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  • ISSUE 4

Picture


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.



 

 


Picture
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.

Picture

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.

 

 

 


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.

 

 

 


 

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