Category: Issue 12

Table of Contents, Issue 12

forrest_bay_area_figurative_revisited_joan_brown_2_ink_oil_pastel_2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems:

Nina Purpuro – [shift work]

Nancy Flynn – Mercator Projections

Brit Parks – scum troughs, pout constitution

Candice Wuehle – [IS] LAND

Paul Hlava, Poem for Michael Brown

Jessica Martini, 11-18: Nearly 400 children rescued from global child pornography ring

Joseph Massey, Late March, March Saturated

Rena Rossner, the dead, shrapnel

Brooke Ellsworth – Lifesend, Medusa

Joshua Krugman – A Manual of Foreign Seasons

Sean Thomas Dougherty – Poem Made of East Sides

Vincent Del Toro – Chaosmosis Engine

Haesong Kwon – Dear Leader

Andrea Collins – Dear Israel

Nick Ravo – Interview

Nathan Kemp – From Gnomic Verse

Prose:

Laynie Brown – The Unfounded:  A Nectar Guide to Names

Visual Art:

Allen Forrest –

Bay Area, Figurative Revisited, Joan Brown 2

Bay Area, Figurative Revisited, Joan Brown 3

Berlin in the 1920s, Mary Wigman and Her Troupe

Berlin in the 1920s, Lotte Jacobi Self-Portrait

Modern Masters Revisited Picasso Guernica 2

Modern Masters Revisited Picasso Guernica 4

Modern Masters Revisited Picasso Guernica 6

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Late March

*******And the mud again
*******ripped open

*******at the seams, silver
*******in afternoon’s glow-

*******ering shine.  Sunday
*******slowly implodes

*******into itself:  the hollow
*******of a vowel humming

*******under the surface
*******we strain to pull

*******our voice—
*******a voice—through.

*******We’ve endured
*******a certain dormancy
*******
*******
and arrived in time
*******(out of time) to say it.

*******To imagine we’ve
*******said it, that it

*******could be enough.

 

***

Joseph Massey is the author of Illocality (Wave Books) and At the Point (Omnidawn), as well as many other books and chapbooks. He lives and writes in the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts.

from Gnomic Verse

this is my moral
yard stick

I have the yard stick
I need

woman hits
a man

over the head
with an umbrella

how many no’s
make a never

the laughing man
is dead his brain

resembles the
red hydrangea

divided into
two parts

ring around
the cranium

she learns to sing

***

Nathan Kemp’s forthcoming chapbook, Gnomic Verse, won the 2014 Dream Horse Press Poetry Chapbook Prize. His work appears in Columbia Poetry Review, Paper Darts, Cream City Review, and Hobart, among others. He is a contributing poetry editor for Barn Owl Review. He lives in Denver, Colorado.

Interview

A ventriloquist’s dummy, a wooden hack with a dopey, frozen, caught cheater’s grin: that’s how I often felt during my half-life as a conduit of current events suitable for attracting commuters’ attention and advertisers’ cash.

Like an tubular apparatus for prevarication facilitation, I would snake up to those famous, fatuous, almost and not, and each and every one, like avuncular Edgar Bergens would shake my hand and then slide their Crisco fists up my check-needy Charley McCarthy, as I, or rather, they, spoke to the world.

Sometimes, I’d mouth a meat clever quip of my own, but even those came from a sanctioned subversiveness, manufactured dissent, as Noam Chomsky would say, himself just another Edgar Bergen, with his activist arm and linguist fingers manipulating reality deep inside my butt.

***

-Nick Ravo is a Seattle poet, and former reporter for metro staff of The New York Times. His creative work has been published, often under pen names, in Open Letters Monthly, Treehouse, Poetry Salzburg Review, Evergreen Review and other journals in the United States and abroad.

pout constitution

*

**********************My pout constitution is devouring your sull through the written tongue.
*

In your hedge maze sanctarium*** your ice bath

cells such as it is

guarding such as it is

*
**********************You need purer regents to determine the composition.
*
*
*
*
The beast scratching at her rib bone guts a demand for a hostage * likely her core**** A veined
systematic fragile failure hardly a worthy hostage**** or adversary
*
*
*
**********************A deadfall well mannered petition.
*
*
*
*
Dare not follow me, I have unendurable tolerance like an undead sulfur rot
*

**********************As if she started off headless.

***

Brit Parks is a poet and artist. She is the recipient of The Claire Rosen and Samuel Edes Emerging Artist Semi-Finalist Fellowship. She received both her Master of Fine Arts and Bachelor of Fine Arts from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She is featured in the current issue of RINE and was previously published in after hours. She has exhibited her films at The Chicago Underground Film Festival and Chicago Filmmakers. She resided in New York for ten years and currently lives in Seattle.

Dear Leader

The part of the pyx Eucharist Father did not

wash all down is in a safe place, but it is not

so small. It looms large still, squired

by the sudden, now ambling, all with real

names. I’ve become a junkie, too. When I was

a boy, I’d toad behind cream ziggurats that became

Daewoo and LG, tramping on feces out of animal

or human, it was hard to tell. It was not so easy

back then, when persimmons were mist, bazooka

ruth a lotus scent, Great Leader upstairs practicing

violin hopes.

 

***

 

Haesong Kwon, originally from Incheon, Korea, lives and works in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

 

 

 

Poem for Michael Brown

Home is return
Home is a familiar
end of the day, fireplace
screen-saver casting sleep across the room
Door closed when you return means safety
lights still off, as they should be
You beautiful human aglimmer in the flicker who
I know I don’t know
alone as I am hurtling through space
I splash water on my face in the tiny
bathroom, the door locked
There is a sound of pulling on the other side
I am returning home on a plane, unaware of myself
and washing my unexceptional hands
When I open the door, he stands there, pushes
me back
What are you doing, he says
What
What are you doing
I answer, Do you need the bathroom
He hears my voice, untenses
Where are you from
California, who are you
Where are you really from
I’m Latino, who are you
You went inside the bathroom, he says
and we can’t be too careful these days
Do you work for the airline
No, he says
It’s the beard, he adds, you look Muslim
I am cornered in the airplane bathroom touching my beard
But you are a police officer for the airline
No
But you work here
No
There is no end, the conversation continues
long after the plane lands, long after
I carry myself
back through the city
Returned home, what am I
but what I am to others
pushed against a turbulent wall, unaware of myself
To return means change
Our home and its new
layer of dust
even in its silence has shifted with the earth
What are you, beautiful human, piston
throttling inside your chest
Around you a barrier
divides the complex, trees
raise their russet branches
The warped scaffold raises its green against the sky
Bang
It continues, raised in the air
Everyone is a low-rise apartment
burning to the ground
I know I can never know
who you were to yourself, alone
as you were, hurtling through
the vision of people around you
as you walked through the middle of the street
The door is open
Your home is a silence
where we can only and at best
listen
untense, look beyond the sudden
noon sun blooming above
your tennis shoes, your letterman’s jacket
your irreplaceable dust

 

***

 

Paul Hlava is a teacher and poet who has been awarded a Poets House fellowship, Cave Canem workshop and was named a Best New Poet 2012 by Matthew Dickman. Poems of his have appeared in Narrative, BOMB, the LA Times and PEN Poetry Series, among others.