Sta.sh
ing this article and
Snowstory by *TrichardsenLost in the forest by *Bojkovski
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Year II - Issue XXVIII
Volume LXXX
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D'evilAt a café, a woman catches a glance with a handsome man wearing a black fascist looking coat.
She smiles,
"I bet you think you're crazy with your
collection of Japanese horror films, and
snuff films. But what you don't know, is that
I'm crazier - with my necessary need to rip apart
every heart that falls at my feet. I don't
poison. And no, I don't moonlight
as a serial killer. I'm worse. I'm your worst
nightmare. You look at me and all you see are
black patent leather boots and a similar coa
Hollow Memory of a Distant ShoreYou are like a long passed season.
As delicate as the footprints of sparrows in freshly fallen snow.
Intricate, yet so easily disturbed when care is not taken.
Somehow, you have managed to persist after all these years.
Residing in the same quiet place you carved into the woods so long ago..
Only a short ride from the sea.
When you cross my mind, you carry with you the scent of that shoreline.
Harsh and thick, yet somehow placating.
Though the weather was perpetually gray, misty, and cold.
Much like your heart had become..
Just before we painfully, and slowly, parted ways.
I recall with deep longing your fascination with foxes
Stardust.I partook in the poison
of your miracle, for
I believed you a magician:
You pulled chronic weariness
from my marrow—
my faith,
from hazy depths grown
too accustomed.
The eggs spoiled fast:
you pulled from your hat
an act of distrust,
and you left me
with stardust,
with stardust.
Passing JudgmentsI know the lies
you tell the Preacher Sunday mornings;
I know the affairs
you hide behind bowling leagues and book clubs;
I know that when you sit down two seats away
and turn your back to me,
you remember that rumor has it,
I've been deaf for years
and you don't mind saying--
almost too loudly--
"Oh, her?
They call her Old Lady Sally,
say her husband
beat the hearing out of her,
say she killed him in his sleep
with her bare hands."
Vignettes till SunsetHe is six years old, sitting on an electric blue chair at the back of the classroom. She walks past, almost, long hair tied up and swinging. He trips her and instead of helping her up pinches her cheek, harder than he should have but not hard enough to bruise. He gives her a lopsided grin. She slaps him and stomps away, tells the teacher.
"That just means he likes you."
She turns around and glares at him.
He thinks he loves her.
+
She is eight years old, working on her spelling assignment. He isn't. He pokes her with the sharp end of his pencil. She moves to a different desk, but he follows and plops down on the chair next to hers. She
[untitled 2]you always look to words for
some way to get out what you cannot but
just
sometimes
you become too bottled up for words to fit
and too incoherent
too quiet
and lost
and you just
don't know
what to do
(then highlight all, delete)
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The EditorMakeshift by the lake,
I watched you finish my sentence
- Hastily retracting the bitterness
and editing out
my overstated meaning.
A fly serenaded you,
As you derooted the root,
- Deflowered the bud
and edited out
every semblance of a meaning.
I allowed it, in the summer haze.
For you to slather me
- In someone elses
typewriter ribbons
soaked in someone elses feeling.
But when you slept at last
I arose, painted bleach by your tongue
- Shook off your petty rules
and crossing outs
and ran away, free - and feeling.
GrandmotherI did not cry for you.
I have never cried for anyone who has left me because
I have always believed that I am so much stronger than the hollow silence.
But you once said I was beautiful, and you once said I was brave.
You will never see me in a toga or a white dress or a maternity tee,
but I hold fast to the days when you were mine to love and to look up to,
and I will always remember you in hot chocolate and french braids.
I'm so sorry.
9. FifteenIf I could drive at night I'd
be parked outside her house
with the passenger side door open, saying
Get in
If I could drive at night I'd
take her to an empty black highway
where the stars canopy over us
and the night air is cold on the windows
If I could drive at night I'd
take her to all the places where you can
lose your phone
lose your mind
lose your lunch
and find yourself
I'd take her someplace where the moonlight that touches her skin can
heal all wounds
If I could drive at night I'd
be singing all the slow songs I knew till she fell asleep
cheek pressed to the glass,
hands clutching the seat-belt,
and I'd drive her
4. Distortion of FragmentsHer hand gravitated,
To the glass,
The surface rippling,
Waves scattering in time.
All that left her mouth was a breathy gasp.
Molten,
Bronze and gold,
Staring back at her.
And all she could think of was,
She could,
Feel,
Her hand touching another.
As distorted glass was left to drift,
At the
soles
of
her
si've misplaced my affections,
left them scattered
within so many little moments
thence i cannot hope to retrieve them:
in that room of lilies
where we sat;
at a table for two
(and this more than once);
on a street corner
where we waited (and i swallowed my true thoughts);
in a ruffle of hair
i feared to return.
glances and teasing conversations and—
in the curve of that very first smile we traded.
(i long for another smile, closer this time.)
these are all yours now
and some fragment of me
will always be in your hands.
WelcomeI'm ready for a romance to ravage my heart and tear apart my
dusty limbs, I'm waiting for someone to take my breath and
never give it back; I'm prepared to sell all I was for a trip
somewhere new - beyond the paper mistakes I sailed away
down the river long ago. (even rocks and leaden thoughts
won't let the truth sink.)
I left my being somewhere under a waning summer sun
when the trees hummed melodies of moving on;
my soul still stays there, porous and pining and
lost. Dying stars don't lead home.
I suppose
it's more than just losing
your words, it's losing
you
too.
I am someone who mourns Sunday morning for another lost
w
The Prince's Last WifeIt must be confusing
to lie down every night
not sure if you were going to be with
the man or the bear.
Sure, he's always been a man by night,
but then he's a bear by day,
with those big, sad, polar eyes,
still trying to control his massive limbs
like he's the master of his own destiny.
And yet you find those white hairs
on your good clean sheets,
on your silk pajamas,
mingled in your morning tea,
which is always waiting,
hot and steaming,
despite the fact he can't carry it in his paws.
And he watches you dressing yourself,
pulling on layer after layer, wool and wire,
because he shoots the cold
right through you,
with a nu
Those cadences were crystalline.I recall that you loved her
Like you loved jazz,
Bright as the gold flecks and swift brass of your movements
Breathing what you sought in the
Sine tone of her piano
Grinning as we wowed the crowd
That went up in flames and cheers.
Improvisation was like free-falling,
You weren't sure what you wanted or where you were going
And therein lay the thrill.
I loved you like flute notes and cold breaths on a midwinter morning
You loved to hear yourself speak and
I loved how your eyes alit with laughter when you didn't say a word.
You loved me like a secret smile
Auburn curls and conspiring glances
Loved the distance, maybe,
And the s
winter room
you set blazes to the mountains
they were not good enough for you
i cradled the summer moon in the
mason jars of my winter room
i love forever when i love
forever i love
on & on because if nothing is ever lasting i
will make the best of it
i leave droplets of dew on my shoulders
to see the reflections of you- i am
perfection, & the Earth is a desert
i stumble through the surface on
purpose- i'm trying to try.
steadfast & soft as moths wings
you sing to the sky
you can be as big as you want to be
you can stand tall, & i'll believe
we're not specks
What It Is To BeHe lives in the moment, forever shedding the past and never fearing what comes next. The beat of his drum is one not for words, but if you had to you could say it resembled the cacophonous melody of the world. It bursts in harmony and descends into mournful cries, embracing silence in sporadic intervals as the earth hums with it. He scoffs at death and struts hand in hand with life; right now he is infinite and will be forevermore. His confidence is the song of the living and his freedom thrives like the sun's light on winter snow. His exuberance is a thing of envy and his hubris a charming arrogance, or perhaps a youthful defiance. Ignorance
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