Poem by John Alter

Etymology
The angels in heaven
those who wear pearls and
vintage blazers gossip in Latin and know that when you add the suffix
-ous
to a word it means full of when they heard
the good news of your arrival
it is reported exclaimed one to the other

good gracious
have mercy

The angels in heaven
those who love to walk
from one end to the other of their home town
& carry
in celestial bags all that a good day requires
when they heard the good news of your arrival
exclaimed

good gracious
have mercy

For us who remain here
with our forlorn dictionaries
with the streets of our home town that seem
less inhabited
who are clearly not angels
what remains to some measure is what
you taught us

love’s etymology
how by adding the prefix com-
to the word passion
you discover a compassionate universe
how by replacing the prefix con-
with trans- you discover
love’s transformative power

O our need remains also
for those angels who insist on wearing
pearls
even when the only task at hand is to
rake the fallen leaves who know what it means to
say
vir bonum semper discipilus est

--for Margaret Addicks

A Letter by Manolo Gonzalez

My Beloved Editor, Ms. Wintour:

As we both know, my glorious 300-page novel is due in about eleven hours. Well, there is just one tiny problem with making that deadline. Now, now, before you fret and gird your loins, let me assure you that the novel, aptly titled Untitled (very avant-garde, don’t you think?) is completely and one-hundred percent finished, and written in its entirety, from beginning to end. It has been proof read, water proofed, edited, illustrated and even indexed by yours truly, and I do most certainly believed that you will find it most adequate for publication. In fact, it was even dedicated to you by yours-truly:
“To a never ending Wintour.”


At first I thought it was too kitsch, but a little sparkle goes a long way, don’t you think?


Anyways, as you most certainly are aware I spent the last year in seclusion, writing this opus of mine in an extremely secluded location, Cancun, Mexico. There I would write day and night ferociously, with absolutely no human contact or distractions. At all. Ever. But of course, when decided on by pure necessity, I had to venture outside and chat with the locals while I gathered up my living essentials. The natives of Cancun, of course, speak Spanish. I, myself, being from Colombia and having Spanish as my mother tongue, I only spoke and thought in Spanish without even thinking twice about it.


In here lies the problem; because I was speaking in Spanish, listening to Spanish, thinking and living in Spanish, I was writing in Spanish. Unbeknownst to me, I wrote the entire novel in Spanish. Everything is completely in Spanish, thus being completely useless to your current needs.


Unfortunately, I will require another full year to properly and coherently translate my book, Untitled, into standard American English. This is a most regrettable set back, but I can guarantee you that I am doing everything in my power to make sure that the novel is translated in as little time as possible. To guarantee that it is done quickly and as efficiently as possible, and in English this time, I have secluded myself in the quietest American city imaginable, New Orleans, Louisiana. As I write I am currently locked up in my flat above the quaint Bourbon Street, in the incredibly charming French Quarter. In fact, it has proven to be such a perfect place to write, that I have already translated one full page of the novel. This page is, of course, available at your disposal at any time you so desire. And now, I must return to my translations.


Kindly,


I. C. Buttz


P.S. Since in essence I am actually writing two separate novels, one in Spanish, and one in English, I am going to require double payment. Cash is preferable, due to the scarcity of banks in isolated New Orleans. Cheers.

News Item by Manolo Gonzalez

Valentino De La Mancha, 18, was killed yesterday in a series of the most unfortunate events. At approximately 2am he was driving his black Mercedes-Benz down Santa Monica Boulevard, with passengers Kleo Viterelli and Neguisa Bostani, when they struck a speeding, red SmartCar as they made a left turn on the intersection of Santa Monica and Beverly Glen. No one in the Mercedes or the Smartcar was injured but the SmartCar was completely destroyed. The driver of the red SmartCar escaped with cuts and bruises, and literally, we mean ‘escape.’ It turns out the driver of the SmartCar, an unidentified red-headed man, had stolen the car from the parking lot of Kisses–n-Hugs Children’s restaurant, located on Wilshire Boulevard and Barrington. With the police already chasing him, he made a run for it after the collision, and was finally apprehended hours later hiding behind an empty Blockbuster, a place where ‘no one would go and find him’.


When the police arrived on the scene, merely seconds after the crash and after the unidentified man escaped, they discovered that De La Mancha, as well as his passengers, were all completely naked inside the vehicle.

“They said they were Canadian,” explained Officer Guadalajara, who was at the scene. “There ain’t no law against driving while on the naked in Cali, so we just lettem go, esay.”

Left a little but shaken and confused, De La Mancha and passengers continued on their way, where according to reports, they stopped at a 76 Gas Station, Ralph’s Supermarket, and at Chi Chi LaRue’s on Little Santa Monica Boulevard before continuing their trip, heading towards Malibu.

“Our plan was just to have a picnic outside of Cher’s house,” said Bostani, 18, who survived the ordeal, along with Viterelli.

“We tried to figure out an outfit that would be something akin to what Cher would wear, but when we couldn’t come up with anything fabulous enough we just decided to go there nude,” finished Viterelli.

Once at Cher’s house, located in the northern stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, about 20 second from Pepperdine University, tragedy struck the group.

“At Ralph’s Supermarket we bought those fancy little Ferrero Rocher chocolates, because they’re delicious and we thought that they would be something Cher would eat, because they’re delicious,” said Bostani, “but then Valentino tried to eat two at once and he began to choke. Everyone knows that the correct way to eat a Ferrero Rocher is to eat one layer by layer.”

De La Mancha continued choking on the two chocolate balls in his mouth, with his two friends unable to, or unwilling to, help.

“He eats like that all the time,” said Viterelli, “we thought he was used to having two balls in mouth by now.”

Without the help of his two friends, De La Mancha continued choking, making very loud whopping noises bent over the car. In fact, his choking noises became so loud that at approximately 4am, Cher herself came out from her house to see what was happening outside.

“Those two huge, fabulously gothic yet, a tad Venetian gates opened up, and we knew that it was Cher, we just knew. When we saw it was her, we were awestruck. Actually, you could say we were Moonstruck. But Valentino, he was still choking and didn’t hear her walk out because of all the noise he was making,” said Bostani. “But once he did see her, still choking, and naked, he got completely surprised. Too surprised, I would say.”

After the appearance of Cher, De La Mancha was so surprised that even with two chocolate balls in his throat, he swallowed, and thus, ceased to be choking.

“That was all good, but then in his shock and amazement, he didn’t see where he was stepping and he got run over by a speeding black Prius. It was dark, and the car makes no noise; it was impossible to know it was there.”

The driver of the Black Prius, while still at large, has been described as a tall, red haired man, seen by a witness around a Blockbuster parking lot earlier that night. There are currently no leads on the hit and run driver.

“It really sucks, but at least we got our picture with Cher,” said Bostani.

“She’s fabulous,” said Viterelli.

Valentino De La Mancha died at Cedars Sinai Medical Center earlier this morning from the injuries related to the accident at 6am.

“A large shard of glass sliced his leg open in one clean cut. This would have been easily prevented if he were wearing jeans,” said Dr. Rhuman, treating surgeon at Cedars Sinai.

De La Mancha is survived by two illegitimate children, Amadeus, 2, and Rigoberta, 1, birthed by two different mothers. He was a beloved student and classmate, known for his big heart in supplying alcohol to the teachers and sharing with the class. He will be best known for his generosity in supplying illicit substances to his friends and colleagues.

“His motto always was Chering is Caring,” said his 11th grade teacher, Ms. Cox, with tears in her eyes.

He will surely be missed.

Memorial services are scheduled for this Monday at 8pm, unless a new episode of Gossip Girl is on, in which case it would be postponed until Thursday.

Poem by Cola Hines

Against Description

Well I’d say in general there is too much in here

and when you open it up, it all falls out —

so why invite us anyway? To help clean up this mess,

or be impressed —

but anyone saturated with stuff and nonsense would agree

a breath of fresh air is far more useful

you carry the antidote around

in a pocket 

amid the clutter this does not connect yet another

thing that shrieks unbidden —

the last refuge of content a high shelf above the door; watch out when you reach up

your smile is an airport and I travel far; but in the pleasant and cobbled streets 

of Viscera I meet Migraine —

she has sexy legs and a face you can’t imagine. End of story

Sonnet by Karen Layman

Perhaps I am crazy—I see things, I hear things.
I remember my dreams with startling clarity,
Wonderful, chaotic tangles of people and various other strings
But the real and mundane? I only bother with them rarely
But I’m not the only one—I can’t be
There must be someone, somewhere
Who is “weirder” than me.
Or do all of us “wierdos” live in our own castles in the air?
Maybe we’re all insane—
“We’re all mad here”
Every one of us, running around and raising Cain
Each in our own right a chevalier
And a hoper, and a schemer—
Or perhaps I’m merely a chronic daydreamer.

Poems by KT McVeigh

The Sea

I’m sitting on the beach

With my legs out in front of me, bent at the knees

And my hands propping me up on the damp sand

And the red sun will never set

It’s stamped into the sky

The waves beat against each other

They are capped with white

Their friction is a furious motion

But they just fall into each other

They just sink and become one

They are the way things are

They are the way it is

They are not beautiful

They are charming

They have an abysmal charm

Like a long finger bending into itself

I watch you, waves

The shore is round and black

The sea goes on forever

Forever is the sea

I am a dot on the edge of the sea 

*        *        * 

I am in our room

With the thin velvet blanket

Which was a sort of pea green

And there were seagull decals on the sliding glass door

And there were shells we collected in the ashtray on the porch

And the floors were smooth, flat, white rock tiles bigger than my head at the time

And the porch was a box on the side of the building

And if you pressed your nose against the screen it went out of focus and you could see the ocean

But the camera could only do that once or twice

And those are the pictures I’ve misplaced that are burned into my memory

Of the blinding white sun with the orange and pink and purple and navy

And the black silhouette of the osprey in the nest at the top of the palm tree

The sun sliding down into the sea

How it looked like a runny egg

To me

But now that I’ve written this down

I’m going to forget it

Because I’ve somehow subconsciously given myself that permission

Up until now I’ve had to regularly summon back that memory

Those sensory details

And picture myself there

So I wouldn’t forget

So it would stay etched in my mind forever

That scene

Of sitting on that bed

And feeling those cool tiles beneath my little feet

And pushing back the curtains and….

That smell

When I push back the curtains, my nostrils flare and I deeply inhale the something that should be there

In my memory I can expect it

The sweet aroma of somewhere I haven’t been in years

But there’s nothing

That’s the saddest thing

The saddest thing of all is that I can’t remember the smell

Only when I smell it

Which I did recently

And I fell back against the wall and I felt like I couldn’t breathe

Because I don’t know what causes the smell

It’s unidentifiable with anything but that apartment

And when I smell it, there I am

I am in our room with the orange juice carton and the low chandelier above the round kitchen table

And the counter and the stove and the closet full of beach supplies

The umbrellas and the plastic molds of crabs and sandcastle molds and buckets and shovels and the boogie boards and the blow-up raft

And the blueberry muffins Dad used to bring home for breakfast

And the fridge and the bathroom with the light above the mirror and the TV in the middle of the room where we’d watch the Disney channel

And Mommy and Daddy’s room that was always dark and like a cave

And the carpet and the closet and the must and the shades

And the sound of our steps echoing down the hallways as we ran

And the smell of outside with the palm trees

And Uncle Bob’s

And the ice cream

And the red trolley

And the pointy #1 necklace Daddy hid under the rock for me

And the pirates and the other kids and the grass and the sun and the birds and the fishing poles and the smiles and the waves and the laughing, always laughing

And the thin velvet blanket on my bed

Which was a sort of pea green

But softer, sweeter

And comforting

And my bright runny egg, sliding down into the sea

And the smell of the curtains

Which is gone.

And if fate doesn’t happen to direct me to where it lingers

I might never know that smell again

dialogic interlude/coffee break by Nellie Simmons

So who are you?


I'm not really sure. I go by a few names. Char, Charlie, Nells, Baja...and for a time, Ryann.



What would you like us to call you?



I suppose Nellie is good. That's how many know me. So yeah, Nellie.



Okay, Nellie it is. So what do you want us to know?



well...I'm drinking Pirate Death Coffee...I don't know if anyone really cares, but I am.



Pirate Death Coffee? What is it?



Well, I'm not sure. It's....deathly.



It sounds strong.



It is...It's strong enough to let you fight off a pirate attack...or, join one. At least, that's what I've been told.



But it's like...1:45 in the afternoon....you realize that, right?



Oh yes. Yes, I am fully aware of the time. Are you aware of what time it REALLY is?



Um...excuse me?



The real time. Are you aware?



Um...yes, of course. Anyway, let's continue, shall we?



Of course not. We have to drink our Pirate Death Coffee first.



But...can't you drink it and talk at the same time?



Oh yes, I'm sure I can. The question is, can you?



Can I what? Drink and talk?



No, of course you can't. They allow you to drink on the job? What kind of people are your employers?



Uhm...no, I mean...wait...what? Who's conducting this interview anyway? You or me?



You or me? Or you or I? Which shall we be? I am, of course. Here, drink this, it will help.



What is it?



I told you, Pirate Death Coffee. Real pirates don't cry. Come on now, get it together.

Journal entry by Kirsten Bouthiller

I roll out of bed and stumble onto the hard, roughly carpeted floor. Cold and tired, my head is already throbbing. It is too early for this. Just found out that Andrew took the car last night so I can’t drive up to see Sean. Awesome. Oh, and now I’m in a screaming fight with my mom over her letting Andrew take the car. Lovely. My eye feels like it’s going to pop out of my head. Called Sean and he can’t drive down because he has to “paint the deck” like he’s had to all summer. If I want to see him I’ve got to drive myself up there. No, Mom and Dad won’t drive me. I’ll call Andrew, see when he’s getting home. He’s not up yet? You have got to be kidding me. A slight twinge crosses through my stomach and I begin to feel nauseous. Two hours later, after being in a terrible mood and wanting to both cry and kill someone, Andrew pulls into the driveway. He informs me that he’s going back to town anyway but I tell him that I’m driving because I need to get there NOW. He tosses me the keys while I mutter angrily under my breath. Head still about to explode, I weave through traffic at speeds that shouldn’t be discussed. When I finally make it to his house, I see that he hasn’t even pulled out the stain for the deck. I walk into the house and am relieved to see him. My body instantly relaxes. We play rock band for a bit until he has to tune drums for his dad. While he tunes drums, I play computer games. My headache only worsens from staring at the computer screen until it reaches a breaking point. I leave my computer on the coffee table and join Sean sitting on the floor. Trying to keep my cool, I smile. Do you need a hand? He’s angry. The drum he has to fix up is missing an important part, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. As he keeps ranting, tears stream down my face because the stomach has flipped and my head is pounding. He picks me up and puts me on the couch. Take a nap. What I thought would only be an hour at the most of a nap turned into four. I wake up at seven p.m. on his couch to the sound of a movie he's watching and the smell of lasagna in the oven. Feel better? A little, I guess. Not really though. Join me, I’m watching a movie. What movie? Not sure, but it’s really good. Okay, when’s dinner? Mom, Dad! When’s dinner? In ten minutes. In ten minutes. Great, I’m so hungry. Get over here and watch this movie with me. As I watch, my eyes feel heavy and I lose my appetite. His parents call us in to the kitchen for dinner. We sit down and his parents dish out our food, I try to manage it down. Excuse me for just a moment. I bolt to the bathroom. Reach for the sink knob and the toilet at once. All the water I drank down found its way back up. You’re okay. You are okay. I walk back into the kitchen and act like nothing happened. Don’t be rude, you’ve got to eat. I barely eat half my plate. After dinner, Sean and I walk outside briefly. We sit in the driveway looking at the stars. I think I’m sick. Why’s that? This is kind of really embarrassing... I feel like I’m going to puke. Are you alright? Well... during dinner... Oh no, you were sick weren’t you? I mean, sort of? How do you feel now? Awful. How about we go inside and you lie down a bit more. Okay. We begin to walk to his back door. One step. Two steps. Don’t puke, please don’t puke. Steady your head, clear your mind. You’re fine. YOU ARE FINE. Um, I’ll see you inside. I run up the stairs and into the bathroom. It literally feels like my stomach is flipping itself inside out. A demon roars from the depths of my chest. Hot tears flow down my cheeks. Stumbling out of the bathroom, Sean is standing in the middle of his kitchen staring at me. Uh, are you alright? Not really. Do you feel any better? I never want to eat lasagna again. You’ve got quite the demon in your stomach. He laughs. I crack a half smile. Don’t make that demon mad at you. Okay, pukey. Stop, you’re so mean. You’re the one who threatened to puke on me. Your point? So, do you want to finish that movie? Can we just hang out and not listen to loud noises? Yeah, sure. We lie on the couch. My phone rings. It 's my parents. Hello? I don’t think I can drive myself home, Mom. No, I’m sick. No, no, my head hurts so bad. Yes, Mom. I have to go. I’ll call you back. Hey Sean, can you call my mom back? Uh sure, and say what? Explain to them that I’m sick. Are you alright? Yeah, I’ll... I’ll be back.

...

I called your mom, Andrew is going to come pick you up. He’s going to meet up with your dad at Ruby road, and he’ll take you home. How do you feel? Better. My cheeks are hot and flushed. Tears running quickly. I’m sorry. For what? For this being our last time hanging out before you leave. Hey, don’t worry about it. I love you. I love you too. I am so tired. Then sleep. And so, I slept. Waking up alone at home.

free verse sonnet #3 by Cola Hines

actually I am OK
for a while every day
night comes on then
boots tremble, tarp flaps about
trink essen blick
neon vanishes up
stairs toward
the castle where
voices rise
you can’t hear below —
scales from a window —
mountains send reminders down
glowing cabs emerge from town
other nights it’s the reverse

The Wall by Chris Clapis

The fire outside burned a hole in the city
Left me to wonder how the wall would come down this time.
Not through the voice of authority, like in days past,
But by the voice of the people, echoing with love in the midst of the bombs.
Stop war, stop hate,
We cried.
But our tears couldn’t douse the flames;
Not quite.
Nor could they alone quench our thirst,
For a better world,
For a better life,
For peace.
But as they ran down our cheeks,
They washed the dust of everyday life.
They allowed us, with strength renewed,
To press onward,
Into the fire;
Into the crosshairs of the man,
sitting next to the politicians,
Just waiting for the order;
And to raise our voices,
Together,
So loud,
That the wall came tumbling down.
And in one last dying effort to obscure our sight,
The wall itself kicked up dust, and dirt, and anything else it could find,
But as it settled, and the sunlight broke through those floating particles,
For the first time in a long time,
We could see the other side.

Poems by Karen Layman

Upon Reading Haiku/Commandments/Adamant Admonishments. Haiku
I apologize
For how terribly I just
Failed at speaking

Presentations. Tanka
You look quite confused.
Did you not expect comments?
That was really good,
And someone should tell you so.
(Anything to talk to you...)

Fight by Craig Wyszomirski

Hands up
Hit me
Your first shot
Hit me
I counter
Fist like rocks

Breathe
And move
Breathe
And move
Watch me dance with my fists
A violent groove

Adrenaline
My drug
Feel pain no more
one hit
your eye
you see no more

Stronger
I am
Why did you start this
I finish
You're done
Why am I heartless

You lie there
I watch
Next thought: to run
Myself
I look
What have I done