The Whole Town Cleanse
by Ned Dougherty
because the gardens are beds of straw
blanketing
rows of garlic and onion in hibernation
there is a run on
kale and rainbow chard in the produce
aisle
the corn stalks are brittle beige, and
the ears
all husked and buttered
but there is no more dairy
only ancient grains and steamed
broccoli
the hunter’s moon’s come and gone
the crimson stained stone of the
slaughter
steaks trimmed and frozen in the meat
locker
but the body isn’t primed for stew
just cabbage and pale carrot
parsnip puree with cubed jicama
the beautifully bone-dull hued meals
and the
transparent bottles of vodka for the liver screaming just in case
all shedding excess as the days wane
into winter
see them skin and skeleton
before the holiday party plump
when they sip spiked ciders along the
farolito redbow wreathed streets
Painted
Face
by
Gary Feuerman
There
might be some beauty out there. It’s hard to tell where it is when
everyone’s in face paint. The haunting of this darkening and
deadening time of year is upon me. Despite the sun shining
relentlessly as October turns into November, the fields are mute and
matted, the stiff stalks ready for the sudden changeover to snow and
ice. Darkness now descends before 6pm and my limbs are heavy,
resenting the responsibility to do anything. The ancestors are
around. I have had the hollow of my belly filled with their tugging
presence, importuning me to stop and acknowledge the unseen, or even
the seen which I’ve not been seeing. Dancing with the dead, in my
head, on the dance floor, on the road that leads to the gorge, I am
avoiding their message, yet wishing for their blessing. Painted
faces are all around, heads swaying, music luring me into the dark.
I don’t know who they are, but I’m curious. I’ll walk with
them into the broken yard, but first I have to finish some stuff.
Modern
Love
by
Eric Mack
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I'm
Feeling Romantic
by
Robin Powlesland
I’m
feeling romantic
reading
romantic things
about
edna st. Vincent millay
reading
renaissance out loud
having
read this book before
on
my twenty first birthday
and
I feel so new
yet
that I haven’t begun
is
it that I’m taking so long
or
that certain things begin awkwardly
and
join hands along frail lines
there
is very little about where I am at now
that
could have been set down
when
I first read this book
and
possibly I hungered then
for
things I am just now slowly beginning
and
yet I don’t know what is most important
where
the starving flower lives
that
needs my certain attention
I
can’t seem to discover what question
is
voiced loudest or
with
that tinge of desperate impatience
I
would I think go to him – if I could
even
if he would not have me
I
would try to lay quiet pride and misgivings
feel
only his nearness – his solidity and heat
but
in all the not knowing
in
the letting the years go by
I
angle also towards far away places
and
remote islands
where
I can keep busy
and
still this constant need for change
Untitled
by
Charles Clayton
It
was a shotgun wedding. Sort of. Neither of them knew it at the time,
but she was pregnant. Morning sickness gave it away—nausea during
the honeymoon, and not, as he thought at first, from the free-range
beef tacos at the reception. There was definitely a baby on the way.
The
life plan had been to keep doing what they’d been doing: writing
poems, painting canvasses, traveling, with a bit of carpentry and
waitressing now and then to pay the bills…the slacker dream,
extended well beyond reason, with the added bonus of wedding rings.
The love plan had been straight out of Kahlil Gibran—filling each
other’s cup but not drinking from the same cup, spaces in their
togetherness, that sort of thing. But the hand of Life intervened by
fashioning a noose out of cloth diapers and hanging the couple’s
nearsighted visions and high falluting philosophies from the nearest
playground slide.
They
stood at the altar together, unaware that the moment was one of the
last that would be solely about them. The wedding was the beginning
of the end. The end of avoiding a real job. The end of restful
nights. The end of long days of coffee and books and long nights of
wine and sex. The end of their lives as they knew them…and the
beginning of something better than either of them ever could have
imagined.
Caldera
is a Cauldron-like Volcanic Feature Usually Formed by the Collapse of
Land Following an Eruption.
by Johanna DeBiase
She first noticed it in the car, on the
way home from a party where she spent the last hour sitting on the
couch and pouting because he was ignoring her pleas to go home. A
small chasm existed between them that wasn't there before. She knew
then that their relationship would not last. Just as any rational
person suspects that love can not last forever, that the myth of
growing old together belongs to the religious or a long gone era.
Ecuadorian folklore suggests that even
the volcano gods, rising up from the earth together, laughing
ecstatically as their lava ceremoniously burns the pastures below,
even their love will decease. On cold nights, Volcano Imbaburra
leaves his mistress Cayambe snowcapped as his betrothed Cuicocha
watches on.
The road rose up the mountainside.
Shifting gears, he seemed oblivious to the distance that now settled
between them. How much longer? she wondered. Shivering, she rolled up
the window.