Gary Glauber Rumors Fly Our silence splinters with the staccato breath of hyper histrionics. I dissolve into your imagined tirade, knowing no rules in this played non-game. Ignoring danger, making love to your heart alone. Cannot feign ignorance or undo all that’s done, cannot unsee this tragedy shared or untangle our complex past. It’s become our mythology, believed by all the locals, translated loosely from the hieroglyphs of nuance, repeated gestures made in the express checkout line. We check the mailbox three times in short succession, continue to wait for news that’s never coming. Butterflies mock us, but in the end, we fight imaginary battles alone. Valentina Cano The Bird Peddler I fill cage after cage with words and push them down the street to fling them at strangers. They all return, spines cracked, feathers missing, flight forgotten. |
Jerzy Nowosielski
Art Heifetz
Helen and Irving For forty years they were two mismatched socks, Helen running her fingers over window sills and cabinet tops searching for the last speck of dust, Irving, never cleanly shaved or coifed, parading in his undershirt, hip-flask in hand. The dog peed on the carpet each time they fought and snapped at children in the park as if they were pieces of raw steak. One evening in a drunken rage Irving kicked him down the stairs lost his balance, hit his head, and had a massive stroke. The last time I saw him, he was no bigger than a child, dressed in starched pyjamas, his blue eyes staring into space as she fed him pudding from a spoon. “Look how clean I keep him,” Helen said, wiping the spittle from his chin and tucking him in. “He’s my baby.” William Ryan Hillary The Mechanics of Defying Time Morning What shall we do tomorrow That we did not do today? What time tomorrow? Where? When? Which sequence of ticking syllables shall we save?- How many lists will we make—things We said we'd do With each midnight passing We didn't do. Night Things are only objects And we are only relics. And the petty hours are vagabond in their wanderings Perpetrating the most severe of betrayals: Seconds turn to decades while mothers sleep. And when they awake, Their children are gone Only these imperfect Clumsy beasts remain Promising what they cannot possibly provide Promising it Tomorrow. How to Sell Your First Screenplay and Become Rich 1. Find the child Inside. Who'll come to despise you. 2. Watch him. Stalk him. Stick a pin in him. Tell his story. Follow the thin trail Of hair as it falls from His head As he ages. 3. Follow Over those Dank, playground nights Over bloody noses and fistfights The night sweats That remind you: “Guilt makes for a hell of a tale, boy” Romance too, but romance is usually An indelible fog—Fraud A note clipped on the wings of a pigeon or a frog Or a finger pressing, curled 'come-hither' On the sweet, secret spotted insides of a woman You barely knew, and so will be able to love forever Because you barely knew her. 4. Accept Art is a re-wrapped gift. You had it, rejected it, traded it. Now you want to sell it. 5. Sell it. |
Thomas Piekarski
Glossed Over A balding bloke hosing off his somewhat beat-up fishing boat. Monterey Plein Air Society painters out en masse, strung along an entire half mile of prim shoreline, easels aimed at shallow bay and wharf from every conceivable angle… He meets up with her exactly on schedule. She seems pretty enough, although distractingly smug, under the illusion that her strict vegetarian diet and regular strenuous workouts will assure indefinite affluence. 1602: upon this very spot the first mass in California held… She excuses—must dash soon lest miss the all-important consultation with her investment advisor… A whole team of fishermen extended elbow to elbow at the far end of a cocked pier. They cash in on a huge school of mackerel, squeal, reel. Oh how those suffocating fish flip in the air and then flap against thick rough planks, panic-stricken… Her sporty new BMW, Chihuahua photos on iPhone, ranch adjacent to Laguna Seca… At Breakwater Cove Marina one can rent a kayak or scuba gear, take a boat tour… Undoubtedly his whole world won’t come crashing down…She’ll get to the bible tomorrow…Crepes of Brittany, Palaca Trattoria, Old Fishermans Grotto, Carousel Candies ambient…Likely dismissive indifference imbedded in that statement… The bell tolls four times at city hall… Lips that touch liquor shall never… Circe expecting something momentous… Pinwheels fastened to various masts on the harbor make hay, whirring as wires slap, chime against those steel posts while wind quickens. Papier Mache 1. In Stride I think I’ll ride it out tonight, sighs dimming the late night sky and meadowlarks gone to nest. Silence beams from compliant resurrections that are immanent in reflections of her blazing gaze. It’s a strange yet necessary arrangement-- what omnipresent messenger malingers in my dissimilitude, impudent contractor of engravings I carve on stones fallen from on high. 2. Salivation I was salivating along with Pavlov’s dog, my pulse spilling through the piano string grid that dog stood on. I was thankful for my angel, as always imperial in her moral support. I felt much like Aeneas, about to tumble into Hades holding Virgil by the waist. Romulus and Remus morphing into that dog in torrid swarming fog. I was moderately tempted to write about this, spread it via my blog. Then actually considered altering passwords, in fact even defragging my troublesome computer. I started stomping ants, swatting droves of lucent flies. I simply couldn’t justify sanctioning whatever didn’t make a B line for universal love. 3. Nowhere Land Another year gone by and nowhere to go, hither absconded and yonder way past wonder strayed. Ecliptic visions united in an untied future. Who maintains adequate resolve to blunder, misty through lavender fields in June? January rain isn’t enough. We need snow, at least 50 feet of it, and now, enough to bury Monticello. 4. Encrypted My messages continue to be intercepted. They must be getting decoded. No other explanation exists. Coaxial can’t lie. Encryption made from another dimension too abstruse for any antonym. And yet I’m not willing to cede my liberty. Complicated ways and means may smooth out once the coast clears. I think my communications eventually get through, but not so sure anyone is there to hear. Similes can’t quite render those messages in concrete terms. The need to constantly siphon one tank of love into another accurately depicts my words. 5. Cosmos End From the depths of desecration springs autonomous consecration of oneself. There is no stranger, no other wondering who am I and where I am at cosmos end. |
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Colin Dodds
The Last and the Looming Wars Take a right on War Memorial Blvd, last house on your left, up the stairs to the desk at the crown of your hopes. where the generals on the little tv explain we’re back to war. It was a hard and strange day. The tv showed us some hell in the morning and the afternoon couldn’t escape it. They pulled the men’s pants down and shot them in the head. On the little tv, the celebrities who were supposed to be our friends all wished us ill, said we had a bad day coming for a long time now and their only complaint was that it wasn’t bad enough. I drove toward the clouds, and when the rain came I couldn’t tell if I had found the storm or if the storm had found me. The candidate makes eye contact with the camera and says he too hates the world, but for fresher, truer reasons. But what we push toward is something other than justice, efficiency, truth, and the forgiveness of our flawed births. We push on because it hurts here. We push on because we are no longer the dreamer but the dream. Seatbelts and Life Rafts Airlines drop me to my day. The jet engines hum a new weariness into the music of morning. In the terminal, I feel sanctified, or at least justified, by the fuel being burned on my behalf. For I am a jealous god, or at least a spoiled child, and I demand a fatted calf. Jet engines sing of disaster, conjure up all my cheap cleverness and shabby moral choices. In the din, stewardesses tell us a lie about seatbelts and life rafts—so much effort and noise for something as fragile as vanity. The intercom pings in a new age of euphemism. And I am so alone, when everyone puts on their headphones. |
Paul Lewellan
Dear Elizabeth Dear Elizabeth, You probably didn’t recognize my name on the return address. You don’t know a Joseph Hillard. You only know Joe, the toll taker in Booth Two at mile marker 65 on I-88. You once said I reminded you of your Grandpa Phillip. We’ve talked for 8-20 seconds each day, five days a week for the last five years. I believe the accumulated time makes us friends. It’s been three weeks since I last saw you at my booth. Two days ago I asked Bill from your car pool where you’ve been. He said you were real sick. He wouldn’t name the medical condition, and I guess I can understand that. Why should he tell me? It’s none of my business. You may be uneasy that I’ve written you this letter. You’ve never told me your last name, but there are other ways to find out. Working tolls, a guy makes connections. I memorized your plate number long ago. Well, you can figure it out. How can I help? That’s all I want to know. If you don’t want my help, just don’t write back. I’ll tear up your address, and you won’t hear from me again. But if you need an extra grandfather or a friend, let me know what I can do. --Your Friend, Joe BIOS OF 3rd Issue Poets
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in 2014. Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, and teacher. His works have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, as well as “Best of the Net.” Recent poems are published or forthcoming in Fjords Review, JMWW, Stone Voices, Poemeleon, Ginger Piglet, The Citron Review, 3 Elements Review, The Blue Hour, Stoneboat Review and Think Journal. He is a champion of the underdog who often composes to an obscure power pop soundtrack. His first collection, Small Consolations, is due out in Summer 2015 from The Aldrich Press. Art Heifetz teaches ESL to refugees in Richmond, Virginia. He has had 160 poems published in 11countries, winning second prize in the Reuben Rose competition in Israel. You can find his work at polishedbrasspoems.com William Ryan Hillary was born born in Ireland 29 years ago. He was raised in London and New York. He has a B.A. in English from Vassar College, and an M.A. in Systematic Theology from Union Theological Seminary in NYC. He has had poems and/or fiction published by Unrorean, Red Ochre Press (Black and White) Breath and Shadow, 40z Bachelors, Junk, The Wilderness Review, Vox Poetica, BlazeVOX, and Midway Journal. He currently lives in Los Angeles. Paul Lewellan teaches at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois. When he taught high school, he posted his first 99 rejections on the classroom bulletin board for creative writing students to read. Since then he has published over seventy short stories and a novela. His new novel, No More White Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry and interviews have appeared in Nimrod, Portland Review, Kestrel, Cream City Review, Poetry Salzburg, Boston Poetry Magazine, Gertrude, The Bacon Review, and many others. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California. |
