Two Short Ones

By Alec Berry

Poetry

 

I have a few more years to go as I am,

then I’m changing my name to Lyle and disappearing

and getting really into BBQ and BBQ festivals and the people they contain.

I am saving money for this.

Brad’s Face

By Gene Morgan

Poem

My notes for a potential story about Brad’s face on the evening of November 8, 2016

Start with some general thoughts about Brad, maybe just the grass in Brad’s backyard and his cool studio/garage area. Focus on the small stuff that I like about Brad. How nice it was for him to invite us over for the election suicide party.

 

Blue House

 

Once we lived together in a little blue house

Then we moved together into a big blue house

And you said

Look, baby, I built this for you

And I said

Look, baby, I built this for you

I pointed to my chest

I said

If you ever get tired of living in a blue house

You can live in here

And so you did

He thinks I’m about to give him a blowjob but I’m just bending down to tie my shoe. “Can we go for a walk in the cemetery?” But he won’t go anywhere with me unless I promise we can stop at a bakery or pizza place first. On the internet I read ‘when you consume a carbohydrate that has been cooked it has the same effect on your body as white sugar’ and my heart rate increases a little and I start sweating. I’m waiting for him to finish a computer game so we can go out. He doesn’t need to play the computer game right now. My symptoms of depersonalization disorder are very strong right now. “My symptoms of depersonalization disorder are really strong right now,” I say to him.

Two Poems

By Shy Watson

Poetry

 

CONDOMS APPLES TOMATO TOMATO

inconclusive like

im dreaming again

kitsch art on the walls

of an imagined, shored-up room

in manzanita

on adderall

under a ceiling

why bother

at weezer

karaoke

you are noticing things

like when paradise kneels

to her knees

the screensaver reminds me

of hawaii

which in turn now

reminds me

of you

Two Poems

By Connor Ong

Poetry

 

April 19, 1994

Apparently when I was born

I asked the OB-GYN

if the lighting in the room could be changed

I wanted it less direct,

preferred it to be a little more developed

and civil to all things inside the room

especially the elements unfocused

Why poetry?

In my early 20s, I started writing poetry as a way to cope with melancholy, challenge what wasn’t working out in love, work, life in general. I submitted to a mix of college literary journals and cultural magazines and received some acceptances. They gave me the drive to carry on, although some jobs and lifestyle changes got in the way of continuity. About fifteen years later, I started to write short stories and hoped to write a novel one day. Then my late mother suffered a massive stroke in 2006 and I found myself running back and forth between New York and Pennsylvania to help with caregiving. Time constraints led me to resume writing poetry and that’s where I’ve stayed. I consider my poems short short stories. I find it challenging in a positive way to tell a story in as few words as possible. Since 2013, I’ve belonged to an online poetry community called brevitas where 50+ poets share short poems (13 lines maximum) twice a month. I haven’t missed a submission since I started. Many brevitas poems appear in my latest poetry collections.

Since we mostly communicate through social media, texts and e-mails, I think the brevity of poetry makes it an optimal medium for reaching readers with a story, inspiration, some thought-provoking ideas. It doesn’t require a considerable investment in time.

I learned the art of detachment
from a destructive pest
romanticized by poets
whose origins go back millions of years.

Celestial nomads that feast on
leather, wool, silk, felt
and thrive on night
taught me to let go of longing—

After-After

By Shira Dentz

Poem

American is the new German,
German the new American.
A square of window might be
1/4 or 1/12 depending
on whether you think
said window is two panes
or one.
My name is Nazi Avenue.
I have a lot of gifts,
fertility isn’t one of them.
Glass against a night
sky is like paper
for any light before it
to be written on.

What is it with you and the dreams?

That’s a pertinent question. That shows me you actually read my poem. Or wrote it. Either way, thank you.

The dreams have been a muse for a long time; maybe even forever, hence the poem’s title. The dream described in the poem is literally my earliest memory: all my toys dancing in a ring of light around my crib to the tune of It’s A Small World After All.

Your earliest memory, from the cot dreams
toys hoofing in a ring of light, to the tune
it’s a small world, after all that is poetry in itself
apropos of such unfolding, in nonage, in infancy
marriage at twenty-five, offspring by thirty
was never yours, nor office administration
not even the longest term mortgage, to settle you
into the long haul, the long yards,
the back yards, and cats and dogs
none of them yours. It was written in a villanelle
it was ordained by Auden, it killed your chances
you slid by the cornfields, under Van Gough’s sill
you fell into a lustful fate, a pond of muddy water
you swam with the eels, your electric adult
on the blink, powering down and dreamless.

The title of your new collection is Feminists Are Passing from Our Lives. Where does it come from and is this a book about feminists?

I used the title of one of my favorite poems in the manuscript, which is a parody of Philip Levine’s poem, “Animals Are Passing from Our Lives” which was published in the 1960’s. Levine’s speaker is a pig being taken to market to be sold for meat. The pig can sense his fate and speaks with a dignity we wouldn’t expect from any being under those circumstances.

With what’s been happening in the lives of American women, whose health care rights are under threat, who are still not paid equally for our work, and who are being targeted by extremist groups in the “manosphere,” I sometimes feel like that pig, properly fattened on title 9, on access to safe healthcare and a good education, now being guided into a future that looks a lot like the past. It’s a cautionary. It’s also an accounting of growing old.

after Philip Levine

It’s wonderful how they jog
in two-toned gel soled racing shoes
their yoga butts barely jiggling
in rosy spandex leggings.

I was there once. I felt
the brash I’ve got it all, I had
the uncomplicated beauty of the young
before the years peeled it from me

like flimsy wallpaper. In my memories
women’s work was pin money
to pay for ballet lessons, summer camp;
suffering children, suffering filing jobs

Poetry or Making Love?

 That’s a tough call and I might have to dodge the question by insisting they’re the same thing. I’ve always said the connection between a writer and a reader is like a settled relationship – one in which you take your time, learn about each other, go back and start again when needed. The connection between a speaker and an audience on the other hand is like a wild one night stand.

I expected them to tell me that my bacon
had come from a happy pig, one that had had a full life,
was corn fed and had free range, did yoga in the mornings,
played the cello, spoke Latin and learned
to salsa dance while visiting relatives in Cuba.
I thought maybe there would have been a photo album
to accompany the sacrifice, documenting its first birthday,
first snow and first of everything else,
here an oink, there an oink.