Fall 2013 Issue
Below, you'll find the contents of the Fall 2013 Issue of Viral Cat. Blue links will bring you to our Viral Web Selections, where we highlight some of the work of our contributors along with a short bio. All works can be found in our print edition. The Fall 2013 Issue of Viral Cat will be on display and available for purchase at the Collingswood Book Festival in Collingswood, NJ on October 5th.
To purchase the Fall 2013 Issue of Viral Cat (print issue), click the link below. If you wish to purchase multiple copies, send us an email at [email protected] with the number of copies requested and we'll forward you an invoice.
$10 + $2 shipping and handling
We also offer a pdf file of the issue for $3.50.
Fall 2013 Issue, Table of Contents
"Larry" by Justin Angelos (art)
“When I am All Alone” by James Piatt (poetry)
“Disjointed” by Vicki Provost (art)
“This Poem is Not in a Box” by Peter Obourn (poetry)
"3 Fulcrum #5" by Mongobi (art)
“The Greens” by Wanda Morrow Clevenger (poetry)
“The Storyteller” and “Vitruvian Man” by Jackie Bell (photography, sculptures)
“Geppetto's Flaw” by Richard King Perkins II (poetry)
“Tear” by Vicki Provost (photography)
"Hunting Unicorns" by A.J. Huffman (poetry)
"Feminization of Space, Inside View” and “Tilted Window, Outside View" by Jackie Bell (photography, sculptures)
"Pipe Dreams" by Wanda Morrow Clevenger (poetry)
"Sounds of Hope" by James Piatt (poetry)
“Psycholinguistically Hollow” by A.J. Huffman (poetry)
“Bukowski” by Loren Kantor (woodcut print)
"S" by Robert Rothman (poetry)
"Cheshire Cat" by Rob Plath (art)
"The Evolution is Being Televised" by John Grey (poetry)
"Yawning Cat" by Rob Plath (art)
"All Right" by John Grochalski (poetry)
"Moltonium Reach" by Edward Wakefield (art)
"Let Go" by Rob Plath (poetry)
“Hunter Thompson” by Loren Kantor (woodcut print)
"Bad Breath" by John Grochalski (poetry)
“Black 2” by Justin Angelos (art)
“Emperor and Ancestors” by Keith Moul (poetry)
“Guardian” by Justin Angelos (art)
"Horrible" by John Grochalski (poetry)
"Omega" by Justin Angelos (art)
"Goddess of Time" (official film trailer)
"The City Kid" by Greg Harris (screenplay excerpt)
"Forgotten Bikes for Everyone" by Edward Wakefield (art)
"Tyger" by Robert Rothman (poetry)
“1 Dripping #4” by Mongobi (art)
"Songbirds" by Wanda Morrow Clevenger (poetry)
"Dancing" by Loriana Espinel (photography)
"Chronicle" by Richard King Perkins II (poetry)
Viral Web Selections
A crowning of brilliance for optimistic fools,
the glint of sunlight denudes the alders of winter,
inciting the subtle poison of caterpillars.
As voices coalesce into a mouthful of echoes,
I throw my walls wide open until they fade away
and she stands as my nearest border.
Like ice-cold droplets on leaves,
she often wonders how one might live inside
a snowflake, shaping hands and lips
into pallid chateaux and bursts of flamingo.
It seems to her as if only the rumble of verse
can bring a lasting quietude to a changeling world uncoiled.
In wicker morning, her eyes pine open as scrawls
of lorelei. I push June air across her fingertips—
mulberries burst at her touch;
she reveals saline, breathes steam deeply.
One never knows when a giant tentacle will reach up
out of the sea
Remember, a blind man can see things a sighted man can't. So let me tell you about her and then you can tell me whether I'm right.
The first time a man meets her, his eyes flicker and dart. Desire, an appropriate reaction.
The first time a woman meets her, her eyes pop out and coil on her forehead. Envy, another appropriate reaction.
Today, who can blame either? Today, who believes the canard about the true, the good, the beautiful, in theory or in a woman? I never believed it till the day that I met her.
And you won't believe it either unless you do what I did---frisk her for flaws that will allow you to live as you are, as you were, as I was when I met her. As for me, I'm no longer the same. Perhaps you can help me. My cane and my dog are no help in a matter like this.
The day that I met her, I was sitting on pillows propped against the wall of a building not far from Walmart. I had my cane and my cup properly positioned on the sidewalk. I was ready for business. And then I heard her heels type out on the pavement the story of my life. I could hear in those heels a woman who knew me although we had never met.
I had my baseball cap upside down on the sidewalk between my outstretched legs. It was full of my wares---pencils, spearmint gum and Tootsie Pops, free, for the children.
When her heels stopped in front of my spot, I sensed this lady, whoever she was, had bent over my cap and was checking my wares. Her hair was a waterfall licking at my knees. I was inebriated by her scent.
She selected two pencils and didn't ask price so I knew I had a real customer. And then with a wave of her hand she let paper money float through the air into my cup.
Believe me, a blind man can see with his mind the butterfly of paper money float to his cup. Any denomination, large or small, is a Monarch afloat on a zephyr.
Customers, you see, usually drop change. A blind man can tell you what coins a customer has dropped by the clink in his cup. So when I heard her Monarch take to the air, I forgot about my teeth and smiled up at her.
I usually don't smile on weekdays. I used to smile on weekends till that Hummer ran over my mother. She lived for a while but she was never the same.
On Saturdays she used to bring meals wrapped in tinfoil and labeled in Braille to tuck in my freezer. She wanted me to know which meals were where but I was never able to read her Braille so I ate whatever the microwave served.
This new lady in heels, however, has dissolved my bereavement and taken me captive. She has me smiling on weekdays. I've been stoned on her musk since the day that I met her and I'm becoming ever more wobbly. Everywhere I go her scent surrounds me. I'm an addict now and I need my cane and my dog just to get around the apartment.
So, please, tell everyone now in the parade passing by to listen to her as I did. In time they may hear, as I can hear now, a year later, the cherubim sing as she blooms with our child like a sunflower in summer while I wonder, I try.
Light years’ abandonment, beacon without
part of celestial blackness. No differentiation,
form and seam warp.
Nowhere is the designated
destination no constellation can claim.
seems right when another’s immune to words, to look,
or touch; when her suffering’s so acute she can
barely move. You gather your thoughts and say them
silently, lofting the supplication upward
with the million others intoned that second, hoping
that a source starward and more potent than earthly
remedies can bring help. And each time the pain comes
you pray again, until you resemble a medieval
monk, the plea for succor in every breath.
He watches the dawn awakening, and
the dusk disappearing, through the
keyholes of his life; his myopic
panorama, like the existence of all
lonely men continually searching for that
which, no longer exists… often
overwhelms him: He peers into
unfulfilled dreams and aspirations that
still lay dormant, he observes only an
endless staircase that never goes up or
down; his life is a dark minimalist
painting, a contemporary hodgepodge of
nothingness. Please do not disturb him
though, his world of dull embryonic
longings, is all that sews his poor tattered
microscopic life together.