John L. Stanizzi: “Ghost Town”

Ghost Town

                   East Hartford, Connecticut
                   December, 1967

_____When I got home from Fort Dix, East Hartford was a ghost-town. Everyone was either working, at school, in Nam, or dead, so I’d spend long, bleak, suicidal afternoons in the woods naked, one hand on my dick, one on my old man’s shotgun, practicing being born, learning to die.

 

John L. Stanizzi’s full-length collections are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallalujah Time!, and High Tide-Ebb Tide. His work is widely published and has appeared in Prairie Schooner, New York Quarterly, American Life in Poetry, The Cortland Review, Paterson Literary, Tar River Poetry, and many others. Chants, his latest book, will be out this summer.

Carol Hamilton: “Diary Keeping”

Diary Keeping

Pepys gave up his habit,
aging, for fear it caused
his growing blindness.
At the end of his days
the significance of ink was,
he said, an early death for him.
I kept diaries from 4th grade
through one year of college.
As a child, I read
my wildly-spelled words
to trapped victims at family gatherings.
I copied in and blacked out
“love” notes from little boys
with my many shifts of mood.
I was voluminous with ink,
stuffing extra pages
into the 5-year diaries
so that locks and tiny keys
were useless. Older, my markings
spewed over into letters,
many and long.

My mother saved boxes
of my verbiage, words that now
walk me through forgotten days.
My long-ago chronicles send
me reliving past joys
without the worries, anxieties,
lead me into a stand-still time
formed of the banal
and the extra-ordinary.
My lineal life circles and circles
round and round, endless cycle,
even as the ancients told
and even as Pepys’ ink endures.

 

Carol Hamilton has recent publications in Southwestern American Literature, Bluestem, Cold Mountain Review, Commonweal, Common Ground, Louisiana Review, Birmingham Literary Arts, Broad River Review, Louisiana Literature, Haight-Ashbury Poetry Review, U.S. 1 Worksheets, and others. She has published 17 books. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma.

 

Joe Balaz: “Off to Thailand”

Off to Thailand

She stay off to Thailand
foa talk to wun Chi Nei Tsang master

to get moa expertise
in da field of therapeutic massage.

I tink she healing da mind too

as she wings her way
on her latest adventure.

 

Space
it’s wun wide open concept

and it looks like dats wat she needed.

 

I stay tinking all of dis
in da belly of wun great beast

dat has taken me
to da bottom of da sea.

 

Heah in solitary
in da illuminating blackness

I’m just like Jonah
in da diving whale.

 

Da brain can rewire anyting

and in dis strange confinement
heaving to da motion of my host

I can plainly see multicolored kites
dancing and bobbing in da sky

witout looking through my eyes.

 

Maybe dose
are like da random prayer flags

dat she going view in Chiang Mai

each one wun wish
and wun mystery to behold.

 

She stay off to Thailand
all da way around da world

while I stay riding
dis unseen leviathan

waiting to be placed
on some newfound shore.

 

Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai’i Creole English) and in American English. He edited Ho’omanoa: An Anthology of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature. Some of his recent Pidgin writing has appeared in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Otoliths, Tuck Magazine, and The Lake, among others. Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing in the expanding context of World Literature. He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.

Cammy Thomas: “Teetering”

Teetering

When the body that’s failing
isn’t my own
even its smallest cough
wakes me.

I wait for the trees to show up
outside before
I would even consider
moving and waking him.

When he teeters in the bathroom,
collapses against me,
is it time to call the doctor,
the ambulance?

I don’t fight him about sleeping
with the cold fan on
or refusing to eat anything
for a day.

Now we just walk to the corner,
not over the hill–
and I watch for the high curb
and the storm drains. . .

 

Cammy Thomas has two collections of poems with Four Way Books: Inscriptions (2014) and Cathedral of Wish (2006), winner of the Norma Farber First Book Award. Her poems are forthcoming or have recently appeared in Tampa Review, Ocean State Review, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. Cammy lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

 

George Thomas: “Reams of Poetry Adrift”

Reams of Poetry Adrift

one poetry market
they threw your poems out
distributed them
to barroom bathrooms
bus stop benches
soapy Laundromat counters
they said they wanted to “get ur shit out”
get it out where it might do some good

Bukowski’s been in that one
Lin Lifshin too
and old Bull Lee
had Whitman been here, him too probably
and most likely Vachel as well
before he drank Lysol

it’s a vision all right —
poems lying in the gutter
reams of poetry adrift in puddles
on whore-night streets
and hangover dawns
beside cum-filled condoms
on blustery streets
the final destination of every immortal thought

ask any drifter with a poem in his pack

 

Retired now from life’s work as CNC machinist, George Thomas has been
writing poetry for most of his life with some little success but not enough
to encourage him. Recently Washington State poet laureate Tod Marshall
included one of his poems in WA129, an anthology of Washington poets.

 

 

Nels Hanson: “Song to No Music”

Song to No Music

As a boy he yearned to sing only songs
of praise but now his words all sound
like broken requiems. Even the spring
leaves wave goodbye as country roads

turn to rushing arteries supplying nutrients
for a spreading unmentionable disease.
Listen to the lilies’ white trumpets play
their dirge and see the yellow poppies

among red rocks show a scarlet stain
as if the stones were bleeding. Something
in us is catching. “When was it, about
1956, when you passed a stranger on

the sidewalk and said hello and that
person didn’t answer back?” Kerouac
asked once. The year is now 2018 and
things are stranger since hate elected

its king president. Today my wife said
she’d just learned something she didn’t
know before–the octopus has three
hearts, two to pump its blue-green blood

to gills to breathe, the third to circulate
blood to the body, eight legs. I couldn’t
help but answer, “That’s three more
hearts than many people have.” Those

words make no tune. Better to be silent
like the dazed grass along the roadside
after a semi passes and the stalks stand
still as soldiers after a fearful battle.

 

Nels Hanson grew up on a small farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California and has worked as a farmer, teacher, and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations.

Steve Harvester: “We Are Going to the Quarry”

We Are Going to the Quarry

They invited me, and I groaned
“Oh no, not another bar.”
Was there nothing else to do
For counselors in Vermont
When not minding the campers
But to spend our cash on beer?

But staying alone was worse;
I hopped inside the last car,
Wondering as we passed each bar,
Left the highway, then the road,
Until the tires crunched gravel,
Then stopped at the very edge
Of a dark limestone quarry.

The full moon was just rising,
Huge twice, once over the trees,
And again in still water
Hundreds of feet down, they said,
Secret, silent, clean and cold.

We were all beautiful then,
So there wasn’t any shame
In stripping so that the moon
Turned tanned flesh to fairy white.
Two ladies had brought guitars,
Two boys pulled out jugs of wine.

We drank and sang to the moon
As it grew higher, smaller,
Our bodies more perfect than
They would ever be again.

 

Steve Harvester was a Methodist minister for 25 years, and is now a sales rep for a New England home remodeling company. He and Judy are the parents of four. This is his first year working on his poems seriously.

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois: “The Wealthy Are Always Feasting”

The Wealthy Are Always Feasting

1.
Nocturno’s Sand Dial marks off the minutes before the bank takes my home. The Happiness of Loving My Brunette has been eclipsed by the misfortunes my brunette and I have experienced.

2.
Your mother forced you to carry ice for their whiskey, then shoved you out into the storm.

3.
When I took the est training in the seventies, that weird blend of encounter groups, Zen and Sado-Masochism, I learned that I choose everything that happens to me, but I’m having a hard time figuring out how I chose this.

4.
Her white boyfriend came out and caught you, drove you into the hill’s cold powder. The cabin lurched like a flogged Wyeth. Snow swirled.

5.
Miró (creator of Nocturno, The Happiness of Loving My Brunette, and several hundred paintings titled Woman Bird or Bird Woman) went to bed without any supper and saw shapes on the ceiling, which became his paintings.

My brunette and I look in the front window of the house we worked hard to acquire and now have lost. We spend some timeless time surveying Still Life with Old Shoe.

6.
To freely run my hands over your body, the softening of your eyes.

7.
I will assassinate painting, said Miró, I will break Picasso’s guitar.

8.
In a photo I’m expressionless, on stiff legs in front of a shuttered hotel. Your heartbeat is a tension in my chest.

9.
I kick in the front door. I remember once fixing the hinges.

10.
Heart shredded, my body dehydrates as we distance until my skin is ground chalk. The wealthy are feasting tonight.

11.
I have this sensation, one I never had in all my days as a millworker and carpenter: Hands Flying Off Toward the Constellations.

The wealthy are always feasting.

 

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

 

 

 

William C. Crawford: “Jimmy Pro Found Inspiration at a Now-Defunct El Paso Watering Hole.”

Crawford--Goldies

“Jimmy Pro Found Inspiration at a Now-Defunct El Paso Watering Hole.”

1430 Myrtle is gone from the city charts, but it still has a warm place in local barflies’ hearts.

Jimmy Pro landed up here a decade or so ago. Foraging the borderline, he was drawn in by the allure of Marilyn and the adjacent sub barrio, resplendent with its decaying funk. For a lensman in search of poetic inspiration, the dingy bar was the perfect place to conjure up a late afternoon, laconic stare; to unwind from shooting; and to jot down a few trigger riffs, teased out by ice cold Lone Star. Happy Hour can often be a poet’s salvation until it just isn’t.

Jimmy spent most of a decade sifting along The Line, honing his images, both electronic and literary. His voluminous photos further sharpen the clarity of his incisive poetry. “The Border Elegies” hang heavy with Jimmy’s prickly historical view of our enigmatic southern boundary. For sharp, visiting insight, de Tocqueville doesn’t have jack shit on Jimmy!

El Paso, for Pro, was the citadel for his wandering self assignment. Its gritty West Texas ambiance and resplendent culture titillated his most deeply held, creative instincts. Comfort, contentment, and creativity anchored him here like a rock for nearly ten years.

But the place that he warmly refers to as “The City Of The Future” is changing. He recognizes this gentrification, having sniffed its putrid spillage elsewhere in places like Gotham City’s Chinatown. Now, even this traditional barrio is tainted by ever seeping progress. This insidious creep is what finally took out a mini neighborhood icon like Goldie’s.

The place earned a sketchy score of 83 on its last Health Department sanitation inspection in May, 2013. Marilyn was still smiling, welcoming customers in for spicy tacos and tawdry conversation. But Goldie’s shelf life was nearly spent. Cheap beer down here is plentiful, and real estate near downtown was beginning to have some serious, long term prospects.

Jimmy finished The Border Elegies, but just in time for his joint to suffer the wrecking ball. When I finally showed up, he took me to another downtown dive bar, The Tap. Here, may be found, possibly, the best jukebox in Texas. I was also really inspired by the endless flow of cold Tecate. So I churned out a hot story about a mythical gunfight and our eventual escape down an endless alleyway that formed a seedy, urban slot canyon. Some editors liked it, and I even provided a dramatic supporting photo for publication.

I never got to quaff a brew with Jimmy at Goldie’s, though. But if I had, a yarn featuring Pancho Villa buying a round for the boisterous house might have spewed forth. Pancho would have probably met up with Marty Robbins, you know, “out in the West Texas town of El Paso”! They could have had a bar shoot out with the relentless Federales who had been hot on Pancho’s trail since early in the 20th century. Then, I would have provided a cool image to support my storyline. Likely the same hip photo seen here.

I am just proud to have ever off centered Goldie’s in my viewfinder. For his part, Jimmy Pro is content to have found poetic synergy in a small barrio icon, now lost to time. Gone from the charts . . . but never, ever from our hearts.

 

William C. Crawford is a writer & photographer based in Winston-Salem, NC. He was a combat photojournalist in Vietnam. He later enjoyed a long career in social work, and also taught at UNC Chapel Hill. He photographs the trite, trivial, and the mundane. Crawford developed the forensic foraging technique of photography with his colleague, Sydney lensman, Jim Provencher.

Ana Hahs: “Void”

Void

Twisting spirals intertwined,
Red and green
aligned.
Jutting roof, dragon corners
a sweep of shade below
—she emerged.

Ashy-dark hair
with some white dust remaining.
Hung heavy and low.
Her feet scraped the ground leaving
a train of dirt and pebbles scattered
in her wake.

Coarse yellow threads make
a decaying tapestry broken by
the rusty columns which
do nothing to stop
clouds of dusty sins.

The swirl of tradition and ignorance surrounded it.
Weaving a hazy cloak
blinding people.
Not a new home
old.
Old as religion.
Stolen from over the sea
stuck onto a new landscape,
dry, decaying wheat.

Woven like straw
banded.
Yellow-framed, a red and black staircase
going up and up…
Cut off. Dried blood.
Drooping towards the ground before
being caught up.
An ancient slithering cord of poison
—brought to surrender.

Truth preys at night
sneaking into
troubled minds
once set free by lies and fantasies.

Her venom pours
out of her ash hair and
her mouth and
her dirty feet.

Crippling certainty that
dries up the
world.

Truth is blank—
hiding and scurrying.
Slipping in and out
of gaze.

Avoiding needles and questions
sliding out
of fingers.

An empty bucket overturned
somewhere in the world.

 

Ana Hahs is an English major at San Jose State University in California. She uses poetry as a tool to explore her own emotions but hopes that the end result expresses an idea that is in some way meaningful to all readers. When Ana is not putting words down on paper, she spends her time getting inspired by other authors, as well as pop culture and her personal life. Ana has an A.A in English from West Valley College, and some of her other poems have been published in their literary anthology Voices.