NATE ELIAS – LEVEL THREE EMERGENCY

Level Three Emergency

We’re snowed in
at a Motel 6
and I’ve still got it,
the gold chain we stole
from your mother
that rainy Easter.

Tell me to turn up the radio
and dance like we’ll die here,
frozen and hungry, naked.
There is no resisting fire.

I could last forever, a jewel
thief for you, searching
for enough amber
to fossilize our love.

Tell me to wear this gold
chain around my neck, a collar
or dog tag to show the new world
what you mean to me.

We’re snowed in;
I could last until the sun
thaws us from the past
and frees us from this room.

ANDREW HUBBARD – WALLACE’S STORY

Wallace’s Story Wallace said: We were at this craft fair Quilts and pot holders Goats’ milk candles and god knows. My wife likes this stuff And I go along. I call it “Putting money in the marital account,” And besides, somebody has to pay. This little woman came hobbling up to us About 50 inches […]

Rajnish Mishra – Sunday Evening

Sunday evening

Sunday evening is worse than Monday morning,

The fear of death, says Sir Francis, is worse than death.

A sickly feeling rises and churns in my stomach,

even now, after I’ve lived through such seven hundred

and seventy non-workingSundays. It’s the same every time.

It starts rising from Saturday. In the morning

a panic reminder rings, a tightening in intestines.

Saturday evening warns me that the next

will be the last before death comes again.

ROBERT BEVERIDGE – BRUTAL TRUTHS & LYING LIGHT

Brutal Truths and Lying Light

You can peel off your scars
like so many old and dirty
band-aids. Pain makes a great
affectation, don’t you think?
The writers want you to reveal
your third nipple in the season
finale. Give them an expensive thrill.
Make no mistake, this is a game
of ratings and dogs’ breath.
Take another swig of condensed
Windex, another bite
of urinal cake. Breath is freshest
when it’s blue. Nice to see you.

DAVID SPICER – DADDY DEAREST

DADDY DEAREST

Ivanka, you love your nasty daddy,
you never dispute him or contradict
any of his gross tweets or lame edicts,
and you might even serve as his caddy.
But are you tempted to call him Fatty
when he eats too many Eggs Benedict,
not leaving the yellow-white plates unlicked,
or berate him for appearing too natty?
No, you say, I love my daddy dearest,
he’s my hero, my knight in dull armor,
and gives me what I want in the tower.
Besides, he’s the biggest, the fiercest
father of this cruel world, but can he purr
when he wants my love, before he glowers!

Jeffrey Zable – WHAT’S BEST

WHAT’S BEST

Hard to believe that all these people were fucked into the world,
but here they are and there isn’t much that can be done about it.
They need to be fed, clothed, roofed, and mostly entertained
so that they don’t get mad and do something punitive like
putting arsenic in the water or polluting the air with swear words
so loud that the rest of us go deaf and no longer can listen
to old Stones, Beach Boys, and Beatle’s songs.
Yes it’s best to be civil with all these people and try to make
friends with a few of them in case you get locked out of your
house without your cell phone so that if you need to call your
spouse to come open the door, they will open theirs and say,
“Of course, use mine!” and maybe give you a cup of tea
or a glass of juice while you wait.
It’s best to think of oneself as a world citizen and trust
everyone until there is cause to believe that someone
is trying to manipulate you into giving them your money
or using you as an listening board for all their problems. . .

M. STONE – THE ODDBALL REVEALS HERSELF EARLY ON

The Oddball Reveals Herself Early On

I was the only kid in junior high
who kept a trial-size bottle of liquid soap
in her bag. My classroom had a sink,
and during morning break, I washed my hands
until the teacher took note of my raw skin
and said, “Honey, please stop.”

Along with the lyrics of every eighties pop song,
I could recall all the symptoms of lockjaw
and botulism, rabies and plague, parasitic infections.
Like my grandmother, I inspected packaged food
for evidence of tampering.

I was terrified my clothes would grow too tight
as I sat at my desk. In school/prison, who would help
if snug panty elastic began digging into the crease
where thigh meets groin, cutting off the blood flow
and rendering my legs numb, gangrenous
by the time someone believed me?

The solution: garments that swallowed—
baggy underwear, my father’s flannel shirts,
sagging thrift shop jeans, and my aunt’s cast-off shoes:
size eight, when a size seven was plenty big.

While running the mile, one of those ill-fitting
sneakers flew off my foot and plopped on the asphalt
several yards before me. The other students didn’t pause,
not even to point and laugh. By then, they were used
to all the ways I showed the world I was never
going to be quite right.

EMILY RIVERA – TRASH

TRASH

Trash.
I like that word.
Trash.
What is it?

Is it that blonde girl behind Denny’s?
Maybe your uncle who slept with them all?
Maybe the actual trash can in your room?
The one overflowing with paper?

Maybe it’s that one plate of nachos no one finished
Or it could obviously be that one pan of food,
The one with all that… dull green mold
Disgusting.

Trash.
Why the hell is there a lot of trash?
Why do people call it hideous?
Why is it called trash? Trash.

Is your life trash?
I hope not, that’ll just be sad.
Is your friend’s life trash?
It better be compared to yours.

Well, I think trash is beautiful.
Trash is filled with a wonder of color.
Don’t you see that weird mystery liquid?
Amazing.

The thin pieces of hair draping over the sides.
The red spots from the ketchup.
The orange peels from, well, oranges.
The yellow peels from bananas.

The green everything- mold, lettuce and whatnot.
The multiple wrappers from various brands.
That one bare steak t-bone.

Wait, now that I think about
Trash is disgusting.

SETH JANI – REFLECTIONS

Reflections

Between omens, between trees,
A sparse body of light and foliage
Floats down.
It lands in the water
Where reflections are born.
Where the double world
Acts out its identical pageantry
In reverse.
In that pool the leaf
Is coming to the surface
Of a glass sky.
This is where the worlds touch.
When I bend over to scoop it up
A single electron passes from my fingers.
Across the border, my heart
Doesn’t beat. Life there is measured
Only in pauses. An incredible stillness.
When someone in the mirror dies
Cardiologists suddenly hear
The sound of distant rainstorms
Vibrato in their bones.

Laryssa Wirstiuk – My Last Memory of Snow

My Last Memory of Snow

I hesitated entering the bodega. The cashier had seen me cry before:
I’m sure of it. Would he remember me at the table with my twenty-four
ounce can of Yuengling? After that embarrassment I should’ve left you
in my car. The menu was sandwiches: hummus and vegetables on rye.
Sour Patch Kids. Steamed soy milk in coffee. I’m intentionally bleeping
out the important detail: three feet of snow on Third Street in Old City.
Normally I would have been defeated by the heavy white powder,
but we were procuring carbs, caffeine. At the AirBNB was a tub for two.
What’s more, I knew we’d be Pioneers! O Pioneers! in just a few months.
Extra pickles and hot sauce, please. My eye contact hungered for chips.
And, sir, is it possible I’m making a mistake? We plowed through drifts
with heavy boots and paper sacks. Voices bounced off new acoustics.
Few were out; locals were scraping cars a step ahead of the next squall.
I longed for less complicated circumstances: not so much of the always
life or death. Next winter a close friend would text me the following:
Your commitment crushed my hopes. I didn’t get it. You had plowed
the trail where there wasn’t any snow. He would send me postcards
with full color (some white, some grey) landscapes covered with more
than I’d endured. Despite who you are, I’ve landed. I can’t revoke a storm.

Cacti Fur

a poetry high ground

poetry