Issue Three September 2009
Six poems by Simon Perchik
Even the sun is terrified
hiding from stars :kisses
that refire the moon
-you will think it's morning
this time for good, the moonlit breeze
lifting its great shadow
as in that story where a boy
and his carpet or words
windblown on some yellowing, torn page
-you will squint, your heart
carry the blizzard under each breath
under you lips
-you will think you're flying
pulling from your lips
handfuls where weeds
crack open steep cliffs
to refill the lightning bolt in your back
-you'll think it's air
breathe in these stars
let the sun come back
only to rest, some shade
not too high, behind the yard
and trees unraveling to snow.
You will bandage the sun
with your shadow
lift its darkness too weak now
to even lean under your shoulder
-you kiss! higher, so high these stars
as a snowdrift stamping its feet
that once were yours
and stone. And dancing.
And from all that light
you spill out a knife
and the sun which never took root
lies still for the wound
refills the sky, the kiss
the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss and kiss.
*
Torn and its fur
licking the frost on these buttons -my coat
as a trapper still reaching in
drags off my sleeves to where they kneel
and snow rotted into dust
falls forever through the house
-who can crawl and not heart that howl
that paw snap upright from primordial ice
for the first time against the thin Earth
the knock that would follow forever
-from habit I slam this door
closed, open
as if the ice could loosen
and this coat swimming through the hinges
disappears into the ceiling, the water
that was sacred, from above :a ceiling
still white :the snow
shaken loose, crawling away
-from habit I flick the switch
as if the ice could melt
replace each bulb with another
filled with light from beams
once sweet to drink, so low
and falling -I lick my coat
kneel in its cage
that smells like a mask, like my breath
bubbling over waters, like thorns.
Nothing drinks. Not even my arms.
Not the wood, not even the oceans
that had room for me.
*
The plumage in this narwhal's side
lifts as every birth tangled in water
bleeds from a place it's not wanted
-one feather left
splashing and splashing, the sea
dead, drifting, all these waves
torn from one gill
-night after night a breath
so huge in my chest
and the Earth rolling on its side
bloated with air and pain.
Choking almost helps.
I carry this enormous breath
back to its sea, its silt again
then rise into moonlight :tides
trying to revive these waves
as if underneath all wings
there are no roots and water now
weighs less :the whale
tumbles each night closer
circling to gather speed
and its blood
as streams will wither
on the mountain inside
-in this darkness
everything is red :the moon
floating away or I cough
or walk like a sunrise
-again that birth :the sky
chased from my side and emptying.
*
Nothing enters painlessly, the Earth
chucks up our hubcaps, puddles, rust
as mothers long ago learned
--we are taught to kiss
with our mouth closed, to hear
their dark, bent
and the creak we cannot see
unrolls the Earth
the crushed lullabies, mufflers
and evenings
--I'm hauling this sun
back into the ground
into an ocean never heard before
--carting a light that wouldn't wait
whose first breath came from this dark
and the last, half asleep, again
carried down in my arms.
*
The cots, the stove, the crew
unclaimed in this Nissen hut :my mailbox
between twelve more :a camp
ditched, the road too narrow, curved
from rain and letters home, tissue thin
too weak to lift my lips, my slow
wide, rippling sweep
crumpled to tin, its great arc
now eyes and claws and thirst, the flag
soaked in blood, waving where it fell.
People I don't know send letters
promising to lose. I've already won!
A SOUTHERN CAPE FOR TWO that couldn't wait
printed on the envelope --my hangar's
full. Too many capitals and these stamps
each day heavier :monuments
defaced the first time up
tenacious as fly paper
--I can't separate the mail
just by calling out, every name
sounds as if mine at some briefing
we agreed the last one left
a prize that sounded more like laughter
--the letters too heavy now :a heap
as clouds still gather each evening red
--the last carrying their dead
to the pile :every sky
waiting on my table to be sent home
as a flower reaching into the world
or letters with my name outside.
*
No hardhat and this stubborn doctor
too close, my heart
battering his head --his timid fingers
knocking to unearth from my chest
the great cave, the fire that listens
for flesh --he collects and keeps a chart
slants is pencil-thin light
writes on my eyes
something I want forgotten
--without a rope, the light
lowered through my throat.
He says my breath is still in place
warm from human sacrifice.
He asks how old I am
and my heart by milliliters
is carried off on a tray
as if a wince could tell
what blood was like in ancient times
the blood that always saw me naked
the blood long before the Earth
began to beat :the avalanche
still gushing out my arms
my colors and perfumes.
This doctor's used to snapping nerves
with pointed hammers and whisk brooms
--he digs bareheaded, uncovers
the murmur stone by stone :so many deaths
for one brief grave :my heart
as sometimes an old school song
and the soft drizzle that was a name
before his cold fingers, the fierce cough
he tells me to try.
***
The Reading of Mr Edgar's Will
By Gavin Broom
My beloved Sonia,
Be assured, my darling, that for each mile that now separates us, my love for you grows ever stronger. However, it is my safest assumption and my saddest recognition to suggest that if your feelings do not already sway most violently from my own, they surely will once you have consumed the details of this missive.
The asylum offers neither entertainment nor distraction and I fear that if this letter provides nothing in the way of catharsis, its writing may become my final act before my wits abandon me. Forgive me for burdening you with the events which unfolded at the reading of Mr Edgar's will in such an uninvited manner, but I feel it paramount that you know the truth from my own hand.
As you are aware, following Mr Edgar's passing, I was briefly appointed to investigate, log and otherwise account for his estate. This assignment remained lukewarm on my desk when Mr Butler insisted he would take personal care of the necessary. While a senior partner taking interest in a simple dispersal of assets struck me as out of the ordinary, it would have slipped my mind had my initial scrutiny not discovered that Mr Edgar left no spouse, no dependents, no testament of his wishes, and yet had the accumulated riches of the Commonwealth.
My simmering intrigue boiled over that Tuesday morning when Mr Elisnore summoned me into Mr Butler's office and notified me of my duty to serve as witness to the reading of a certain Mr Edgar's will!
Perhaps detecting some uncertainty, Mr Butler offered me a cognac, which I accepted despite the early hour for no other reason than to steady my errant nerves. As we quaffed, he insisted (and it became clear that this insistence was for my sole benefit as Mr Elisnore remained silent and disinterested throughout) that he and Mr Edgar had been close acquaintances and over the years, they had together financed many entrepreneurial exploits and follies throughout our fine State. Included in such were a series of pamphlets and periodicals, which contained tales of outrageous horror and debauchery and had been cause for much of Mr Edgar's wealth, thanks to the Godlessness of our age. You are surely in no need of persuasion that I'm a dying breed who still fears his maker and I politely rejected perusal of said devilish pornography.
Pleasantries concluded, we proceeded to business; namely the dispersal of Mr Edgar's considerable assets. Without shame, Mr Elisnore pronounced from a last will and testament which common sense contended must have been drafted post mortem.
I feared my senses bedazzled from the cognac when the sole beneficiary of Mr Edgar's worldly belongings, monies and bonds was announced as none other than Mr Butler! Surely the partners were in cahoots!
Vehemence generated from the soles of my feet and radiated through my being as matters took an unimaginable dive into the realms of the netherworld.
With the air still rank with this orchestration, a decaying corpse contributed to the atmosphere when it crashed through Mr Butler's window. Sonia, I swear by the Almighty, a vigorous cadaver joined us -- the walking undead, if you will -- and if that were not extraordinary enough, I became convinced that we were presented with the reanimated earthbound remains of Mr Edgar himself!
Maggots, worms and all manner of subterranean multitudes dripped from his robes, mouth, nose and hair, falling like rancid dew from decomposing flora. His pallor and stench induced a sickness in my soul, such that I have never experienced before or since.
Terrorised under the spell of instinct, I collapsed into a corner and watched as his larynx danced like a bewitched Mexican Bean through the perforations in his diseased neck. Pointing a scaly finger, he swore a terrible curse towards Messrs Butler and Elisnore, condemning them to Hades for such treachery.
With both senior partners paralysed by the zombie's curse, the late Mr Edgar proceeded to molest their bodies in a manner only matched in its viciousness by the debauchery of this assault upon nature itself.
Eyeballs were plucked like peas from a pod, burst and devoured with a vile salivation. Their abdominal cavities were torn asunder and their hissing viscera feasted upon. It makes me nauseous to recall, but recall I must if I am to rid this image from my brain, that their endowments were gleefully harvested from their groins and used to defile, then finally choke, their very windpipes.
I remained in my foetal posture while this furious attack played towards its conclusion, leaving the floor and wall coverings festooned with blood, entrails, effluence and many other unidentifiable juices. Were it not for the horror that had unravelled before me, I confess I would have been astonished further when an exhausted Mr Edgar offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet. With a hideous smile and the stench of Satan's hellhounds, he hugged me as though I were an old friend and then kissed me full on the mouth. Sadly, the local constabulary and subsequently a court of my peers refused to accept this account as the rationale for my bloodied condition upon my discovery and subsequent arrest. Neither were they convinced by my assertion that Mr Edgar annotated his own corrupted will to leave me as sole beneficiary of his estate.
The undead Mr Edgar bade me farewell before bounding unseen from the office and beating a retreat into the Charles where I presume the current carried him off to become flotsam of the Atlantic. Mere yards into following his trail, I was overpowered and apprehended.
My Sonia, if I am to take some comfort from this episode it would be the confirmation of an afterlife of sorts. Doubtlessly, our paths shall cross again, in the next world if not in this, and so until madness consumes me, I shall pray that on that day, my love may not be so unrequited. Fear not.
Yours forever,
Howard
***
Seven Poems by Donal Mahoney
Married Man Shy
Of her eyes
and of her hair
I have been
aware one year
but I have said
no more than
I’ll be gone
all afternoon,
take all calls,
all messages.
*
The Wife
On the way home from work
I buy the last honeydew
in the window at Meyers.
Tonight the wife
will cut it in half
and with elbow bent
scoop the pulp
like ice cream
from the golden shell.
She will savor its juices
as I do the cherries
on the sundaes of her breasts.
*
The Whole Thing Over With
From her side of the bed
the wife suggests he get dressed,
go out in the night, and
purchase a piece. She’s
not in the mood. Or
if he must, he can
go ahead, stick it in,
shoot it off, and get
the whole thing over with.
She doesn’t care any more
where he pours it
so long as he’s quiet
and doesn’t wake the kids.
Too tired to dress,
he sticks it in, explodes,
rolls off, finally spent.
Maybe now the beasts
that never creep
within his crosshairs
will finally get some sleep.
*
Ritual
It is not the position,
not the money,
not the opportunity.
It is breakfast
with my steaming tea,
my rolls,
my periodicals,
my wife pouring, buttering, keeping quiet,
my shower, towel, shirt and tie,
my selection of that tie, and
that tie’s winding,
my good-bye.
*
Let Her Bloom
The first time a man meets her,
his lids flicker,
an appropriate reaction.
The first time a woman meets her,
her eyes pop out and coil on her forehead,
another appropriate reaction.
Who can blame either?
Today, who buys the canard
about the true, the good, the beautiful
in theory or in a woman?
Let them watch her as I did.
Let them frisk her for flaws
that will allow them to live
as they are, as they were,
as I was when I met her.
Till then, let her bloom
with my children
while I wonder, I try.
*
An Irish Enclave
South Side of Chicago,
long before Barack Obama
On bungalow porches
and out in backyards,
on hot summer evenings
they lower themselves
into green canvas chairs,
smoke and sip beer,
laugh and relive
Easter, 1916
and plot what they’ll do
when the niggers pour in
and eddy all over
the dregs of their city.
*
Dr. Donohue
If you can't believe Dr. Donohue
in his syndicated column
when he addresses matters medical,
then "whom," as my mother
would have said, "can you believe?"
Fair enough, I thought.
And so when recently he told
a reader not to worry
even though her "stools float,"
I took comfort.
Apparently, she had elsewhere read
floating stools are symptomatic
of a strange condition often dangerous.
I hope Dr. Donohue is right
because if he's not I've got a problem.
Not all my stools float, but the lunkers do.
And what if on a given day a lunker leaps
like a dolphin capering in a Florida bay
and crashes against my bathroom ceiling?
What do I do then, Doc, duck?
***
Boredom
By Jacqueline Hand
Just sit me under the wheel barrow
at the bottom of the garden.
What is that sound a leaf, an animal,
the curiosity pecks at my brain.
But you, when you write,
you just bore me with my own thoughts.
Don't bother me, go away,
join the freak show where people
can stop and stare at your secretness
just showing that little bit.
Who hides behind that graying mask ...
you know, the one you bore me with.
Hush now, be gone, don't bother me no more .
If your mind has stilled and become my echo,
I don't need to hear it no more .
The boredom is too much ... perhaps I've bored myself ...
no , my echo that has become you ... amuse me or be gone ...
***
The Swank of Rare, White Swans
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
I prefer to take my swank
From rare, white swans,
Cluttering corporate lawns
Against executive wishes.
Garden muck smells best
When hoed with hay, clay,
Plus oak leaves,
If it’s autumn.
Otherwise, the columbine shrinks
Against the acid
Of too many raptors
And friendly foxes.
If I gave you a bouquet
Of violets, forget-me-knots,
Dandelions, rue and pansy,
Would you eat them?
***
There's a Killer in the House
By Rick McQuiston
Paige just couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, it clung to her like a bad hairdo. The day had been a long one, peppered with a wide variety of problems and she was quite exhausted.
Jerry Fizzeral, the creepy guy who was stationed in the cubicle next to hers, had been fired that morning for using his computer to research how to make pipe bombs of all things. The management staff zeroed in on it pretty quickly and when he was confronted he merely stated that it was a hobby that he was interested in.
A hobby? Pipe bombs? Who did he think he was kidding?
In any event he was let go immediately and received a stern warning not to come back onto the property, even to get his last check. They told him they would mail it to him.
To say she was relieved he was gone was a vast understatement. Just the thought that she wouldn't have to see those beady little eyes or that crooked smile again was cause for celebration.
And that was just one of the interestingthings that had happened during her day.
On her way home she had stopped to get her dry cleaning and who of all people did she run intoher beloved ex-boyfriend Sam. He strolled into the store and sauntered right up next to her. He had claimed that he was just picking up his clothes but she knew the real story. He had stalked her before. Fortunately for her he didn't follow her when she quickly departed the store.
And then there was the weirdo who had followed her car practically to her own driveway. He had tailgated her in his big, black truck while sporting a grin that sent chills down her spine. She contemplated calling the police but he hadn't actually done anything, at least not yet.
When she walked in her front door she felt like she was going to collapse. All she wanted to do was flop in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of tea.
There's a killer in the house.
The unsettling phrase crept into her mind, refusing to relinquish its hold on her imagination.
Was she being watched?
She didn't think so, but one could never be sure. She lifted her cup of Lemon-Ginseng tea out of the microwave and settled down in front of the fireplace. The flames crackled and popped, radiating their warmth into the room.
There's a killer in the house.
It was no use. No matter how hard she tried to relax she couldn't ignore the feeling she was having. The best thing to do would be to make sure there was no one in the house with her. She set her cup of tea down on the coffee table and pushed the afghan off of her lap.
And then she hesitated.
She had neglected to turn on any lights before she had sat down and now the house was brimming with shadows, even though it was still fairly early.
The irrationality of being so frightened in her own home weighed heavy on her mind. She was a grown woman, independent and intelligent. She owned her own house, a new car and had a moderately sized investment portfolio. There was no reason to be afraid, none whatsoever.
There's a killer in the house.
Except for that.
That and the movement she thought she detected in the guest bathroom at the end of the hallway.
It was difficult to steady her nerves, much less face her fears but she had to do it, what other choice did she have?
Was it that creep Fizzeral? Did he find out that she had been the one who had told on him at work? Maybe he had gotten her address from the computers before he left and was waiting for her to get home. Who knows what terrible things he had planned for her. She could just picture those beady eyes and that crooked smile sneering at her in the shadows.
She picked up the fireplace poker and held it out in front like a sword.
Who's there? she called out. I'm armed and able to defend myself !
But there was no reply.
Without thinking she rushed straight to the bathroom and flicked on the light.
It was only a towel that was hanging in the path of the heat register. When the furnace kicked on it blew air right on it, obviously causing the movement she had seen.
The relief she felt was like a tidal wave. It washed over her completely, cleansing her of her paranoia. She settled back down to her cup of tea being sure to leave some lights on this time.
The scratching noise jarred her from her relaxation. It sounded as if someone was outside the kitchen window trying to get in. She bolted to her feet, again wielding the poker in front of her.
Could it be Sam? She'd caught him outside her house twice before after they'd broken up. He had said both times that he only wanted to make sure she was all right and that he still cared for her. She didn't buy any of it though. He was a louse, and a jealous, stalking one at that.
Moonlight filtered into the kitchen, casting an eerie glow on the granite countertop and stainless steel appliances. She was afraid to go near the window, fearing that Sam was lurking beyond the glass with a knife or gun. His jealousy only served to enhance his temper, as she had found out many times in the past. When she noticed the small bird pecking at the glass near the bottom of the window the relief she felt nearly caused her to collapse. A sudden tap on the windowpane quickly removed the pest from her sight and her mind.
Again she settled back to her cup of tea, which was now starting to cool. She let her mind stray, delving into fond, distant memories of her childhood.
There's a killer in the house.
The phrase corrupted her peace and quiet, firmly implanting itself in her mind, refusing to fade away. She couldn't ignore it, it was incessant, and addressing it seemed liked a childish and fruitless endeavor. When she had sensed things in the past she was usually right about them, so she was hesitant to ignore these particular words.
The doorbell caused her heart to skip a beat. She jumped up out of her seat and scurried to the front door. Cautiously, she peered out of the small window at the top of the door, being sure not to be seen.
Nobody was there.
And then she noticed the black truck parked across the street.
An ice-cold shiver ran down her spine.
Was that weird guy who followed her home stalking her? Was he playing mind games with her? She locked the deadbolt and gripped the poker tightly.
After she had taken three steps towards the phone the doorbell shattered the silence again. She paced back to the door, this time fully prepared to defend herself.
The back truck was still there, although she knew it wasn' t the cause of her worry. As she watched in relief, the big man who had driving it earlier emerged from her neighbor's house carrying a large television set. Her neighbor, a woman she'd seen countless times before but had never actually gotten to know very well, followed behind him carrying a VCR machine. They then proceeded to load the pieces into the back of the truck. The man then gave her neighbor some cash and they shook hands before he drove off.
A rustling in her nearby bushes alerted her to the cause of the doorbell ringing. Two small boys ran off when they noticed the victim of their practical joke had spotted them.
She let a soft chuckle escape when she realized just how ridiculous she had been. There was no killer in the house. She was all alone.
There's a killer in the house.
The ominous words attempted to take control of her mind as they had done before. But this time she wasn't going to listen to them. There was nobody in the house besides her. She had checked it thoroughly. This time she was going to listen to her common sense.
She removed the coffee cup from the microwave and dipped her finger in the water. Satisfied that it was hot enough she put a new tea bag into the cup and sat back down to relax.
There's a killer in the house.
Forget it. Sorry. Not this time. This time she was going to enjoy the rest of her night. Her favorite show was due to come on shortly and she fully intended to watch it. She set her cup of tea down on the end table and reached for the remote control, not noticing the Black Widow spider crouched next to it ready to strike.
***
About the contributors:
Simon Perchik
is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere. Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) is scheduled for Fall 2009. For more information, including his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet.
Gavin Broom
lives in the Scottish countryside with his wife and his cat. He has had work published in Espresso Fiction, Bound Off, flashquake, Fiction at Work, SFX and Random Acts of Writing. At the time of writing, he doesn't own a house at the beach. Further evidence can be collected at www.gavinbroom.co.uk.
Donal Mahoney,
a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Revival (Ireland), The Lesser Flamingo (France), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Super Highway, Pirene's Fountain (Australia), Public Republic (Bulgaria), and other publications.
KJ Hannah Greenberg
gave up all manner of academic hoopla to chase a hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs and to raise children. Blessed to be the parent of two girls and two boys, three of whom are presently raging through their teen years, and one of whom is threatening to spring from his preadolescence, Hannah discovered, (all things being unequal) that it is both more rewarding and more difficult to raise children than to instruct thousands of college students on the nuances of human interactions.
Rick McQuiston says:
I'm a forty-one year-old father of two who loves to read, write, play drums and paint. I've had nearly 200 publications so far and am currently working on a book of novellas and my first novel. I've also written three anthology books of my short stories. They are available on Lulu and Amazon.
.