p o e t r y




Moonlight on Moloch: 20 Redneck Symphonies
by Luke Buckham


"He will pave you with ice" —Nostradamus

Index of first lines

1. That clover honey between your legs,
2. A recluse can escape the state
3. Against the makers of world-wide death,
4. A purple erection protruding from the curtains
5. How can moonlight mellow these newspaper stands,
6. Somewhere a ledge slides off an island, a wave
7. Maybe if someone believed in total reversal,
8. As the oceans yawn and mountains sag,
9. Out of a tiny void a leaf blossoms
10. Intricate apocalypse is wired into every human form--
11. Charles Mingus saved my life, headphones against the sound
12. A girl opens her legs, the local newspaper
13. A redeemer full of shit has come, he will freeze
14. They cut up the moon into advertising logos,
15. A man with a crown of leaves
16. Inside the President's hollow head, a child burns their feet
17. The rain comes to join me
18. A crazed fat man muttering to himself about monsters
19. A man in a crumbling apartment looks out
20. The factory smokestacks prettier than young tits


1. Your most intense opening

That clover honey between your legs,
clowns in alleyways waiting for it,
spaces between treebranches seen
by little human dwarves lying in the snow
on their backs, tiny gravity, little grains
of rice stuck to the earth, all fly open
like a door kicked by police. You produced them,
squeezed them out through your waist,
your thighs, your hips, and finally through
your most intense opening. Now someone
with a microphone and lots of cash
wants to send them off to eternal warfare.
The numbers given them at birth
have come with knives to kill them.
Should you have hidden them in your attic?
Your basement? Your womb? A burning coffin?


2. A street to paradise

A recluse can escape the state
sometimes. A hermit can be safe
from worried friends, informers.
Everyone who wants a life of freedom
must live it mostly alone. Clover honey
between your legs calls children forth
from me who cannot live in this valley.
The new swords, extended into nation-razing blades
of flying fire, pave towns much like yours
with flattened debris, a street to paradise
for some, oblivion for others. And here
the dark children crying, here; unguarded windows
through which an ancient toddler's face
with bleeding eyes stares solemnly
at a weeping soldier.


3. An arsenal of jokes

Against the makers of world-wide death,
a stroke of paint, a trumpet's mournful blast
through ragged amplifier, an arsenal of jokes.
Hills ripple toward like ocean waves
a yellow outline around your frigid body--
on the ocean bright of green you float,
arrows of fire arcing toward you on the sky
like racing constellations, the orbits
casting off rings of red dust, every planet
on display. The dust from certain bombs
drifting in is an aphrodisiac, human forms
huddled together, humping for warmth.
This morning I licked concrete dust
out of my girlfriend's eyelids as we limboed
under the arcing fire, the hills rolling
in a broken tumult. Now if children come
the dust will find them out and stop their growth,
our house of pills is willingly plowed under.


4. The man-shaped world

A purple erection protruding from the curtains
of a voting booth. An escape from obligation,
social security numbers riddled with bullet holes
wincing like eyes in every wall, bullet holes
become outlets for pleasure, oozing in the brick.
A populace insane for pleasure in these last hours,
the man-shaped world
receiving a blowjob on a crashing plane.


5. A highway juts into the sky

How can moonlight mellow these newspaper stands,
these broken bricks, these young bones leaking marrow
of bad thoughts on the salty pavement
as a highway juts into the sky, plunges into precipice,
an eighteen-wheeler truck that once moved the world
now a barren castle in the mild light?

How can the sidewalks be inviting under a hovering bomb?
A girl is reading a newspaper in the park--a bird dies
and plummets through the pages, leaving
a winged hole. She yelps in fright, stops reading news,
her life gets better.


6. The sea goes out like an excited woman's breath

Somewhere a ledge slides off an island, a wave
two world trade centers tall heads for my home New England.
Old England is already obliterated. A bomb shook
this huge splinter of rock loose and moved the sea.
Two people walk on a desolate beach, the music of evacuation
fluttering dimly in the air as they turn toward each other
to make love standing up above the surf. The sea goes out
like an excited woman's breath, surging off the drop-off ledge
like orgasm, the two turn toward a long bare beach
of glass-smooth sand, the skyscraper-size wave
comes moving in. They both wet themselves
a long moment before the ocean clears the coast.


7. I fear I am not that man

Maybe if someone believed in total reversal,
and had a spirit of great power, a prayer from them
could wrap the world in glowing cellophane
before our cataclysm. I fear I am not that man--
and try to believe that great spirit lives
in someone else, in an even smaller town.


8. Behind shattered constellations

As the oceans yawn and mountains sag,
as the bitter souls crowd supermarkets
for a last lunge at preservation, a star by day
stands out against the sky, glowing
over infinite parking lots, painted battlefields
and vacant baseball stadiums: a girl goes back in time
to leap in bed with me, our stove still works,
the sunset infected by bombs looks more
spectacular than before, and multitudes of crazed
musicians, sober in the aftermath, make melody
with raging discord in the broken parks, fountains
spouting rusty water sideways
under the bright morning star. We all bow to the ground,
a furnace mouth chews human beef
behind shattered constellations,
a tiny meteorite smashes a satellite's face
to blind it for one much bigger.


9. Its broken dimensions

Out of a tiny void a leaf blossoms
from a wall of water, a branch reaches
from the aching gelid void
and makes rows of green fluttering children.
The old world whispers from behind
its broken dimensions, its active cities
burning to get out into the silent kingdom.


10. The clacking of grey wings

Intricate apocalypse is wired into every human form--
don't look too close at me through cigar smoke
here in the dim orange light, perched on our stools;
if you turn and step into the crowd, it's off a ledge.
The eyes blinking in the restaurant are pilot lights
for an oven burning races in its grip. A glitter
like broken glass under setting sun
winks at us on our little cliff, the bartender
has the extinction of the human species
under his wet counter. A rag full of chloroform
sweeps in his hand, polishing a wooden mirror
for our faces, placing us in Auswitz.

The streets between tall buildings
fill with tasty locusts, street vendors catch them in baskets,
then the shipment buries them, a cemetary of their goods.
The wings packed into alleyways in multitude
slow their movement. The clacking of grey wings
and the little brown mouths screeching
at the crooked traffic halting with half-open doors.

We are locusts ourselves now,
a plague but without wings,
trapped between four walls.
Don't look too close at your dozing girlfriend;
napalm eyeliner, a womb full of helicopter blades.
A fingernail floats dreamily through your tequila.
Don't turn around to see them face-down in their food.
Don't turn around to see your favorite bassist
impaled on his guitar. He made a few good notes
toward his end. That is all that's asked.
All that was asked, his electric fingers gave.


11. The bloodied markets

Charles Mingus saved my life, headphones
against the sound of all the world avalanching.
His ghost ran through my streets
finger-painting on shop-windows steamed
with dying breaths. The bloodied markets
and roving mobs could not bother him
so far outside his body as he played
deep in my head, where a strange color
still makes noise.


12. I haven't cut the lawn in months

A girl opens her legs, the local newspaper
closes its doors, unneeded. The world is blinded
by the purity of honest human gestures
in this house, a barracks set up against
its tides with music and painted doors.
I will not trim my hedges anymore, but let them
lace their long brown fingers over my entrances.
I haven't cut the lawn in months, let crickets drown
all the reports of war, a tent of leaves hold a slug
with our trailing secret.
Do you know how I lasted through the end?
I hid in a basement making prayers in paint.
Do you know how I became stoic against
the rainstorm of fetuses? I held the brush
in my hand a little tighter, painted my dead love
from memory, and felt warmth for an extinguished race
glow from my bones, painting an archway
into a second earth, though none was left
to share the frame or model for me
in my dying hallways. Whether you lived
or died, you always burned.


13. He will freeze your groin

A redeemer full of shit has come, he will freeze
your groin, he will shut up your clinics, glue your eyes
and pull your bodies like taffy, boneless toward the brink,
until you shove him like a floating pillar
through the swirling seas
over the lunar edge
of his own oblivion. Those following him over the cliff
will tell you enthusiastically
that he's a good man. If you believe them
you will be forced to share
in their horrible record collections.


14. Nuclear Christmas

They cut up the moon into advertising logos,
that was the last sign of the end. No poet
could look at the sky anymore without screaming
in pain. Oh Kelly, hold me beneath the fall
of billboard houses, house of cards
collapsing with their slogans.

That which cannot become immortal must fall
under the lash of a blade of grass.
The tired red globes circling, diverted meteorites
glow with nuclear Christmas, our new satellites,
eccentric menstrual cycles, a planet of crazed women;
I grow my red wings in the shade of a new cliff
after a volcanic summer. A prophet's throat is secured
voiceless somewhere in the stone, nothing frozen in lava
aches to get out of its skin again.


15. A whore won't lie until you give her money.

A man with a crown of leaves
won't come out of the woods
when they bring him a woman to make him
one of their own. She says I'll bring you back
to the gnashing cities between my legs;
a whore won't lie until you give her money.
Leaves and shade his only currency,
she tells him the truth since he refuses.

He says My long beast of a thumbnail against
all your soldier's throats, I will not come out ever.
He's an astronomer but his lens is cracked and blurry--
he pretends the rivulets it makes in his longest sight
are the star-trails of flamboyant galaxies. She smirks
and says They're waiting for your next prophecy
I never believed you were a prophet myself
But I bet you want what I've got and I know you won't
Take it by force, they say you're always
softer towards the women.

He says I've got a kettle of god's breath
here in the woods, it evaporates
every time I take a step toward town. She says
let me have a drink myself I can see you're not coming.


16. Running over the spine of things

Inside the President's hollow head, a child burns their feet
as we all pile wood for the fire
under the golden calf of his dreams. A sky is rustling somewhere,
remembering good witches and their calloused fingers
running over the spine of things.

I watch hanging and beheadings on television,
while eating potato chips! A mouse scurrying
in the wall distracts me. If our violence
grows strong enough to push wholly through the earth,
then we'll be safe from its backlash.
Otherwise our violence will return to us.
The ground under our feet holds us to our target.
A sky rustles somewhere and a maker of spells
cries with bitter joy as we all come to join her.


17. Looking over my own shoulder

The rain comes to join me
the trees grow to surround me and protect me
the earth rises to sleep with me
the buildings fall to make my ornaments

then the rain goes to join someone else
and that someone comes to join me on the earth
the sidewalks run like rivers toward Ocean National Bank
How can the twilight
make a beauty of all this corruption?
Is a streetlight
just a costly wildflower
or an abomination?

The blowing curtains of rain come to join me
as blood joins a puddle
that a child played in all afternoon
and in its curdling reflection
looking over my own shoulder I see a new world


18. Moves down Main Street like a dream

A crazed fat man muttering to himself about monsters
moves down Main Street like a dream
through shopfront windows.
A big catfish swims in the murk of his eyes
when he's gone off medication.

Sometimes he paints the metal teeth
assaulting us, exorcises our nightmare onto a canvas
with car paint on scraps of junkyard metal.
Some suffer more for our evils.
The catfish smacks its rubber jaws
churns poison stingers to make paint
all autumn, extending into bristles through his arm
to save him from the murk of his mind.
Then turns and swims away
toward a deep December.


19. A good world the moment before he collapses

A man in a crumbling apartment looks out
his toothless window, and sees a good world
for the first time the moment before
he collapses in the smoke,
coughing out his life
a cat prowls on his windowsill
a long shard of plaster falls on him
and pins him to the floor he thinks It looks
like a good world out there he says Hi Cat
he strokes the cat with a bloody hand the cat
arches its spine and purrs
leaps out the window landing
nimbly on the sidewalk as the building falls

its tiny padded paws, so perfect
he wonders what it would be like to land like that
he hopes that death is a soft landing, like that
he lowers his head onto the dusty floor, chokes:
I'm sorry I didn't treat you better, cat


20. My torn skies

The factory smokestacks prettier than young tits
in the false light, black smoke against the backdrop
of my torn skies, makes me yearn for a city
somewhere in my spirit.
The image is false but the urge is real. That is why
moonlight on Moloch makes such a stir in my hurt brain,
breaks my back toward making it a paradise;
Shoveling gravel with pictures within of glowing plateaus,
planting seed in the chocolate cake of seething tar.

But in my mind those glowing mountaintop farms:
and a woman wearing eternity's clean face
walks through my rows of corn, topless in a white skirt,
barefoot and showing the growing bulge
of four month's pregnancy,
and her belly with its navel turning inside-out
is the sky, and a brand-new moon.

—Luke Buckham is a prolific contributor to Spread. See past issues for his bio and future ones, hopefully, for more and new work from him.







D. Garcia-Wahl Sampler
by D. Garcia-Wahl

Baptism

'Tis only by humble cherish
that I make my way to your fount
The writhing of my essence in the hands that I clasp
make into this hollow of mine, a performance of grace.
The words of my confession, the trial of my days
lent to your forgiveness.
For you,
I shed myself of my flesh,
of my calling, of my sins
before your waters darkened by candlelight
to seek redemption
to ignite a purity
to deepen my bow
and fall to the within you.


Voices Welled

Emparadis’d in your reaching spirit, delicate
there is a sky that does not pass above you,
a second that is not made a moment without you,
and a beauty etched to carols of the heart.
For there is something naked in your voice.
Innocent not - sometimes a weakness
when the heartened flesh trembles pale
brightened by a moon of continuum Spring
who’s breath does birth the belief of ecstasy
kept to union in nestled bodies
weeping for immortality.
For in each whisper, a catharsis.
An echo for to surround
with the sigh of your quiver.
All senses toward you.
And always
you
moving alone within invited crowds.
Always you
stopping breaths
forever
and dressing desire.
Always you
haunting the hours of man
with an image of beauty
that justifies their loneliness.
And always you,
only you,
hearing my voice
falling silent
in hesitation
of your soliloquy
in fear of its touching


As In Benediction

You, Madonn' of my desires,
each dream is coiled to your caress
as is the solstice of my needs.
My love, when the world covets flesh
mine very words shall covet love.
For answers come before questions.
And now only thy flesh is the
lasting want of antiquity
come immaculate. Soft, I scream
my past and my sins into you.
Palm to my chest, these delicate
flushings of wish are beyond me.
The dark refracts as a single
wonder passes from you to me.


Gates of Rodin

Whereas Ghirberti had bronzed paradise
The unfathomable can be found more explicit
By the doorwell as much mirror as it is plaster,
A question posed: By what sins is there a rising in Hell?
As declension must have a counter balance
Avarice is brought in holy quantities
The expulsion of shades that have drowned in spirit are still
The Biblical myths pray in their falling
And incomplete as is all sin
In vignettes of lamentation
Never has the human form been more naked
Never have beliefs passed by so rapidly
Even if discord is not visible to you
Face your sorrow and it is sculpted in portal


The Bequeathing of Jealousy

I have wakened hardest to thine love
and understood man is made of regrets
The council of my senses is a weighty one
in this nightmare which does breathe nightmares
Yet to move beyond you is not winsome
What frights do come of your sanity
lacing violence with beauty
What insomnia does come of my asking
Oh awake or asleep
to be alive and touch the rich meanderings of my memories
to be alive and encircle my own grave
Sad Sad applause
Merciful tarnish
for the allusions my quiet dreaming forsakes
All to insure a love
you would have my face
the face of Iago’s victims,
my frustrated fists to be bloodied at the floor
with rantings that would have walls at my knees
and this emotion stained to my flesh
You would have this of me?

Yet, again, to move beyond you is not winsome

The emotion you have me covet
can bear but ill
leaving me alone to ensnare what was sacrified
promising myself, even if by starvation, to end the stamp of this woe
to not make autumn’s night prayer
a winter tale as well
But alas,
the eye the eye
the unseen eye
here words sheath memory
and unless each eye is holied
this curse,
your curse,
threatens to de-resurrect

Oh, my love of colored Spain,
settle this night to what is never questioned
as I remain
where the worship of the heart is bottomless


of dark, of Wychwood

The moment was carpentered that he should be alone
where his confessions trail like the seasons
and the essence of his remorse
is the fullness of its silence
Like a shadow
'less he paces
he is no more than a stain
It is the riddle of conclusion,
It is the obviousness for rebuttal
keeping waves dry to his face
Conjuring images in a bay
just shallow of such depths:
The grave of the way she watches him
with a sin that divides form from flesh
The devouring of her memory
The whisper of her words to water
In a horror the ebb will not denounce

If Heaven cannot promise more of a dream
than promises a dream makes
How can he?
Better to name this lake
as you would this man
Anonymity
and leave it to nightmares
to right themselves

The story of man is man

—D. Garcia-Wahl wrote his first novel at the age of 13. He began an intense and unending study of poetry shortly thereafter. His first poems surfaced in his late teens and publications began after that. His entire life is devoted to writing. He has written, directed, and produced several small, independent films; has done multiple radio and television interviews as well. He has three small collections of poetry published and sold in North America and Europe: Restless, the night burns, Dive!, and In each whisper, a catharsis. His poetry has been published in nearly 100 periodicals in North America and Europe. A full length collection of his poetry has been completed under the title, All that comes of Madden'd Days. Another collection, Primrose, is in the works. Garcia-Wahl recently published the novel, Ashes of Mid Autumn; he is now putting the finishing touches on 5 other novels. Most recent publications of his poetry on the web appear in www.minneapolisunderground.com, www.cosmoetica.com, www.circlemagazine.com, and www.whistlingshade.com. Find out more about the many interests and capacities of D. Garcia-Wahl at http://dgarciawahl.tripod.com.











Five Poems
by Charlton Metcalf

Rendezvous Felt

romantic bridges burned

destination opiated
out contrasting revenge,
with physical trivia and ideas of musk

media foundling,
debauch-lit automatic beautiful
luxury apocalypse
appetites vulnerable, precocious indulgent

amused tweakend
opinionated funny escapism,
black satire fixation

deafening pink, nerve mania
doubting overspill,
determined by the virgin of Guadeloupe

rumed holiday launch intensity
tribalism of love when loved
breathless dynamo subvert

rendezvous felt,
down movie theatre isles,
and hanging over balconies under after dark July skies

super-imposed ugliness,
electrocell developing, modern vicious,
curiouser transparent
complimentary hushed
killing unneeded moods


Smell of Rain

headlights lust
speed Nosferatu Doppler
deep lightning storm, ten miles wide
motorway guardrail, over mountains of madness
glancing hard out the side tinted window,
right before rushing through a tunnel
reflections... premonitions,
like caricatured dance forms,
indulged in nodded operatic relevance

no sleep for three days
vamped melancholy,
secret society, opiated tragi-bot
driving on through,
with the release control talents of sympathetic
culprits,
mayhem outburned
fat of the land sensuals,
rearview ephemeral
consuming passion like air,
die my darling exotic vapors,
beauty that brought about a hate for music,
art-damaged pleasure permanent

swerving in...,
voyeuristic changelessness,
pitier overpowered
regrets decoying,
averse consumptive pathetique
grips on the steering wheel,
white knuckle cumulative
languid exhales instead of leers
tummy ache,
sanguine virulent, internal jewel,
9mm originality

headrest drift,
low sky, black dice swinging blurred
love, one little chill
death nothing more than the smell right before it
rains


Spider Bite Hemisphere

inclination,
vague sense of dissatisfaction
spider bite hemisphere

please composure
right on by...
femmeling spy-walk, cat power veering
mouthwash Pernod,
kissing circus pro

vice enthused,
eyes bloodshot delirium followed
envy alluring
playing enemy with wink-wink irony,
and a frowns amnesia
savoir fair conjure alpha

looking down darkly,
encounter poacher, so paused
curious Marxist leer,
in simulator undress
strapping field hands,
hinder taut,
with authentic flaws and idle hands

learning to be devastated


Stolen Midwestern Motel Headboard Painting

air-conditioner stuck on 82
birthday blouse hanging from the,
stolen Midwestern motel headboard painting

window closed now,
interior of a scream
blue streak,
trajectory of an argument
my expressions ruined,
to your violent delight

bedroom purge
skoal circle jeans soaking up,
red walls

your hair flipped from your eyes,
matted dried bubble bath
finger waves, with a wrist of memory,
for everyone of my failures

inhaler impression in my forearm
looking at yourself like you have a bug on you
avoiding the truth in decibels
headless temperature
leaking desperate shut-ups

out of the way superstitions,
kicked pizza box on the floor
flawless emotionally, doomer tarus smolder
tripping on a honeymoon towel
slamming the bathroom door

in there long enough for a blood premise,
my forgiveness is restraint
waiting it out ten cigarettes,
ashtray beer bottle caps
furry ruins the tension through the smoke rings

television getting louder, pixels of pain
pay-per-view porno or the exorcist 2
my beliefs deserve this for wanting someone,
anyone,
a younger body

just an hour ago,
you smelling sport scar seat
legs shaved to tail, siren nails,
pinky toe all the way home
eyes so wild like a David Lee Roth cool Van Halen
sitting in my lap on the bed,
pushing me back
kissing you jealous,
texy-mex swallow the worm
your hair dangling on my chest,
then back hard,
in a tilt-a-whirl of ceiling stares
twisted sheet, waterbed tsunami,
feeling you looser

silent, finally coming out
Jack Daniels barefoot
past the stork beanie baby perched in the door knob
hole in the wall
eyes red, slowly rolling one
temper habits in vain
sashay, "show me your tits" t-shirt,
perfect tattooed stripper strip,
boom box tan,
venereal pulse
assassin laughin’ flippin’ me off

my mood, rumor all over town

with my car keys conscience,
grabbing my wallet full of glamour shots, two dollar
bills, and pass around picture kids

past kitchen table bills

anger looking to avoid irreconcilable differences again
out the front door,
past the American garage angel,
stopping a look back

standing in the yard,
sugar maple helicopter, spinning moonlit down
step aside let it twirl by

fireflies, Star Wars all around me

this is all I have


Vinegar Strokes

young bull,
involved peruse
sterile compressed,
stuffer aggro metabolism

taloned genetics
formaldehyde eyes...
burners

indifferent vectors...
kidney jabs,
big white smiles

circumstance berserker

mag wheels
red station wagon,
empire state lamp, a basketball, and K-mart fans
gasoline lament

three days in a desert motel
dropping bottom,
with two,
crazy daisy, rum and coked fur hand-cuff aeroplane blondes
headhunter menagerie
vinegar strokes,
with the barest of vibe

afters identity, induce DeForce

queer is waiting

—Charlton Metcalf is a poet and songwriter. His most recent works appear in 3 AM, Ache, Identity Theory, Retort Magazine, Jack, Social Alternatives, ShoeString Poetry MagEzine, Get Underground, Thunder Sandwich, Between Kisses, xStream, Saucy Vox, The Eintouist, The Literary Journal, The Unarmed Adventurous Poetry Journal. His poem "Cuba" was published in the book Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction and Poetry by Multicultural Writers. Metcalf is also a musician with the band Lavabloom (www.lavabloom.com, www.charltonsongs.com), and founder of the Red Dragon poetry group.









The Poetry of Maurice Oliver
by Maurice Oliver

The Trouble With Purple

Tangled in kudzu untamable
or maybe sometime later
on a back road out of town
a free soul dances in movements
like a bomb about to explode
under stars blurring every fate
or brushed against a cobalt sky
or along rows of hedges that border
ditches pointing to a consort moon
it turns its back on a purple past
hinged on the word painful then
tongued by a pink never precious
or more likely wondering what if
further along to the gist of it
or on occasion tasting wild desires
like wanting to be free to watch
a chain of lightning that occurs
now and then as electric sparks
that detonate a backdrop of hills
rare to this part of a desolate
& otherwise treeless county


Or Lanterns Gibbet-Hung

Arm tattoos under a ballpark's florescent
glow. Love lacquered in a cold drizzle. A
series of blue stains never annulled. Words
written then italicized. Crushed ice. Singing
floorboards. Beetles on a rain-rusted screen.
The high kingdom of an oak tree. To speak in
tongues. A swag of mistletoe. A forthnight
of escapades. Plums in the grass. Winter
withered in fields. Fingerprints around the
light switch. The sheer distance of the moon.
A hail of scattered rice. Chicken wire for
a cage. Two shared oceans between mouths.
Eating honey with one finger. Rowing at night
on a still lake. Glass display cases of flint
arrowheads. A window view across the lawn.
The first step of a secret passageway. Lost
in palpable silence. And nor is freedom.


Body Grammar, Barking

A house strung up with Christmas lights.

White tongues of incense smoke. Blue veins
at your ankles. Saplings planted on a hillside.
Feather pillows. A box of Milkbones in the
pantry. A muscle showing off. "I barely paid
attention", she says, buttoning up her blouse.
Mini-skirt. Napes of hair. O for pagan angels...

a newspaper on the stoop
a leather-bound stamp collection

Later, in front of the class reading my
essay on the way boy dogs talk French...

hoop earrings
eye-lid studs
We hire a guide to see the waterfall.
A lot of fishing goes on from the bridge.

Twice a week I visit my shrink.
At night, bats return to the belfry.

See Spot run. Here boy.
(now watch the tail wag)


Psyche Paradise (The Original Version)

In California only the
furniture behaves-

& by nightfall anything not bolted
down turns into puppy puke or
flocks of gulls raiding topless
garage cans on the boardwalk where
it takes the authorities two weeks
to figure out where the food is
disappearing to or how crime can
spread its wings & drift like a
cloud floating by or when there's
static on the radio I watch prime
time TV to admire the glint from a
star who toys with the actual noose
knife baseball bat bomb lead pipe
pistol that went pop while she
shelled beans the burglars asked for
virgins because troops must eat all
of which is described in detail until
I've had enough & grab the remote to
pull the plug because I've seen with
my own two eyes that occasionally
there are no birds.


Horse Or Fish In The Carlight

At the time it seemed like a good
place to start, so I thought about
green a lot, like leaves. But the
ones that kept coming to mind lay
in the gutter dry & brittle, from
a life already spent or on a hill
full of crosses. So I tried thinking
of blue, but that only reminded me
of veins visible beneath the skin &
the nails used for the hands & feet
nor big staples. So I tried thinking
of the many shades of gray in a sky.
But all the hues turned out to be
just criminals anyway, or political
prisoners seeking asylum but not
finding one welcome mat. So now I
only think of black lizard boots
in the carlight, as life's grubby
pickpockets brush my thigh.

—After almost a decade of working as a freelance photographer in Europe, Maurice Oliver returned to America in 1990 to work for the Los Angeles Times. Then, in 1995, he made a lifelong dream reality by traveling around the world for eight months. But instead of taking pictures, he used the same acute creative energy to record the experience in a journal, which eventually became dozens of poems. And so began his ambition to be a poet. His poetry has appeared in The Potomac Journal, Circle Magazine, Tryst3 Journal, Eye-Shot, The Surface, One Forty Two Magazine, Holy Ignorance, Bullfight Review, Taint Magazine, Somewhat Magazine, Word Riot, Monkey Kettle, Retort Magazine (Australia), StrideMagazine (UK), Taj Mahal Review (India), online at ink-mag.com, tmpoetry.com, diceybrown.com, deepcleveland.com, writethis.com, readingdivas.com, dash30dash.com, evasion.co.nz (New Zealand), and will appear in the Fall/Winter 2004 issues online at friggmagazine.com, redchinamagazine.com, aestheticamagazine.com, dreamvirus.com, and subtletea.com. He currently resides in Portland, Oregon, where he works as a private tutor.





















p r o s e




[fiction]
A Short Love Story
by Kevin L. Donihe


Henry and Helen stood on a balcony overlooking the fairytale landscape of northern Ohio. He was dressed in dark breeches and a frilly white poet’s shirt. Helen wore the dress worn by Judi Dench in Shakespeare in Love.

He approached her. "Helen, I love you."

When he spoke, his eyes twinkled in a way that Helen had seen only in movies. She swooned, but Henry caught her.

"And I love you," she mouthed, her voice barely a whisper. "So much."

Henry’s body fell away at that moment, revealing Peter.

"Oh, Peter, I love you too."

Peter folded in on himself and was replaced by Arthur.

"Arthur, sweet Arthur I want to ride with you to the castle. I want to sit at your Round Table."

Gregory furrowed his brows. "What castle? What table?"

Helen pressed her finger to his lips. "Ssssh. It matters not."

Martin held her tighter. "You’re right. Nothing matters anymore. Come, let me enfold you in a blanket of desire."

"Martin, you’re a poet!" she paused. "You are Martin, right?"

"No, I’m Mark."

Helen recoiled. "I don’t like Mark."

Mark became Henry seconds before he became Peter.

"Thank you, Henry - I mean Peter."

"No. Thank you."

Charles smiled so widely that his teeth looked like fence posts. He lifted Helen from the balcony. Together, they soared into the night sky.

Looking down, Helen realized the balcony was just a stage prop in a children’s rendition of Romeo and Juliet. Her feet felt light as they soared higher and higher, beyond the stage and into the dank blackness of space. Why space should be dank, she hadn’t a clue.

"Seeing the dark by itself is a fantasy." Charles, who was now Herman, mused as they shot past Jupiter’s many moons. "Seeing the light by itself is a fantasy."

"So I’ve lived in fantasy all my life?"

"Yes, Helen but you’re my fantasy queen."

"And you, Rigaldo, are my fantasy king."

At that moment, they embraced like never before, flesh pressed so firmly together that two entities became one. And, so entwined, they lived forever and ever, happily hermaphroditic in the dank blackness of space.

—Kevin L. Donihe, who calls his contribution an "ultra-short story," has a previously published novel, Shall We Gather at the Garden? (Eraserhead Press, 2001), and another one, co-written with Carlton Mellick III, up for release shortly. His fiction and poetry have been accepted into over 140 venues in ten countries, including The Mammoth Book of Legal Thrillers (Carroll and Graf/Constable and Robinson). He has also edited the Bare Bone anthology series from Raw Dog Screaming Press.








[textploration]
Chains
by Petter Eklov

Spaceships arriving, they came all the way here to change us. Skull what I saw that morning and ginger. They say it´s December now. Fishbones, dustbins, envy, cryptogames and all it´s all. Opened the door to parallell universes. Saw uncle Fred by the stairway. Elegance, sophistication. Anyways, starships are magnificent. You know it´s the bomb. Open the door, open it. Lizard crawling-passing and he knows. Urban blocks, subways, logistics contemporary organization swim just sprawl out throughout it the light is yellowish like neon lemon colored you can go there everything is possible fetch the cucumber fetch the future go up to the attic the beasts are awoken look in the peek hole i dare you. Straight up now tell me is it gonna be me and you forever or are you caught up in the hit and run. You know, it´s easy when you know how. Chainsaw blizzards, veins of dark blue acid. Fitness means efficiency. It´s like, three blow-jobs when you´re in a coma. Little black wings and popcorn floating in the air. Burnt skin, testimonies, revival efficiency. Total wave control. Blue eyes sticky fingers coal mine workers arthritis ladybug computer games CONTROL LOST widescreen tv spastic rage Vienna dopesmokers shadazz morphine sand beach palm trees a cheesy sunset village under the sun memories pompeji rave parties female chinese factory workers assets fame factory capitalism flavour coca-cola plastic acid sugartooth rape volcano vulva candle lit by the alley mercury cave feathery Heather it was that kind of a morning one of those days you know it stenches of gasoline and cactus fruit you probably have a few hundred of those mornings in your life it´s all about how you deal with them i mean you could for instance just scream´n´hide or you could face the facts and like just be a man or whatever just fall apart or jump the hedge eat her out or loosen up. So either you start running like hell or you just be easy and deal with shit. With the new situation with all the stuff you suppressed to get where you are. B-cuz Angie says herring is good for your complexion and Fred takes walks around town every sunday evening. Pavement and concrete, that´s what it´s about. Roots and determination. Sizzling dungeons moving pictures lost highways jelly beans denim jeans a cushion and a snake lofty concrete buildings awesome waves camels and truck drivers waves and more waves, of various shapes, surfer´s paradise, holiday inn, and all that. Seriously, when Sandra laughs it´s hard to stay focused. She laughs rather than giggles and when I first heard her laugh I didn´t know what to do with myself. She came all the way from Amsterdam to work as a taxi driver here in Helsinki. She knew four languages, liked to smoke and go shopping in the weekends (and sometimes after work too). She said she got fed up with Amsterdam and a friend told her about this job in this town for a taxi company and

—Petter Eklov left no trace about himself in submitting the above other than the links, www.frip.dk/pettereklov/chains.html and www.oakleaf.tk.










[fliction]
Class of '88 Reunion
by Savannah Schroll


See that guy? Standing over there, holding the plastic cup of warm beer. He's a used car salesman from Union, New Jersey now. He dyes his hair black, and fixes it with Magic Move hair pomade. See that curl? No accident of the comb. That's the result of nearly a half hour of pelt primping. He, of course, denies that he dyes his hair, but a drain doesn't lie.

Some nights, before going out, he enhances his crotch-contour with football socks. In fact, he even has a 'lucky' sock. It's never been washed, and he believes that it helps get him laid. What a time he has, slipping it out before the hands get there, seeking, feeling first the spongy plush of that sock and then what they're really getting-- false advertising, that. But that's a game he's used to playing.

A year after high school, he sold me a bright yellow '72 Challenger. He said some grandma owned it, drove it back and forth to the store. That's why the mileage was so low, and why it had those three "barely worth mentioning" dents. Imagine I believed that--an old lady bringing her prune juice and All-bran home in a Challenger. But I guess I thought it was a son's, a grandson's, someone who'd gone to prison and left it with her. Later I found out, he had cracked the dash casing and dialed the mileage back. The frame was bent.

He hasn't seen me yet. Let's go say 'hi.'

—Savannah Schroll is the first contributor to take up Spreadhead collective's "fliction" challenge -- short fiction in a flash of 250 words. She is author of the The Famous & The Anonymous: The Deep & Darkly Secret, now out from Better Non Sequitur. She was previously published online by Eyeshot.net and Hobart and in print magazines Phase, Modernism/Modernity, and The European Journal of Cultural Studies. Find more of her world at www.malaproductions.com.