The anguishing detachment from ethereal faithful gods,

Harmony leads to music, Bach’s variations, an organ.

All colors struggle to merge with and emerge from the dark,

Steiner’s fires echo Rimbaud’s colorful disruptive associations,

Grace falling from above in waves made circular by a dome.

Each note tuned in chorale preludes and fugues

From a cold European North and with Dylan Thomas

Harmony leads to music, Bach’s variations, an organ:

Grace falling from above in waves made circular by a dome.

***

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David Howard

Away

            "They fly forgotten, as a dream"

                 --Isaac Watts, Our God, Our Help

Morning’s cornstalk topples into that charcoal-pit

afternoon. She slept beside the river, dreamt

men were happy, their women were not

unhappy. You read this because I have gone

ahead, there are no banks, only water-swirl

and one Amazonian lily, open

so the sky can fall into it night after night.

***

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Ali Znaidi

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J.P. Dancing Bear

Scaramouch

“…it seemed that the scaramouch in question had  gained a wonderful 

ascendancy over almost everybody in the

Jeroboam…”

                                                —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

 

            Punch: What have got there, sir? …In your hand?

Scaramouch:  A fiddle.

                                                —The Tragical Comedy

 

The sky breaks apart and of what falls,

scatters, becomes the sea, cheered on

: a fanfare of sails flapping.

You cannot remember the tail splashing

water : evaporated into a cloud :

you throw your hands up to the sky

: so certain of His work. 

Your body is clown white : your heart

: the moon rising

from the ocean’s side, wrapped

in three missing pages from your bible,

yellowing with age. 

 

You are God’s comedian though

only the gulls ever laugh. 

What's left to you : memories

: bread from another life :

a beaten dog : years training

the fiddle.

 

The waves are alive : sparkling

dark wraiths : greener than your

envy : fear whispers : crew is

creaking planks : you no longer

listen : too busy preaching : spin

the gospel : slap the cross :

book slam hand : a lapping ocean. 

Forget the stars : Callisto eyeing

the north : forget cruelty : scar

and mended bone : aching

with the change of weather.  

 

You are the Chosen : Messenger : 

Puppet of the pulpit.  Leave fishwives

to their gossipy shores : God still punishes

: flesh of the flesh of one apple.  Think not

of happiness : of pleasure : flog it

out of your mind : let the tempests

wash it away : you know you’ve always been

right.

 

The gulls punch through cumulous

musings of the Lord : hover-cry

parablic tragedies over men :

O thrown shadow : O harlequin

: no one heeds your warning :

soon they’ll beg to repent

: throw your dagger words :

curse the captain :  his ship  

to the white, angry tongue of God

***

***

Charles Taylor

Pigs

What do I know about pigs? You might ask, said Vampire. Well, I am not always in immediate need of blood—or chasing humans. My first acquaintance with pigs was on a family farm in Illinois, where the pigs kept chasing m,e wanting to sniff and playfully nip at my leather shoes.

Perhaps they picked up on some wonderful smell left over from the curing of the leather, which neither humans or vampires are able to pick up. Pigs’ noses are much longer and thicker, like dogs, and no doubt much superior at detecting odors. I had to laugh at the situation, a pack of pigs after a vampire just beginning to experience the rumblings of hunger in the belly.

Farms are generally far from the law and from prying eyes—good places for vampires to operate. Well, I didn’t get any supper that night, but I did begin my long love affair with those smart and social animals we have misnamed pigs.

I knew a pig once that lived on a lovely beach in Mexico. I have a photograph of him singing to the full moon, which he did often. Pigs are stuffed in small pens and left to defecate on themselves. A pig’s skin is highly sensitive and often lacks shade. They are forced to cover themselves in mud to protect their pink skin from horrible sunburn.

Whenever I’m working a farm, after I’ve supped, I will always set pigs free from their pens. I can see in their eyes a gratefulness, and love to watch them move into the fields under the wide stars, noses to the ground, searching out squash, cucumbers, green beans—whatever crops they can find.

***

The Dreams Do Come

A beast holds Poet upside down with a hand so large the creature can wrap his fingers around Poet’s two ankles. The beast is eyeballing Poet, and with a heavy machine manipulated carefully, removing, with tiny tweezers, all Poet’s eyelashes.

When the beast is done he’ll return Poet to his metal cage at Plato 666, the metal barn of steel cages where poets are stacked one on top of another. The poets can get their heads through their cages’ bars, and eat from a conveyor belt carrying scraps of meat and vegetables sweeping slowly before them.

The beasts do the eyelash plucking every six months, when the poets’ lashes have grown fully back. Still, Poet is as scared, as a child petrified by an imaginary monster under the bed. Poet doesn’t know for sure what his eyelashes get used for, but he suspects they get crushed into a light oil that’s needed for the miniature gears in Nano robots. Lashes are too small for stuffing—the elder down that’s plucked from living geese to put inside pillows.  The beasts are convinced that the eyelashes of poets make the finest oil, as a result of the poet’s sensitivity.

The poet’s worried because he does not know how long, with all the plucking, his lids will hold together to create more lashes. If they fail the poet could get chopped up and cooked up like chicken friend steak--or killed and tossed into the trash, to be buried underground to ferment into agricultural fertilizer.

On the other hand, the poet has never felt so important.

***

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Sue Beere

A Matter of Time


Scene: The interior of a train. LIGHTS come up FULL on Woman seated next to the 

window, her hat on the seat next to her. A MAN enters.

 MAN

Excuse me, but is this your hat? 

WOMAN

Yes, it is.

MAN

 (picking it up)

Really quite a remarkable hat. A friend of mine had a hat something like that once. She 

was a tap dancer, liked to do "Tea for Two." You know that song. It goes:

(singing and dancing)

 Picture you upon my knee

 Tea for two and two for tea

 Me for you and you for me

 alone.

(moving towards her and more seriously)

 Nobody near us to see us or

 hear us

 (stops singing)

and so on. Yes. Really a most remarkable hat. I think I know where they make these. I 

think I visited the place. It was in the country. There were young girls working there. 

Sewing on the beads, making flowers. They were very young. It was hot. It was summer. 

Some had taken off their dresses and were working in their slips. I remember watching 

their soft round arms moving slowly at their work. I could see the outlines of their breasts 

through the thin cotton. They were half naked--because it was so hot you see. They were 

half naked. (Pause) Quite a voluptuous brim.

WOMAN

Oh, it's just a hat. It's the hat I always wear when I travel. Because if I lean my head back 

(Their eyes meet) ....

If I lean my head back against the cushions of the chair...then it's the kind of hat that 

doesn't get crushed. That is, it does get crushed but it doesn't matter if it gets crushed. 

You just puff it out again...very easily...and it goes right back to its original shape. It 

resumes its original shape.

MAN

Yes. (Pause) My hat is different . Rather expensive. Imported from Russia. So cold in 

that little town. so cold, that sometimes in the winter when there isn't any wood to make 

fires, to keep warm, the peasants--very simple people--dig holes under their houses and 

huddle there together. It's very dark, deep down there, very snug and happy and warm--

usually: But sometimes something happens between them--a man and a woman perhaps 

and then they struggle and fight and tear at each other in their frenzy. (Pause) Sometimes 

I don't wear my hat.

WOMAN

I see you're wearing it today.

MAN

Yes, I'm wearing it now. I wear it when want to. I want to wear it now.

WOMAN

Will you be coming to your stop soon? Will you be getting off?

MAN

No. No, I'll be going the whole way.

WOMAN

It's not very crowded, is it? The train.

MAN

No. It's less crowded than it was before. Soon there won't be anyone left-- except us, of 

course.

WOMAN

Yes.

MAN

No, no one left. The further on you go the less crowded it gets.

WOMAN

Then it's just a matter of time, isn't t?

MAN

Yes.

(BLACKOUT)

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