Issue #11.1 Two Poems by Craig Brandis
Body Retrieval
The girl’s body is stuck under a ledge at the bottom of a plunge pool where the river spins like a mad cyclone bent on boring to the earth’s center. His only tool, a long pole, it takes him a full day to get to her, tie the retrieval ropes and lever her out. Quiet as eels, people stand and watch. He brings her up, lays her on a sandbar. At the parking lot, people try to offer him money. He drives home. Bone-deep headache. In rough sleep he sees the frozen knobs of her hands. The outhouse at his church youth camp. Through the chink, a yolk of light, then nothing. His parent’s farm. A Berkshire hog with bloodshot eyes in a field of stumps. Butchering day. Long skein of intestines. Head with hairy nostrils set aside for cheese. Steady drip of blood. Dogs baying for scraps. Marsh lights in the summer darkness.
***
How Life After Returning Home Makes You Up
Like bears swatting at fish, kids outside hit tennis balls against your western wall. Soon you are a swimming pool built in memory of fallen soldiers. Decent clouds come and go. You let teenagers slip into your mercury-blue water to fan and flex. Lifeguards with boat rope shoulders. Think of hair burning, that scorched boot smell in the seconds before skin knows what happens next.
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Craig Brandis lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon. His poems and reviews have been published in Oxford Magazine, Palette Poetry, Parhelion, Trampoline, American Journal of Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Plume and elsewhere. His work was long-listed for the 2021 Frontier OPEN prize and long-listed for the 2020 Palette Poetry Emerging Poet prize, selected by Ilya Kaminsky. He is a 2021 Sewanee Writers Conference Participant and a 2019 Breadloaf Writers Conference Participant. He is a volunteer teacher and has developed a short course for teaching fourth and fifth grade children online, along with an interested parent, about poetry and how to write it. More at www.craigbrandis.com.
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Issue #11.2 Five Poems by Elise Houcek
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Elise Houcek is a writer, artist, and recent graduate of the MFA program at the University of Notre Dame. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in NOMATERIALISM, New Delta Review, The Comstock Review, DIAGRAM, Prelude, Posit, Afternoon Visitor, Always Crashing and other journals. Her poetic novel, TRACTATUS, is now available from Spuyten Duyvil. Find her at elisehoucek.com.
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Issue #11.3 Eight Poems by Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle
N+0 (Original)
Bunny Liked My Tweet
“The verses of the understudy In the play, Red Claw the Pirate.” *
I don’t need to be told to hang up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That man was a lion.” Mr. Fist wants to whisper in your ear.
* (Raymond Roussel)
_____
N+1
Buoy Liked My Tweet
“The versions of the undertaker In the play, Red Clay the Pirouette.” *
I don’t need to be told to hangar up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That manacle was a lioness.” Mr. Fistful wants to whistle in your eardrum.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+2
Burble Liked My Tweet
“The vertebras of the undertaking In the play, Red Clean the Piss.” *
I don’t need to be told to hanger up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That management was a lip.” Mr. Fit wants to whiteout in your earl.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+3
Burden Liked My Tweet
“The vertebrates of the undertone In the play, Red Cleaner the Pistol.” *
I don’t need to be told to hanger-on up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That manager was a lipstick.” Mr. Fitment wants to whitewash in your earldom.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+4
Bureau Liked My Tweet
“The vessels of the undertow In the play, Red Cleaning the Piston.” *
I don’t need to be told to hang-glider up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That manageress was a liqueur.” Mr. Fitness wants to whittle in your earlobe.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+5
Bureaucracy Liked My Tweet
“The vests of the undesirable In the play, Red Cleanser the Pit.” *
I don’t need to be told to hanging up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That mandarin was a liquid.” Mr. Fitter wants to whizz in your earmark.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+6
Bureaucrat Liked My Tweet
“The vestibules of the undress In the play, Red Clearance the Pitch.” *
I don’t need to be told to hangman up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That mandate was a liquidator.” Mr. Fitting wants to whizz-kid in your earner.
* (Raymond Roussel)
N+7
Burgeon Liked My Tweet
“The vestiges of the unemployment In the play, Red Clearing the Pitcher.” *
I don’t need to be told to hangout up Once I’ve finished calling. What
Would you like on your resumé? Computerneuternerdism. Or
“That mandible was a liquidizer.” Mr. Fiver wants to whodunit in your earnings.
* (Raymond Roussel)
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Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle: 1 original poem, N+0, Bunny Liked My Tweet — plus 6 versions generated by algorithm (subsequent alphabetical noun or verb).
I am reading Topekan Ethos, poems by Ben Lerner (# 100 from an edition of 100). I’m reading The Suspended Vocation by Pierre Klossowski, a book about an imaginary book, supposed to have been published in an edition of 100.
The 50 literary journals in which I’ve published are listed with my work in Trampoline #2.1. As Visiting Curator for Fence, Volume 35 featured 4 of my poems. And I recently collaborated with my twin brother, Jay, on our radio thriller, Ick-A-Body, at Cape Noir. https://womr.org/podcast/ick-a-body/ (Just click. You may ignore “Subscribe.”)
My film credits include Tremors (Universal Studios), Finding Forrester, directed by Gus Van Sant, and Our City Dreams, interviews with Marina Abramovic and Kiki Smith, directed by Chiara Clemente.
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Issue #11.4 A Poem by Utahna Faith
My Unclothed Girlfriend
My unclothed girlfriend was frequently alluring, to me and to others. A longstanding staple in her arsenal was being nude. At the Country Club, at a party, in the bathroom at an art opening, on the balcony of an ex-boyfriend’s French Quarter apartment during brunch. Just naked. Focusing her power where she felt it, depicting an impossible ideal. I have even seen her let curious men inspect her erotic personal momentary depictions, living sculptures showcasing the female without the slightest chance of desultory scorn.
Random mouths seed the New South, the Dirty Coast, but we live it. Her power, dominant at times, balances mine. We overcome.
Narrative characters no longer matter. Artists who fill their work with nothing or with terror, bow to her.
Birds follow us, one morning, focusing on a slanted resolution that human beings can never follow. Add your own symbols for specificity, they chirp.
We watch them as though we are holding them aloft.
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Utahna Faith’s writing appears in The New Orleans Review, 3:AM Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, the anthology Flash Fiction Forward, and elsewhere. She divides her time between rural Southern Indiana and her favorite city in the world, New Orleans. Utahna is editor of the new online literary journal Land Luck Review.
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Issue #11.5 A Poem by Paul Ilechko
Sonnet For an Abandoned Building
Darkness elliptical darkness pure wet from the roots darkness cellar-bound in crumbling stones of ash and moss the doors are locked but the walls are missing there are diamonds trapped in coal dust while horses stand quietly in a corner of the field occasionally flicking with their tails they stay away from broken glass their warm tongues and nuzzling muzzles taking sugar from a young girl’s hand my tongue spills darkness and I call it poetry I call it birdsong my head now spinning as I slide through the place that used to be a wall no shoes on my feet slicing open flesh with diamonds or glass adding to the earth’s moisture.
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Poet and songwriter Paul Ilechko lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. He is the author of several chapbooks. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Feral Journal, K’in, Gargoyle Magazine, and Book of Matches. His first album, "Meeting Points", was released in 2021.
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Issue #11.6 A Poem by Michael Borth
DO YOU DO GLASS?
I had to tell a methhead the sun was bigger than the earth. What? But the earth is so massive. I know. I know. It’s hard to believe. How can that be? I don’t know. I haven’t done the research myself. But that’s what I hear. Wow. I know. And not just a little bit bigger not a golfball and a grapefruit but a pupil and a mansion.
She asked me if I did glass. I didn’t, but it seemed like a good night to start. We smoked weed instead, by her open window, in the night of the city wind through the fire escape. She said I was such a stoner but I wasn’t that either. We kissed until we were both tired. I slept on the couch and she on the bed in the studio apartment on the Upper West Side. We lay and stared at a common ceiling and I conveyed the fact I had learned but I no longer believe myself. I am only a receiver and a transmitter. I am only an impoverished repeater. Now I believe I am that which hears of the earth and the sun and hears the earth is smaller than the sun and I say the earth is smaller than the sun to a woman who asked Do you do glass?
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Michael Borth is a writer from the Hudson Valley. His work has appeared in Fence, New World Writing, SPECTRA, Forever Mag, SELFFUCK, Expat Press, Cordite Poetry Review, Carrier Pigeon, and The Write Launch.
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Issue #11.7 Two Poems by Zebulon Huset
Arboreal Seer
The tree clutched a colossal lantern— smoke swelled over the wet wick which, from the road, seemed certainly sinister. Across the field, the silhouettes of three boys watched the wooden box that once— so recently—had been their treehouse. The tree limbs wrapped out around the sharp edges—so human—nailed into its flesh. As I watched that necromantic oak puzzle over its flaming orb of divination one boy peeled off and left the field. Slowly, another followed suit, leaving only one boy still spellbound by that box of fire blistering above the dry, wide field, and me watching the boy and the flames, trying to divine the fire’s birth—either its purpose, it’s worth, or worse, the gravity of its destruction. Had I an easel I’d have proceeded immediately but a camera phone photo would be paltry. An underwater sand painting, an insulting facsimile— something like a weak, ineffectual, false simile that’s merely a piling on of interpretation destined to miss its mark. See, the map can’t be the territory. See: in a wild field, an oak tree, which is its own stand bears a flaming treehouse. One boy remains.
***
Somnambulation
The bonfire draped in uniforms was an effigy of high school on graduation night.
Over-medicated to help us focus, over-medicating so we can let loose.
Sleepwalking the modus operandi without legal volition for ourselves until now, in the waning days of our second decade choosing to breathe or not,
choosing to continue to give enough of a fuck not to freak out and shuffle the deck—
to not go apeshit and eschew societal constraints when the richest man’s throat is oh so tender and within reach of teeth.
Some of us would transition to adulthood like superstars, others—not.
Around the fire with bare feet we took turns with six-siders in our hands, unsure what number corresponded to what fate—just knowing
that the dice had to be cast.
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Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Trampoline, Texas Review, Meridian, The Southern Review, Fence and many others. He publishes the prompt blog Notebooking Daily, and edits the journals Coastal Shelf and Sparked.
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Issue #11.8 A Poem by JJ Rowan
is your tree stressed?
little growth shows signs of stunting, the tree never satisfying its thirst. perhaps your tree has a stressor,
inviting counterproduction. sit under the tree to evaluate its air: are you short of breath? are you wincing?
send you into the ground to investigate. this is a trick: once you’re in the ground you won’t know how to get
anywhere else. root systems — less map, more conduit — are not built of clear direction and don’t care much
for words. you could attempt to go up. what’s visible from the ground doesn’t look the same from a height.
pour yourself a drink and get to ascending, make yourself young with climbing. that one time your monster
got stuck in a tree deep in the woods to have his photo snapped atop a burl, you thought how long will this tree
be able to hold him if i start to run?
on the other side of the country you were the one in the trees, never stuck. the snakes left you alone,
he is not called snake. a photo of a monster stuck on a burl. the snakes left you alone. you froze in the deep woods
where everything was so large. you froze in the middle room where you were so small. it isn’t important
which of these came first.
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JJ Rowan (they/them) is a queer nonbinary poet and dancer. Their poems, hybrid work, and VisPo have appeared in Phoebe, the Hunger, Dream Pop Journal, and others. Their collaborative sonnets with Nate Logan were published in the chapbook mcmxciv. (Shirt Pocket Press). Their chapbook, a simple verb, is available from Bloof Books. You can see them appreciating trees on Instagram (@stepswritely) or sign up for their periodic newsletter at www.jayjayrowan.com.
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Issue #11.9 A Poem by Susan Johnson
Like Bruises
A man collapses then stands back up
covered with leaves. Dried bits stick
to his face and shoes. He can’t wipe
them away. So he carries them with him,
like bruises. Like filaments of death—
accumulating, incremental. A life stained
and better for it. Evidence of venturing,
of stumbling, laces frayed and knotted.
Will they hold? These cells we hook
together? The past brings up bones
we just bury again. Small cracks in
the cemetery provide breathing room
for those who can’t breathe, ellipses
for the dead who have more to do.
While no one’s looking. But someone
is always looking. We watch each other,
we creatures of growth and decay.
Here I come, says the man, barreling
passed. Into and out of the past. What’s
outside wants in and what’s in wants out.
So few things remain themselves, just
themselves. The man rubs a head stone
hoping the name engraved might speak
out, recount its adventures, a life hollowed
out like a tree. A scurf of skin worn from
such labors. We prefer maples spalted,
veined with fungus, a network of rot,
of art. We prefer death close, but not
too close. The man pulls at the gnarled
fingers of trees with his own gnarled
fingers, roots crooked and cramped,
our ancestors reaching up. How easily
their limbs snap off. How thin the line
between. There’s no going back, the man
thinks, no returns even if we keep the receipt.
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Susan Johnson received her MFA and PhD from the University of Massachusetts Amherst where she teaches writing. Poems of hers have recently appeared in Rhino, Into The Void, Trampoline, Steam Ticket, Front Range Review, and SLAB. She lives in South Hadley MA.
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Issue #11.10 A Poem by James H Duncan
A Splinter
my used copy of Harvest Poems 1910 - 1960 by Carl Sandburg has the inscription: “purchased in Connemara (Ireland) 1996 where goats-milk fudge was being sold,” and on page 82 there’s a newspaper clipping from The Fayetteville Times about a ceremony in Flat Rock celebrating Carl’s body of work, a clipping yellowed by time and the sun, held flat against a poem reading, “The voice of the last cricket / across the first frost / is one kind of good-bye / It is so thin a splinter of singing”—a finer poem I have never written, or read for that matter, and that is why I advise you to never buy books new, for all the treasure you might leave behind
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James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Vacancy, Beyond the Wounded Horizon, and We Are All Terminal But This Exit Is Mine, among other books of poetry and fiction. He resides in upstate New York and writes reviews of independent bookstores for his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more info, visit www.jameshduncan.com.
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