Guest Poet: Ed Dean

The Dark Side of 14

One earth, one sky, one golden moon.
Thousands of separated hearts yearn across vast oceans.
Two nations, two armies, two leaders, one contested piece of land.
Many dreams, many wounds, many pieces of putrefying flesh.
Ancient soil drinks the blood of all unselfishly.
Prayers go unanswered to a contested god who is woefully silent.
There are no winners, only losers in death.
Tears run just as salty on all faces of next of kin.
Politicians and leaders exhort with the same rhetoric.
One story as old as civilization...
If you must call it that.

Vegas

It’s tax season and there is a reason, just outside of town, to be devious.
It’s not that I cheat but only to bleat with the innocence of a forlorn lamb.
There are so many gray areas in three hundred and sixty five
that offer comfort reductions and deductions, so why dismiss them?
But when the IRS wants to know why I slip about that trip I took as a write off,
I deflect their scorn and simply morn that it was a ‘learning experience’
But they vociferously refute and angrily dispute that that Vegas is not a University.
And then I try to tell them why it’s an education of the first magnitude.
My damned income was dependent on a ‘seven or eleven’ and snake eyes was a learning experience.
He smiled with his own beady ‘serpentine eyes’ and said;
“It truly is sad but it’s just too bad; just fess’ up and give us the money!”
I objected once more that the lady wasn’t a whore and it fell well within therapeutic medical expenses.
His last wry expression and telling lesson was; “We know you played and certainly got laid,
So before this gets contested and you’ll certainly be bested; just give us the frigging money!”
I sadly had to relent because I know I spent much more than was allowed.
But all was not lost because the bridge they never crossed was ‘research and development’! :)
The advertising pliers are all such liars to make us believe;
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!”

© Ed Dean 2011

Edward Dean grew up in Dearborn and Highland Park, Michigan until being drafted into the army and subsequently into the N.S.A. Having been in sales and marketing most of his life, Mr. Dean is now semi-retired and spends much of his time writing. His own experiences in the military, traveling throughout the U.S. and Europe, and as a wine enthusiast provided much of the background to his book. Mr. Dean has three books in the works, including a sequel to The Wine Thief.

Guest Poet: Karyn Eisler

Kiddie Cocktail

Another dinner 'nother drink
from corner view of all who eat
together without her and
for her solitude she bows her
head in:

a) grief.
b) gratitude.
c) a Shirley Temple.
d) Mac 'n Cheese.

all inKlusive

flirtation games at
dinner leave her shy at
breakfast so

she drops her head
stares at her plate of
pancakes eggs
and sausage 'cause

she knows he'll offer
liquid, but
she doesn't want to
meet his smile yet

when he comes
in his own tongue
she says,

brow cocked, "Hello"

and asks:

"Beszélsz angolul?"

[Trans. from Hungarian:
"Do you speak English?"]

© Karyn Eisler 2011

Karyn Eisler's poetry has recently appeared in unFold, Leaf Press, and BluePrintReview. She is a born and bred Canadian who lives in Vancouver, B.C. Visit her at www.karyneisler.com. For links to her work, go here.

Guest Poet: Thomas Michael McDade

Rattle Wishes

When I got the measly unemployment checks rolling
off a Rhode Island lace mill job, life still failed
to go down like a gourmet dessert but at least
I could manage an occasional Hostess Cupcake fix.
My sixteen bucks a week room was a dandy retreat
after I screwed higher bare wattage into the ceiling.
My Italian portable typewriter often jammed
but it didn’t bother me like it would have Kerouac.
Around the corner was an A & P good for day old
bread, cheese and bologna ends.
A transistor radio supplied Jean Shepherd talk at night.
Hours at the library time traveling via old microfilm
occupied me until the short subject was shown
for the benefit of downtown brown-baggers.
Sherwood Anderson’s “I’m a Fool”
screened once instead of the usual travel fare.
I assured myself that title did not apply to me.
Hell, I did tend to some crucial matters along
that stretch, chased Dos Passo’s U.S.A and Hugo’s
Les Miserables off my reading list.
Part of my routine had me nursing cola at the Duchess
while listening to old guys discuss the daily number that would
arrive by runner one by one until three digits sealed fates.
Scribbling down their stories, I considered first hand
material, cozying up to one of them to bet a number
or two but I stuck with anonymity and the weekly State Lottery
that wasn’t much of a narrative except the twice it balked
at dropping me off on Easy Street by a crooked digit.
If I was too tired to walk to my room, there was a bus driver
who never questioned my transfers that did not apply.
The checks ran their course just as the landlady
who signed the rent receipt with an “X” offered me
an eighteen dollar room complete with easy chair.
I turned it down but found hope --
a three day Manpower job
at a corporate headquarters that was moving.
Muscles as mushy as fresh cupcakes,
desks and filing cabinets took their toll.
My bones recalled their days of ease,
wished I were dead so they could rattle
off “hack” and “fool” in skeleton time.

Highballs

Until ovarian cancer took out the lien,
Fran worked Accounts Payable
at a furniture factory where desks
and credenzas for kings
and sheiks were produced.
The costly woodwork was illusionary,
shrewdly veneered particle board.
She’d battled all the distractions from
the owner’s wife bitching
that computers were nothing but shit
to the son who ran marathons bragging
that “hitting the wall” was nonsense.
Sometimes Fran took refuge
staring out a window at the barely
visible Thunder Lounge sign
wishing for a liquid lunch unlike the one
pain and discomfort later would provide.
Boring her stepdaughter Lisa with aged
trial balances, computer check printing quirks
and death over highballs at the Thunder,
Fran suddenly announced mid-sentence
that she’d sworn off chemo and radiation.
Adjusting her burgundy scarf covered
with gold Eiffel Towers to better
hide her baldness, she insisted Lisa
drive her to the factory to inform
everyone she was ready to die.
Many were able to pretend
Fran was neither ghost nor zombie.
Some diverted themselves admiring her
Eiffel scarf and the marathoner nodded
when Lisa asked if it were true
there was a full-time nurse now.
She applied on the spot for a job
always begging due to injuries
and was hired glassy eyes and all.
Whisking Fran out past the noisy
saws and sanders to bear witness,
she was crazy to tell the manager
at McDonald’s to shove it.

© Thomas Michael McDade 2011

Thomas Michael McDade graduated from Fairfield University. He and his wife live in Monroe, CT. He served two hitches in the U.S. Navy, and is a computer programmer. Some of his work has appeared in Zouch Magazine, Angelic Dynamo, Sunken Lines, and Leaf Garden among other venues, including The Web Poetry Corner.

Guest Poet: Ricky Garni

Appled

it’s what we do to trees, to carts,
to jack, to blossoms,
to pies, to annies,

the fleshy pome of my pome
cultivated in numberless varieties
in temperate zones

sometimes my finger is restless
and immature. it goes
too far.

**

Roast

Just because I like to say “herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast” I added sage to the usual herb, rosemary. And then I cooked my herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast and then I ate my herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast and you know what? It didn’t taste like rosemary anymore. It tasted like rosemary and something else. “This tastes funny” my son said. “Where’s the rosemary?” “It’s still there, “ I said, “it is just below the other thing.”

The other thing. You can see where this is going.

I realized that you can still say “herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast” with just one herb. And that one herb should be rosemary. When you are eating, it is important not to fight, whether you are a person, or an herb, an herb like the kind that you tend to find in herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast. Like rosemary. Definitely. Or, if you prefer, sage. Although I don’t know why. We never get along, do we? Anyway,

Next time you are going to make an herb-encrusted eye-of-round roast, remember this tip that I picked up from going to the movies:

1) Rosemary is like Mia Farrow at 19 with a little pixie haircut and a little boy’s voice.

2) Sage is like James Coburn in In Like Flint and he is smoking a cigar and his hair
is silver-grey and he is sitting on a leather couch with a cabal of women, all pretty
and in bikinis on a couch with the suave James Coburn.

His teeth are really big! They are TOO big!

Remember this the next time you decide to make eye of round roast with herbs encrusted.

**

It's Hard

IT'S SO HARD TO WRITE A STORY. Especially when you are trying to be and think and do everything as someone else. That's why I have decided to write a story from the standpoint of a cymbal. It might be more difficult than writing a story from the viewpoint of someone, say, for example, Joey, a Joey with heart and feelings and foibles and complex emotions, but I think that most people will permit a writer a greater latitude when it comes to a character that is made of tin and copper. I mean, bronze. Especially if I can delve into his heart and feelings and foibles and complex emotions. Being naturally insecure, I have always felt that anything is better than nothing. And I enjoy raising the bar a little so that, even if I do not succeed fully, people will see me as daring and valiant. Also, my skin is sometimes bronze.

A FEW PRE-WRITING QUESTIONS TO ANSWER REGARDING THE PROTAGONIST:

1) WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE WHEN HE IS IN A ROOM ALL BY HIMSELF AND THE LIGHTS ARE TURNED OFF? Answer: he is probably very scared. Reason: the lights never come on unless someone is going to walk up to him and beat the svenshine out of him with two sticks. Two wooden sticks that are hard. From out of the darkness and you are asleep and having dreams and the next thing you know it's terrible.

2) DOES HE PREFER ONE PERSON TO BEAT HIM WITH STICKS TO ANOTHER? Answer: Yes. Reason: cymbals are no different from anybody else, or anything else. Everyone has preferences when it comes to the people they would choose to hit them with sticks. For you it might be someone named, for example again, Joey. For a cymbal, it would probably be somebody named Ringo.

3) WHY NOT BUDDY RICH? Answer: No please. Reason: just look at him. You have answered your own question by just looking at him. If you can't find a picture of him, you will answer your own question just by looking at him once you find a picture of him unless you forget about it, in which case music is not one of your guiding passions. Nor photography. Which isn't bad–we can't all be passionate about music and photography and things like that. In a way, thank God we aren't, don't you think? You might be interested in something else. I am thinking, now, whale kebabs. Whale kebabs like the ones that you can find in Reykjavík. Reykjavík is in Iceland. I like the idea of eating one someday in Iceland. Wouldn't that be fun? We should do it sometime. I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced. My name is Skarphéinn Guríur.

4) WHEN THE LIGHTS COME ON, AND HE HEARS FOOTSTEPS, WHAT DOES HE SAY? Good question. Answer: it could be one of many things. Possible responses include: "Mommy?," or "Uh oh" or, possibly, "Ringo?" or "Skarphéinn Guríur, is that you? I am so hungry" or "Is it morning already? Can you see the fjords in the light of this winter dawn?" And last but not least, there is always: "My God! Buddy???" and then, again, "Mommy."

**

Reading George Eliot Today

I watch with joy as she describes Fred, the cuddly reprobate, as “3 and 20.”

Lydgate, new to Middlemarch and eager to make his mark as a progressive practioner of medicine, is “7 and 20.”

And so I thought I would try it out on myself. Is George Eliot in the room? No, she’s not in the room. The coast is clear.

OK, then: I am 1 and 50. The man seated uncomfortably in aisle seat 15-C on American Airlines flight 2189 to Panama is talking

to a woman in seat 15-F who is from Africa en route to Panama on American Airlines flight 2189 about duty-free shops and he

Appears to be healthy and bonny, more so than me, in fact, and he is 8 and 60, if he is a day, with small amounts of grey

Chest hair eluding the top button his his shirt as they shilly shally here and there, somehow, surprisingly adding a youthful lustre to his appearance when suddenly he says

“That was, of course, a while ago, when the euro was much stronger”

And she laughs, and strokes his knee, surprisingly, really, I mean, after all, she couldn’t be more than 3 and 30.

© Ricky Garni 2011

Ricky Garni is a graphic designer living in Carrboro, North Carolina. His work can be found in EVERGREEN REVIEW, CAMEL SALOON, USED FURNITURE REVIEW, ORION HEADLESS and other places. His latest work, LANA CANTRELL, is an internet hit. He didn’t know that many people knew her, but now he knows that many people do or would like to.

Guest Poet: Howie Good

Imaginary Crimes

1
He was a man who liked to appear in public with a red face and drooping black moustache. What’s my last name? he’d ask strangers. His satchel was the only clue. It didn’t seem big enough to contain so much darkness.

2
I followed the sound of champagne music. The door was open and the radio on, and then the room spun like the cylinder of a revolver.

3
Most came dressed as who they were – stickup men in black ski masks, burnouts with gray ponytails. Those who didn’t were ordered to stand on the rain-snow line. The last time I saw Fat Nancy her double chin was trembling. If we can’t be honest, I told her, we can still be truthful.

© Howard Good 2011

Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as 26 print and digital poetry chapbooks, including the most recent Disaster Mode from Medulla Publishing and The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre from Gold Wake Press.

Guest Poet: Steve Klepetar

Embassy

Here in the leaden world, all bets are off.
Cancel the juggler, let the clowns go home.

Last night I tumbled down a hole, swam
gurgling out the other side, breathing

through iridescent gills. My fingerprints
turned purple-black as Concord grapes.

I spoke the language of rapid turns –
glittering verbs, nouns floating in vast

green patches beneath sharp screeching gulls.
Now I recall sinuous shape of green vines,

how memory blames in rocket flares.
Light a fire and pledge your time to every

breath, palms pressed hard against your
bench of oak. Be the door you storm through,

lace your fiery eyes to bristling bandoliers.
Who will ride with you, breaking clumps

of earth along jagged trails? Here on this desert
highway, with nothing in the air but wind-swept
sand and shimmering silence of heat, what fool
would drag your embassy to the empty-handed sun?

It's No Surprise

It’s no surprise that you can
hear subtle shades of sound

in the quiet between
words
or that the simplest

glass spends vibrations
that glow in golden waves.

You knew that even
when your hair was black

and you lived in tangled
roots beneath the garden

wall. When frogs rise
from muddy
graves, even the sun

knows where fruit
trees bloom, where

carpenters whisper soft
as saws barely touching
the flesh of wood.

I have melted the gold

in my pockets, those coins acrid
with the sweat of palms and gathered
bulging class rings
and whatever I could find of long, spidery
chains, piled them in heaps, pitched
each gleaming ingot deep down in the furnace’s white heart.

Honey-bright rivulets flow
into the mold where, for safety’s sake
I keep your face
and where your hands have blossomed
into leaves above lithe and outstretched arms.

I have listened to the roar of your father’s
storm-wild song, his mournful ode to roots
and rough bark, and light green golden leaves
rustling forever in the wind of his cold and dying breath.

© Steve Klepetar 2011

Steve Klepetar’s work has received several Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. His chapbook, Thirty-six Crows, was published last summer by erbacce press.
Here is a link to his web page: http://web.stcloudstate.edu/sfklepetar/

Guest Writer: Farida Samekhanova

Three Flash Fictions

Wrong Place Wrong Time

My past has a striped black and white pattern. I am a Zebra. Whites are my youth, my children’s birthdays, career ups and immigration. Blacks stand for my bad luck and definitely for my being here.

My head is a gorgeous tender flower, still up in the air. I would be flawless but black balls of terrible headache spoil the picture. Doctors say it will soon go away, but I don’t believe them.

Two of my Zebra legs have roots. One leg belongs to Canada, where my home is. The other belongs to my native country. It is a beautiful land, lost on the map. By now it has been a Russian territory for almost five hundred years. My front legs have no roots and I can move them. I try to avoid the black balls, but it’s hard: they are everywhere.

Yesterday I came to Moscow after 11 years of not visiting. I have a plane ticket for my home city, but I am not going: three hours ago I got blasted in the subway. I don’t know much, but I overheard that two women did it. They lost their husbands in war. People call them black widows. They were from a small republic, like my own.

I don’t feel my body. My sick brain replays my life. Three patients from my ward have already passed away. I know I am the fourth. Other sixteen patients watch me. They still have a chance to survive.


Like Father Like Son?

My father was a truck driver. He worked hard to support his family. He delivered milk to stores. He usually left home late at night and returned next afternoon. He had lunch, slept a few hours and was back to work.

Boxes full of milk-bags in, empty boxes out. When he finished unloading at one store, he drove to the next one. Boxes in and out. In and out. Night after night. Year after year.

He was persistently moving forward in his effort to create a better life for my mother and me. When I was five my father planted a tree in the backyard. By now it has grown big and strong. I was his only son. He gave me the best education possible. After he passed away I stayed in his house. It was fully paid off.

They say that during his lifetime a man should raise a child, plant a tree and build a house. By my age he had fulfilled everything. I haven’t. I am thirty-five, healthy, well-to-do, good looking, single and useless.


Stupid Money

They replay “The Holiday” on and on. It’s a good movie: beautiful faces, nice homes, pools, restaurants. Kate Winslet cries a lot. Even Jude Law cries. I wish I had their problems. They take days off, buy airline tickets, cancel flights and do other things that involve spending or losing money with easy grace.

A crazy woman in China wants to look like Jessica Alba to attract her boyfriend. She goes for plastic surgery. I wonder how much it costs. I think that could pay my credit card debts. I work long hours, but I cannot make both ends meet. Too many mouths to feed. Too many rip-offs. For the rich money is not an issue. Because they have it. The rich are obsessed with fancy things, like buying velvet coats for their pets.

I go to the washroom. The toothpaste tube is empty. I also need to buy soap and toilet paper. I look in the mirror. My grey hair betrays my age. A hair colour kit is fifteen bucks plus tax. I cannot afford it. I need to buy food and pay bills.

Robin Williams loses a six million dollar lawsuit. Six million! I need six dollars for a hot dog, coffee and my bus ticket. Besides, I would like to donate a couple of bucks for Haiti victims. Is God watching us? I think he does, because yesterday my next door neighbour offered me a ride and I also found a two-dollar coin in the elevator.

© Farida Samekhanova 2011

Farida Samekhanova lives in Canada. She graduated from a University in Russia. English is her third language after Tatarian and Russian. She plays chess, collects coins and skates.
In 2007-2011 her work was published in literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, USA, Russia, United Kingdom and Turkey. She is participating in a documentary film titled “Her Choice – Hijab and Beyond the Dress Code,” which is currently in production.