Poem 295 ± March 25, 2016

Jennifer Lavoie
Between Generations

We read about Borrowed Time
and Metaphors better left unsaid,
of Dancing on the Moon,
isolation,
and Angels in America.
We read because we come from a generation
born at the crossroads.
We read because we do not know,
do not remember,
did not lose friends, family,
lovers.
We try to imagine a world
where friends cannot get medication,
where no help exists,
where a silent government looks on,
where giants fall to Earth
as dreams fail and stars burn
from fevers brought on by sickness,
but cannot.
We stand in the middle,
in the shadows of those lost before us,
and look ahead to the next generation
further separated from the crisis and wonder:
Do they feel invincible?

 

Jennifer LavoieJennifer Lavoie is an English teacher and author of four young adult novels with LGBT protagonists including Andy Squared and The First Twenty, published with Bold Strokes Books. She lives in Bristol, Connecticut.

This poem is not previously published.

Poem 294 ± March 24, 2016

Nancy Cook
Noticing

Myron needs to be taking meds.
Or, if he’s already taking meds,
he needs to stop.
Myron is talking.
He is always talking.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
You could say,
he doesn’t miss a thing:
the page 8 news, the most
recent Guy Kawasaki blog, how
Solar City shares are trending,
what’s coming to the Met, odds
on any Sixers’ game. He picks up
every signal. He notices…well,
everything, you could say.
You could say.

But I must say he takes note
of nothing, really. Not one
thing. Like how that cloud,
that stunningly white
cumulus cloud, is rimmed
with gray. The skittery spray
from the sky-high falls
we can’t yet glimpse ahead.
The dip in the silent pool
ten yards to our left where
a fallen fern is settling in.
Air that threads a density
of green heat, to make a breeze
smaller than a whistle.
Not even the amber gloss
of bare shoulders—mine—
lightly pinked by exertion.

Here are we, in steep ascent
above Hawaii’s coast, deep
into the trail, the surf
a distant, steady throb,
and Myron is talking,
not missing a beat.

The two o’clock sun sharpens
its penetration and still
Myron doesn’t notice, he
does not see or listen,
doesn’t sense a thing and
for no reason at all
I think of Susan, our friend,
Susan, undergoing
radiation treatments
back on the mainland.
I think of Susan while I
am here, with Myron, hiking
the Na Pali coastline,
and he and I are noticing
and not noticing
all the world around us.

 

Nancy CookSt. Paul writer Nancy Cook is a Minnesota State Arts Board grantee and the 2015 recipient of the Lillian E Smith writer-in-service award. Last fall she completed a residency on the grounds of the former state mental hospital in Fergus Falls and is currently writing a book of short stories based on the experience. Nancy also runs the Witness Project, a series of free community writing workshops on Minneapolis’s Northside.

This poem is not previously published.

Poem 293 ± March 23, 2016

James Savik
1996

I have seen the fire
Destroying everything in it path
In its blazing wrath

I have seen the fire
Bringing terror as its might
As it consumes the night

I have seen the fire
Slaying friends and lovers
Strangers and brothers

I have seen the fire.
Out of control consuming souls
Hell on earth a mass funeral pyre

I have been burned by the fire
With scars that don’t show
The loss it still burns and stings
Friends and lovers I cannot replace
I am haunted by their familiar faces
ashes and memories that I hold dear
Are all that’s left of those times and places
I have seen the fire and the funeral pyre
When I saw the lights go out on my generation
And horror and confusion gripped the nation
Consumed in a viral conflagration

I look to my right and look to my left
at the lonely, empty spaces
I walk where we walked and talk where we talked
in the lonely empty places
and wonder to myself why am I still here
the smoke it still stings my eyes
Someone must be left to remember
The year that innocence died.

 

Poet’s statement:

j-savik-80 jeff-d-79I graduated and turned 18 in 1980. I heard about a mysterious disease affecting gay males on NPR going too and from the University a year later. I was very much in love with a beautiful boy named Jeff. We had been together since the summer before my junior year. It was OK. We were together and nothing could hurt us. Until Jeff became ill in the mid 90s and died in 1996—just before the cocktail became available. I was shattered and crawled into a bottle for the rest of the decade. I finally sobered up in 2003. I haven’t really been right since. I haven’t found anyone else. While I am grateful for the years we had together, it broke something inside me to lose him. I am in every way that matters a widower.

This poem is not previously published.

Poem 292 ± March 22, 2016

Sergio Ortiz
The War We Fought

I handed you
my anonymity before
the war…
hoping you’d last forever
on my bed

the war we fought
our bedsheets full of sex—
ah, the past
we try to clean it up
put in order our today

I wait for an echo
but the smoldering cannabis
of my sorrow
doesn’t answer—
Good Morning, Vietnam!

Sergio OrtizSergio Ortiz is the author of At the Tail End of Dusk (Flutter Press, 2009), Topography of Desire (Ronin Press, 2010), The Sugarcane Harvest (Avantacular Press, 2010), and Wet Stones and Bedbugs in My Mattress (Flutter Press, 2010). A retired educator, poet, and photographer, Sergio
is editor of Undertow Tanka Review.

This poem is not previously published.

Poem 291 ± March 21, 2016

Kenny Fries
Mortal Thoughts

More than your shirt I’m wearing.
More than the wildflowers in the field.
The purple will yield to yellow—

when it turns red I will not be here
to see it. The weight I feel is not
the weight of your body. When I touch

your skin I am trying to remember it—
It is not your skin I need to remember.
Nor this particular shade of violet

flattering the field. When your tongue
entered my mouth this morning I tasted
that flower— I know each year the same

color will return. When I take off
your shirt tonight I will anticipate
the red waiting to overtake the field.

 

kenny friesKenny Fries is the author of The History of My Shoes and the Evolution of Darwin’s Theory (Da Capo Press, 2007), which received the Outstanding Book Award from the Gustavus Myers Center for the Study of Human Rights and Bigotry, and Body, Remember: A Memoir (University of Wisconsin Press, 2003), as well as the editor of Staring Back: The Disability Experience from the Inside Out (Plume, 1997). His books of poems include Anesthesia (The Advocado Press, 1996) and Desert Walking (The Advocado Press, 2000). He received the Gregory Kolovakos Award for AIDS Writing for “The Healing Notebooks.”  His forthcoming book, In the Province of the Gods, received the Creative Capital grant for innovative literature. He teaches in the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College.

“Mortal Thoughts” appears in Desert Walking and is reprinted by permission of the author.

Poem 290 ± March 20, 2016

Jenna Le
Almost Abecedarian

A man I once believed I loved
believed he had
contracted HIV from a cad
drunkenness had driven him into the denim-clad
embraces of:
fortunately, we were both mistaken.
Great was his relief—profuse
joy washed over him, from his chartreuse
kid-leather hat down to his fine suede shoes,
leaving him a shaken
mannequin—when he received the grand
news that his test was clean.
Only someone who has seen,
perilously close, death’s keen
quartz eyes fix on where he stands
really understands
such shuddering relief, such ice-cold joy.
Those of us who have never been
unfortunate enough to win
(win!) death’s attention
experience a similar excess of feeling when
young love, embodied by a suede-shoed boy,
zips through our lives and we’re almost destroyed.

 

Jenna Le - author photoJenna Le is the author of Six Rivers (NYQ Books, 2011), which was a Small Press Distribution Bestseller, and A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora (Anchor and Plume Press, 2016). Her poetry, fiction, essays, criticism, and translations appear or are forthcoming in AGNI Online, Bellevue Literary Review, The Best of the Raintown Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Los Angeles Review, Massachusetts Review, The Village Voice, and elsewhere.

This poem appears in A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora and previously appeared in Bellevue Literary Review.

Poem 289 ± March 19, 2016

J.C. Elkin
Bodhisattva Guanyin

Bodhisattva Guanyin, hollow dry lacquer, 16th C. Ming Dynasty, The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore

Guarding the exit – Jewel In the Lotus.
Mystery Princess draped in gilt silk.
Manicured, tasseled, lounging barefoot.

Pendulous lobes heavy with cares
gleaned from the cries of a suffering world.
Infinite, peaceful, wise beyond words,

Goddess of Mercy, blessed, enlightened.
Mary for Buddhists you’re sometimes called.
Do you also hear Christian prayers?

Salve, Salve Regina Guanyin.
I entrust you with my secret.

 

Jane ElkinJ.C. Elkin is the author of World Class: Poems Inspired by the ESL Classroom (Apprentice House, 2014). Her work has appeared in Kestrel, The Delmarva Review, ZoMagazine, and other journals. J.C. is a founder of the Broadneck Writers’ Workshop.

This poem appeared in Angle.

Poem 288 ± March 18, 2016

Daniel de Cullá
Doobie or Not Doobie

Lovers look for this snowflake
From Victor Hugo’s Hauteville House’s Garden
Overlooking the sea
In St. Peter Port, Guernsey, Channel Islands
During his time in exile from France
From many ages ago
Precisely midnight
Dominique and Me reaching spiritual illumination
As the French author inspiration for many
Of his fine works
Including Les Misérables and Toilers of the Sea
Teaching us
How to turn our miserable mess
Into a beautiful, joyful and splendid one
Saying to us from his statue:
“There’s no tyranny in the State of Exile.
Fortunately, you have a handbook that shows me
How to discover salvation
Through the pineal gland.”
Hugo described the Islands
As “fragments of France which fell into the sea
And were gathered up by England.”
A Nazi bunker built by Germans
In the II War goes round all the island
One said:
“Chaos and strife are the roots
Of all fascist boots here.”
I’m working in L’Ancress Bay Hotel
Today disappeared by a fire
As a night porter, first
And assistant of chef, afterward
The Bay is a flash of intense light
As though its very psyche
Is the fog returning
As Hugo’ spirit laughing
In happy anarchy.
I am alive and I can tell You as He:
“You are free.”
Dominique is a pretty whore
An employee of shop of clothes
Her eyes were as soft as feather
And as deep as eternity of shit.
Her body was the spectacular dance
Of atoms and universes
Pyrotechnic of pure energy
Opening her flourish haired vagina
Her cunt was my chaos
Disappointed to uncover only reference
To bloody Taoism
Revealing its scroll.
She was a diagram
Like a yin-yang with a pentagon on one side
And an apple on the other of her buttocks
Losing consciousness
In her Bloody Mary period
Being apparent that her experience
Had been whore
We discussing our strange encounter
And reconstructed from memory
The chimpanzee’s diagram
Of our Asses in Love, as Lovers Lo…
And Me asking:
Doobie or not Doobie,“Marijuana”?
She’s answering:
—Give me Cannabis, not fucking Prick¡

Daniel de Culla

Daniel de Cullá is the director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He divides his between North Hollywood, Madrid, and Burgos, Spain.

This poem appeared in GloMag.

Poem 287 ± March 17, 2016

Mark Ward
Gown

A reverse straight-jacket
not designed to close
no matter how hard I try
to tie the fabric strips—
I’m exposed. I pull on my
hoodie over the hospital’s
cruel joke of clothes.
I sit in the corridor.
My shins are cold.
I worry that someone could
see up what feels like a dress
that barely reaches my knees.
I have dressed insanely for
cabaret, perfected Little Edie
Bouvier, lipsynched my way
through all the best parts,
a scattershot approach to drag
as art. I feel unsafe
as I wait for the ultrasound.
I watch myself pull down
the hem, zip up my hoodie,
cross my thighs so no one
can see—what? My bare legs?
My body drenched in fabric?
My discomfort that even I try
to pass, or that for a moment,
I felt like a boy in a dress
and that, for a moment,
I allowed myself to feel less.

 

Mark WardMark Ward is a poet from Dublin, Ireland. He was the 2015 Poet Laureate for Glitterwolf and his work has appeared in Assaracus, Tincture, The Good Men Project, Off The Rocks, The Wild Ones, Emerge and the anthologies, Out of Sequence: The Sonnets Remixed, The Myriad Carnival and Not Just Another Pretty Face. He has recently completed his first chapbook, How to Live When Life Subtracts, and is currently working on a novel-in-verse called Circumference.

This poem is not previously published.

Poem 286 ± March 16, 2016

Jason Vanfosson
The Backs of Men

I ride on the backs of soldiers
drafted for their love of love.
Soldiers who left behind
families fretting over hospitals,
futures filled with cures
for an ailing heart.

I ride on the backs of soldiers
knowing the realities of war.
Soldiers who witnessed
fires in the eyes of civilians,
souls escaping from combat
buddies and villains.

I ride on the backs of soldiers
suffering for our lives.
Soldiers who never
paraded down Main Street,
heard “Thank you for your service”
whispered in an airport.

I ride on the backs of men
never called hero.

Jason VanfossonJason Vanfosson is a doctoral student at Western Michigan University where he researches American boyhood, queerness, and travel in children’s literature. His work has appeared in the Language Arts Journal of Michigan. You can learn more by visiting his website at jasonvanfosson.com.

This poem is not previously published.