Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
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Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems
Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems
Tee Iseminger
Construction
& other poems
Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems
Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems
Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems
Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems
Daniel Stewart
January
& other poems
John Glowney
Cigarettes
& other poems
Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems
Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems
Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems
David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems
Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems
Rande Mack
rat
& other poems
J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems
Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems
James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems
Kelsey Charles
Autobiography
& other poems
Therese L. Broderick
Polly
& other poems
Lane Falcon
Touch
& other poems
Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems
Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems
David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems
Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems
Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems
Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems
David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems
Helen R. Peterson
Ablaut
& other poems
Eternity is a very long time or a very short time
Perched between
a stone bear
& bull on
this common winter lunchtime
Below
me men
& women swim up
Sutter Street
These ones will die
so their spawn had better take
Lather rinse repeat
I am joined here by six
or seven others . . . cormorants drying our wings before
setting out over
the sea stretching before
us each
A short-cropped gray-haired citizen bends over
the Sporting Green like a pathologist deducing what led to
the swoon this June that killed the Giant’s chances
Below me is a man
or the facsimile of
one lying athwart
a step whose feet long ago forgot the inside of
a pair of
but whose mad mats of
hair offer a pillow for
his head
& so on
In
this moment I would like to believe in
many things including how well the cold sun shines off
my white shirt
& my tightly tied shoes
& my clean-shaven face
Q: Who am I kidding?
A: ________________.
Two years back now
& I still wonder which country is overseas
Nothing is as it should be
I can hardly breathe
because of too much oxygen in
the air
or nitrogen
or something else
Nothing feels right nothing looks right nothing sounds right
It’s all been switched around
Mirrors hang backwards forcing me read my face right to
left
Clean sheets are sandpaper against
my skin
so I sleep
w/out
Those 2:00 am vigils stretch ’til
dawn
as I listen for
movements of
any soul enemy
or friend
But then the man looks up from
his newspaper
& swivels his head
as do all the other guys
& so on even the drifter
which could only mean one thing
so I monkey the men
& my eyes fill
w/a billowy blue skirt
& olive-skin legs
& a fury of
red hair
A woman walking westward t r a v e l l i n g s l o w m o t i o n
though not like on
TV
but deliberate motion instead
Fluid graceful
& strong all shoulders
& hips propelling her body forward
even as she sustains herself in
place in
time in
mind each movement telegraphing her intent to
the earth
so the planet may shift
& so benefit from
the blessings of
each
fall
of
each
foot
There is also this blond @
her side a woman
w/the kind of
looks that were she to walk into
a bar alone she’d just cold-stop all talk on
the spot
but today hers is a mere rivulet of
prettiness swept away by
the flood of
beauty flowing from
the woman in
blue
I start moving from
my position
& when I reach street level
her eyes lock onto
mine
& mine to
hers
It’s this instantaneous thing electric + mutual + raw
Then the blond says something that makes her laugh
She laughs
& laughs
& laughs
& as she laughs she folds @
the waist then upright like a fountain of
water then she folds again
as the mirthful hem of
her skirt bounces @
her knees
& her breasts sway under
the fall of
the fabric of
her blouse
She laughs like today is the only day
She passes on by
as I watch her backside retreat like a beacon inviting
& denying me an ember growing small
& cold.
Ing
What a popsicle-sucking fan-waving shade-hogging hog-hauling arse-ogling tongue-parching donkey-stopping feet-perspirating cheese-racing Sata/n-sitting fig-gnawing grape-seed-sucking cigar-chomping chad-hanging milk-carton-reading iceberg-melting answer-machining little-girl-fondling nail-biting carpet-bombing Hitler-longing cuck-olding Lord’s-name-in-vane-taking totally-tripping brown-nosing pencil-nibbling knee-jerking water-wasting loose-tooth-wiggling whore-whispering autoerotic-asphyxiating chain-smoking blister-peeling chin-chinning social-networking mother-stabbing father-fearing tumor-palpating granma-fleecing gas-lighting Berlin-lifting baby-dangling water-boarding Treasury-raiding pressure-cooking turkey-plucking love-handle-grabbing cleavage-leering hem-pulling leaf-blowing pig-sticking scrotum-scalding nipple-twisting beluga-bludgeoning harp seal-strumming level-heading nasal-excavating global-weirding needle-pointing nit-picking likker-slurping tea-partying craptastic-poetry-generating slow-dancing three-times-heel-tapping dog-snatching cat-scratching snatch-dogging hardly loafing time.
The sea is always the color of your last lost love’s eyes
I spot San Diego wedged into
the lower left-hand corner like a secret
as the remaining nation fans north
& east
I am told my main problem is never remembering clichés
& the sea is always the color of
your last lost love’s eyes
That’s why I occupy these dunes above
the beach
as the sun above bakes my back each morning
& the crown of
my head by
noon before
finally blinding me @
the blue end of
day
I spend the final afternoon peeling layers away to nothing
but desire for
the astringent sea
I sprint across
the beach
& dive into
the face of
a towering wave
& rise to
the surface beyond
the breakers where an otter bobs in
a hidden kelp forest the
to crest
I join in up then
as each new swell draws us down
the
After an hour other
it gets cold side
so I ride the surf into
shore bathing in
forces beyond
ken
& control
Sand up
my nose
Water in
my mouth
Astonished
& alive
The final colors dribble down
the sky
covering for
the night
that steals light from
the undone day
A promise never made
I shake off the sea
& cross the beach to
a pier where I pass a burly black man who wears snow gear in
summer
& plays space music on
his synthesizer
w/a sign that says Jesus Is A Fisher of
Men
& there’s also this Vietnamese guy casting
& casting his bait upon
the waters
& a pair of
lovers loving one another against
the wooden railing
w/half-empty soda cans dangling from
their still-free hands
The further out I go the fewer people I meet
until it’s just me
& the slivered silver moon hanging
like an open palm just beyond my reach
Jesus had it easy he wasn’t fishing for
the moon.
David Livingstone Fore
is a designer and writer living in Oakland.