February 2010 Issue - Page 2
"A Peak Into My Imagination" (art) .................................................................................................... Ernest Williamson III
"Dampened Morning Dreams" (poetry) ............................................................................................. Justin Wade Thompson
"Spirit" (art) ........................................................................................................................................ Jim Fuess
"Timeball" (screenplay) ...................................................................................................................... Asterios Kokkinos
"Bat" (art) ........................................................................................................................................... Jim Fuess
"Party Bags" (film) .............................................................................................................................. Howard Cohen
"you stole it" (art) ............................................................................................................................... Nikki Yeager
"Up" (poetry) ...................................................................................................................................... Davide Trame
"Two Aspirins And A Cat In The Morning" (poetry) ........................................................................... Janet Garber
"It Will Only Leave A Little Scar" (art) ................................................................................................ Kate Daly
"Under the Shadow of the Canadian Dream" (fiction) ....................................................................... Bryan Anthony
"KNOCK 'EM DEAD, KID" (film trailer) .............................................................................................. Chris Golon
"hollis street blues" (poetry) .............................................................................................................. John A. Grochalski
"Gail Dorfman" (poetry) ..................................................................................................................... Matthew Harris
Dampened Morning Dreams
Up
You enjoy the light in your dog’s eyes
who is rushing flat on the ground towards you
to grab the stick you have just found.
A dash warming the strand,
your here-and-now in a straight cloud of breath.
You raise the stick tracing
an arc in the air with your hand
and she just flies with it,
body at eye-level, and higher, higher,
taking off.
Clouds, gods.
Now she lands, supple legs
minimize the impact.
And you both stand, breathless
in the wake of the myth
gathered up there.
Two Aspirins and a Cat in the Morning
I am steeped in the rhythm of my cat,
Lying with her on my rumpled bed.
The effort of digesting two pieces of toast
And a cup of coffee has leveled me.
It is the middle of the morning.
We need to nap.
She lies on my left leg in sphinx position,
Pointed toward the door, an eye to the desert sands,
On the lookout for foreign invaders from…
The living room?
If I turn slightly to settle into the pillows,
She pivots around to squint at me and
Settles in a spongy ball against my ribcage.
There’s nothing she is needing: she’s been petted,
Kneaded, scratched, sniffed, kissed on her forehead.
Fur flies around the bed, gets in my nostrils and eyes.
At this time I am (normally) working
On a second cup of coffee at my desk
After a two hour commute during which
I read the entire New York Times and
Do the crossword puzzle
Backwards and then in French
Just for the exercise.
Today I lie here breathing, but
Airways are filled with sand and glue.
I drift on desert winds, my thoughts are
Zephyrous, billowing, refusing to settle
I pick up subtle changes in the universe,
I think I hear gears shifting, birds singing.
I often wondered what my cat did with her life
What made her so sleepy and without ambition.
Now I know she’s pondering the wisdom of her ancestors,
She’s plugged into the current of the skies, eyeballs
Linked to the sunbeams coming in the window, ears tuned
To the finest sounds a day can make.
Today especially she doesn’t want to miss a thing.
I am home!
Neither do I.
Can somebody please tell my boss
I need to be a cat
For just a few more days?
Under the Shadow of the Canadian Dream
These are strange and dangerous times in which we live. Lying on the steel framed bed in the bunkroom, I kick the heavy flannel sheets from my body, sweat clings and pools at the base of my cock. The sweat forms a small saline lake underneath the shiny coarsened wires of my pubic hair, like an eternal spring flowing below a once lush-now-burned bush. The bunkroom is brightly lit from the full moon hanging low in the sky, like a testicle of God. Where is his other ball? I ask myself. Has he partially castrated himself and therefore isn’t all mankind partially castrated since we were made in his image?
The only sounds are the occasional howls of grey wolves and the snores and rustling of sheets from the other men in the bunkroom. Plum tired men, exhausted from a long day of chopping and sawing. It is a bitter cold night in Manitoba. The days are becoming shorter and the winds are growing stiffer. Stiffer still are the thoughts drumming in my head and below. Alone yet surrounded by these lumberjacks; men of wood and steel; fire and ice. Wrapped up tightly in their beds, wide shoulders to the walls, building a warmth within their sheets that I long to burrow into and call my own. But within their dreaming minds creep a darkness and malaise that has begun to affect our entire nation.
Our leaders wrap themselves in maple leaved flags and swim in the syrupy pools of our blood. My fellow axe-men turn a blind eye. As we plunder our land’s bounty with unrelenting thirst, our lust for the ever present more denies our better angels. I fear it already too late, that the greed of some Canadians has become the greed of all Canadians. The touch of skin, to steel, to wood will not only open the thick darkened bark of trees, but also the thick darkened bark of our souls.
hollis street blues
lord byron
your birth house
is now
a mcdonald’s
is now a clothing megastore
just off oxford street
is now
a glass construct
foretelling the future
of architectural doom
there’s not
even a plaque here
lord byron
we tried
to find you
amidst the commerce
and glam
amidst the union jack
tshirts
and plastic
london mugs
we really did
on hollis street
lord byron
on hollis street
but we’d have
been better off
in belgium or venice
where you whiled
away the hours
fucking all
of those handsome
girls and boys.
we should’ve
looked up
shelley’s withered ass
instead of wasting
the minutes
standing here
in the gray gloom
next to a coffee shop
that never even
bared your
name.
Gail Dorfman
that je nais sais quality for unbridled friendship
evoked crystal clear thru a unique vibrant poetic voice!
quite sobering (and a might bit embarrassing) for me
the pseudo prodigal son of boyce and the late harriet
to answer a craigslist personal posting from the youngest progeny
of morton and sylvia - named gail
which mild virtual shock possibly experienced by yourself, who possibly thought to ride off in a golden chariot
yet chose another road less traveled devoid of any guide posts
akin to feeling with hands ala braille!
to be moost honest and blunt
i frequently disparage this marriage
and (pardon moi french) fancy bedding down with a nutter cunt
yet (joost as ye claim to denounce the blandness and drek
that attempts to pass as creativity)
this boyish half century erudite fellow trawls the net as if on some virtual hunt
boot wonder how in this condemn
(and condom) filled tarred and feathery nation can pull off a stunt!
many moons elapse with me feeling the sine non qua need
sans peace of body, mind and spirit to acquire
not so mooch to lambaste zee spouse,
but rather this casus belli arose from that natural hormonal fire
which prompts this non-pistol whipping papa
to offer his little weinerschnitzel for free or hire
and entertains this secrete fantasy for a male harris heir to sire
yet nada snow ball chance in hell would abby embrace motherhood
forsooth with our deux daughters
she seemed marginally excited, irritable and frequently did tire
to revel in maternity,
and e'en now
precariously teeters back and forth upon that unseen psychic wire!
so...danke mucho gracias ma dear
who eons ago, i offer this minor confession with a tad of feckless fear
that interest existed to enmesh and integrate genitalia
like some well lubricated gear!
tempus fugit goads nada jist me gonads
but the entire being of this nattering nabob from narberth
to fancy himself living independent from abby,
which counterpart more like a house mate
due to our growing divergence of general dogma, karma and persona
for whatever this may be worth
and ceaseless jibes from octavia (informing us we cannot afford to live here)
contributes to this ill fate.
matthew wishes ya a moost pleasant day
and hoop yer mental state newt overly gray
which could be easily resolved by getting a lay
not the frito made type nor one that doth not require anything to pay
only unfurling the welcome mat for deese bard to sojourn out your way!