Viral Cat

Subtitle

Spring 2015 Issue

Recent Blog Entries

                                Spring 2015 Issue


 

Table of Contents

 

Motherhood: En Colere" (painting) ….............................................................. Rachel O'Donnell

Touchy Subjects” (poetry) …............................................................................ Ivan Jenson

Chasing Bliss” (film) ………………………………………………………… Gibran Lozano

Glory Through Mystery” (poetry) …................................................................ Justin Adam

Van Gogh Abstract” (art) …............................................................................. Ivan Jenson

Master” (poetry) ………………………………………………………...…… John Grey

Primordial” (film) ………………………………………...………………….. Gibran Lozano

Coming Home at Midnight to the Farm” (fiction) …………………………… Donal Mahoney

Bride II” (painting) …....................................................................................... Rachel O'Donnell

A Game of Thaw” (poetry) …………………………………………………... John Grey

Ephemeral Time” (painting) …………………………………………………. Valerie Patritti

Soulmate Imaginary” (poetry) …...................................................................... Justin Adam

Chess-Board Girl” (poetry) …………………………………………………... John Grey

The End is Near” (photography) …………………………………..…………. Yvette Sohl

High Altitude” (poetry) …................................................................................. Ivan Jenson

Shady Deal” (poetry) ………………………………………………………… Kevin Ridgeway

I Can't Rap About Love” (music)….................................................................. Slihmm featuring Noosance,                                                                                                                                   produced by Brothermoon

Graduation Picture” (poetry) …………………………………………….…… Kevin Ridgeway



Motherhood: En Colere   | by Rachel O'Donnell
 
 
 
Touchy Subjects   | by Ivan Jenson

 

Please tell me
if I have a 
trail of toilet  
paper on my shoe
while making
my great
entrance 
or
if I have a chive
on my tooth
while 
waxing 
philosophical at
a fancy restaurant 
let me know 
if I have
less than perfect
manners 
or breath
or if I have
stepped on your 
foot or your
moment
or punch line
and please inform 
me
if I have worn 
out my welcome
at the party
or overused 
my tongue
during 
a French kiss
but if I am ever
on 
life support
don't pull the plug
just because
I have an 
out of body
issue 

 

Chasing Bliss   | by Gibran Lozano

 

Glory Through Mystery   | by Justin Adam 

 

The conundrum

Gunning down a sense of mystery

Truncating hospital lives, spewing

Poison tar gas to advocate concrete

Control and ruthless rule-bound vocation

 

My agreeable nature floats

In, around, outside, and above

These games of stolen pride

I am myself, timeless bound

To a prophesy pure within the sky



 

All moods coalesce

All people march for destiny

Not a name, place, or vocation

Just simply realizing

The glory of each moment

 

Van Gogh Abstract   | by Ivan Jenson 

 

 

Master   | by John Grey

 

master of your universe

cradles you in fluent twists of color,

finds a cure,

is forever saying “yes you can”

 

for all the scars, the hemorrhage,

the mangling of your half of the conversation

the master

fashions you in silk scarves,

red spangled dress,

styles your hair,

whitens your teeth,

is limitless unless you say "enough"

 

when your name is blurred

or even ransacked.

it looms large

in your master's calligraphy of clouds

or is woven in the roots

of the earth you tread so lightly on

 

forget jaw clenched

or lips heavy,

the master of your universe

does an exquisite smile

whenever the mirror calls for one

 

ah yes, the master -

once older,

was a "he" for a while,

then another "he"

and now mostly you

 

as for the universe,

the house, the town

are vast enough

 

you're in your shoes

and confident

 

taking orders

only you can give

Primordial   | by Gibran Lozano

 

 

Coming Home at Midnight to the Farm   | by Donal Mahoney

 

Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the

school bus took me around for years. I can see in the

headlights the wildflowers ringing the curve like a necklace--

goldenrod, cornflower, Queen Anne's Lace, God's gift to country

roads in the fall. You don't see anything like that in the city but

I'm getting used to living there.

 

I see the house ahead, one light on, upstairs. It's midnight and

my father's dead and my mother's in that room praying and

maybe crying, waiting for me to pull in. She knows it's a six-hour

drive from the city.

 

The wake will be tomorrow night at Egan's mortuary. There will

be 15 decades of the rosary to say and I still have trouble getting

through five. Then there will be three hours of listening to my

mother's friends console her, ancient ladies all, many of them

widowed long before her.

 

Many times my mother has been in their place so she

knows what they will say but she will find some comfort in it

anyway. The old farmers still alive will simply say "sorry for your

troubles" which serves as both a condolence and a prayer.

 

Mass will be at 10 in the morning with Father Murphy in the

pulpit sounding like Bishop Sheen. My dad told me long ago that

when he finally died Father Murphy would confer sainthood on

him at the funeral, no need for any miracles. Father Murphy has

a long history of canonizing every farmer who dies unless he

committed one of the seven deadly sins in public. My father

said he hoped Father Murphy would talk loud enough for God to

hear.

 

After the procession to the graveyard and the consignment

of the casket, everyone will drive back to the church hall for

the funeral meal--wonderful food prepared by good women

and arranged in a long buffet.

 

The farmers will assure my mother they will be out to her place

tomorrow and the next day to put up the hay. After the hay is

taken care of, they will take turns coming to feed the cattle and

they'll go to town to pick up whatever she needs. Things will

work out, they will tell her. Not to worry.

 

After everyone has eaten, the ladies, one by one, will rise and

bow to my mother and tell her to go home now and get some

rest.

 

The men will shake hands with me and ask how long before I

have to go back to the city. I'll say I have a week, maybe two,

uncertain as to what night I'll have to leave. I know it will be

around midnight. And the same light will be on, upstairs.

 

Bride II   | by Rachel O'Donnell

A Game of Thaw   | by John Grey

 

A warm day in February

but the birds and flowers are having none of it.

There's no rush to bud, to mate.

 

Only I am fooled by the suddenly

intense morning sun,

and water rolling down the eaves,

and yard shapes that are once more details.

 

Despite another fearful dream,

dawn strokes my optimism

like a waking cat,

revels in the purr.

 

If winter can be tricked,

then why not soured relationships.

If the mind can rise up

from eight hours of oblations

like an elm seduced by heat and light,

then who knows who might call today,

and what they'll say.

 

Someone at a distance beyond hope.,

a soul loose and forever drifting,

a voice dwelling in months of silence ~

why can't they be that one befuddled crocus

that almost screams into the receiver,

"It's time to begin again."

 

If it can happen to the weather,

then maybe the hungry will be fed,

the wounded heal,

the battles turn the dial to peace.

 

It's mild enough for me to say,

"Hi, how's it been?" -

to whisper "yes" and then again, "yes."

Ephemeral Time   | by Valerie Patritti
 
 
Soulmate Imaginary   | by Justin Adam

Separated by distances

As time dances in and out

The evolution of our being

Caught so tight, interwoven

Hearts palpitating, pressing

To explore each possible nuance

 

There's a carnival of imagination

Left poised on every vacant lot

Teeming on the market

With unusual resale value

 

Captivating soul dance ether

Murmuring through density of dreams

Your thick breath whispering heat

Draws me towards the infinite

Chess-Board Girl   | by John Grey

 

It's the one place

my moves are better than yours

though we both know

this evenly spaced board,

in clear-cut black and white,

is not the planet.

And what we do outside the game

is never as simple

as pawn to king four

or a bishop's long silky slide

into open waters.

Not even that sideways swipe

of the rambunctious knight,

giddy and demonic

the way it leaps about like laughter,

is up to the slightest touch,

the saddest crossroads.

And we can check all we want

but we'll never hold the other

with a word

though we've come close sometimes

and even mate,

that clarion call, that wound,

is not the end of something,

merely its mimic.

We can joke how tough the queen is,

how impotent the king.

She speaks for me now,

this conniving elder statesman,

observer of our friendship

who knows that,

despite my willingness to join your side,

I still prefer to beat you.

But what is winning

when your king

is just one more fingernail to clip,

a line you discard to make a poem better,

or the first words on a telephone...

before you start talking.

It can topple.

It can die,

You will shrug it off

like a pointless kiss,

like an unworthy dream,

let this loss chew on

those captured pieces,

not your heart and your head.

Of course, your king will grow stronger

as you play and play and play,

as your persistence empowers its armies

and some day you will beat somebody,

even me maybe,

with a heady flourish,

a brilliant maneuver,

and I could be a sorrier loser

for it all,

my confidence, like this past year,

melting into my fingers

as they flick over

its bellicose pride.

But for now, you leave town,

shunting up the column

with your rook

or maybe castling

in the far corner.

You put the game on hold.

I stay behind,

head lowered into the board,

ponder my next move.

The End is Near   | by Yvette Sohl

 

 

High Altitude   | by Ivan Jenson

 

You are

fashionably dressed

remarkably bright 

impressively prepared 

demographically desirable 

and you have shown us

you are goal-oriented 

with an eye for detail

a head for numbers

and legs to die for

but this is Colorado 

and we don't give

a hoot about 

credentials 

we are only 

looking for an

afternoon temp

to sell some 

homegrown hemp

Shady Deal   | by Kevin Ridgeway

 

flared nostrils

squirt blood

onto her blouse

from eight ball

lines our whole

dorm pitched

in for, and we

all agreed it was

bad shit that made

us think really fast

about nothing, so

we stuck to poorly

manufactured LSD

and puffed on glass

chillums burning

with overpriced 

Canadian indoor 

that made us think 

really slowly about 

something.



I Can't Rap About Love   | by Slihmm and Noosance; produced by Brothermoon
 Graduation Picture   | by Kevin Ridgeway

 

dozens of me in glossy

wallet sized prisons with

enormous foreheads that 

border regions of hair 

frozen by styling gel long 

before its time while

brows frown over flashing

red eyes divided by noses 

whose rough terrain hold 

evidence of last minute pimple 

detonations within reach of

sneering lips you couldn't

see without a magnifying 

glass, thin gummy toppings

over single scoop chins

vacuum sealed against 

sports coat shoulder pads

guarding the neckties that

keep these miniature heads

of mine from floating skyward 

out of the frames of the

abusive cameras that never

loved them, even when

they forced a smile and 

said cheese for them

through clenched teeth.