The Death of Lorca

_____for Ian Gibson

He dislikes Protestant churches,
big organ instead of high altar,
minister’s sermon in English
facing the congregation; the priest,
back to the laity, speaks in Latin. 

Shoes that do not move remind
him of death, all the dead bodies
he sees as a boy are laid out flat
on their backs, dressed in their
Sunday best, wearing shoes.

He is friends with Salvador Dalí,
Luis Buñuel, and other great
writers of his generation, plays
a key role in a Spanish renaissance
of poetry, drama, art, and film.  

Yet in his hometown of Granada
he is “The Queer with the Bow-Tie.”
As Civil War spreads across
Andalusia he refuses to escape
to the Republican side for fear of
being trapped in a no-man’s zone.

Lorca is arrested. General Queipo
De Llano, the Butcher of Seville,
tells the commandant at Granada
to give the poet, “coffee,
plenty of coffee.”

The Black Squad takes him
to the nearby resort town of Viznar,
favorite site to execute Nationalists.
(one witness cries out, “Murderers!
You’re going to kill a genius!”)

Told he will be shot, Lorca asks
for a last confession, but the priest
is gone. Before dawn he is shoved
in a truck with two bullfighters
and a teacher with a wooden leg.  

They are killed at Fuente Grande,
a famous spring known in Arab times
as “the Fountain of Terror.” Later,
one murderer boasts, “two bullets
in the ass for being queer.”

William Heath has published four poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, Going Places, and Alms for Oblivion; three chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio, Leaving Seville, and Inventing the Americas; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake’s Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He lives in Annapolis.  www.williamheathbooks.com

Exercise High and Five More Dollar Bin Records

exercise high and five more dollar bin records
at the store i tried so hard to give my money to the shop

first, they opened an hour late
second, they were friendly enough
third, i tried to offer them a tip and they declined
lastly, i listened to the bluegrass and organ music
blissed out on 15,000 steps on my pedometer and
all the things i did in those steps
i saw a bird wading in water
i browsed isles with strategy
like a bird pooping seeds onto enemy nests and
i played a walking game too
my jeans barely fit but there’s
a blessing of the sonata e’s in my head and
no more thoughts in my head about losing weight
about my diet
if this has me eating five cinnamon rolls in an evening then
only oatmeal and mint chocolate protein bars
in slow drawn out rhythmic waves
slow enough the sound never crescendos past
innumerable belly grumbles and a great elevation of mood
i see equanimity on the horizon

Frankie Koni is a gender non conforming mentally ill writer who is published in Asylum: Radical Mental Health Magazine, The Abandoned Mine, redrosethorns and aspires to get in poetry magazine and publish their own chapbook. They are active online on Instagram @frankandthefruit, and under Frankie Koni on Facebook! 

The Reshaping of Clay

Nightly, I dream the pottery
of my fragments
strewn in a forest of fireflies,
brief ashes burning hunger
for what lies above the soil.

I metaphor a self at daybreak
in salamander memory
retrieved from the fire
of my nocturnal disintegration.

I mark the pieces of clay,
numbering each with hope
of reassembly.
My soft pottery
fires itself solid
in a few more dawns.

David Anthony Sam lives in Virginia with his wife, Linda. His poetry has appeared in over 100 journals. Sam’s collection, Stone Bird, was released in 2023 by San Francisco Bay Press. Writing the Significant Soil (Wayfarer Books 2022) was awarded the Homebound Poetry Prize. Six other collections are in print.

Rodeo Poet

Some days it’s all
about riding the bull
staying upright
hands strapped to the
horn of uncontrollable

hanging on when earth
is rotating at full volume

when seeing the clowns
waiting to rescue me
seems too short-sighted

with only seconds left
before a fall
I’m searching for a glimpse
of a waiting poem

a bird a chime a wheel a saint

re-entry before the buzzer beeps

In the past year, Susan Shea has made the full-time transition from retired school psychologist to poet. Since then her poems have been accepted by publications including MacQueen’s Quinterly, Ekstasis, October Hill Magazine, Across the Margin, Invisible City, Poemeleon, Umbrella Factory, and others.

Painting

Colluded over-draft
and the canvas isn’t stretching right.
There’s a red––
and a white line too. Witness this,
the atrophying figure of form.
Can you guess the type?
Do you know this shape?
In here inheres a scene
of the image of our all. Everything is done up in dividing lines.
My vanishing point is everywhere. 

Jimmy Christon (he/him/his) is a writer from Oregon. He was born in Pocatello, Idaho. He has published pieces with ergot., Indicia Literary Journal, and Eunoia. He lives in New York. Catch him on his website, jimmywrites.com.

Postcards from the Knife-Thrower

May 21-22 Portland, OR

Today I tore a shirt in the Lion Tamer’s tent, said he’d ask
his wife to mend it, as if I live on an island and no woman

will ever touch me again. I’ve colored outside the lines so often
they’re no longer visible in the light of a sober day.

St. Jezebel knows I keep a lock of Magdalena’s hair to remind me
of despair, knows what I want; every twist is planned except the end.

The end is mine but I lack imagination, the balls
to divine anything between flickers of silent movie frames

in a dream that isn’t; I have knowingly unmade myself
into a man I don’t recognize. Don’t want to, need to

until I’m drunk enough to catch glimpses of the girl you were;
mouthing private devotions and absolution for all creation.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. The full-length collection, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower was runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife is forthcoming from Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize.

Riding the Waves

We rode the waves elegantly
undulating 
up and down
gentle waves
soft fingered
at first
in the gentle light
of soft sunshine.

Then the clouds came
gathering 
softly at first
but blotting out the light,
then the wind rose
no longer soft
no longer gentle
now we crashed and dived
violently
heaving
hardly visible 
as the storm gathered pace
its white fingered waves
clawing their way towards us
gobbing their spume

over us
up and down
sucking us in
heaving us up
letting us fall
driving us towards the light
and the rocks lying there

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

waiting.

Weird quirks

You should know that when we fly in dreams and we feel the wind, then we are becoming just as Witches and Sorcerers who fly on their hazel sticks or broom, or who float into the infinite as new supermen or wonderwomen.

first daisies –
violent attacks
of rage

On the Wild Side

the bad girls walk their scissor legs
through blowing scraps of colored
paper, here’s a snip of an ad for trash
bags, here’s the torn up start to a letter.
Their elastic hands reel and unreel
packing tape and seal up my pencil thin
fingers. I can’t type. I can’t bring
my hand to my lips to whistle Hey
Babe, take a walk but they swish past
on high heeled plastic Barbie shoes
their sharp feet sharp eyes grinning sharp
painted white teeth.

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent collection is NO. HOPE STREET (Kelsay Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.