tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82009061424972648092024-03-04T20:56:57.953-08:00PetroglyphsTaos, New Mexico Writers GroupUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-6996082225708313752013-02-13T11:12:00.000-08:002013-03-18T10:25:31.482-07:00Altar-ed Reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Nature Worship</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She folded her knees beneath her and
hung her head over her praying hands, “Please, please, Mother
Nature, not now, I'm not ready.” She made the altar in art class
when she decided that she did not believe in God anymore. Without
proof of a kingdom in heaven, she was unwilling to be part of the
hoax. Instead, she decided to believe in Mother Nature because there
was proof of her all around. She used old wood scraps for the base
and glued on pictures of plants. In the center, she glued a silver
fairy to represent Mother Nature. She was pleased with her project
and so was her teacher who gave her an A.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At night, she knelt at Nature's altar
and promised to be good if only Desomnd would fall in love with her,
for she learned in school that love was just hormones and hormones
were part of Nature. When Desmond kissed her under the bleachers, she
knew her altar had worked so she asked for more. And Desomnd called
her his girlfriend and Desomnd asked her to the dance.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But the night of the dance, Nature
betrayed her when blood, red as the plastic chili peppers she glued
to her altar, ran down the inside of her thigh. She cursed Nature,
throwing her altar across the floor before begging God to make it
stop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-55233698084127517872012-11-23T10:03:00.000-08:002013-01-04T20:01:49.099-08:00Ralph Lauren<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NkcxKO77KTdOqIITp6-vq3GUZLu58GjDwxiu2KFHmuwMun4xg8QRCZXH5BhrI89EuoYhiicPnSB14Q5CNWn-ftIh8kArTFxvK3pbmEvTRrc_rA6U2_u97cKcEKuvIzn6Wjqcx5245rs/s1600/Ralph+Lauren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NkcxKO77KTdOqIITp6-vq3GUZLu58GjDwxiu2KFHmuwMun4xg8QRCZXH5BhrI89EuoYhiicPnSB14Q5CNWn-ftIh8kArTFxvK3pbmEvTRrc_rA6U2_u97cKcEKuvIzn6Wjqcx5245rs/s320/Ralph+Lauren.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Riding High</b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Charles Clayton</b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It had been a hard road. Hostile
takeovers. Congressional hearings. A bit of pay to play down in
Jefferson County, and the constant threat of investigation by the
Securities and Exchange Commission. Things looked bleak for awhile,
but he pulled through, just like always. Even Madoff and Kennyboy Lay
had dropped the ball when things got too hot. Not him. Not ever. He
was tough. He was a maverick. He was a goddamn cowboy banker, and
nobody could ride out the storms the way he did.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8200906142497264809" name="_GoBack"></a>But he’d had
enough. He claimed his bonus, cashed in his impressive stock options,
and headed west. If I can make it in New York, he laughed to himself,
then I can make it anywhere, even in the rugged Colorado mountains.
He picked up the ranch for a song—35 million, with water rights and
a 10,000 square foot ranch cabin—and settled into his new life of
fly-fishing and horseback riding.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The property itself was perfect, and
not too far from the Koch place—now there’s a fellow who knew how
to wheel and deal a good land swap with the Feds. His love life was
good, now that his lawyers had finally settled things with his
ex-wife. No serious health problems now that he’d cut back on the
cocaine. Back in touch with his daughter too, something he thought
might never happen. All seemed well, yet something wasn’t quite
right. Something was missing. One final piece of the puzzle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was the trip to Aspen that did it. A
bit of window shopping with the new missus—a hot piece of ass he’d
met through the realtor who handled the ranch sale—and there it
was: the mother of all belt buckles. Rugged yet classy. Rich yet down
to earth. A perfect combination of high finance and high mountain
living that symbolized his success…Outlaw Chic. He had arrived.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Buckle Under</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He decided to retire to Ecuador
because he had spent the last thirty years of his life working in a
cubicle, because his pension was measly and he had no savings,
because it sounded exotic and his life had never sounded exotic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He did not realize until he arrived in
Ecuador (after selling all of his belongings) that everyone spoke
Spanish. He felt stupid for not thinking of this. He did not speak a
lick of Spanish. He could have taken a class but he was cheap and
instead he moved into a neighborhood referred to as Gringolandia and
frequented ex-pat bars and cafes like Inca Bar, Cafe Austria and
Eucalyptus. He went to the mall and ate at KFC and Burger King.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One day, he went to the market where a
man was selling leather belts. He saw a buckle with a silver bull
encrusted in diamonds. At closer look, he saw that it said Ralph
Lauren. He knew the name of the designer because his ex-wife coveted
his clothes in fashion magazines though they could never afford them. Fortunately, the buckle was labeled with a price since he did not
know how to ask. Forty-five dollars seemed extraordinarily
inexpensive for a fancy brand name. It was a lot for him, but he
bought it anyway and felt like a king. If only his ex-wife could see
him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That night at the Inca Bar, he talked
with fellow chain-smoking Americans about life in Ecuador. One
over-weight woman commented about the unfortunate high-expense of
imports.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What do you mean?” he asked,
“Everything seems so cheap here.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well, yeah, groceries or services
like taxi rides or Spanish tutors, but anything you want to buy that
was imported like electronics or clothing has been taxed the hell out
of.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He began to sweat nervously. When he
returned to his room, he immediately took out his new belt buckle and
smiled at the sparkle and shine that entranced him into buying it in
the first place. But as he fitted it onto his favorite belt, his
smile turned around. He noticed something peculiar that he did not
see before, the spelling: Ralf Lauren.<br />
<br />
<b>Noon Fishing Report</b><br />
<b>by Robin Powlesland</b><br />
<br />
Tommy H on tennis socks<br />
and lobster flattened between<br />
kraut and miracle whip<br />
road sign become water way signs<br />
and we drive up and down<br />
back and forth - two lost fronds<br />
slipping between the palms<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-44608597090991588742012-10-01T14:04:00.000-07:002012-11-08T05:28:47.281-08:00Love in Ruins<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>The Whole Town Cleanse</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Ned Dougherty</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
because the gardens are beds of straw
blanketing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rows of garlic and onion in hibernation
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
there is a run on</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
kale and rainbow chard in the produce
aisle</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the corn stalks are brittle beige, and
the ears</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
all husked and buttered</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but there is no more dairy</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
only ancient grains and steamed
broccoli
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the hunter’s moon’s come and gone</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the crimson stained stone of the
slaughter</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
steaks trimmed and frozen in the meat
locker</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but the body isn’t primed for stew</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
just cabbage and pale carrot
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
parsnip puree with cubed jicama</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the beautifully bone-dull hued meals</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8200906142497264809" name="_GoBack"></a>and the
transparent bottles of vodka for the liver screaming just in case</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
all shedding excess as the days wane
into winter</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
see them skin and skeleton</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
before the holiday party plump</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when they sip spiked ciders along the
farolito redbow wreathed streets</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Painted
Face </span></b>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>by
Gary Feuerman</b></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Modern
Love</b></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>by
Eric Mack</b></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RicosBaby:</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">
OMG! Still seems like yesterday I married my luv, @RicoSuave. Looked
sooo yung back then!! #HappyAnvys!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RicoSuave:
</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">Totally,
babe. RT RicosBaby: OMG! Still seems like yesterday I married my luv,
@RicoSuave. Looked sooo yung back then!! #HappyAnvys!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RicoSuperFan:</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">
WTF! Rico is married? Why U ben lying to all ur fans, sexyboy?
RT:@RicoSuave: Totally, babe. RT RicosBaby: OMG! Still seems like
yesterday I married my luv, @RicoSuave....</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RealRicoFan12:</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">
Hey @TheREALRicoSuave, this wanabe is fooling some of your fans - RT
@RicoSuperFan: WTF! Rico is married? Why U ben lying to all ur fans,
sexyboy? RT:@RicoSuave: Totally, babe. RT RicosBaby: OMG! Still seems
like yesterday I married my luv, @RicoSuave....</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RicosBaby:</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">
Someone tell the stoopid sluts on here 2 stay away from my baby! RT:
@RicoSuperFan: WTF! Rico is married? Why U ben lying to all ur fans,
sexyboy? RT:@RicoSuave: Totally, babe. RT RicosBaby: OMG! Still seems
like yesterday I married my luv, @RicoSuave....</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@RicoSuave:
</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">Ignore
the jealous hater trolls, @RicosBaby. U R mine.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en"><u><b>@TheREALRicoSuave:</b></u></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en">
@RicoSuave @RicosBaby @RicoSuperFan12 - clik here for ur chance to
win bran new iPad 5!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I'm
Feeling Romantic</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>by
Robin Powlesland</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I’m
feeling romantic </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">reading
romantic things</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">about
edna st. Vincent millay</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">reading
renaissance out loud</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">having
read this book before</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">on
my twenty first birthday</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
I feel so new</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">yet
that I haven’t begun</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">is
it that I’m taking so long</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">or
that certain things begin awkwardly</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
join hands along frail lines</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">there
is very little about where I am at now</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">that
could have been set down</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">when
I first read this book</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
possibly I hungered then</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">for
things I am just now slowly beginning</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
yet I don’t know what is most important</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">where
the starving flower lives</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">that
needs my certain attention</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
can’t seem to discover what question</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">is
voiced loudest or </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">with
that tinge of desperate impatience</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
would I think go to him – if I could</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">even
if he would not have me</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
would try to lay quiet pride and misgivings</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">feel
only his nearness – his solidity and heat</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">but
in all the not knowing</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">in
the letting the years go by</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
angle also towards far away places</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
remote islands </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">where
I can keep busy </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
still this constant need for change</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Untitled</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>by
Charles Clayton</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Caldera</b><b>
is a Cauldron-like Volcanic Feature Usually Formed by the Collapse of
Land Following an Eruption.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-41399648077628687782012-07-27T15:48:00.000-07:002012-10-01T14:11:26.521-07:00Blue Moon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK4ByQHXXGA6s_bRPQa6_-p6Xn1yn9mBN-tQhf6LOPI9Eysrmt65-tpTCoLWHnVl00sl8r-OG4JoSQxGNxvRcBGhDchat7vsHn_S8l__Z44R9QnfHh26vBaTjyX92Nwp3tGBXvbtqzUo/s1600/blue+moon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK4ByQHXXGA6s_bRPQa6_-p6Xn1yn9mBN-tQhf6LOPI9Eysrmt65-tpTCoLWHnVl00sl8r-OG4JoSQxGNxvRcBGhDchat7vsHn_S8l__Z44R9QnfHh26vBaTjyX92Nwp3tGBXvbtqzUo/s320/blue+moon.jpeg" width="245" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>A Triangulation of Images Over the
Course of One Weekend</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
1. I noticed the approaching ambulances
did not have their sirens on. Three firemen stood around the wreckage
of an SUV, upside down in the middle lane of the highway. Even in the
rubbernecking traffic, there was an eerie silence as we passed just a
few feet from the accident. I wondered how it happened. Only the
front portion of the roof was crushed. The window was rolled down.
And then I saw it, a sight that still haunts me, a sleeve of a plaid
shirt, much like the one my husband beside me was wearing, a torso
folded over itself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2. It was watching us as if it heard
our old truck coming from way down the dirt road. It just stood there
staring, its eyes following our path along the bend. “Stop the car.
What is that?” “A dog? A fox? A coyote?” “I've never seen a
coyote that wasn't running away.” A minute passed in that long
pause before it turned and ran back into the forest. “Yep, that's a
coyote.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
3. The blue moon rose over the
mountains. My daughter and I laid in the river, the water rushing
over us, cooling off from the hot baths, giggling. “Mama, why does
the moon follow me?” “To watch over you.” “Why does it watch
me?” “To keep you safe.”<br />
<br />
<div id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991781" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 10pt;">
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991781" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;">
<span id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991780" style="background-color: #666666; color: white; font-weight: bold;">the sound wing makes on air</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991781" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;">
<span id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991780" style="background-color: #666666; color: white; font-weight: bold;">by Robin Powlesland </span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">coconut husk 6ft away </span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">from compost barrier</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">crow sucks air above head</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">an ant crawls across dirt</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">in front of concrete where </span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">I sit in front of sitting</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991800" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;"><span id="yui_3_2_0_8_13470333152991799">there is a distance between </span>words</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and what crawls where</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">there is a distance</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">between what crawls in mind</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and what crawls green</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">egg shells on dirt</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and dried husks of what was</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">metal piles of drying string</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">empty and unstrung</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">the spot where the old Chilean</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">hammock hung</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">has only dried thread</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and half broken clothes pins</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">the crow makes known</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">#22 Jose Pacheco</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and distance streaks</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">between the branches</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">it's home wherever</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">we/I go</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">this place outside of</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">my skin itches</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">with the insects</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">and my breath hardens</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">with the air</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">I can go wherever</span></div>
<div style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal;">
<span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;">I want to</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-64630518293586000672012-06-18T13:26:00.002-07:002012-07-24T10:21:19.710-07:00Hurricane Morning Clouds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOEhmXQIlSpyt4zaef4XhqlLB4IGKaP02esKVZGBXWafLg9jhqcIXvT9kcSKhUCJHB_40roIlM4juoXTCpXcvej49oSHcgnnl-N-KR1unm-ZiKEctlR1DHYnFzDvNsxQC0kLwJJ5dJK4/s1600/Hurricane+Morning+Clouds.Taos+Mesa+3.11.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOEhmXQIlSpyt4zaef4XhqlLB4IGKaP02esKVZGBXWafLg9jhqcIXvT9kcSKhUCJHB_40roIlM4juoXTCpXcvej49oSHcgnnl-N-KR1unm-ZiKEctlR1DHYnFzDvNsxQC0kLwJJ5dJK4/s320/Hurricane+Morning+Clouds.Taos+Mesa+3.11.12.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<b>Untitled</b><b>by Charles Clayton</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Soon, Man, Soon<br />It’s as
predictable as the weather. June rolls around, the sun shines bright,
and everybody starts complaining about how hot and dry it is.<br />The refrain: “We
really need the rain”.<br />Of course we do. We
always need the rain because we live in a DESERT. But don’t start
whining about the lack of rain in June because IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO
RAIN IN JUNE…not in our neck of the woods anyway.<br />June is hot and dry.<br />JUNE IS HOT AND DRY.<br />I once lived in
Northern Utah, where the entire summer season was hot and dry. Creeks
disappeared. Meadows turned brown. Forests burned. They really did
need the rain up there, but they never got it, not until Autumn.<br />So relax. The rains
will come to New Mexico, more than likely anyway. The interior of our
continent will warm, thanks mostly to that blazing June sunshine, and
that heat will literally pull moisture up from tropics. Towering
cumulus clouds will form over parched mountains. Thunder will rumble.
Rain will fall.<br />Of course, our
reliable monsoon rains will one day fail, as they have in the past.
Just ask the Anasazi.<br />Things can happen:<br />A subtle shift in
ocean salinity off the coast of Nova Scotia.<br />Deforestation in the
Amazon Basin.<br />The eruption of a
mega-volcano in Indonesia.<br />And quite suddenly
the monsoon stops, and it doesn’t return for many centuries.<br />Give thanks for
crops that aren’t failing.<br />Give thanks for
cities that aren’t abandoned.<br />Give thanks for
cannibalism that isn’t happening.<br />Be glad for the
rains of July and August.<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #999999; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">Elevation</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">by Eric Mack</b></span></div>
<br />
<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">It seems important to at least mention that there are no hurricanes in New Mexico.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">I haven't even seen the drink around here, save for in a few "bayou-themed" restaurants marooned in oceans of pavement on Albuquerque's north flank.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">But there are the refugees who fled here following Katrina. Those that packed up what they could and pointed west, headed for higher ground, didn't stop until they'd traversed the entire length of Texas, just to put a few state lines and a few thousand feet in elevation between themselves and the destruction.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">The summer after the levees broke, I met one of these refugees. She smiled from behind a weathered face when she spoke of her odyssey from the land of crawfish to one of chilis. She had set up a table at the local flea market in Taos where she hawked numerous items from what she now referred to as a "former life."</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">"Never going back. Never again. One storm too many," she said. Her flight was to be permanent.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">Many of the items on the table sported water damage. I asked if she had gone back to retrieve them after the hurricane flood waters had receded.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">"What, this stuff? Oh no, these got damaged when the floods hit my storage container down in Albuquerque."</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">Weeks before, flash flooding inundated some of the lower-lying areas of the Duke City. </span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">A slight grin betrayed her recognition of the irony, but returning the expression seemed too cruel.</span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">"Wow. Well, welcome." </span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;">She smiled wider. "Uh-huh."</span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Shifting Breeze</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She is the weather. A soft rain that
feels refreshing and adventurous at first until I have to shield my
face from drops plopping on my lids like fingers poking. I say, “Not
the face,” and “What did I tell you about the face?” When I say
the latter one, I sound like my mother. She is also a lot like
sunshine, shaking off the chill, welcoming a new day, creating
possibilities for fun, growing things. But, sometimes sunshine can be
too much fun. Sometimes, I just want to stay inside and read while it
beckons me out. As a child, I broke out in a rash when I played too
long in the sun. Red splotches itched from my second knuckle to my
shoulder tops. Nowadays, I slather my child with sunscreen and watch
her brown. She can also be like a storm – a dirt devil or a
torrential. I can not control the weather. I must take it as it
comes. So I have learned to come prepared. Instead of a rain coat, I
pack a sturdy array of patience. Instead of snow boots, I bring
crayons and paper. Instead of gloves, I pack time-outs. I wait for
the perfect days when the sun and wind feel just right, the sky an
azure blue, showered with nothing but love.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><b>just to talk to you</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><b>by Robin Powlesland</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"> - everything would be right</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">during the days and nights I do not talk to you - for real</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I keep talking to you - all these window dressings to share</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">pacings and insights I want you to take on as well</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">and it’s just like it always was</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">you are far away and our love is a story I tell myself</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">in the afternoons - the storm comes</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">the storms keep coming</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">even having had you here recently</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">even knowing that I am going to see you soon</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">even amidst all this planning</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">it’s a story I’ve told myself</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I am going to cut open</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">more orange fruit today</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">pull out the pits - leave them to the goats</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">you are far away</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">to bring us together again</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">seems too big to know</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">wash sheets and tear up</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">old ones for scrap</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">wipe down shelves and pack your clothes</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">between the words - spoken</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I want you to understand - know me</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">even if we can't know the distance</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><br />I wish I could take my red wagon</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">all the way to california like I was walking down the road</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">to play with a friend</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I need to feel that words are important to you</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">that these are to you</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">my words</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">important</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">empty hard backed suitcase - moss green</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">light blue train case - little bottles of whiskey</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
</div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">haven't even told you what my name will be</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">talk everything could be easily clean and right</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">keep talking - days and nights I have not talked to you -</span></div>
<div class="yiv1288244442MsoNormal" id="yui_3_2_0_4_13429311746321065" style="font-family: tahoma, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">for real</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-65678375387475573782012-05-31T13:07:00.001-07:002012-06-12T17:45:26.169-07:00Eclipse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WIIC082XbFq73HqzN4WwujhKCVS5T_k-avUhiGqQoodthTQlBvrOAZSYDAXiO3XE3own8oiQC3BDQam_dqiVkzLMWF05b2BxQ77Q9REIpVjVXG_OfdWP65-fTpOpac3lzO67_WlwdJ8/s1600/eclipse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WIIC082XbFq73HqzN4WwujhKCVS5T_k-avUhiGqQoodthTQlBvrOAZSYDAXiO3XE3own8oiQC3BDQam_dqiVkzLMWF05b2BxQ77Q9REIpVjVXG_OfdWP65-fTpOpac3lzO67_WlwdJ8/s320/eclipse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
<b>According to <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1339526302_0">Google</span>, on June 11, 2012, "Eclipse" refers to (in order of algorithmically determined relevance/importance):</b></div>
<div>
<b>by Eric Mack</b><br />
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 0.22in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">1.
A film in the "Twilight" series.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 0.22in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">2.
A project aiming to provide a universal toolset for (software)
development.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 0.22in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">3.
An astronomical event that occurs when an astronomical object is
temporarily obscured.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">4.
A manufacturer specializing in car navigation and audio systems.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">5.
The most efficient jet on the planet.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">6.
A novel in the "Twilight" series.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">7.
A small recording company</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">8.
A special edition 2-disc DVD set of the film in the "Twilight"
series.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">9.
A Blu-Ray version of the film in the "Twilight" series.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; color: white; font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">10.
A regular edition, single DVD of the film in the "Twilight"
series.</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Twice</b></div>
<b>by Charles Clayton</b><br />
<br />
<div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There was a solar eclipse when I was
in the first grade. It must have been wintertime because we stayed
in our second story classroom and watched quietly as the morning sky
darkened and the clouds turned fiery orange and red. The entire
experience exists in my mind as a single moment in that room, gazing
through the window panes at a kind of light I'd never seen before:
Ashen and gray, yet strangely luminous.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Our teacher told us
that solar eclipses happened every few years so I expected to see one
again, but never did. Seems you have to be in the right place at the
right time to witness the spectacle. Eclipses came and went, and I
read about them in the newspaper or saw clips on the television, but
the experience eluded me.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
33 years later, the stars aligned—or
one star, and one planet and its moon, and the life trajectory of a
single human on that planet—and I found myself at the proper
latitude and longitude at the proper time of year. The setting
couldn't have been better: The first days of summer vacation, on a
front porch with my wife and child, surrounded by friends, right at
the foot of the Southern Rocky Mountains.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Everything was in place, and before we
knew it the eclipse was happening. Golden rays radiated through
scattered puffs of clouds. The orbs lined up and the light faded into
that crisp, ashen hue….the exact same light I remembered from my
childhood.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8200906142497264809" name="_GoBack"></a>
Near the peak of the eclipse, I walked into the backyard and gazed at
the mountains as they silently basked in the ghostly light. The
mountains had seen it all before, and would see it again. I'd like to
think I'll be around next time too, but I might not. That moment on
the porch may be the last memory I'll ever have of that otherworldly
light—the rare light of a moon shadow.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Eclipse</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>by Johanna DeBiase </b>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am the sun.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I spin in the world of rays --</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rainbow prisms across nursery walls,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
glares from pinwheels on garden posts,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
beams stretched through rain clouds.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am the mid-afternoon light</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that reminds them why they live here</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that makes the plein air painters sigh</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the poets toast.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At twilight, I put on a show, paint the</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
clouds with shadows, steal the
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
promise of June flowers,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
splatter their faces with impermanence.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am the sun. I grow them like
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
eager buds, but I can burn them, too.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know the spot, between their</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
shirt hem and waistband,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
or the place behind their ears</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where their spine ends its traverse</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
across their neck.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am the sun. They will not</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
stare into me. They hide behind</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
brimmed hats and dark glasses --</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rims around their eyes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where I colored their faces.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Only once (per season)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
do I disappear from them
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a little trick I do with the moon</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and they laugh and dance, but</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
they also remember.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The earth. The earth is their</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
humming sphere and they</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
labor for it – their sheltered souls,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
their juvenile antics.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am the sun</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the way they see in the light,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the way I am blind in their night,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
yet the galaxy burns for me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-86721856592273520142012-03-27T22:40:00.002-07:002012-05-18T13:51:54.622-07:00Southwestern Ambrosia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://bydianedaniel.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/201111_21_green-chile-peppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="380" src="http://bydianedaniel.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/201111_21_green-chile-peppers.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
</div>
<b>Roasted</b><br />
by Charles Clayton <br />
<br />
The longer I live here the more depressing it gets. The murders, the rapes, the gangs, the heroin, the corruption...a cauldron of darkness that simmers just below the happy surface of art galleries and organic espresso. It's always there, probably always has been, and nothing here seems to get any better or worse—just more of the same. So don't expect bike paths any time soon, or quality public schools, or an end to the nepotism and cronyism in the halls of power. Not now. Not mañana. Not ever.<br />
<br />
It can be frustrating, but occasionally that centuries old inability to change is a thing of beauty. A slaughtered pig bouncing in the back of a pickup truck. Huge mounds of firewood outside of so many homes. Grandmas plucking chokecherries from neighborhood trees. Battered old trucks and cars held together by bailing wire and necessity. Families gathering pinon nuts each fall. The throng of women in front of Super Save at the end of summer, their shopping carts lined up and overflowing with burlap sacks of green chiles begging to be roasted.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Green Chile</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
by Johanna DeBiase</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I lived life as a rancher in a small
village along the banks of the Rio Grande, the same village that I
was born in. I never married or had any children. I was shy and
unfortunate in love. All my nieces and nephews moved away to the city
and never bothered to visit me after my parents died. I loved my
horses, but they were poor company, always keeping to the pasture. I
spent everyday in the same way, repeating the same tasks over and
over until I was like a machine. They may have replaced me with a
machine after they buried my stack of bones in the cluster of graves
behind my house. A lapsed Catholic, I always suspected I would float
away to some place not quite as dull.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead, I came back as a chili pepper,
a green hatch strain, raised in the greenhouse of some bohemian types
where I shared space with their pot plants. At first, I was not sure
what to make of it all. They chopped me up and fixed me into a mean
salsa. They tossed me on everything from tacos to enchiladas to eggs.
They savored me with every bite and I was finally alleviated. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yiv1646775620" style="background-color: #444444; color: white; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">taos springs life-like</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">by Robin Powesland<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">the smell of rain on sage</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">I tell him is special</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">it's why we are here</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">I
think he gets it</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">what's special</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">small in-decisions</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">dirt in rows waiting</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">there is always a leaving</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">coming from inside</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">it's why we are here</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">I think he gets it</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">why we love each
other</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">that the sun is a stronger friend</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">one that stammers shamelessly</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">days are open shortly</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">and I already see the waves</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">washing us ashore this new kind</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">of desert</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="background-color: #444444; color: white;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #444444; color: white; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-3083480645805103302012-03-10T17:15:00.000-08:002012-03-10T17:15:01.442-08:00Video from Pecha Kucha Night Taos - Volume 5<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/38113928?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="400" height="300" frameborder="0" webkitAllowFullScreen mozallowfullscreen allowFullScreen></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/38113928">Pecha Kucha Night Taos vol. 5 - Petroglyphs</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5939757">pechakuchataos</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-46785142255311989522012-02-17T16:22:00.005-08:002012-03-06T12:33:34.794-08:00Subdivision<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<b>Suburban Home</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>by Charles Clayton</b><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Blue Meannie records was a windowless cave of a record store right around the corner from my house. Owned and run by aging hippies (hence the Yellow Submarine inspired moniker), it was the quintessential mom and pop store, and they had a nice fat PUNK section chock full of hundreds of records that promised countless hours of perusal and serious discussion. No job, at least not at first, rarely any money, at least not 8 to ten bucks at a time, so if there was enough cash in your pocket to purchase an album then it was done carefully and deliberately. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It might take two hours to decide on an album, standing there comparing song titles, cover art, and photos of the band (long hair usually meant cheesy speed metal guitars—avoid)…debating between the Adolescents and The Dicks, the Germs and the Battalion of Saints, Discharge and Minor Threat (AND WHAT ABOUT this compilation album with 20 different bands on it?) bands that (at first) you had never heard but maybe you’d spotted a filthy SNFU t-shirt on the homeless gutter punk who (literally) just crawled out of the sewer, or noticed that the guitarist for a band you did know was wearing a GOVERNMENT ISSUE t-shirt on the back cover of one of your trusted albums, or maybe you had a 5<sup>th</sup> generation hissy bass heavy recording of an unknown G.B.H. album dubbed over (scotch tape covering the protective slots on the cassette) an old Styx tape so you make your best guess and give it a try, plunking down your single ten dollar bill for 12 inches of vinyl record—but there was no way to be sure about your purchase until you got it home, ripped the shrink wrap off, and put the needle to the vinyl.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was the moment of truth. The slight popping as the needle found the first groove, the hint of buzzing through the speakers, a few spins of the record, and then THE CHORDS OF ESCAPE, CHORDS OF REVOLUTION, CHORDS OF ANGER, CHORDS OF HOPE blast through your bedroom and change your life forever and ever.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There is no sound on earth as powerful as an electric guitar. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>The Heights of Subdivision</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>by Gary Feuerman </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m from Subdivision. Levittown was 20 minutes away, the first symbol of suburban sprawl, and the first of the big developments. I lived in East Norwich, NY, on Long Island, in a little development. The house my family moved into in 1966 (built in 1960) when I was 2 1/2 was a brown, wood shingled, 4 bedroom colonial at the top of a rise looking due west to a high hill dense with tall oak trees. It was that hill and the massive cumulus clouds sailing the sky above it that first reminded me that I loved mountains. I’d never seen mountains, but I knew I needed them. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=8200906142497264809&postID=4678514225531198952" name="_GoBack"></a>When my parents bought the World Book Encyclopedia collection from a traveling salesman in 1970, I immediately hunted down and committed to memory the tallest peaks in the world and the highest points in each state of the union, which is how even today if you ask me for the highest elevation in New York State, I’d tell you Mt. Marcy in the Adirondack State Park at 5,344’. Yes, 5,344’. I’d never been close to Mt. Marcy – the closest we got in my childhood was the Catskill Mountains, which top out around 4,000’ but are mostly in the 2,000’ – 3,000’ range. And it didn’t matter that 5,344’ was unimpressive, even puny compared to Mt. Everest (29,028’ back then) and the other Himalayan peaks, the Alps, the Rockies, the Andes – hell even Mt. Mitchell in North Carolina was over 6,000’ (6,684’ comes to mind), as was Clingman’s Dome in the Great Smokies (6,643’) and Mt. Washington in the Presidential Range of New Hampshire’s White Mountains (6,288’). </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I have to stop here. Is it me or do you notice that all of these peaks have a double number (other than Everest which had consecutive numbers 29/28)…Time to play the lottery? Am I giving away the fact that I have a gambling compulsion that runs in the family and that my dad taught my brother and I how to play craps by the ages of 6 and 8 on a mini crap table in the semi-finished basement (off white with a brick pattern and classic go-go era wood paneling) playing with chunky red die from Caesers Palace, Las Vegas and a giant glass pretzel jar filled with shiny pennies for betting loot.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So what about Mt. Marcy? Well, it was over a mile high, so that was cool, and it was a lot higher than the high points in New Jersey or Connecticut or even Massachusetts, Delaware, Maryland and Pennsylvania. We had Vermont beat, too. I’m all over the place like a dream, and I’m thinking that although the gut response to Levittown or even East Norwich and our ¼ acre lots lined with sapling maples and oaks and the beat up “station cars” our fathers drove to the trains that went to the City is one of disgust and despair over the monotony and homogeneity of this branch of human evolution, it is from this place that I knew I was for and from another place. And for that I am grateful – to the forested hill to my west above which I gazed many mornings after climbing on top of my wooden, nautical-style dresser and pressing my face against the window as if I were standing on the pitch of roof where I once saw Santa’s reindeer and prayed to God that Pamela Maloney would be my girlfriend, and later wished that I would find a place where I didn’t have to make believe the clouds were mountains. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Ticky Tacky</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>by Johanna DeBiase </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Each driveway, each yard, repeats itself over and over like the turning spokes on my bicycle. I know Nellie's house from memory. Unlike people who don't live here, I can identify it by minute details – the rose bush entwined around the fence post, the American flag just slightly askew, a welcome sign with banjo playing frogs hanging next to the door.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I drop my bike on the curb. I know no one will disturb it. No one around here needs an old bike. Most kids get a shiny new one each year. I ring her bell as a formality, but then I walk right in. Their entryway is identical to my own, the split ranch stairway – up to the living room, only used when guests are over; down to the den, used the rest of the time.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Nellie's room is downstairs off the den because she is the oldest child and earned her privacy and own bathroom. I head down there and find her in front of her computer listening to Adele again. She's on Facebook. She looks up at me. “Come check this out,” she says. She is looking at an aerial photo of a slum in India. Children below, kicking around a ball. It is a punchline to a joke and she thinks its hilarious.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I laugh awkwardly. I can't help noticing how, from this perspective up above, the roof of the shacks lined up in such a way, so close together, so similar, they remind me of this neighborhood. I imagine if I built our giant houses from cardboard boxes, stuffed our mattresses with plastic bags, and landscaped our yards with bottles and old clothes. Candy wrappers, banana peels and tin cans line our sidewalks where cows graze and defecate. It would only take a strong breeze, one big gust of wind, to shake this delusion of security.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div id="yui_3_2_0_5_1331057513211778"><b>Taylors Mill, Devonshire, Laurel Glen</b></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_5_1331057513211778"><b>by Ned Dougherty </b></div><div><br />
</div><div>each house looked the same</div><div>and averaged that quirky number of children</div><div>we read about in parenting magazines</div><div><br />
</div><div>the fathers all left in their sedans</div><div>right near eight</div><div>and returned to dinner on the table</div><div><br />
</div><div>the neighborhood could field entire teams</div><div>for street hockey or football</div><div>or lawn manicurists </div><div><div><br />
</div><div>quasi friend-neighbors </div><div>who wave from opposite </div><div>sides of the street</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>one yard had a rock like an island for GI Joes</div><div>the other a hill larger in memory than true rise and run</div><div>and the last that iconic picket fence</div><div><br />
</div><div>what do they create</div><div>these collectives </div><div>aside from adolescent dreams of great distances</div><div><br />
</div><div>these places we run so far from</div><div>returning to kiss our mothers</div><div>and tackle the list of chores waiting for us since we left<br />
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</div><div></div><div></div><div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">making connections</span></b></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Robin Powlesland </b></span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">stunning the geographic distance</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">between myself </span><span style="font-size: small;">and what is acceptable </span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">in structures</span><span style="font-size: small;"> of light and glass</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">filtered species of thought</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">giving way through cloud and sky and flight</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">it stretches as far as my finger outlines</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the scratched surface of thick plastic</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and diamond shaped soil</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">stunning how odd I am in the stepping off</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">of curb and pretending that street is mine</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">that space is mine and thought is mine</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">remixing the replication</span><span style="font-size: small;"> is a new form</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">of education and it's all surprised by shopping</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">the activity</span><span style="font-size: small;"> of hunting and gathering</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">and then</span><span style="font-size: small;"> of course eating with strangers</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and loved ones and then sleeping</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">it's a fought</span><span style="font-size: small;"> for reality between the haves</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">and have nots - the right to talk about education</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">to relinquish small tools for larger ones</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">to access other countries through soap stars</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">quickly layered one after another</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">sitting in rows - silently typing our speaking</span></div><div style="font-family: tahoma,times,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">questions to shout out to each other</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">sitting next to one another - strangers</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">and loved ones and then</span><span style="font-size: small;"> sleeping</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">mica in short spurts on sidewalks </span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">bringing what was out here distantly</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">to what is now through conversation</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">remaking of dialogue and connected learning</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">I can no longer live inside those walls</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">that still contain us now</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">foraging meals and conversation</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">picking through best practices and strangers</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">losing loved ones and then sleeping</span></div><div></div></div><div><br />
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</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-22238388068876840892012-01-06T14:15:00.000-08:002012-02-08T14:22:11.804-08:00Electric ManDragon<span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfcYwUvxgAJgqMOtSluoTIhfKVDx0xGos4VzE1PFy0jr_4ee6GWHdrovoee3zjgpJ9aXl2RiSQlrdMN-bYENfq-8IsR2F9pR2Q1sfHNRclNLMcWj4_rXX8nEzpxCIgsPS-8eFKhPvSig/s1600/Electric+ManDragon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfcYwUvxgAJgqMOtSluoTIhfKVDx0xGos4VzE1PFy0jr_4ee6GWHdrovoee3zjgpJ9aXl2RiSQlrdMN-bYENfq-8IsR2F9pR2Q1sfHNRclNLMcWj4_rXX8nEzpxCIgsPS-8eFKhPvSig/s320/Electric+ManDragon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694646555464879490" border="0" /></a><br style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Elihu Mondragon</span><br style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Ned Dougherty</span><br /></span><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">he had a st- st- st- stupid hard time saying words and tripped over them like he had tight cords across his mouth. from his teeth to tongue the way king kong was tied down. his tongue just never co- co- co- cooperated when he spoke in gargantuan str-st-str-uggle. </span></div> <div><span style="font-size:100%;">nobody really appreciated his art work. he was a man at home with clay. his hands were agile and delicate. op- op- opposite of his language. he communicated with the world through his creations. but no one every saw them unless th- th- th- they stumbled around his yard looking for signs of life. </span></div> <div><span style="font-size:100%;">inevitably he was always alive and well tinkering in the silent sepia lit foyer forging beings out mud and water. he wa- wa- wa- wanted to be alone because was so f- f- f- fortunate to have the time to make people and s- sh- st- stuff from nothing. he had all the friends he needed three-d around his wool socken feet. </span></div> <div><span style="font-size:100%;">on his last day his house which had been forsaken and crumbled slowly from the outside in came to swallow him up. he avoided the collapsing eastern wall and the mold spores and dust kicked up but his wiring became finicky and loose ends were everywhere. oddly enough that day he played with play dough. his last creation before electrocution. </span></div> <div><span style="font-size:100%;">forevermore he would not be known but something more. immortal. something exciting. something electric. f- f- f- f- fuck yeah.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Untitled</span><br style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Robin Powlesland</span><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">there is a hidden</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">compartment</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">traversing</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">and the skin seems</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">multi-faceted, non-organic</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">I have different voices</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">different forms</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">and he grows frightened</div> <div class="yiv2017066199MsoNormal">as the glass steams empty<br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Germ Putty</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Charles Clayton</span><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">I used to be a hippy. Kinda dirty. Not as many showers as I should have had. I figured we evolved from dirt and bacteria so why bother scrubbing away all the dirt and bacteria? But now that I'm a schoolteacher and a parent, I've changed my ways. I shower daily, wear clean underwear, and keep my hands clean.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Why the shift? Because I now spend my days watching little kids sneeze and cough on an institutional scale, and it puts the invisible microbial thing into perspective. A hundred fingers in noses and wiped on walls and doorknobs. A hundred poorly wiped asses followed by a couple hundred poorly washed hands trying to shower you with hugs.Throw in some good old fashioned New Mexico poverty and neglect and you've got yourself a germ factory.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">They walk down the hallways and run their hands along the walls, and swear I can track their path by the trail of streptococcus they smeared along the way. They borrow a pencil and I let them keep it. They use my computer and I wish I had some Lysol. I just keep washing my hands, every chance I get, with plenty of commercial grade school supply soap and lukewarm water. This is especially true when they use my clay to sculpt some letters, or the week's spelling words, followed by some free time. Germ fingers kneading that clay, mixing in the air and the oils and the boogers and bacteria, creating a microbial<span lang="en-US"> </span>garden deep within the purple and green dragon. </p><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Haiku</span><br style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Eric Mack</span><br /><br />Obscene they call it,<br />God's plan has no Dragon-men<br />This clay is all sin.<br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Bob’s Long Strange Trip</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><b>by Gary Feuerman<br /></b></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><a name="_GoBack"></a>Gumby and Pokey. Mr. Bill and his magic dragon. Squeezable. Crushable. There was this man who rode in on a horse, right into the living room of the fiddler in green. He’d been following her north for two years, relentlessly north. His name was Bob and he stole sheep from the ranches dotting the high deserts and foothills. He ate heartily in the dark, under the moon, feeling warm in the hard snow. The fiddler was never far away, but she danced faster than he could run, an optical delusion that made it all seem like a dream. Bob didn’t care, he could smell her, and that was enough to keep him going, that and the mutton (which also smelled pretty damn good on the skewer). In the summers, he clambered up into the pinnacles above treeline, and wished he had an alpenhorn to accompany her plaintive fiddle, although, on second thought, probably not a good combination. And her fiddle playing was far from plaintive although he always wanted to use that word to describe it, apropos or no. He caught glimpses of her shooting into the trees, and knew her to be round in all the right ways. Seriously, you know, round. He thought his pupils would dilate more than ever if he could just get within say 20 feet of her, but, as always, she skip-danced and twirled like a Deadhead, somehow passing through dimensions, and trailing the scent of vanilla (which always threw Bob off, Deadhead and vanilla not making sense, but it wasn’t bad…not bad at all). Mostly he caught shoulders and back, and thought he could see tattoos, of a squishy, electric colored clay dragon and a man who had a remote control pointed at the dragon. And, strangely, they were in a clay raft of the same colors all of this sitting on a wooden table, the grain of which, Bob thought, must be really hard to get on a person’s skin. Like how do you depict wood on a person’s skin? Bob’s mind rebelled against the tattoos, but he did think of them often. He thought maybe just a dragon tattoo, like the ones everyone thinks about would have been sexier, although suddenly, sadly cliché because of that other girl with the dragon tattoo that everybody now talks about. Then again, an electric man dragon in a raft on a wood table – who would have thought about that? So, with this in his mind, Bob, after two years heading north, rode into the fiddler’s living room and found her wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a magenta butterfly pavilion t-shirt, eating a bowl of pasta and watching American Idol. She didn’t notice him and, strangely, his next thought was that he should just leave her like this, and beat it south before disappointment set in. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">Birth of the Electric ManDragon</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Johanna DeBiase</span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">Before words, time, or bodies, </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">a burning birth canal pushes him </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">into this light. There is only glare </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">and glimmer before first sight washes in – </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">the horizon line meeting earth and sky, sky </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">like spirit- untouchable, necessary breath.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">A heavy pulling force, fastens him </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">tightly to earth. He digs in his heels and </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">discovers the rise of pulse, the stretch </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">of fiber, the release of numbness, </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">the pain of – click, tick, twist – </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">toward the bending of cooperative joints.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">Sounds echo in the caverns of his head – </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">vibrations humming, the pitch of moving </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">back and forth, the song of heartstrings. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">Scents of salt and feces, mud and ash, </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">go unnamed as a wild history grows in his body, </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">memories that fill the empty spaces between </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">particles of form.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">All of this creating </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">an encompassing bliss </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">overshadowed by a precarious void. </span> </p> </div></span></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-64180483341372609122011-12-01T10:08:00.001-08:002012-01-04T15:11:45.595-08:00Prayer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKUYYvyE1FUTr-rVRmJXmlIp-ag5WY8du_iMtydiOWtqHjFloh4bdxoDwWwGv4M4GHYigKOiPgjuBD9RmzHptkd0no4jLfe44KRBBzTLbU_rf4zH38tB6opnH2ttpJg6RzQ-PV0Loi6E/s1600/Texas+318.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKUYYvyE1FUTr-rVRmJXmlIp-ag5WY8du_iMtydiOWtqHjFloh4bdxoDwWwGv4M4GHYigKOiPgjuBD9RmzHptkd0no4jLfe44KRBBzTLbU_rf4zH38tB6opnH2ttpJg6RzQ-PV0Loi6E/s320/Texas+318.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681364743091584178" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Inside Child</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Johanna DeBiase</span><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">The girl hugged her knees in closer and lowered her forehead to rest on them. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. She could make out the vertical lines of wood paneling along the walls that brushed up against her shoulders in the narrow nook. The girl had been there so long that mother had forgotten about her. She resorted to eating insects and dust.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">A long time ago, the girl was playing outside with the sun warming her skin. She was laughing in the long sway of the swing as she opened her legs and arms to lean back as far as she could so her toes touched the sky. Then, the girl was shut in the house, then her room, then the closet and then the cabinet beneath the stairs.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Mother preferred not to see the girl. It was better not to remember. The girl listened to mother's footsteps traverse the old moaning house, her weight on the floorboards and stairs. Mother moved about cleaning the house from top to bottom, straightening and dusting the nick-knacks, organizing and polishing her things. When the postman came, mother did not invite him in but he noted that her house was in order. He nodded and handed her the mail. Mother smiled but she was not happy.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">One day, mother answered the phone instead of ignoring the incessant chiming and this change in behavior was rewarded. There was a voice on the other end of the line and the voice was inviting her out. Mother never went out. The house was warm and soft and dark and safe. The voice assured her that there was nothing to be afraid of, that she would be just fine outside, more than fine, she would be great. Mother agreed to go.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">The girl fiddled with the doorknob to search for a simple release. It loosened in her palm.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Mother adjusted her skirt in the mirror. She did not notice the cabinet door was ajar as she zipped up her boots. She hesitated before opening the door with dramatic force and shielding her eyes. The outside light was bright and pushed its way into the house, stirring up dirt and residue. Mother took a step forward and the light swallowed her whole.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">The girl pivoted her twitching legs and pulled herself up and out of the cabinet with great effort. Her body was small, pale and frail. The phone rang, but she did not answer it; she did not need to hear the voice. The front door was left open. She walked as fast as she could manage outside into the light.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Ghost of a Chance</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Ned Dougherty</span><br /><br />here is love<br />head hung bowed to sky gray universe<br /><br />the patron of gatherers and pilgrims<br />seducer of simpletons<br /><br />a wing forsaken cherub<br />aimless like the rest<br /><br />remember<br />thanks and humility for the caught<br /><br />stone<br />in a mess of blue wool<br /><br />passed between her hands<br />trying to figure and hold<br /><br />true</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; font-weight: bold;">201<span lang="en-US">2</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Charles Clayton</span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span lang="en-US">T</span>he time was at hand. The Hebrews annexed Jerusalem in February, prompting invasion by surrounding Muslim nations. In July, North Korea joined the fray and launched nuclear weapons against the United States, prompting ground and air invasions by NATO nations. In late August, the permafrost hit a critical mass and melted, throwing uncountable tons of <span lang="en-US">carbon dioxide</span> into the atmosphere <span lang="en-US">virtually overnight</span> and disrupting weather patterns. Crops failed. Drought and floods hammered at the land. Starvation and mass, panicked migration unfolded across the globe as humans rushed towards rumors of food and <span lang="en-US">clean </span>water.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Then, in mid-December, our solar system completed a cycle around the Milky Way galaxy, and all hell broke lose. The trumpets atop the Mormon temples blasted in unison. Angels fluttered down from the heavens. Saints appeared and walked upon the Earth. Jesus arrived on a golden cloud, backed by <span lang="en-US">presence of a Monotheistic God</span>—a power that could be sensed if not seen. Believers and non-believers alike flocked to churches, synagogues, mosques and shrines, begging for forgiveness and mercy. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Four days later, on the winter solstice, a powerful earthquake struck in the Caucasus Mountains of Turkey, ripping great hole in the Earth and releasing countless ancient deities that swarmed the planet and wreaked havoc upon <span lang="en-US">the</span> heavenly host. <span lang="en-US">Achilles slew David.</span> Fairies and sprites wrestle<span lang="en-US">d </span>cherubs to th<span lang="en-US">e</span> death.<span lang="en-US"> </span>Thor pummeled Allah<span lang="en-US">/Jehovah</span> with his hammer. <span lang="en-US">Zeus zapped Jesus with a lightning bolt.</span> The saints stepped out of their shrines for a final stand, but as they knelt to pray<span lang="en-US"> </span>Medusa slithered into the fray and turned them all to stone. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Weight of the World</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><b>by Gary Feuerman<br /></b></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Not, everyone can carry the weight of the world. In prayer, when I go deep, I sometimes feel like that, heavy, slowly bending toward the ground, seeking the smell of moss, the flesh of a baby in my hands. Eventually, I rise, like a yogi, as the earth buoys me, sends food to my spine, spirit to my eyes. “Bow down”- I hear this in my eyes, “Bow down first.” Smell the ground again. Let your arms cradle your soft head, so much softer than you remember. Have you touched it lately, really let your fingertips and palms touch the warm flesh. It trembles. It needs swaddling. It’s been hit, and bounced, jarred into shapes it never meant to take. Let the head, my head, drop, so my eyes can remember what I look like, what my brother looks like, closer to my fast breathing heart, which also trembles, waiting for a warm hand, waiting for Neptune’s direction. I bend with her into my aching feet and knees that remember the last few years, that have absorbed rocks and concrete, wood and water. The lower I bend, the more I can smell the cold that has been housed in my bones, the vertebrae tight against the bottom of my neck. I realize I’m a cat about to jump off a counter, always, and I seek the ground, to lie by a creek, to crawl in the sage. She, in prayer, tells me I’m an old amphibian about to rise out of the water. You have to crawl first, she says. I can’t hear this when I’m standing coiled on the countertop. I can hear the sound, her voice, as I lower. She’s lowered for me, for us. She’s carrying the weight of the world. And I want to bear my share; I want to crawl like a turtle carrying a load. You have to crawl first, she says, her voice getting clearer. You have to crawl first before you can understand. I don’t want her to carry all the weight. I can smell the ground and will carry my own. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-75616678816833620482011-11-11T13:20:00.000-08:002011-12-01T17:49:08.945-08:00Western Sky Mesa Dawn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXN-JjYnLvTUEDS7gr45yKQppddVyCXoTLkM0pWARSRpg6UCnI_6Qq8ig7owZ7BkHj-PdmQXW5wxsP3CvriZEGO70hXnSD9WNMLhvhBDmRIBC7LBO7qjmpSdoRNzNKOXihFrw8agn39IE/s1600/Western+Sky+Mesa+Dawn+11.11.11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXN-JjYnLvTUEDS7gr45yKQppddVyCXoTLkM0pWARSRpg6UCnI_6Qq8ig7owZ7BkHj-PdmQXW5wxsP3CvriZEGO70hXnSD9WNMLhvhBDmRIBC7LBO7qjmpSdoRNzNKOXihFrw8agn39IE/s320/Western+Sky+Mesa+Dawn+11.11.11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673851370783112866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>11/11/11</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><b>by Gary Feuerman<br /></b></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">You get up early, and see the candy stripes of dawn in the windows. It is still dark, and muted in your bedroom, the light so delicate you need to wear slippers. Your exposed knees feel cold coming up from the concrete floor. There’s the sense that someone else can see you, or maybe you want that and it seems so. Your closet is neatly arranged and that’s pleasing, but your longjohns are not in there. You left them in the dryer. The kitchen holds the promise of a breakfast salad and hot tea, but you’re not ready. It’s dark near the floor but light is beginning to grace the undulating outline of the mountains. You grab the iPhone and turn it on, waiting interminably for that apple icon to turn to full operation mode. The background picture on your phone, a liquid light of indigo and charged lavender, is quivering in real time over Wheeler Peak. You throw on your thick navy sweatpants, the green base layer shirt, and the North Face slippers. You forego the hat. It’s 18 degrees but so calm that your warmth stays with you as you climb the adobe wall to stand on the soft surface of the vast sage plateau. Your slippers sink into the sandy clay. First, you look to the sacred mountain and see that peak outline so vividly that it brings a faint sadness. You take pictures of the mountain with its one shredded pennant of cloud ,which sticks to the peak as if from static. It looks like vapor from a cauldron. You walk on the desert above your house, in the dead quiet before dogs, before rabbits, and you feel levitated off the surface by the intimacy of walking in such an immense, unstirred scene. The sky to the west, against the feline spines of the old volcanoes, reflects an aquamarine ocean blushed indigo, plum and the beginnings of magenta. You put the phone up in front of your face and press the camera icon with your thumb. You then turn to the south and do it again. After that, you stop and listen to your heart beat feeling tall and unraveled. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Pink Moon</p><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Nothing was ever the same after the sky turned pink. It took months for scientists to even theorize the cause – talk of radiation, solar flares, atmospheric changes. Religious zealots claimed it was a message from God, but those were split. Half thought God was warning us to get it together before the pink phased to red and all went to hell. The other half thought God was showing us his rose tinted glasses, offering us a second chance. Philosophers insisted that the sky did not change but our way of seeing it did.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">The pink sky sure did make everything look different; an extraordinary glow coated dull surfaces such that the world was warm and inviting. On the other hand, my brain was never quite able to adjust. After a while, all that pink made me nauseous and I could no longer bare the sight of it. I trashed tutus and wore blue lipstick. I closed myself inside with shades drawn until sunset when, just for a moment, the sky turned blue again and life seemed okay. At least, I had the night, the dark maroon of midnight.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p><br /><div><span style="font-weight: bold;">La Dentuda</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Ned Dougherty</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If only she wasn't so toothy</div><div>or angular</div><div>fishing for me in the chlorine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her father isn't much of a guy either</div> <div>intimidating the suitors;</div><div>double dared me to kiss her. </div><div><br /></div><div>She's one of those fiery receptionists</div><div>with technicolor nails</div><div>and fighter pilot red lipstick hands free technology.</div> <div><br /></div><div><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1322761299_0">Chews</span> horse pill vitamins like candy</div><div>and takes a shot of hot water</div><div>to steep Earl Grey in her mouth.</div><div><br /></div><div>She's that inviting kind of nasty</div><div>like a snuff film</div> <div>at the front desk of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1322761299_1">Kit Carson</span> Electric.<br /><br /></div><div><br /><span><div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><b><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">western sky<br />by Robin Powesland<br /><br /></span></b></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">it’s delicate</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">this idea we have of communication</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">the soft underbelly of the word lilac</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">somehow hardened and left </span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">coquettishly complete</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">how we see</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">the eyes crinkle or grow wider</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">belies sometimes the choices</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">made long ago</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">we are new</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">in this softness</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">we are just plucked</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">laying out in the pooling light</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">shifting breeze</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">this idea of what we have to say</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">beyond our just being here</span></div> <div class="yiv784907979MsoNormal"><span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">is beautiful and spotted</span></div> <span class="yiv784907979Apple-style-span" style="font-family:tahoma, 'new york', times, serif;font-size:85%;">like queen’s lace </span></span><br /><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; font-weight: bold;">Not Another Day</p><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;" lang="en-US">by Charles Clayton</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Lots of these in a lifetime. The sunrise I mean. Every single day whether you're paying attention or not. Spectacular each and every time, just like the other blessings unfolding in your life. Food on the table. Roof over the head. A body that works. The pitter patter of little feet. A cup of hot coffee. A good woman to share it all with. And every day the sun rises to shine a light on it all, like icing on the cake of goodness.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And just like that it's gone. Not the blessings, but the blissful ignorance and the belief that there w<span lang="en-US">ill</span> always be <span lang="en-US">plenty of time</span>. A <span lang="en-US">fateful </span>diagnosis, or a car crash, or maybe just slipping on the ice. Suddenly the lost moments really are lost, and you can't get them back. Sleeping through another sunrise. Maybe tomorrow. Staring at Facebook instead of into your child's eyes. Just one more minute, honey. Nursing a hangover instead of your marriage. I'll never do it again, my love. You'll never do it again.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Blood Sunset</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Eric Mack</span><br /><br />They used to say the dirt was holy, but when people started turning, it became harder to believe. Several that we used to call friends and family had been buried in it. It didn't do the job. We resisted calling them zombies at first. The word was associated with an archetype of pure fiction, fiction that had long since been weaponized. Part of us wanted to preserve that past, simpler times when our nightmares couldn't so easily be realized with quantum genomics. The first real-world vampire had been created in a Singapore lab less than a month after the initial discovery was leaked and picked up by the network. The engineers held all the power now. Our legends and myths had become impotent the moment they became real. It was funny at first—the company that designed a line of bodyguards all identical to Pinhead from Hellraiser; then it became weird when the werewolf prostitute incidents started to be reported; and then the network took it to another level that pushed it all over the edge. I can't even imagine what's going on out there now. If I could, I wouldn't tell, lest the vision winds up in a lab somewhere.<br />An academic friend of mine got a wire through to me the other day. Wanted me to join the effort. Said they're working on bringing Jesus back to help set things right--the real one, not the Mormon fairy tale, he had assured me. I declined, of course. Can't see how a few tons of bread and fish is going to help our situation.<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-23525935667236191512011-10-08T16:05:00.001-07:002011-11-02T12:13:03.569-07:00Untitled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2Opdt4xAbj98y6YeRdX1ARuEIH_kgmtaUTPMWvMtAENgh5WRetSgkRnVmMPEjRoG-JsvEAsURCSE6vaAi1taXQh1cSInwbD2qde-Q0wz5OtgnBD8w-EFX66R9XQwuMi_f3KKjg09JLU/s1600/carover.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2Opdt4xAbj98y6YeRdX1ARuEIH_kgmtaUTPMWvMtAENgh5WRetSgkRnVmMPEjRoG-JsvEAsURCSE6vaAi1taXQh1cSInwbD2qde-Q0wz5OtgnBD8w-EFX66R9XQwuMi_f3KKjg09JLU/s320/carover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661261703369872706" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;"> </p><span style="font-weight: bold;">Blackout</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Charles Clayton</span><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">I know, I know: there are people in the world living on less than a dollar a day, literally crapping out their life force due to a lack of clean water and various third world diseases, but that doesn't mean that I'm not allowed to bitch about how backwards things sometimes are here in New Mexico.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Bad schools and drug addled parents, shady dealings and nepotism at all levels of local governance, the stoopid gang culture, and how the POWER ALWAYS GOES OUT around here during big events like the opening day of baseball season. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">IT'S OPENING DAY FOR CHRISSAKES! Spring is in the air, beer is chilling in the fridge, the rabbit ears are getting some decent reception, the Sox are looking good this year...and then some obese stoned mother with a tattoo on her neck and a piercing in her eyebrow is driving too fast and yapping on her cell phone or<span lang="en-US"> </span>sla<span lang="en-US">pping</span> one of her seatbeltless brood in the back of the mini-van and fails to notice the curve in the road. Dry road. Fine weather. Middle of the goddamn day. Right into the power pole. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Wreckoning</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><b>by Gary Feuerman<br /></b></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This could have been me. I’m writing because this could have been me. Many times. But not usually in the light, although who knows what can happen? The pole got knocked off its base and still stands. The car rests on its side. Both wrenched and beaten, bent and splintered. I can’t get too poetic here, not on purpose. It’s now. It’s pelting cold rain on my house in the early dark of late October. The road, dusty for weeks, is now a sloppy horse track. I’m sneezing virulently, all day, by myself. I don’t know if it’s a cold, allergies or if the house is sick from dust or silica, or something in the air. I’ve sneezed so hard that my head hurts, and a cough has developed, still dry, but wheezy and fluttery in the chest. I’ve sneezed so loud that the windows rattled. I had some good thoughts earlier, but now I feel achy, sick and alone. Now I remember the first smell of moisture in the morning, one that gave me an old sadness of Long Island in November. A sweetness in it, a loamy, earthy, mulchy sweetness that feels like funerals, or waiting out arguments on the porch at Thanksgiving. Some days it would remind me of falling face first in the grass after scoring a touchdown in a schoolyard or backyard football game, but not today. It spelled an ending. I fought it and worked at the desk here at my house – no office to go to anymore. And I did ok, got through deadlines, closed a substantial private loan for the brewery, banged out some emails, saw the Facebook news and messages. This made me feel far removed from whatever it is that is happening out there. I’m not grasping it, although I feel dangerous when I see and hear clips of violence; not “in danger” but dangerous. Dangerous to myself, and to others knowing there is a seed in me that can grow a violent protester, or a martyr which can be just as violent. I don’t know about this 1% and 99%. My gut says that’s too easy. But I don’t have the capacity to think of ways to “fight” the power, whatever that is. Maybe the idea is to turn back to where you are and live in community, tribally, feed and feed alike. Trips to the farmers markets this summer and fall have felt abundant. There’s always food left, tons of food. What is it we’re worried about? Why can’t we build our own schools and teach the way we want? Why can’t being in a beautiful place with endless playgrounds, and rich varieties of heart opened people with all the stories of the world be enough? We could take in travelers from other tribes, an oasis in the desert, and send them off with our art, our love, our food, and the spark that they brought us enlivened? And they can do for us the same. Why do we have to worry about Wall Street, or the far right, far left, far flung? We already have the under layer of a barter economy. We have the skills and resources to live sustainably. We have accessible riches of art and culture to keep our myths evolving, and our child’s eyes forever awake and dreaming. We can live on little money and be secure. We can ignore Wall St. I know we can. I’d need some guidance from others, and in a circle I can guide in some ways. I’m willing to work the fields and clean the dishes. I’m willing to break down my barriers and help. I’m lonely as fuck right now in my house, listening to the rain, checking Facebook in the hope that I’ll get a personal message from someone, the new form of looking in the mailbox for a letter, but much more cruel and need-soaked because you can look every 30 seconds (less!) like a tic and you might not get what you need “out there.” I’d be happy to crack this solo habit and commune (as long as there’s some private space <span style="font-family:Wingdings, serif;"></span>) . I believe it’s part of what I’m doing with the brewery. Wall Street certainly did not help us, hell, our own village leaders and “community” banks did not help us (that’s frigging euphemistic!). We’ve gone bankless, lo these 5 years, but I’ve become brothers with my partners and we scraped and scrounged for our initial investments (leveraging houses built by hand – thank you mortgage mania, frugality of saving pennies, and for me going to a fanatical believer for some – thanks Mom!) and with steady fervor convinced others to join the circus. Am I angry that we don’t have the burden of a $500,000 loan from US Bank and the tightrope walk that goes with that? You can answer that question. People have bought into the business. People have built with us for years for some equity and some beer. Yes, they think we’ll make some money. Yes, we think we’ll make some money. We’re not down on money, although if things go barter and fully communal, what a great place the Rock Garden will be! Who will care at that point as we quaff heavenly beer, play volleyball in the sun and listen to killer music? Alright, yes, I’ve been selling this place a lot lately, so maybe some of that has spilled over. You don’t have to buy a share, no worries. So, I don’t know. I was just in a play in Taos, the lead in a fucking play, an original play. Where else can some shmo from Long Island be the lead in an original, surreal romantic tragicomedy with wacked clowns, burlesque and a grandpa 5 years older than him? No, we’re not doing anymore shows, so I’m not promoting here. I’m just saying. You want to be in a play, just be in it. You want to grow food, grow it. You want to spit poetry, spit it. You want to share your skills and live heart, share them. You can wreck any time whether you deserve it or not, so I say, fuck worrying about Wall St., let’s have a coffee or a beer and dream a dream of here/and now.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Done Chrysalis</p><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She should have known to slow down when the tires slipped going under the overpass. She might have pulled over for the night, but she had an irrational need to get to the Corn Palace before putting the road to bed. The soft rain had just begun, winter dark just fallen. She must have been doing seventy when the tires slipped again. The Jeep spun a one-eighty and rolled onto the roof of the passenger side where her buddy Jim was shielding his head. The roll continued onto her side, tossing them around in a state of blank suspension. Glass shattered in her hair. Somehow, it landed on all fours, on the other side of the gully, perpendicular to on-coming traffic. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> To her right, headlights stared her down. She could not open her door. Her left hand was fucked up. She felt for her left pinky, bent back from the top knuckle and grabbing it, snapped it back into place with painless adrenaline. Jim managed to get his door open and she crawled out his side. He was cradling his right arm to hold in the bone jutting out of his elbow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The first responders found them there in the ditch, in the rain, broken and huddled close. She kept asking them to check her hair for glass as they covered them with blankets. When the paramedics finally arrived, they wrapped her neck in foam and strapped her into the gurney. Sirens preceded their arrival. She was half-way to the hospital in an ambulance swerving and sliding along the icy back roads when she was struck with a moment of clarity. Shit, she thought to herself, I'm really fucking high.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">by Robin Powlesland</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><div><span>maybe</span></div><div><span>the reason for each</span></div><div><span>one of these</span></div><div><span>loves</span></div><div><span>or someone once called</span></div><div><span>them</span></div><div><span>mistakes</span></div><div><span>this waking up</span></div><div><span>in the morning</span></div><div><span>or late at night</span></div><div><span>or just because this someone</span></div><div><span>said our name just right</span></div><div><span>just soft enough</span></div><div><span>we had to lean in</span></div><div><span>closer </span></div><div><span>and taste the mistake</span></div><div>before tasting the person</div><div>before feeling the metal</div><div>crash into our bodies</div><div>the glass break across our faces</div><div>and the time</div><div>each time it happens</div><div>we feel the end</div><div>just as the same as the</div><div>beginning</div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-81460562409965632252011-08-31T16:17:00.000-07:002011-10-08T15:58:17.080-07:00Summer Goodness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXg-oqef6vf7CUen8Rj_jt2eji8vMIXY6SvxeeP5pGHzEuLTTICm1OHaMsW2o05sbTrMShaxljnEFnjN0JLKmf1KZ-fvWU5MDZmEYnZWbNXHFeT2lmWJMaB_YTMjAjmySixi4_Sx9LZQ/s1600/summer.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXg-oqef6vf7CUen8Rj_jt2eji8vMIXY6SvxeeP5pGHzEuLTTICm1OHaMsW2o05sbTrMShaxljnEFnjN0JLKmf1KZ-fvWU5MDZmEYnZWbNXHFeT2lmWJMaB_YTMjAjmySixi4_Sx9LZQ/s400/summer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647164328814866530" border="0" /></a> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">What'll It Be?</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">by Charles Clayton<br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Uncork the bottle. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Inspiration flows.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wine loosens the lips. Inhibitions vanish.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Poetry. Songs. Stories.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Throat chakra freed</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">muses pour forth</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">laughter</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">mirth</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">joy</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Uncork the bottle. Let it all hang out.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wine </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">warms</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the loins. Inhibitions vanish.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Passion. Lust. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Heat.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Sweet nothings</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US"> whispered.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Release</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">orgasm</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">union</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Uncork the bottle. Happy hour.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wine blurs the vision. Judgment fails.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Stumble. Slur. Double vision.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The key turns</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">drive</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">swerve</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">crash</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Uncork the bottle. Pain denied.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wine masks feelings. Tears held back.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Regret. Sorrow. Guilt.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The gun cocked</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">trigger</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">bullet</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">brain</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Uncork the bottle. Let her have it.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wine </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">blinds</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">. Fists fly.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Anger. Hate. Self loathing.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The kid watches.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Mom’s b</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">lack eye</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">trapped</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">patterns</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Will</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the muse</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">make up for</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the hangovers?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Will</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the orgasm</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">balance out</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the jailtime?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Will</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the songs</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">console</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the battered woman?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-US">Will</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> the reverie</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">make up for</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the sorrow?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Toast Goodbye to Summer</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye shallow murky rivers where we float in tubes and bury our ankles in minnows.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye bare shoulders streaked with tan lines and feet cracking open.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye buttercress and favas off the vine.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye outdoor music with hipsters drinking beer on patio chairs.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye camping road trips to orange rock caverns and alpine meadows.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye grass between our toes, sun on our bellies, wind through uncapped hair.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Goodbye, summer, goodbye.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl3JE6Ji1_PtnLEW2nkm4g38GRjg2yvGcFOv9P0rApRKJAx2zgf4HpDBl1PVhGg2NDROyt_ZlQVbZ8CI3MyLuwNQPADwKCPl6VgI-OFosM-YZ6MaT7Adg5WxSnVtsKHGgZUwaao7nx-l8/s1600/summer.jpg"><span><span></span></span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-88794743481305452092011-07-21T19:08:00.000-07:002011-08-09T11:03:54.482-07:00Fairy Dust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJP-FBcMfUDI9zbxjk6SudIEK3y5dk5iICRpRC4XS1yrDt-dg4Vl0DoeubiCVQVEEUpNnZCMOzDZ4LDJvDdgxZrisGpcNF9pRINlPTQdESQvVKMjudCuhU6JmZucRNe4RuN-uoONcvadA/s1600/sarah%2526sams+051.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJP-FBcMfUDI9zbxjk6SudIEK3y5dk5iICRpRC4XS1yrDt-dg4Vl0DoeubiCVQVEEUpNnZCMOzDZ4LDJvDdgxZrisGpcNF9pRINlPTQdESQvVKMjudCuhU6JmZucRNe4RuN-uoONcvadA/s320/sarah%2526sams+051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631993773474162850" border="0" /></a>
<br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Fairy Dust</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In college, Beth took acid. It was not an optimal situation since she was alone and at a Phish concert. Still, Beth swore she saw fairies - points of gold light interspersed in the trees. Later, when similar lights off the water began to chase after her, she still believed she had seen fairies – a little window opened in her consciousness and let them in.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Even after swearing off acid forever, on occasion, she might still see those points of light, only one, only rarely.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Then she had a little girl she named Lily who for some time loved tiaras and wings. Beth confirmed for her the existence of fairies and they both made up songs to enchant them. Years later, after Lily outgrew fairies, tearing pictures from her wall, Beth was disappointed. However, she was pleased to discover, she could sometimes spot a golden point of light just beyond Lily's left ear.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Robin Powlesland</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p><div>Soft. </div><div>Marketing of small letters</div><div>And words.</div><div>We stop to listen</div><div>But get crowded out by all</div><div>The people walking</div><div>Through.</div><div>I have found her voice</div><div>By chance</div><div>As if by chance.</div><div>It is soft</div><div>And just enough dance</div><div>For me to feel</div><div>The twilight </div>In us all.
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<br /><div style="font-weight: bold;" id="yui_3_2_0_5_1312912223823117">Fiesta Princess</div><div>-E. Mack</div><div>
<br /></div>The dancehall is nearly empty. The floorboards pre-date the dozen people scattered in chairs along the side wall, most of whom collect a pension by now. A section on the far side of dancefloor completely rotted away a few years ago, and a ten-foot square section of gleaming new laminate contrasts with the gray, aged pine planks that surround it.<div>
<br /></div><div>Two guitarists on stage look tired. They're playing a Gospel version of "Sweet Home Alabama" with the chorus changed to "Sweet Heaven, Hallelujah." The fluorescent lighting, stained walls and smell of processed cheese wafting from the snack bar in back make the original version seem more appropriate.</div> <div>
<br /></div><div>My daughter is twirling alone while the old people look on, red hair flying, gossamer faux angel wings flapping and the unfamiliar plastic crown she must have stolen from one of her friends repeatedly falling to floor. </div> <div>
<br /></div><div>Soon the Fiesta princesses will be making their grand entrance.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>A guitar string breaks in the middle of the second verse, the song stops, but the little girl keeps twirling. </div> <div>
<br /></div><div>A replacement guitar is found before the princesses arrive 90 minutes late. There are now three little girls twirling, sliding, luxuriating on the slick laminate floor section. Before I notice the royal procession preparing to enter from the back, a few of the old people are directing my daughter to a chair, gently and with a smile. </div> <div>
<br /></div><div>I sit next to her. Her mother appears with nachos. The jalapenos are pickled. We both direct our daughter's gaze to the line in the back of the room. The fiesta princesses are far from contemporary. No updating of the outfits to be more stylish or sexy, a little more Disney. Instead, there are intricate crowns and long, heavy flowing robes in royal blue.</div> <div>
<br /></div><div>Rather than be impressed or awestruck, the three-foot tall person sitting next to me is devastated by a case of princess envy.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"It's not fair they're more beautifuller than me!" </div> <div>
<br /></div><div>She crosses her arms across her chest so forcefully she creates a self-imposed straight jacket.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>My pep talk about everyone being beautiful in their own way and waiting for her day to be princess doesn't help. It sounds like bullshit even to a three-year-old, and it is. There's never going to be a Jewish princess of this Catholic celebration.</div> <div>
<br /></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_5_1312912223823121">After the procession and the nachos recede, we head to the other side of the village where electronic music blares from the old theater. A few dozen hipsters from Santa Fe are making jerky movements out-of-sync with the beat on the stage. My daughter finally releases her arms from their locked position and runs in their direction, tiny wings flapping behind.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-71701583455906755792011-06-04T20:13:00.001-07:002011-07-02T17:24:42.081-07:00Cerro Glow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM4o2jsNbmkVyn1T-6cvbrzhbHS-iI4YQX61oF-kY8aCCllZ6KcOYANB0zKySWaIfQFdi4SF2B-QVF8Kvs2PjofHMSmpZMT51r-S0Ld8OtMsmbT8kgFIxeCx128TRen8ipKqznKtw7RQ/s1600/Cerro+Glow+4.26.11.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM4o2jsNbmkVyn1T-6cvbrzhbHS-iI4YQX61oF-kY8aCCllZ6KcOYANB0zKySWaIfQFdi4SF2B-QVF8Kvs2PjofHMSmpZMT51r-S0Ld8OtMsmbT8kgFIxeCx128TRen8ipKqznKtw7RQ/s320/Cerro+Glow+4.26.11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614568868053414386" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%; font-weight: bold;">Before and After</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">by Gary Feuerman<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">Before the fire</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">there was a glow</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">from the silken sun</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">as I stood in water</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">dreaming of love</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">After</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"> I looked west</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">and beat the rugs</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"> like old enemies</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;">breathing time</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Wild Fire</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When the dogs start barking and the magpies make a nuisance with their clucking, I know the red fog is coming in. Out the western window, I see the smoke collide with thunder and hope the slate clouds win. But the wind is fast, wild and fierce – La <span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">Ni</span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >ñ</span></span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman, serif;">a</span>, a wrathful goddess. By the time I am done shampooing my dog who rolled in dung to cool off, the air is charred and stuffy. The animals are silenced and the sun is red. We hurry inside.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Yesterday, I rolled in mud at a spa due west, recessed in red canyon walls. The smoke appeared suddenly, with limited visibility and my throat became dry and scratchy. We raced home blasting the A/C, the smoke chasing us while we sped across the mesa. Plump gray and welcoming clouds hovered over town, our fortress of mountains, and as we entered Taos's perimeters, it began to rain. Oh, the cleansing scent of steaming hot tar and wet sand.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A sign of things to come, I hope, as the red plumes of smoke and toxins – the dust of old growth pines or the carcinogenic particles of plutonium – settle around us encased in closed summer houses.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><h1 class="western"><span style="font-size:85%;">Cerro</span></h1>by Robin Powlesland<br /><br /> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the fireworks display stands empty</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and Jeff N. stalks Paseo</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">with his angry yet honest</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">yet certain words</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">today is the first day</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I am truly weary of the smoke</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and how insular it is to say that</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">how unfair</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">it all seems too big really</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">to know</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and also still fairly far away</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">we dream about rain</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">flying bullets hit young men</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">in the face in Taos this weekend</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and we watched each other</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">talk about our creative processes</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">as if they happen alone</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I want to be around Flora</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">my friends’ three year old</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">red-headed whimsical daughter</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">because I do not understand</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">what her life will look like</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">it doesn’t look like this</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I am bruised from last night’s dancing</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and keep seeing a stranger’s dimples</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">but still New Mexico is burning</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">we are struggling to breathe</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">our way through this</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Los Alamos on the hill</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and we can’t look away</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the fireworks stand displays empty</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and I know now what the Mayor drinks</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">what we all drink</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">we are all always drinking</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the future is paralyzing</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and yet the events are stacking up</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">on facebook</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">as if everyone needs one more</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">party</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">as if the bacchanal rights</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">could fix everything that is going wrong </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">all over this earth</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">as if mother nature could be placated</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">by placating ourselves</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">as if we had another chance</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">or a chance at all</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">my flowers continue to bloom on my plants</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and music comes from the plaza</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">it feels humid as the smoke condenses our moisture around us</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I do not want to drink anymore or feel tired or overwhelmed</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I want the future to open up like these red flowers in front of me</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">propel us into something more</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">but I am just small I am just insular</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">and the comets will come and the flame and the rain</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">the plutonium is inches from my face</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:85%;">a bullet in my throat</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-78608684774933849282011-05-10T19:39:00.001-07:002015-08-11T11:53:31.089-07:00Space<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruemvO2bHFovjjNTZQ19ezqhe4pIqTLSnlUOOk8I1-DLUD_MvJxBLUExQHlMfPB7ytvOPPo8Ihg-YFadD6Zq3ZGFLEwW0f5OEhEs-Kxl6OoyYszxpBiGv1sue7VBeQ_yTz0xjI-0M6aY/s1600/space_shuttle-taos.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605291742522240338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruemvO2bHFovjjNTZQ19ezqhe4pIqTLSnlUOOk8I1-DLUD_MvJxBLUExQHlMfPB7ytvOPPo8Ihg-YFadD6Zq3ZGFLEwW0f5OEhEs-Kxl6OoyYszxpBiGv1sue7VBeQ_yTz0xjI-0M6aY/s320/space_shuttle-taos.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 257px;" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">(575)</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">By Eric Mack</span><br />
<br />
River cracks the Earth,<br />
Seven syllables this line,<br />
The bridge to <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1307071819_0" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;">Haiku</span>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">North</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">by Gary Feuerman<br /></span><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like the volcanoes</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
on the Mesa</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
near where my house is</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
invisible from space</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There’s a tributary of the Rio</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
that runs from the mountains</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
still covered in snow</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
like healing powder</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
sprinkled to cool the pain</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My body </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
on looking into the valley </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
wants first to run west</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
into the flatness </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
of desert</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
but below the skin</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
my soul dreams north</div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 130%;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">space</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Robin Powlesland</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">the space between teeth </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">changes</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">throughout the day</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">and it’s hard to know</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">what I make</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">and what is real</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">where do we go from here</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">too the mistake</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">voiced and distinguished</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">I brought my <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1306988637_0">tarot cards</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">to tell the future</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">but no one wants to hear it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">the voices have been</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">told and loud</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">I have very much liked</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">yesterday</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">and the day before</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">but <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1306988637_1" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; cursor: pointer;">today and tomorrow</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">are like my tooth</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">missing and what’s left </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">is a little swollen</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">empty</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">where do we go from here</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">but wave our magic</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">wands and hands</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">purses and matchsticks</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">work our way through</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">all the stuff</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">just so much stuff</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman; font-weight: bold;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Rift</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">by Charles Clayton</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span> </div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">700 miles</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Colorado to Chihuahua </span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">“New Mexico” gets wider:</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">one mile every million years</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span> </div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Fault block mountains rise</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">valley basement drops</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">buried seashells exposed</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">glaciers come and go</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">rain wind rivers snow</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">tear everything to pieces </span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">grains of sand </span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">carried to the Gulf</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span> </div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Magma probes the crust</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">earth skin pulled taut and thin</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">volcanoes burst through</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">low spots fill with molten lava</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">become high spots</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">basalt mesa rimrock </span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">cinder cones shields</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">back to black dust</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">blowing in spring winds</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span> </div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">River follows rift</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">no valley of its own</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">no branching watershed</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">long lonely line of life</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">carving out canyons</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">digging deeper</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">straight south to El Paso</span></div>
<div style="font-family: times new roman; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">leave the rift behind.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-21643927791315540482011-04-02T15:09:00.000-07:002011-05-02T15:08:57.311-07:00Untitled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHIm3uyVhr5sgLCmqQI7VHYuf3xuAA6NpAc88b4NPry0FIo7vHCjN1SuhQQ4QzXrPnZTBol5x9gxyUUfoWl6eLdub2zfd34Jz2nTpSrcWxSev41HTiRPvgOwn5Psh7rlPqONMW8LMxgQ/s1600/DSCN1717.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHIm3uyVhr5sgLCmqQI7VHYuf3xuAA6NpAc88b4NPry0FIo7vHCjN1SuhQQ4QzXrPnZTBol5x9gxyUUfoWl6eLdub2zfd34Jz2nTpSrcWxSev41HTiRPvgOwn5Psh7rlPqONMW8LMxgQ/s320/DSCN1717.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591112188743836546" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;" lang="en-US">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">by Charles Clayton</p><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">100 million years ago</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Shifting dunes blowing sands</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">"New Mexico" south of the equator</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dinosaurs humping and laying eggs</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">1000 years ago</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Images pecked on a sandstone wall</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Flecks of obsidian sharpened arrows</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Bighorn sheep boiled in the clay pot</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">100 years ago</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Mormon cowboys red dust</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pause and look at pictures on the rocks</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Cattle chomp on golden grasses</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10 years ago</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Powerlines buzzing overhead</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Plastic grocery\bag stuck in the sagebrush</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Graduate students ponder the hunter</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">1<span lang="en-US"> day</span> ago</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US">Sunshine warm </span>rock</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Arrowheads in the soil</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Cowboys in the grave</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Professors explain the Anasazi</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then There Were Three</span><br />by Eric Mack<br /></div><div><br /></div>It was easier in two dimensions. Without depth there was no need for <span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304372768_0">deep thoughts</span>, and somehow everyone seemed a little less smug, little less full of shit. Or maybe I'm just lazy. Height, width, nothing more complicated than geometry--that's the life though, right? Something's in the way, you better jump over it, get under it or go right through it; no goin' round, circumventing or sneaky tricks. <div> <br /></div><div>There's been improvements since we upgraded though, to be sure. Flat cuisine, for one--ain't missed it for a second, and anyone who says different's lying through their fleshy fibhole. By my reckonin' the steaks and the sex are just about the only reasons we don't just upload ourselves onto some hard drive to be spit out an inkjet back where we came from. And the mountains, too, I guess. I mean, damn. We just had those all wrong before. </div> <div><br /></div><div>But I still miss it - they didn't tell us we'd be trading one dimension for another; got a wider world but seemed to lose the time to check it out. Forward progress always kicks the shit out of nostalgia I guess.</div> <div><br /></div><div>(--sent from my iPad2)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shooting Sheep in the Sky</span><br />by Gary Feuerman<br /><br />Her sister was visiting. It was still early in the relationship, maybe 3 months in. We still made love at least twice a day, and whispered to each other in the corners of parties and bars about the things we wanted to try. It all smelled like fresh raspberries. You know when you look close at a newly picked berry? The round, trembling buds filled with soft flesh and juice. A little hairy, but always ready to burst. That was us. I could do no wrong, although I often thought that what we had couldn't be real, not really. It had to burst and disappear at some point. I had to eventually stumble, break the bubble and watch the mist of love float into nothing. <br /><br />So Sis was coming and I was the Taos Guy. What to do? She was a fierce intellectual, Sis, with eyes that ate and doubted everything said, but also wanted to just play and grapple. One night on the toilet, tucked safely in the back of the house, I spied a local tourist mag on top of a pile of paperback novels I hadn't read, but figured I'd at least get snippets of if they were piled in the bathroom. I reached for it and brought it to my lap. On the cover was the picture of a petroglyph - a pregnant woman praying next to a set of 4 concentric circles. Like a sign from God, I knew that this, this was the thing to do. A friend had told me the week before that there was a path off of Ranchitos Rd. along the Rio Pueblo where the petroglyphs were etched into the rocks along a little limestone ridge on the mesa. <br /><br />We went there the next day, a scorching one with endless blue sky. We parked near a house, but off the road and set off into the cottonwoods along the tumbling little river. Sis pulled a joint from her shorts and we smoked it. Stoned, but with purposes, I led us up into the rocks beyond the trees. A cliff about 30' high ran north-south parallel with the river. When I got to the rocks, I pressed my face against them to feel the heat. T and Sis followed suit without words. All was quiet. No cars. No wind. No other people. I moved south along the wall dragging my fingertips along the rough sandstone. After 20 yards I came upon an etching of a vibrant sun over two sets of concentric circles with 4 and 5 rings painted in a rusty red. <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304354999_0">Petroglyphs</span>. I could hear T and Sis breathing. We stood still and each in turn touched the indentations in the rock. T kissed me on my nose, and Sis then hugged me and whispered, "You are part of my clan."<br /></div><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Cavernas del Viejo Volcan</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I dig my heels into hard dust and stare out at a photograph in a magazine from someone else's vacation – white mountains holding hands around a splatter of lake blue. The wind blows hard, bellowing my hood up around my face. I climb the mountain, I enter the cave. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A ramble of meaningless words float around me and I will not look at him lest he think I understand. He spills water on the wall to make visible the fine red lines of some ancient sketching. His fingers trace the jagged lines. “Tall people,” he says in English, horizontal hand held high above his head.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “But how do they know that?” I ask my translator, my crouching husband. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “The last one died not too long ago.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The. Last. One. He was a tall man. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My hip bones barely scrape through the damp tunnel, my head bumping up against jutting rocks. One knee in front of the other, one hand, then the other, one crawl closer to blind. Something falls into water somewhere. Someone whoops when they trip. A mother whispers comforting words to her child. Shh, the owls are sleeping. I commit the darkness to memory. Turning back toward a single point of light, I imagine that I am alone, for one moment, the last one in the world.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-78624680306378157182011-03-01T14:04:00.000-08:002011-04-04T22:31:08.948-07:00Lunar Eclipse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCsNsObwGML0abRgE0mXipznGmi2Kt7XuTXedrAZZhUfI6CqoKkqWXT2kK0cgF4dj7kfp2YMsH5-qwBZhJLZ4J76FCDLkK0h6sl9Kqj8RXZmNXhjsu8sa9yE0bOrwjmvPI_j5vL9klEHg/s1600/lunar+eclipse.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCsNsObwGML0abRgE0mXipznGmi2Kt7XuTXedrAZZhUfI6CqoKkqWXT2kK0cgF4dj7kfp2YMsH5-qwBZhJLZ4J76FCDLkK0h6sl9Kqj8RXZmNXhjsu8sa9yE0bOrwjmvPI_j5vL9klEHg/s320/lunar+eclipse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579236150320901042" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Made Visible</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Johanna DeBiase</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My dog's barks became loud and incessant. I was worried she'd wake the kids. I rolled out of my sack on the bottom bunk and tried to quiet the creak of the door as I stepped outside the yurt in my long underwear into the cool night air. Five feet deep of snow rolled out like a blanket, across the meadow between the pine and spruce to the creek below and beyond atop the higher peaks further in the distance.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The full moon made the snow meadow glow like a fresh water pearl and accounted for my inability to sleep – super moon, vernal equinox. I unfastened my dog's leash and beckoned her to join me by the fire inside. Instead, she stared intently to the south along the side of the yurt, her snout pointed forward, her chest engaged and ready to leap into action.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I leaned over her to look. My heart startled. A black silhouette contrasted sharply against the iridescent snow – an animal, sitting upright, bigger than a cat, smaller than a dog, pointy ears and a bushy tail, which it waved across its body affectionately. It was staring back at me. I grabbed my dog's collar and pulled her quickly inside. My heart thumping out of my chest. Out the window, the fox continued to walk across the field and into the trees beyond.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Foxes live in between – night and day, meadow and forest; because of this, they are known for their ability to camouflage. Tribal people across the world revere fox medicine for its power of invisibility. Yet, this fox, this fox wanted to be seen.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Spring. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Moon.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Fox.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">the fullness of it came closer</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Robin Powlesland<br /><br />I can layer these names<br />into the texture between<br />morning and its due<br />possibly see the shadow cast<br />in midnights from before<br /><br />I was young then and younger now<br />knowing that you have left<br />nothing behind you other than this<br />layering of camel buts<br />shorn and tossed about<br />my patio<br /><br />I can see in the glare<br />of this moon<br />how this place has made<br />me what I wasn't before</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Charles Clayton</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Archetype of emotion </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">born of violent collision<span lang="en-US">.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Reflecting pool<span lang="en-US"> reveals chunks of stardust</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">rejected by Sun's gravity embrace.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Far from the light, <span lang="en-US">elliptical roaming,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">then plunge towards<span lang="en-US"> a</span> terrestrial speck</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">seething spinning coalescing cooling.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">COLLISION. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Man on the moon a chunk of</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Mother Earth, a chip off the old block<span lang="en-US">.</span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US">G</span>ray dust<span lang="en-US"> settles.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US">Mountains cast long lonely shadows.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Wax wane. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tug at the sea.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Soak up gamma rays.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Eat meteors. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Light up the primordial<span lang="en-US"> </span>night as</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the blue orb below manifests bacterial</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">(r)evolutions from sea to slimy sea.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Billions of trips around the Sun.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Silver beams shine upon</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">trilobite backs</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">jellyfish glow</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">triceratop horns</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">mastadon woes</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">flecks of chipped stone</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">firepits and charred bones<span lang="en-US">.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">Every so often:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">“Wolves are eating the moon!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">Eye of Horus, stolen.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">Cough it up, sky dragon, </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">Shaman’s going to yank that arrow out</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US">And make it all right again.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Eric Mack<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a name="lw_1301780157_0"></a><a name="lw_1301780157_1"></a> During what would be my last year, I spent much of it traveling to the surrounding villages, recording oral histories from Native elders for the radio station. One old man in his late seventies from a northern village that sits just below the Arctic Circle shared a simple anecdote about how he used to monitor the extreme cold temperatures that had since become less frequent occurrences due to climate change. Sixty below is still common in Fairbanks, but the nights of minus ninety are long gone. In the 1940s, it seems, thermometers were a luxury not readily available in the villages, so the old man had developed his own scale for taking temperature when traveling overnight by sleddog team.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “50 below, that’s easy… you seen that before – just take a cup of hot water off the pot on the fire, throw it up in the air. If nothing comes down, you hit minus 50,” he explained, referring to a phenomenon that’s now widely demonstrated by awe-struck college students in Fairbanks on numerous Internet videos. “Now, 70 below… don’t see that much anymore these days, but back then, when your kerosene turned to jelly, you knew you hit 70.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a name="lw_1301780157_2"></a>The old man paused, took a sip of watery coffee from a styrofoam cup, moved the microphone on the table in front of him back a few inches, then continued:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Then, at 90 below, my dogs’ tails just fell off.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a name="lw_1301780157_3"></a>He stood up, grabbed the cup and headed for the coffee pot in the other room.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “But, wait… what happened to the dogs?” I called after him, completely missing the point of the story and no longer concerned about his proximity to the microphone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh, they was fine… Sometimes maybe one of ‘em would quit, usually the older or sick ones… just lay down and die. Nothin’ you could do for ‘em. But most of ‘ems would be just fine, you just hook ‘em up to the sled, and they’d just run, they just leave them tails behind and just keep movin’… gotta keep movin’ to survive.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Untitled</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Gary Feuerman<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; border-width: medium medium 1pt; border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(54, 99, 136); padding: 0in 0in 0.02in; font-style: normal;"><a name="lw_1301780641_0"></a><a name="lw_1301780641_1"></a><a name="lw_1301780641_2"></a><a name="lw_1301780641_3"></a><a name="lw_1301780641_4"></a> It was something that had not happened in hundreds of years. Before Shakespeare, the telescope, the Mona Lisa; just after the dark ages. 1378. Man was still relatively few and dealing with plagues. America did not exist and the United Kingdom was not so united. Venice thrived, and my lineage was lost somewhere between Crusades-scarred southern realms and forested hills in the mid north of Europe where wild boar and wolves killed some of my nervous ancestors. And here I was with friends, on a couch sitting on a dirt driveway in northern New Mexico, sipping vodka, craning my neck to see the orange moon, like a pill in the sky, like a globular glass of Lipton tea. December 21, 2010. A gathering of writers, wild souls watching ravens in the high tree branches, meteors streaking in green-white glitter, and the moon-sun dance, choreographed and timed to the minute, organization and deliberation among chaos. It was mild for <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">December 21st</span>. No snow on the ground, sweaters enough at midnight and later. The slow shading and unshading of the moon gave us patience. We sipped slower than usual. Not since 1378 had anyone witnessed this. Who saw it then? A shepherd? A monk on a mountain top in Tibet? A writer at her table scribbling by candlelight. An executioner with insomnia feeling vaguely guilty about the next head? Did anyone write about it? The printing press had yet to be invented. Did the Anasazi view it from the sacred circle of stones? Did they know it was coming? Most of the people went inside soon after the moon was covered. A friend and I waited it out. Full light returned near 3am. I was not sure what it meant or will mean to me, but it felt like the completion of a cycle.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-36601872064681428792011-02-01T20:15:00.000-08:002011-03-01T08:15:21.697-08:00Great White Northern New Mexico<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwsdN1rXGcHK6D0MPp0fkeziNXIr5oIzC53tUXJI7dBGpc9dNlypmlceUquc-N6mciNoGlmdqh2CzIv_RmrMjWGNor6RpWP-r8acSzlJti_9EmUeKBL84969xThLIYJx9R-CBZtvXtGs/s1600/Great+White+North...ern+New+Mexico.11.25.10+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwsdN1rXGcHK6D0MPp0fkeziNXIr5oIzC53tUXJI7dBGpc9dNlypmlceUquc-N6mciNoGlmdqh2CzIv_RmrMjWGNor6RpWP-r8acSzlJti_9EmUeKBL84969xThLIYJx9R-CBZtvXtGs/s320/Great+White+North...ern+New+Mexico.11.25.10+%25282%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568941372622589938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wild-on-End</span><br />by Johanna DeBiase <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I could do without all this sagebrush,” the Kansas man makes small-talk. He does not see the open sky, the rising mesas, the stretching rolls of hill persuading mountain peaks, the deep water gashes and bubbling springs. He will always be a tourist. I am grateful I broke down so close to home.“Los Colonias,” I direct him, “you can drop me at this corner.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I’ll take you all the way,” he offers with a soft twang, “it’s no problem.” I glimpse into the truck bed at broken elk limbs. “I went hunting with my son last week,” he explains.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I’m a newcomer too,” I tell him. I think of where I came from, the sub-arctic snow prairies and glacier embedded ridge lines, time moving only as fast as the river would take it. But this is not Alaska. Now I walk in tumbleweeds with sandals on, snack on pinon, explore the back roads and only bring a coat if I’ll be out after dark. “This is good,” I point to my road head,“That’s my house over there.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Warmed by thoughts of my highway solar adobe I think, <i>I am generated by the sun,</i> but do not say it out loud; there are enough hippies on this mesa to create the illusion of crazy without my help. Yet, he’s told me already(only takes a few miles for a man to open up to a strange woman) he misses Kansas, that’s his true home. I close the heavy door to his truck and run the dirt road back to my house past pueblo land where the sagebrush goes on for miles and think, <i>There could never be too much.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">Bastard</p> by Charles Clayton <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It never was very good, not even in California where it was warm. Well, it was good there for awhile, before the drinking got bad. A house, a son, a baby daughter, a used but solid Buick in the driveway, palm trees in the front yard, oranges in the back, steady work at the track. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Then he hit her one too many times and she left. Took the kids and fled for Colorado, for the shelter of family and mountains. He sobered up, tied up some loose ends, and made his way towards that icebox of a town, swearing to her and himself that things had changed. Worked for her brother, rented from her father, started drinking with her cousins and before too long the walls were closing in again. Only now it was 50 below. Too cold for hope.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He got his wages and left town with the clothes on his back and a twelve pack of Budweiser in the passenger seat, headed south to New Mexico, Arizona, anywhere but this frozen valley. No need for goodbyes. It won't take her long to figure out what happened. Crack open a beer. Hit the gas. The edge of town. Keep going. Don't look. Keep your eye on the road. GODDAMN IT, DON'T LOOK!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Slow down for one last look at that godforsaken tin trailer. And there's the kid in his blue snowsuit, up on a snowbank. Waving. At his dad.</i> <i>For the last time.</i></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: bold;">The Tragic <span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_0">Packing List</span> of Two Alaskan Teenagers on Their First Roadtrip to the Lower 48 (Fairbanks to Santa Fe in January)</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">by Eric Mack</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />* Flashlight<br />* Beef Jerky<br />* Turkey Jurkey<br />* Fritos<br />* <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_1">iPod</span><br />* Alascom Cell Phone (unusable in the lower 48)<br />* Fleece / Parkas / gloves / hats (to be ditched somewhere south of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_2">San Francisco</span>)<br />* <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_3">Billy Joel</span> CD (for ironic purposes)<br />* Red Bull<br />* <span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_4">Maker's Mark</span><br />* Beef Jerky<br />* <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_5">Ramen noodles</span><br />* Empty 2-liter of <span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_6">Mountain Dew</span> (<span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_7">water bottle</span>)<br />* Empty 2-liter of <span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_8">DIET Mountain Dew</span> (pee bottle)<br />* Empty 2-liter of Coke (after the MT. Dew bottles got mixed up)<br />* 5 gallon gas can (leaking)<br />* Leatherman utility tool<br />* Sunscreen (60 SPF)<br />* <span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_9">Carhartt pants</span><br />* <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_10">Carhartt</span> button shirt<br />* Pilot Bread<br />* <span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_11">Smoked salmon</span> jerky<br />* <span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1298994355_12">Rand McNally Atlas</span> (1992 edition)<br />* 1 Bag containing 4 McDonalds hamburgers purchased day before trip (phone numbers of all friends in Lower 48 written on outside)<br /> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-77646306427921075292011-01-15T18:37:00.000-08:002011-02-01T15:49:39.360-08:00Omnibot<span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNyGaZvQYAcLoUQIvrGvgNeN0XLJacicelu0vnUBRSWMUOz_H5gsSIfz4WExnriOwaDC8eH-Qy9Rt6anYaZBox5-ymf9h07R9G3XdRrE2MSZG7PdLejeKKiG4Wfn3yk0w9PgjxxT4czI/s1600/omnibot.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNyGaZvQYAcLoUQIvrGvgNeN0XLJacicelu0vnUBRSWMUOz_H5gsSIfz4WExnriOwaDC8eH-Qy9Rt6anYaZBox5-ymf9h07R9G3XdRrE2MSZG7PdLejeKKiG4Wfn3yk0w9PgjxxT4czI/s320/omnibot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562607740447303938" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Tin Man</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">by Eric Mack</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"He's totally one of us, </span><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1296601788_0" style="font-family:times new roman;">Robie</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">! For all you know he could be your grandpappy," Model QR-7600 droned at its full decibel capacity, and without any variation in tone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"I don't know bro, they left him out in the rain, like, for years, and all it took was a couple shots of oil to bring him back up to operational. I don't buy it, dog. You know that would fry the shit out your operating system if you tried it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Robie lowered his right plastic caliper on to the volume up button on the remote. Judy Garland's adolescent whine permeated the room - something about some sort of distant municipality constructed primarily of precious gems. Humans of European descent love to waste their lives devising dumbass, irrational fantasies, Robie processed to himself.</span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Look at the way he </span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><i style="font-family: times new roman;">moves </i><span style="font-family:times new roman;">though," QR-7 shot back. "That nigga's doin' the muthafuckin' robot straight up! You know when this shit was made? Muthafuckin' 1939! Oh, shit, man - I got it, I got it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The LED lights mounted on QR's upper dome for nighttime illumination and entertainment purposes began to cycle through the full spectrum of hues on the CMYK gradient. A digitized rendition of "Funkytown" emitted from a single speaker on his back.</span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Pullman porters, dog! Muthafuckin' Pullman porters. Tin man, my ass. Pullman porters must have had ROBOT porters of their own, man! Metal dude here is trying to send us a message about Robot </span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1296601788_1" style="font-family:times new roman;">Civil Rights</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">, my man!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Just then the vertical hold on the old VHS/TV combo began to go haywire. Robie slapped the console with his left caliper. He removed the 120v plug from his external electrical dock to check for corrosion. What an illogical troubleshooting protocol... you are a dumb robot muthafucka like QR vocalizes after all... </span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">It the last input Robie processed before the compactor snapped his </span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1296601788_2" style="font-family:times new roman;">central processing unit</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">, save for a quick flash on the television screen of an image that looked like, but it couldn't be... </span><span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;font-family:times new roman;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1296601788_3" >J. Edgar Hoover</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">? Robie was never able to compute the likelihood that the vision had been real or a manifestation of crossed wires and snapping silicon.</span><br /><br /><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">When They Came for Us</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">by Johanna DeBiase<br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">When they came for us, we were sitting</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">in downtown corner cafes sipping skinny</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">lattes while we trivialized politics and the </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">local recession. Tourists passed with bags</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">full of turquoise and leather, but we did</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">not see them, we only saw each other and</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">the words spilling from our mouths like poems.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">When they came for us, we were boot-deep</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">in soil, rolling it over to expose troubled </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">worms and patting it down with hope</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">that biology might do our simple bidding. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">We were singing then, to the plants, I guess, so</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">they would know that we needed them, that we</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">would eat them soon with the utmost care.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">When they came for us, vigilance over children</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">was all-encompassing. We could not take our eyes</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">from their little limbs, the malleable bones and skin</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">kept in our care. We openly admitted our rancor,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">the retirement of our social life, but we </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">would not stop watching; how precious, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">how sweet, how long ago and how fast.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">When they came for us, we could not hear</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">the clashing of metal against mountains, the</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">crumble of clay and splash of wide shallow</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">rivers, as their giant golem boots met with </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">the land. We were not listening for the chants</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">of ancient tribal warnings or new age prophesies;</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">we were busy then, with other things, when </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">they came for us.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Untitled</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">by Robin Powlesland</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">short lines spread like butter</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">on dark bread</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">they stick to the roof</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">of my mouth</span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">there is a metallic embrace</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">in how you talk to me</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">and the months make it warmer</span></p> <p style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">or more alive</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"> </p> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Untitled</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">by Charles Clayton</span><br /><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: always;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I want the robot. The Omnibot.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The robot? How about the cowboy cap pistols in the red holsters instead?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">No, I want the robot.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">You can get a robot anywhere. You can get a robot at the mall when we get back to Amarillo. Look at this cute Indian spear with the feathers and beads. You won't find that in Amarillo.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I don't want the spear. I want the Omnibot.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm not getting you the robot. Your aunt Betsy got you that remote controlled robot for your birthday last year and you haven't played with it for months. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">It wasn't an Omnibot. I want the Omnibot.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">What about this t-shirt with the howling coyote and the chili peppers? It matches your soccer shorts. Or this jackalope. The jackalope would look good next to your spelling bee trophies.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I want the robot. The Omnibot. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">No. </span></p> <p face="times new roman" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Please.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">No. </span></p> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-9394291875217133142010-12-11T09:59:00.000-08:002011-01-01T18:50:26.603-08:00Untitled<span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISu5voWy4ADzt8Lzy5xKw-wlS8004kk2jxOUmH17usdb7piRJwt8BHIsbdMCgsYR2UvGdcvuGHPyxB78cpgNqsEWL20IrjO6LFIz_am4VMjMGE7utLmSXgOB5AnsFfiMEaVixvs9DrgA/s1600/indian+woman.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISu5voWy4ADzt8Lzy5xKw-wlS8004kk2jxOUmH17usdb7piRJwt8BHIsbdMCgsYR2UvGdcvuGHPyxB78cpgNqsEWL20IrjO6LFIz_am4VMjMGE7utLmSXgOB5AnsFfiMEaVixvs9DrgA/s320/indian+woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549486539149261282" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Untitled</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">-Charles Clayton</span><br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Cortez married the </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">daughter of Montezuma.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Their descendents manage </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dairy Queens and</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">rebuild transmissions</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">alongside the King’s Highway.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Iberia. Tenochtitlan.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Civilizations collide.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Cosmologies clash.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Utterly different</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">except for the need</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">to drink the blood </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">of non-believers.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">She appears to the faithful.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Up on the mountain.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Down in the valley,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">Behind the church,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">In the hardware aisle at Walmart.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jewels glimmering gold lust.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Eagle crying glory lost.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Bare brown Goddess flesh</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">tempting us with rites of passage,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">whispering in a strange tongue...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%; font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%; font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Tear your own heart out.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%; font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Feed it to the Jaguar.</span></p> <p style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mojito Madness</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">-Eric Mack<br /><br />There must be the soul of a chronically lonely, and (by extension) perpetually horny old dude trapped in the rum. Maybe an old hand on a pirate ship all those centuries ago who got mixed up in some East Indies voodoo curse just as cannon balls started raining down on he and those big barrels of sweet relief below deck. One part each of a little pirate blood, voodoo curse and Caribbean Rum, all mixed together in a cosmic shaker - that's the only explanation I can come up with for why a few shots of Bacardi has a biological impact parallel to ingesting a couple little blue Viagra pills and a line of cocaine.<br /><br />The graphic details will eventually be illustrated in a Jon Waters film, but suffice it to say that the men and women who profess the longevity benefits of "whiskey dick" have yet to experience that condition's Caribbean cousin.<br /><br />Yet the soul of that unfulfilled old pirate is insatiable. When chafing gives way to climax, and only seconds later to deep sleep, that ol' boy is just getting started... with post-coital </span><span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1293933576_0" >rapid eye movements</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> generating fleeting visions that tease even further; there is the woman in a sparkling sequined </span><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1293933576_1" style="font-size:130%;">evening gown</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> in the jungle, tropical heat coating her breasts with sweat that reflects the light of a fire in the background somewhere, not an actual bonfire or anything, just generic sexy flames for the purpose of pointing out the boobs a little better - the kind of lighting design a 17th-century horny pirate would use for the looping porno in his head; then there are the jungle animals, the jaguars, the gorillas, the eagles and several other species that have wandered out of their native climatic zones to make the scene a little more primal; and of course there is the snake, that metaphorical </span><span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1293933576_2" >Charlie Sheen</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> on the scene reminding the dreamer of the primacy of the phallus in all things.<br /><br />And then it's done. Eyes open, sun up. And it's morning so that's not the only thing that's up. Add a headache and a full bladder and now we're </span><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1293933576_3" style="font-size:130%;">shaking hands</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> with the spirit in the spirits. The only antidote for the cursed? A little </span><span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1293933576_4" >hair of the dog</span><span style="font-size:130%;">... or a new life as a beer drinker.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Gabriele</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">-Gary Feuerman<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"> </p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wonder how it feels to be an angry raptor, a snake about to bite. When I was six, a leopard lived in my closet. He was old and I never saw him run. Shaneek was his name and his yellow eyes shone in the dark like mini Van Gogh glass paintings. We sat in the dark and talked about the Wild Things who didn’t show up. In the morning light I’d turn on the Sony transistor radio and listen to the casualty count in Vietnam on WINS news. It was always more them than us. It was always the coldest winter in memory. It was always the funeral of a great uncle who died of an embolism. There was always the chance to see a cardinal in my backyard, a blue jay, a robin. After Shaneek disappeared, I threw rocks at squirrels and did experiments on ants. Later, I saw Gabrielle in a one-piece black bathing suit in Lenny’s backyard swimming pool, and my heart raced. On the diving board a bumble bee stung me in the upper back and I fell into the pool as if shot. Gabrielle laughed, but it was before she saw me crying. It didn’t matter. Any reaction would have done. Her skin was the color of Ceylon tea and she walked on her toes. I was sad before I talked to her, seeing the end before the beginning. It took 4 more years, but we had a beginning, and when I graduated high school we had an end. It wasn’t as sad as it was when I was 12 thinking about the future. Maybe being with someone makes the ending less poetic; but maybe not because it’s poetic again now many years later. I heard she was killed by a tiger in India. She was a zoologist and I’m not sure I can find any irony in that. But I can say that as a kid I watched Daktari and always thought the lady in the show was pretty and alluring. I wanted to be around animals, too, if I could be around her. I’d say that the day I saw the budding Gabrielle in the black one-piece in Lenny’s backyard she looked like a gazelle or had the legs of antelope or had the eyes of a tiger, but I’d be projecting backward. She looked like someone I wanted to touch and smell and caress and say I love you to. The bee woke me up. When I climbed out of the pool, she came over and squeezed the stinger out as if she’d done it a thousand times. That’s what I remember more than anything else.</span><br /><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"> </p><p face="times new roman" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Showdown</span></p> <p face="times new roman" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:130%;">- Johanna DeBiase</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Gretchen stamped her cigarette out in the souvenir ashtray, staining the picture of the cowboy with resin and rubbing ashes into the lasso letters. She rubbed her eyes hard and wiped the black residue of eyeliner from her palms to her pants. Carving her initials into his wood table, she waited to catch Jerry evacuating his room with whichever stellar tramp he took home that weekend. She spit into his mug with the picture of skinny Elvis swinging a microphone. (What's so great about Elvis anyway?) Jerry was late with his rent and she needed his share so she could go see the Raggs play at Benders tonight. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Three months ago, it seemed like a good idea to let an old guy who sold vintage collectibles at flea markets board with her. But that was summer and flea markets were over and he was broke. Apparently being old, (Was he nearly forty?), did not mean he was responsible, stable or abject to one-night-stands with atrociously trashy women. (Where did he find them?) The sound of banging against the wall was too much for her to handle. She tore the velor blanket of a sexy Native-American woman wearing a come-hither smile (Why did she think that was ironic?) from the wall and shoved it into the microwave oven that he insisted they keep in the apartment, along with a television set. Pulling a bobby pin out of her hair and placing it on top of the blanket, she set the timer for three-minutes, pressed start and laughed with sadistic joy as he climaxed in the next room.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-53413782598135732742010-11-09T08:26:00.001-08:002010-12-12T09:14:45.901-08:00Untitled<span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOBAkSJtZ8LGw-ghxfi5Y4pMHx0BEsFKNTn1BMlmun9sW3kVtktfjF14TZhKI_VBDjTr3RWPEkgqq7sEXJ43M5V60WyL-g1IVu5Vek4IdZ62WK5sMlVtBhS-MXtYmVZSbPJV3HyBDvtw/s1600/flu.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOBAkSJtZ8LGw-ghxfi5Y4pMHx0BEsFKNTn1BMlmun9sW3kVtktfjF14TZhKI_VBDjTr3RWPEkgqq7sEXJ43M5V60WyL-g1IVu5Vek4IdZ62WK5sMlVtBhS-MXtYmVZSbPJV3HyBDvtw/s320/flu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537587490326585810" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><style>body { overflow: auto; width: 100%; height: 100%; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; }#cg_msg_content { margin: 0px 10px 10px; }#inline_attachments { margin: 0px 10px 10px; }.headerSubjectLine, .headerSender, .headerRss { display: inline-block; margin-right: 2px; }.headerSubjectLine { margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 2px; line-height: 20px; }.headerSender { cursor: pointer; float: left; }.messageHeaderDiv { position: relative; top: 0px; left: 0px; cursor: text; margin: 0px; padding: 10px 10px 0px; }.msgHeaderContainer td { vertical-align: top; }.headerSubjectLine span.cgSelectable-over { text-decoration: underline; }.headerSender span.cgSelectable { vertical-align: top; }.headerSender span.cgSelectable-over { text-decoration: underline; }.msgHeaderLink { cursor: pointer; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 20px; -moz-user-select: none; }.headerControl { cursor: pointer; }.headerRecipientLabel, .headerCCLabel { float: right; margin-left: 15px; padding-right: 5px; }.messageHeaderDivider { color: transparent; background-color: transparent; height: 1px; clear: both; margin: 10px 0px; border-bottom-style: none ! 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important; }.colorK3 { border-color: rgb(212, 208, 218) ! important; }.colorWhite { background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); }.fontT0 { font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; }.fontLink { color: rgb(0, 129, 194); }.textLink { cursor: p</style><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" id="0_messageHeaderControls" class="headerControls" ><a class="textLink headerControl fontT1 fontLink" title="Open message in full-size view"><br /></a></span><div style=";font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >tempt</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Robin Powlesland</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />black and white long bow<br />or wooden pocket blade<br />painting of red dinner table<br />rabbits dancing on the plates<br />it is all under water from here<br />the long nails and hair<br />your drawn out look<br />my mistake<br />my wasted strong talk<br /></span><div><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >please do not come here<br />and spread your<br />shortcomings<br />please go<br />I can fashion my own<br />weapons<br />and home<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Why This is 11 Days Late</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">- Charles Clayton</span><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Nobody thinks they’re contagious. Just like everybody thinks they’re good drivers, even as they text and guzzle cheap beer and don’t check their mirrors and don’t bother to look around. Or wash their hands. Or stay home when sneezing or hacking up green phlegm.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">All I wanted was a haircut. Take some off the sides to avoid the hat wings, trim what’s left on the top so it doesn’t look like I’m cultivating a comb over. Just walk right in, no appointment. She’s from the Jemez pueblo and has cigarette breath but the price is right and the trim usually decent enough. I was feeling fine and just laughed at the sign on the door. Wished I had the camera actually to catch one of those moments that make you glad to live in this one of a kind town.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I missed out on the snapshot but caught something else. One of the downsides of civilization, of cultivation, of millennia of living with domesticated animals that taste good and allow us to forgo the hunt is the fact that close proximity with chickens and pigs and cows has resulted in the swapping and evolution of bacterial and viral predators. Chicken pox. Mad cow disease. Influenza. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That and the fact that the loss of nomadism means that we don’t get the chance to pull up stakes and leave it all behind…like the Navajo abandoning the hogan when somebody dies. So the invisible filth piles up, moves around, spreads like, well, disease. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">So blame it on China, or some other transitional hub of free roaming animals and overpopulated populace. And blame it on airplanes, and the kid with his finger in his nose who touched the elevator button, and the buttons on the atm machines, the grocery cart handles, and a thousand other unwashed fingers and uncovered sneezes and the fact that too much Thanksgiving beer cheer and celebratory pie gluttony had compromised my immune system. And especially blame whoever it was that ignored the funny sign and left me an invisible gift on the door handle of the barbershop. </span></p><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1291179910_0" >Lou Gehrig</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > is the name of a person</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > -Eric Mack</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />My great grandmother died peacefully in her sleep - natural causes. So did her sister, great Aunt Mary. And great grandma Dessie, on grandpa's side. Not the cancer, not the </span><span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1291179910_1" >Alzheimer's</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, not the </span><span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1291179910_2" >Parkinson's</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > that killed their children and their children's children - that's now killing our parents, the generations that decided death simply wasn't such a natural thing.<br /><br />"A misnomer!" they cried. "Ignorance! A lack of medical and biological understanding!"<br /><br />So these things have names now, mostly ending in -oma or something no doubt named for European doctors long-dead at the hands of their greatest discoveries. Really they're just all words for cancer; literally, or figuratively something eating away...<br /><br />The ubiquitous phrase used to describe the last moments of the homestead generation is what consumes me now - "Peacefully in her sleep."<br /><br />All of them. One moment dreaming, the next... Maybe it just bled together. Was there even a seam holding fast the images of </span><span style="cursor: pointer; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1291179910_3" >rapid eye movements</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > with those more ethereal?<br /><br />The children of pioneers decided this could not be. They moved in to cities they had built, in homes filled with books of knowledge they had transcribed, the essentials of life synthesized, freeze-dried and worth the shipping and handling -- and "death by natural causes" left this world, peacefully, while our parents slept.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Two Ways to Acquire Elderberry Elixir</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Johanna DeBiase</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">1.The over-tired toddler yanking on my shirt sleeve nearly knocks over the glass bottles of herbal tinctures lining the apothecary shelves, but I hold tight so her hands do not free themselves to grab at fragile incense burners and ceramic smudge bowls. When I turn my back, she yells to me, “Mommy, I peed,” and I see the puddle of urine pooling beneath her. I grab the elderberry elixir, pay the exorbitant amount to the cashier and head home to cook dinner.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">1a. Climbing over the barbed-wire fence into the neighbor's pasture, I follow the curious directions from Lena, knocking grass reeds with my boots down to the river, turning left at the acequia's head gate, over the boulder shaped like an clover until I locate the elderberry tree ripe with clusters of deep purple berries. I harvest as many as I can fit in my basket and head home to concoct a tincture.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">2. I throw another load into the dryer and return to the table where my daughter is eating noodles with her fingers and wiping her boogers on the back of her hands. I feed her the elderberry elixir and she asks for more. I explain how she can only have a little at a time and she proceeds to throw a fit yelling, “More, more, more!” and tosses her bowl of noodles to the ground, which the dog gratefully licks up. I put her in time out and try the elixir. It reminds me of something. I pour myself a glass of wine and proceed to get drunk.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">2a. After weeks of waiting for the brandy, honey and elderberries to smother and seep in the jar, I finally open the syrup elixir and swallow the warm goo, feeling it coat my insides and draw out any daunting ills. The taste like sweet wine lulls me into sleep and when I wake, I feel the aching desire to run, to disregard footwear and gravel and run. The pounding of bare feet against the earth is a swift flight into the sun. I flit through the village, hovering just above the ground, past the fields and foothills, past the gas station and Family Dollar where locals procure pocket-sized tissue packets and floss. They do not see me, a wisp of wind and light.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">3. I wake up with a nasty hangover. My head is pounding just behind my shuttered eyes. There is a toddler jumping up and down on the bed yelling at me to get up, “Get up, Mommy, it's morning time.” As I swing my heavy feet to the floor, I notice my nose is dripping and I suck up snot because we are out of tissues. I will have to stop at the Family Dollar on the way into town to pick some up. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">3a. One more loop through the valley and I head home, letting my feet grace the earth again. I flex my legs, still able to taste sweet elixir on my tongue. Inside, I dine on chocolate mints and listen to the call of the coyotes in the distance. As I reach for a mug, I notice that my body has lengthened three inches since morning. Tomorrow, I will eat rose hips turned shiny from frost and test my legs against the mountain side.</span></p><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8200906142497264809.post-85964898036447323172010-09-19T14:56:00.000-07:002010-11-01T15:37:49.807-07:00On the Road<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UVO__r8j1W-_FyoQcc7-ZxkSuEhfSHh7aDbfgKqvRu6fUaBVXxJGEPRuWaHGGTE347tqRHEcrhCvm7Qzk8zLUKz_fU1W7y6-jrLHP35CjRlSHaTHUFubcrUTYF0K6Tgt0jHBVmLpXCw/s1600/august+022.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UVO__r8j1W-_FyoQcc7-ZxkSuEhfSHh7aDbfgKqvRu6fUaBVXxJGEPRuWaHGGTE347tqRHEcrhCvm7Qzk8zLUKz_fU1W7y6-jrLHP35CjRlSHaTHUFubcrUTYF0K6Tgt0jHBVmLpXCw/s320/august+022.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534708143381744306" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjioqoRzZIQK79PZqPitTyCA91KTPoO92z6T9Rjc5rhqXshinuiq7O_1sHoquj87fCNrk2QOtKalByOLl76pbjJZ-fyn9o4hBffAkLweoQtbf2QA8smDswNYdHq6dRIfWPH6NlCZ86NwLA/s1600/august+022.jpg"></a></span></div> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before and After<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">- Johanna DeBiase </span><br /><br />Two photos, taken in the same location, almost exact except for the way in which the landscape was allowed to enter the frame and the the years of distance between them.<br /><br />In the first photo, I am nineteen-years-old and on my first cross-country road trip with my best friend, Michele. We left New York two or three weeks earlier on our way to California. I am wearing an Elvis t-shirt, a souvenir from Graceland and black corduroys in the sweltering heat because I did not wear skirts until my twenties or shorts until my thirties. Standing on a sidewalk, on a bridge, behind me is the Taos Gorge, barely perceptible. I am smiling wide and squinting into the sun. Perhaps I am happy we made it this far without crashing our car or getting caught in a tornado or getting busted for any number of illegal contraband we were stashing in the glove compartment. Most likely, I thought of none of these things as possibilities. I was, after all, nineteen.<br /><br />The second photo, taken ten years later, my fiance is behind the lens this time and, though we do not know it yet, we are moving to Taos, leaving behind the arctic tundra of Alaska we had called home. You can only see me from the shoulders up, my linen blouse has one button clasped and I am wearing a floppy straw hat and dark glasses. My arms are leaning securely over the rail and beyond my shoulder is the shadow of rock wall and the glimmer of a snaking stream below. Smiling, perhaps I am imagining my new life ahead, the home and family I will build, but, of course, I knew nothing of the future. All I remember is that after the photo, the flash, the smiles, I searched the railing for initials I had engraved in it years before.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Untitled</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Robin Powlesland</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br /><br />check board lighting strung</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">branches on high<br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">but you have to bend</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">your neck</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">angle eyes and hair and cheeks</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">others can see you then</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />but so can you</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />the lights</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">the way someone stops and makes</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">something ugly</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">beautiful</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">I know I need to go</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />pack it all up again</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">unhinge myself from</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">the doorway</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />and go</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">tall buildings and small paintings</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />color dripping on moving water through</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br />still streets</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">flower stalls and large women</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">angles</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">like coins falling out a hole</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">in your pocket</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">it’s time</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">to go again</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Fiesta<br />-Charles Clayton</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">It was fiesta time, and the descendents of Conquistadors were honoring the patron saint of the village by praying in the adobe church and drinking and driving up and down the single paved road. Empty Bud Light cans flew like confetti, lining the road for months afterward, reminding everyone of that summer day and the pride they felt as they stood along Main Street and watched lowriders parade past abandoned graffiti covered buildings.<br /><br />There were a few white folks in the crowd—in town for the month to take in the beautiful scenery from the patio of their vacation home—and they found the tradition interesting if a bit inauthentic. Pinatas should be handcrafted by pious Hispanic grandmothers, not bought at the dollar store, and why did they nail the electrical wires to the side of the church? Don’t they know how historic that building is? A good photo opportunity gone forever.<br /><br />There were no Indians there—the commodities had just arrived and they were too busy eating American cheese sandwiches in squalid government housing to make it to town for a Spanish ritual. Besides, they only left the rez to buy quarts of malt liquor or to gather sacred herbs in the nearby mountains…herbs they used during sacred prayers that kept the Universe from spinning out of control. </span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Community Service</span></span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br />-Eric Mack</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">Still new to town and like a crazed, lost tourist I jogged through the freezing darkness, tragically underdressed in sweatpants, college hoodie, crew socks and cross-trainers designed to vent as much heat away from my feet as possible, making them horribly inept at preventing the subarctic air from sneaking between my toes.<br /><br />A huge blue truck crept along side of me, its electric window slowly moving downward in jerks.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">"Boy -- what in the hell are you doing, boy?" an incredulous Mayor Sweetsir shouted from the driver's side - he was trying to talk over the Rolling Stones in concert in 1979. A small video screen was mounted on the dash; a tiny liquid crystal Mick Jagger skipped across a strobing stage a few feet from the Mayor, who was fully bundled in a winter coat and heavy work gloves, despite the heated air pouring out of the louvers beneath Mick's frenetically galloping feet.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">I leaned in to the open passenger side, disoriented by the 80 degree difference between my trickling nose and my glacial toes. I glanced at the 12-pack of Budweiser in the back of the cab before noticing that Russ was skillfully grasping on open can with two fingers on his left hand, leaving at least three fingers for the steering wheel. The mayor's three-finger drinking and driving technique, I would soon learn, also allowed for easier track selection on his DVD player with his free hand, and was complemented by the fact that he never eclipsed 15 miles per hour on his marathon weekend DWI sessions. </span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br /><br />A Saturday night ride with Russ was not a brief outing. It could start as early as 7 in the evening and run until 3 a.m. - if there was a really good poker game at ol' Sid Huntington's house (the 90-year-old village patriarch) it might push on until 5. Part of the stamina could be attributed to the fact that Russ was both driving and drinking so slowly. The twelve pack of Bud would easily last the whole evening - the Mayor's body was actually processing all that alcohol, leaving him more or less sober the whole evening.<br /><br />I would soon come to be proud of this first night cruising with Russ. We would make 5 laps around the village, buy everyone at Archie’s a few rounds, and chisel a frozen Lynx carcass out of the bottom of a friend’s freezer, before the Mayor called it a night and dropped me back at the bar for a few more solo rounds. I had outlasted the King – all hail youth!<br /><br />The next morning, with little sleep and quite hungover, I was barely able to lift myself off my mattress to return to the bar and retrieve my forgotten wallet and gear. On the side of the road a few blocks from Archie's, Russ was attaching a winch to an overturned Volkswagen, pulling the debris of someone’s less-skilled DWI evening out of a deep ditch. It was his third tow and recovery before noon. He waved. I returned a reverent salute to the once and forever monarch of Saturday night in the bush.</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Summer in Jersey '74</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Gary Feuerman</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">I know it’s New Mexico, but I’m in north Jersey in 1974. Rivervale, or maybe Tenafly, they always seemed the same to me. It’s the end of summer and we’re at Aunt Gina and Uncle Paul’s house. I’m walking through tall grass between weeping willows being trailed by a muscled black mutt named Ditto. The dog always barks menacingly when we get out of the brown and wood-paneled Vista Cruiser. He makes me stop in my tracks and then back up toward the car, but then Gina calls him over, a smoker’s clotted voice, smiling blue eyes, casually slouched as she walks from the porch with her legs out in front of her in purple slacks. She’s the picture of suburban cool, on the edge of the woods, could have been in a Kent ad in a magazine, could have been in the hills of Appalachia. After the first bark riot, Ditto’s my friend and he walks just behind me, head down like mine. I know I should be smelling sage, and pinon and caliche dust in my nostrils, but I taste thick grass and wet dirt and hear cicadas revving up to a high pitch that makes me think the trees will explode. I smell it in my belly and hear it in my feet. There’s a hole in the backyard chain link fence and it leads to an elementary school with groomed ballfields - baseball, football, and a blacktop basketball court. Nobody’s there, but I remember the family softball game the year before when I hit the ball over the kids that play against us and it rolled into the woods. It was a home run. I can see it but I can’t hear it. People yelled as I rounded the bases, I know they did, but I can’t hear them. Does memory have sound? I walk back through the fence and toward the house, a modified, 2 story, 3 bedroom colonial, white shingles with black shutters, and gray paint on the sides. I can hear my parents in the kitchen eating cold cuts with my little brother. Silverware plinks against porcelain, porcelain against wood, porcelain against porcelain. I can hear the TV in the living room where my grandpa, Bernie, is alone watching the Yankee game. Grunts and squeaks leak through the screened window on the side of the house where my dad’s younger cousin is screwing his girlfriend, the one with the curly blond hair and glasses, and perpetually red-tipped nose. I know she’s not Jewish, but I can’t remember who told me that. It’s not a big deal, but it’s known, a fact to tuck away in some list. Uncle Paul is out on the porch smoking a cigar. He moves slowly and has a soft voice. He looks older than Gina in his button down shirt with a black square pattern, and brown nylon slacks. There’s a tuna tartar colored birthmark on his left temple in the shape of Sri Lanka. Pointing to his chest where he recently had a pacemaker inserted after a second heart attack, he tells me he and Gina are moving to Florida so he can take it easy on his ticker. The Jersey winters are too cold nowadays. My uncle pulls up in a shitass brown 1972 Olds Delta 88. The radio is playing loud, too tinny to hear what it is. He steps out looking like a Beatle – more like a Beatle than the Beatles ever did – Sargent Pepper yellow corduroy bellbottoms, Lennon bifocals, coca cola brown hair fanning down his back to his ass, a thick handlebar mustache and a deep purple madras shirt. Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band of one. Ditto doesn’t bark at my uncle. He’s just back from 5 years in Europe and India staying clear of Vietnam. I’m curious about him. I’ve seen others that look like him, but he seems real with the hippie thing. He laughs through his nose and quakes his shoulders. My dad and mom and brother come outside to see my uncle; then my great grandparents from Austria, Annie, 88, wiping her hands on her apron to clean the debris of walnut cookies, and Willie, 94, stroking his yellow-gray mustache, amusement in his eyes; and then my grandparents, Bernie, 62, with purple, varicose cheeks, and Flo, 63, her blond hair teased and curled up high and her arms crossed. Everybody stops what they’re doing. Even my dad’s cousin and his red-nosed girlfriend come outside. I stand to the side, near the garage and watch everybody watching my uncle. I don’t hear the cicadas anymore and there’s a tug at my belly that I want to run away, that my DNA is all wrong. I’m in a play with all these actors and I don’t know how to act. </span> <div style="text-align: left;font-family:times new roman;font-size:10pt;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0