Windsor

Robert Carr


With
fingers spread wide a bonny boy

walks
the country fair.  His hands turn out

to
catch the smells, to see through palms,

to
taste with the white space beneath

his
little nails.  He touches everything –

the
flat nosed pigs rutting in a white-washed stall,  

the
draft horse muscle steam, the cow flows

of
milk and piss – the animals rise to meet him,

through
damp skinned pits they stumble knobby kneed.


Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, a chapbook published in 2016 by
Indolent Books. His poems are published in Radius Journal, Pretty Owl
Poetry, White Stag Journal, The Pickled Body, The Good Men Project, Dark
Matter Journal, Canary Literary Magazine, and numerous other
publications. His published work can be found at robertcarr.org

Poppies

Robert Carr

I think
they’re supposed to be
opium
poppies

but the
abstract art in Dermatology
looks
like an angry cluster

of
pimples. I’ve stopped picking
the basal
cells beneath

my
wide-rimmed garden hat, the long
white
sleeves of my shirt.

There’s a
little boy with mom
and a bad
sunburn beside me.

He’s
playing with a rubber shark
that
swallows his pinky finger.

I’m
watching his tiny digits walk
across
the cushion toward – What

do you
think they’ll remove today?
The
poppies blister in anticipation.


Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, a chapbook published in 2016 by
Indolent Books. His poems are published in Radius Journal, Pretty Owl
Poetry, White Stag Journal, The Pickled Body, The Good Men Project, Dark
Matter Journal, Canary Literary Magazine, and numerous other
publications. His published work can be found at robertcarr.org

image

– Nicholas B. Adell

I found one of your ribbons on the floor
tonight—
a pastel, faded purple.
It reminded me of your hair—
violent strands swaying in autumn air.

Don’t open the door Delores,
I liked you the way you were.


 
Nicholas B. Adell is an attorney in Chicago.

Rescue – Laura Kiselevach After twenty years of working as a visual designer and photo stylist for such clients as Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY, and The New York Times, Laura Kiselevach decided to pursue her passion for photography. Using only her well trained eye and a smart phone camera, she captures both the grandeur…

Read More (Untitled)

The Unsure Girl

Mitchell Duran

This
hasn’t happened yet.

That doesn’t mean that this this
may happen, because it may or may not. What may occur could be a number of
things and the events that have yet to occur all concern the Unsure Girl. Some
say that it’s not about the Unsure Girl, it’s about him or some say that it’s
never been about him, it’s always been about her. Some say it’s actually never
been about either of them; it’s just about love in life.

The Unsure Girl goes back to school
to really focus on that MFA and leaves him or she goes back to school and
doesn’t leave him or she goes back to school staying with him but moving out or
she stays with him but gets rid of their cat. College is a lily pad of farces
anyway. A few say the Unsure Girl left him because he didn’t ask her to marry
him fast enough or she left him because he didn’t have any passion or she’s not
one hundred percent sure if they’ll ever be on the same page, a very natural
reaction to have in your late twenties. We’re the only generation that believes
we should start at the top and stay there. The Unsure Girl can’t help but ask
herself every morning and every night the same question: is he the one? Or she
wants the security of a household, or the label of a wife, or a conflict free
diamond ring. Or she just doesn’t love him anymore. The Unsure Girl is not
sure.

A handful say the Unsure Girl
starts biking to school to get a tighter core and is hit by a car. By then, she
has re-discovered that she is in fact gay, something she assumed in her youth was
a phase. Or, she’s bi. After the surgeries of her pelvis, her femur, her
tailbone, her ankles, her big toe, her cuboid, her phalanges, she goes viral,
becoming a spokesperson for The United Cyclists fighting for the rights of all
cyclists, no matter gender, religion, or sexual orientation. A handful say why
should she be in United Cyclists if she can’t even ride a bike anymore? Though
– and this may be true or it may not be – a handful say she never rode again
and found herself only able to think of him as she laid on the bubbling hot
pavement after being struck by the car, her last wish being, if it were in fact
that, to tell him she doesn’t know how to say sorry for taking three years of
his life, leaving him with nothing but himself again. But even then, the Unsure
Girl was unsure whether she would even be able to do that. The only thing the
Unsure Girl was certain about as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance,
was that eventually, she would have to be ok with not being sure about
anything.


Mitchell Duran is a freelance writer living in San Francisco. His work
has been seen in the Turks Head Review, Penumbra Magazine, Riverlit.
He’s currently attending a short story workshop at The Writers Grotto.

image

Parched At The Wellspring

Bruce McRae

I’m looking for a door or a
perfect sentence,

for a button dropped, a rose in
the loam,

for the source of a spring named
Sweetwater.

This is me peddling, like a bug
on its back.

I’ve drawn a circle around the
wide unknown,

a student paying homage to his
non-comprehension.

A fountain pen, if not the
inkwell.

It’s a warm night, unnecessarily
so.

The Ancient Watchmaker claims
it’s midnight.

This is Nowhere, and there’s no
reason to be here.

Sleepwalkers in the afternoon, we
require reason.

We crease easily. Our hands are
folded.

This is me in a hayfield, chewing
a straw stalk,

gnawing on the sublimely
ridiculous,

another inbred clodhopper, the
King of Mutton.

A letter arrives. And like it, we
are torn open.

For a while we read by an ancient
light,

a link among the unexceptional
billions.

An extra comma in the illegible
prose.


Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a Pushcart nominee with over

a thousand poems published internationally in magazines such as
Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book out now,
‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ is available on Amazon and through Cawing
Crow Press. His poems on video can be viewed on YouTube’s
BruceMcRaePoetry

So Blessed

Bruce McRae

Under a moon like a bucket kicked
over.

Under the strangled stars and
night’s insults.

In a cinema of abstractions

is a comedian reaching for his
glasses,

reaching across the room’s small
universe,

reaching for the untouchable
word,

a word infused with magic and
fractions,

that triggers other words, that
dances its dance.

A comedian for all times, and for
none.

Who floats an inch above the
common earth.

Jester in the palace of nouns.

Joker in a shuffled pack.

A blade of multi-coloured grass

pushed around by the world’s thin
winds,

climbing the sleep-besotted
mountains.

A bee, the comedian produces
honey.

A vulture, it’s circling above
its task.

The comedian is a metaphor, or
meteor,

the known world a game we can
play –

as if an oral cyst the tongue
can’t ignore.

The comedian, set upon by demons
and sea-lice,

has a mouth full of crackers.

He’s in a room the colour of old
money.

In a dirt house, wearing tiger
skin pyjamas.

He of the tantric signature,

who juggles pencils and mice,

his jokes like a bad cheque or a
cough.

We’re in the hour of red,

and he’s the one reaching over
the table’s void

for a mug of incense, for green
bread,

grasping the inkstone of evening.

The comedian is the one so
blessed,

the one who is two, and then
three.

He’s the fool pulling on dusk’s
velvet cord,

a babe abandoned in the
wilderness,

brought up as a slave in a royal
household,

carrying his master’s slippers,

a eunuch in the service of
princesses,

girls in long gold braids,

girls adorned, asleep in their
tight dresses,

girls the morning announces

to the braying crowds, the
comedian

reaching for his comely cup,

clutching jagged angles,

stumbling while holding on to the
walls,

the butterfly in his blue palm

a bug of unusual beauty.

 

The comedian as giant

reaching down low to move a
chair,

drawing the age-old curtains
closed,

pursuing the millimeter,
traveling sand to sand

on a lark-filled escapade, on a
journey,

a jaunt from this place into
another

and hoisting his audience of one
along,

spinning a line in dream-vague
entertainment.

Laughing at his own bespoken joke

and even he doesn’t get it.



Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a Pushcart nominee with over

a thousand poems published internationally in magazines such as
Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book out now,
‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ is available on Amazon and through Cawing
Crow Press. His poems on video can be viewed on YouTube’s
BruceMcRaePoetry

The
Method

 – Cheyenne Marco

1.
Ask a
question.
The one
I won’t bother to answer
with a
human tongue.

Words I
will not speak.

2.
Learn
the language of dandelions
peering
through sidewalk cracks.
Flowers
with a concrete vase.

3.
I
believe they survive
for
children to find
and
learn what isn’t a flower.

4.
No one
plants them in gardens.

5.
Yes.
No.
Repeat.

6.
Survival
is an act of stubbornness,
uncultivated
yellow on carpets of perfect green.

7.
Know
this of me.
Let it
shatter into a hundred tufts of dander
and fly
away on a gentle breeze.


Cheyenne
Marco grew up on a Minnesota poultry farm and finds inspiration for her writing
in her rural upbringing. She teaches at USD, works on the South Dakota Review,
does outreach for Friends of the Big Sioux River, and fantasizes about sleep.
Her works have appeared in Lake Region Review, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, and Prairie
Winds.

image