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Stages
By
Josh K.
Stevens, Nov 2, 2006
I don’t even know whose funeral I’m attending.
My mind is fried. I don’t know what the hell I did last
night, but I can say definitively that it involved alcohol
of some sort. I couldn’t even find my car this morning.
On the upside, the walk didn’t take me that long and I
needed the exercise. I was hoping that my headache would’ve went away, but it only subsided to a dull
throbbing. Pair that with the excruciating ache in my
neck and I feel awful. I just gotta get through today. I
get the feeling it’s gonna be a long one.
I see the sign for the funeral home. I stop and look at
the red brick building before me. It brings back a flood of memories. My
grandfather’s viewing was at this same place. So was my
great-grandfather’s. I wish I could recall who was being buried... (more) |
Ghost Kids
By
Andrew Davis,
Nov 10, 2006
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A Review of Haddon's The Curious Incident of
the Dog in the Night-time (2003)
By
Jason Jordan,
Dec 27, 2006
Christopher Boone – the main character and narrator of The Curious
Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Vintage, 2003) – has Asperger’s
syndrome, which is a form of autism. As a result, Christopher lacks in
social skills but makes up for that particular deficiency by excelling in
mathematics. And because I am lazy, here’s the back-of-the-book summary:
“Christopher John Francis Boone knows all the countries of the world and
their capitals and every prime number up to 7,057. He relates well to
animals but has no understanding of human emotions. He cannot stand to be
touched. And he detests the color yellow.”
The premise, however, focuses specifically on the death of a neighborhood
dog... (more)
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Rewriting our novel, word by word
By
Jim H Duncan, Nov 5, 2006
I wake up confused
and lost now
so often, and I
wonder
if I talk in my
sleep
I didn’t used to
but I am so
different
when I wake up now
vivid, harrowed
I am in the middle
of it
tied down to some
weight
when I wake, I
wonder
and my heart
coughs blood
I will reach for
my glass
I will reach
across the maw
of bed and box to
the thin glass
pen and paper
reside beneath
and try, try to
get it out
remembering a poem
from last night
as I fell asleep
it died
and I spend
mornings in the ER
bringing the
walking dead into a new day
I let them die
I never give them
a chance
this was a good
one too, now muted
something about
windows
and how you
of all people
see only me
I think hard
but it is pale
morning again
sickly and white
always
another day to
walk with thunder
in my chest
and words leaving
my lips
I wonder what to
say to you
Jim H Duncan is a
New York native who currently lives
on the road, somewhere between
New York City and
San Francisco.
His works have been published in Void Magazine and The
Culture Star Reader. See more of his work at his
website.
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Stealing The Wedding
Dress
By
Alison Eastley, Oct 15, 2006
It could have been shiny white
or opalescent cream, nipped in at the waist
or loose with a sash and a trail
softly folded, stored in a cardboard box
and left in the shed behind the garage.
It could have been kept next to musty
magazines
and schoolgirl journals
with every word underlined in manic red
ink.
The police could have knocked on doors
without laughing
when asking for information
about disappearing
bridal wear that hadn't been wrapped in
acid
free paper. The Wedding Dress
would have be eaten by vermin and shat
on by moths. The police didn't question why
the
biggest day some bride's life was stored
with rusty screws and bent nails
in a toolbox full of dust.
Alison Eastley lives in Australia and has been published in
Thieves Jargon, The Absinthe Literary
Review, Apostrophe, Stylus Poetry Journal, Black Mail Press, and
Lily.
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Devoured in One Bite
By
Misti Rainwater-Lites, Oct 7, 2006
you told
me i could fly
you lied
plying me with those goddamn bows
and make-up kits
you told me i was an angel
a fairy
you made me believe
i had glittery wings
that would take me over
the provincial rooftops
to places you dreamed of
while listening to Lesley Gore and Rick Nelson
you made me sleep in big wire rollers
you put your lipstick
on my baby lips
you told me i was Snow White
Elizabeth Taylor
Vivien Leigh
the other girls wouldn’t play with me
you told me they were jealous
the boys wouldn’t kiss me
you told me they were intimidated
someday i’d be a star
and they would all be sorry
you made me believe
in the bedtime stories
you told me all it takes to be royalty
is a pretty smile
and the golden rule
you taught me that i would always
be taken care of
i would never have to fend for myself
i was the world’s walking talking baby doll
i wish that you had told me i was ugly
and slow and had a long way to go
because that was much closer
to the truth
you should have taught me how to fight
how to stand my piece of ground
and not apologize
you should have taught me how much
the world despises mute misfits
you should have given me a sword
a basketball
any kind of gun
goddamn you, mother
you sent me into the forest
with a picnic lunch
you sent me pasty and tiny and useless
into the slobbering world
a perfect vanilla cupcake
a snack so easily snatched
and devoured
in one bite
Misti Rainwater-Lites
is a poet, collage artist and the editor and publisher of a monthly print
poetry zine called
Instant Pussy. She has published one novel and four collections of
her poetry at lulu.com. |
