Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
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Debbra Palmer
Bake Sale
& other poems
Ann V. DeVilbiss
Far Away, Like a Mirror
& other poems
Michael Fleming
On the Bus
& other poems
Harold Schumacher
Dying To Say It
& other poems
Heather Erin Herbert
Georgia’s Advent
& other poems
Sharron Singleton
Sonnet for Small Rip-Rap
& other poems
Bryce Emley
College Beer
& other poems
Harry Bauld
On a Napkin
& other poems
George Mathon
Do You See Me Waving?
& other poems
Mariana Weisler
Soft Soap and Wishful Thinking
& other poems
Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
& other poems
Jill Murphy
Migration
& other poems
Cassandra Sanborn
Remnants
& other poems
Kendall Grant
Winter Love Note
& other poems
Donna French McArdle
White Blossoms at Night
& other poems
Tom Freeman
On Foot, Joliet, Illinois
& other poems
George Longenecker
Nest
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems
Rebecca Irene
Woodpecker
& other poems
Savannah Grant
And Not As Shame
& other poems
Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Titian Left No Paper Trail
& other poems
Martin Conte
We’re Not There
& other poems
A. Sgroi
Sore Soles
& other poems
Miguel Coronado
Body-Poem
& other poems
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
& other poems
Rachel A. Girty
Collapse
& other poems
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems
Margie Curcio
Gravity
& other poems
Stephanie L. Harper
Painted Chickens
& other poems
Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
& other poems
Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
& other poems
Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
& other poems
Tania Brown
On Weeknights
& other poems
James Ph. Kotsybar
Unmeasured
& other poems
Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
We resuscitated music,
we rescued it from the icy grip of the cosmos.
It was stillborn, from a cloud of dust in a silent vacuum.
We refined the ancient sequence
of building tension to create resolve.
We defined the colors, the math, the geometry of sound.
Now music is our only language without lies.
Now we’re all playing different parts
of the same song, in which countless beats
of countless hearts provide the rhythm.
Now music is our ghost dance, our communion, a sanctuary
in which we’re all kneeling to kiss the ground,
a temple in which we’re all praying for a miracle.
Music is our echolocation—
a ping bouncing around in the dark,
singing, “I’m here, can you hear me?”
Music penetrates armor
and holds a light up to each and every face,
looking for something honest, something real.
Music makes order out of chaos, makes us feel like
we’re not just spinning around a star,
that’s spinning around a star, that’s spinning around a star.
Music helps us trust our ignorance
as much as our instincts.
Music prepares us for love and loss thereof.
Music aligns us with empathy and gratitude
and defines the lives and times of the human experience.
Music is the human soul thinking out loud.
The Future for the Present
We traded the warm Earth
beneath our feet
for designer shoes
on linoleum
fashioned to appear
as natural as stone.
We traded the old growth forest
for posters of athletes and pop stars,
for catalogs and celebrity magazines,
for tables and desks on which to write
checks with which to pay bills.
We traded the benevolent shade
for a well-placed arbor,
the dense undergrowth
for perfectly manicured lawns.
We traded a spring-fed stream
for a stagnant cow-pond,
naps on the riverbanks
for sleeping pills,
a seashell for a cellphone
a library for a TV guide,
a full moon dance
for a fitness center,
candlelight for a lump of coal,
a stable of thoroughbreds
for a barrel of oil,
a ceremony for a simulation.
We traded the winding trail
for the static grid,
a thunderstorm for acid rain,
fresh air for smokestacks
runways and boxcars.
We traded a conversation
for a keypad,
a sunset for a soap opera,
an orchard for a house plant.
We traded wild buffalo
for happy meals,
an ear of corn
for a laboratory,
a corner store
for a corporation.
We traded a hallelujah
and a hug,
for a website and a blog,
rituals for garage door openers,
a community for a computer,
skin for plastic,
landscapes for landfills,
handshakes for handguns,
stars for streetlights,
pyramids and kivas
for office buildings
and strip-malls,
a vision quest
for a universal
remote control.
We traded smooth curvatures
for right angles,
circles for squares,
spheres for boxes,
fenceless horizons
for corners and borders
dollars and flags.
Guess Who?
(an exercise in lateral thinking)
to my mother I am son
to my father I am hijo
to racist hillbillies of the Midwest
I am wetback, spic, and beaner
to cholos at Armijo I am gringo
to officials at the State Department
I need proof of citizenship
to la gente de México I am güero
in the Southwest I am coyote
at the university I am Latino,
Mexican-American and Chicano
to the Census Bureau I am Hispanic
or “more than one heritage”
to mis abuelos I am mezclado
to those who hear me speak Spanish
I must be Argentino or Español
because of light skin and green eyes
because of maternal Bohemian ancestry
I muse as being Czex-Mex, Czexican, or Czecano
I could be the United States of existence
I could be America
I could be your neighbor
your boss, your teacher, your student
I could mow your lawn,
cook your food
I could be you
Maelstrom—
(or: The tiny, impending, commercial, homogenous, laughable ceremony)
I have known the inelegant madness of cubicles,
plastic cells in a sterile hive, maelstrom of time cards,
every tiny crisis surrounding copy machines and swivel chairs,
the impending dread that lurks in break rooms
and on sidewalks during the last drag of a smoke.
I have known commercial wallpaper,
packets of sweetener, the demands of staplers,
the homogenous ridicule of fluorescent lighting,
laughable music of printer, keyboard and mouse,
the ceremony of hands, the black and white oppression of clocks.
And each day I have witnessed expressions,
faces settled by routine, dripping histrionic courtesies,
controlled, tedious, hungry faces evaporating into landscapes,
disavowed through rush-hour traffic and prime-time TV,
mechanical, compartmentalized, alien faces
detached from their owners.
Bad Poetry
(an experiment with cliché)
by weighing the hidden meanings of red
interlaced in clouds at dusk
and the fresh wound,
and by reading skin,
icicles, stones, thorns, and feathers
like love letters etched in braille
I have tried to align my senses
with the merciless concept of perfection
perhaps even to pursue the rose,
or the crimson moon,
or just discover an untainted expression,
because not even bad poetry writes itself
Ryan Flores
is a writer, musician, producer, and designer from the California Bay Area. He lives in Colorado and has a degree in Spanish literature from the University of Colorado. Flores is the founder of the independent record label Heart Shaped Records and is in several bands, including Moonhoney, Ondas, Leopard and the Vine, and Love Water. He is currently working on a novel and his favorite fruit is the mango.