sparkle & blink 2.8

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Q uiet Lightning

s P A R K L E

& b L I N K2.8


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as performed on

Sept 5 11@

The San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers

2011 Quiet LightningISBN 978-1-257-99907-1

art by Tyler Bewleytylerbewley.com

curated by Kristen Kramer + Evan Karp

edited by Evan Karpevankarp.com

Promotional rights only.

This book, or parts thereof, may not bereproduced in any form without permission from

individual authors.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this

book via the internet or any other means withoutthe permission of the author(s) is illegal.

Your support is crucial and appreciated.http://[email protected]


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Q uiet Lightning

is

a monthly submission-based reading series

with 2 stipulations

you have to commit to the date to submit

you only get 3-8 min

submit

!!

The Greenhouse Effect

presented in conjunction with

the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers

is

a summer reading series

this

is

volume 2

!

!


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Contents

side Q

Meghan ThorntonfromThe Sword in the Cellar 7

Sherril JaffeA Little Bird Told Me 13

Nicole McFeely you r 19Its walking away 21

Anna PulleyYou Call It 23

Chris CarosiWolfs Speech 27

Joseph Lease fromTestifyLost Highway 33Law and Order 47Kindness 48 To the Dead 53

2.8

Tyler BewleySpecimen Gallery 1 front coverFrom above, from below back coversolar, Wind, Water 6, 103Fog Bank 67-8


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side L

Siamak VossoughiWhere I Come From, People Listen 70

Mira Martin-Parker The Old Man in Her Closet 77

Nicole HenaresSad Little Bitch Thoughts 81

The Dormouse Speaks 81

Marc OlmstedHong Kong Bardo 85

Janey Smithshorts from My Life as a Cheerleader 87

Jason FileVacation on the Baja Coast 91

Charlie GetterUntitled 95

Michael Palmer

Fog in Berkeley 101

info + guide to other readings 103


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Excerpt from The Sword in the CellarOnce upon a time, Aelin discovers a frog with glowing red eyesin the woods. No one at school believes her story, and she andher brother Finn are sent home to their mother, who is none too

pleased

They were not allowed to play that afternoon.Instead Ma made them dig stones from the garden.After dinner they were sent straight to bed. Aelinwas frustrated that she hadnt had a chance tosearch for the frog.

She felt restless, lying in the dark, unable tosleep. From across the room Finn spoke, Tell meanother story about Eggy. She heard him turntoward her and saw the faint glitter of his eyes.

Im tired, she lied. She forced a loud,drawn-out yawn.

Cmon, he pleaded, A short one. Eggy

should fight a dragon or something.Eggys a duck, she said, rolling her eyes.Yeah, well, with the right weapons he could

still fight a dragon. Maybe he could He stoppedsuddenly. Did you hear that?

Aelin listened hard. Through the draughty,summer-thin walls the night sounds rang clear: an

owl hooting, wind rustling grass and leaves,branches whining against one another, and then aloud crack in the distance, like a tree beingsnapped in two.

There it is again! Finn exclaimed.She sat up. What is it?I dont know. Something in the woods.

Maybe its your frog, he teased.They waited in silence. Several seconds wentby before they heard the sound again.

Ill bet its a boar! Finn yelled. He hoppedout of bed.

Ma will be mad


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Meghan Thornton

No she wont. Shes probably asleep.When they tiptoed into the cozy living room

they saw that not only was their mother wide-awake, but she wasnt even dressed for bed. The

dying embers in the fireplace rimmed Mas bentback with orange light. She was looking betweenthe slats in the front door.

Aelin hesitated but Finns curiosityoverwhelmed any caution. What is it, Ma? heasked quietly.

Their mother didnt look back at them but

only murmured, Strange.Finn shuffled past her to the small window

beside the door. Moonlight poured through itshalf-open shutters and onto the floor.

Ma hissed, Stay away from the window.Finn looked at Aelin and shrugged. He

moved over to where she stood behind their

mother.What do you think it is? Aelin asked Ma.

She hoped it might be the big stag that sometimesvisited their woods. The last time shed spotted it,shed counted sixteen points on its rackthe mostshe had ever seen. But it hadnt come around in awhile.

Its probably nothing. Probably just aMas voice was cut off by a loud thump thatsounded closer than before.

Aelin saw a thin spear of light puncturing thedarkness to their right. She tiptoed over to it. Coolair slid into the house through a gap between thestones, ruffling her nightdress. She crouched and

peered through the crack.At first she thought a cobweb or cocoon

blocked the woods from her view. She realizedwith a start that she was looking at a thick,obscuring fog. As she watched, the old oak was


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slowly disappearing into the perning mist. Theirflag, still hanging where theyd tied it yesterday,vanished behind a curling tendril. Within the fogswhite belly, branches cracked and leaves stirred.

Whatever it was, it was coming nearer.Lemme see, Finn said, pulling her aside.

Oh His mouth hung open as he stared throughthe gap. In the tiny slant of light she could see hiswide brown eye and the freckles crowding the skinaround it.

There was another loud thud. The floor

trembled.Maybe its a herd of deer, she offered. She

tried squeezing in beside her brother but he shovedher away.

I think I see something! Finn whispered.Theres something red

Ma suddenly whirled around. Come on,

she said. She grabbed Aelins arm and pulled herand Finn across the room.

What, Ma? Whatd you see? Aelin asked.Their mother didnt answer. She let go of

them and started pushing at one side of the ancientdesk they used for homework. Wood groaned asthe desk slid across the floor.

Whats that? Finn cried, pointing. A smallmetal ring was set into the floor where the deskhad been.

Ma grabbed the ring in both hands andpulled. A rectangular section of floor came up andswung to one side. Aelin was stunned. A trapdoorin their house, all this time! She and Finn

had explored every nook, every cranny. Or soshed thought.

Their mother knelt and thrust her arm intothe dark hole. She withdrew something thatglinted brightly in the firelight. It was a sword.


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The quiver of fear in Aelins chest droppedinto her stomach and curdled there.

You have a sword? Finn asked in disbelief.Get in, both of you, Ma ordered.

You mean into theYes, Finn. Climb down. Then help your

sister.ButIts not a far drop. Go on!Finn scrambled to the edge of the hole. He

threw Aelin a quick, worried look before jumping

into it. When he stood up again the top of his headcame just below the floorboards.

Aelin sat down beside the opening. Her heartraced. Ma She looked back to see Ma clenchingthe sword, staring at the front door as if expectingsomething to burst through it at any moment. Thehouse shook again. Her mother didnt flinch, only

raised the sword higher. Then she noticed Aelin.I said get down there! The eyes that met

Aelins were remote and frightening. Now.Aelin dangled her legs into the darkness,

more afraid than shed ever been in her life.Grab her, Finn, came the order.Finn gripped her beneath the shoulders. He

lowered her until her bare feet touched cool, dampdirt.

Ma appeared in the opening above them. Thefirelight caught in her tawny hair and cast abrilliant halo around her unreadable face. Now bequiet. No matter what happens, stay down thereuntil I tell you its safe.

What about you? Aelin cried. Terrorgripped her insides.

Shh, Ill be fine, her mother soothed,sounding again like herself. She ducked out ofsight. Aelin heard her warning in that other,


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commanding tone, Finn, watch your head, andthe light above them fell away.


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Meghan Thornton


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A Little Bird Told Me

There was a message on the machine from herfriend Rena. I wont be able to go to the museum

with you tomorrow. I have to go down to SanDiego. My aunts not doing well.

Suddenly, Marianne had her day returned toher. She had been looking forward to going to theexhibit with her friend, but they could go anothertime. And now she had an absolutely free day infront of her.

The first thing she did was clean her house,vacuuming, dusting, and polishing, and puttinglast weeks flowers into the compost. She enjoyedhaving a clean house but usually resented givingup the time it took to clean it, but now she hadextra time returned to her, free time, and shecleaned her house cheerfully and then stood back

to enjoy how fresh, lovely, and homey it looked.Renas failing aunt had given this to her. In asystem of bartering, an old ladys health had beenexchanged for an absolutely free day for Marianne.And the weather was perfect. Marianne set out forthe park.

It was only two blocks away, her own

personal Garden of Eden, where she wanderedevery day reveling in the forests, lakes, andwaterfalls, and the roses, lilies, azalea, andrhododendron. How she loved to see the skyframed between the museum and the redwoods,the puffy white clouds against a baby blue gauche,and, most of all, the birds soaring overhead or

standing in the fields or wading in the lakes. It wasthe birds, most of all, that Marianne was lookingfor in the park, and she commonly spotted red-tailed hawks, great blue herons, snowy egrets andonce a pair of quail, and when she spotted thesebirds, and when they allowed her to come quite


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close to them, as often happened, actually, she wassure she was being visited by her dead husband,that he was looking out at her through the eyes ofthe bird and watching out for her. And she would

speak to the bird. Hello, dear. Im doing okay. Imokay.

Today almost as soon as she entered the parkshe saw an exquisite blue jay hopping towards heron black pen strokes of legs, his feathers radiant inthe sunshine, his heart full of love and passion.Hello, my darling, she said, and a thrill ran

through her. Im so glad to see you! Never leaveme! The bird hopped toward her, bobbing hishead, and then away, into the darkening brush.

After her walk, it was time for errands. At thepost office, Marianne made her first mistake. Shesaw the sign that said Passport renewal byappointment only followed by a phone number.

She knew she should copy down the phonenumber, because she was going to need a passportto travel this summer, and hers might be expired.But if her passport was still current, she wouldntneed the number, so copying it down would be agratuitous act. Later, when she got home, shediscovered that her passport had indeed expired

the month before. And she remembered the lasttime she had used it, on a trip to Italy with herhusband two years before he died.

The second mistake she made was to go toTrader Joes at this particular moment, the precisemoment when they ran out of albacore tuna salad.It made such an easy supper with crackers! She got

some fresh flowers.When Marianne got home with the groceries

she put everything away and the flowers in thevases, and the vases in the fireplaces in the livingroom and her bedroom. Then she sat down to write


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this story. She had just finished, when herdaughter, Posey, came over to pick up a packageand make herself a salad. Marianne sat down tohave a cup of tea with her while she ate. Posey was

very tired. She had been up all night again fightingwith her boyfriend. She complained that thetherapist they were going to, who was an intern,was no good.

It must be hard for you to get therapywithout critiquing the therapist, Marianne said toPosey, who was herself interning to be a therapist.

Its just that shes so bad, Posey said.How can you tell, when all they do is sit

there, listening to you speak? I wish my therapistwould give me advice, like, do this; dont do that.But she just sits there and listens.

Therapy is subtle, Posey said. Its workingin ways you cant see. If it werent working, you

wouldnt keep going back. But this isnt about you.Its about my boyfriend and me. I just cantcommunicate with him, she said, and its makingme so frustrated.

Marianne had no advice to give. However,she thought that if they couldnt communicate theyshould stop trying because it wasnt worth it to

stay up all night, because once your sleep was off,everything was off, and it was hard to recuperatefrom a night without sleep. But Posey was young,so she could recover from such things quickly, andif she and her boyfriend were fighting for hours, itmight be because she and her boyfriend needed tofight for hours, and it wasnt any of Mariannes

business, anyway. She had heard of couples wholiked to fight; their fights made their relationshipexciting to them, and Marianne wondered if Poseyand her boyfriend werent a couple like that, butPosey said they werent; she didnt like to fight, but


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her boyfriend wouldnt stop, and she didnt knowhow she was going to stop him.

Youve got to get some sleep, Mariannesaid, but then Poseys phone rang, and it was the

boyfriend. Posey immediately started fighting withhim. Marianne began emptying the dishwasher.Posey sat at the table fighting with her boyfriendon her cell phone.

After a while, Marianne went upstairs. Firstshe gestured to her daughter to tell her she wasgoing up. Her daughter nodded her head toward

her mother while continuing to fight with herboyfriend.

Marianne went back into her study andworked on this story. She could hear herdaughters voice fighting with her boyfriend on thephone rising up the stairs outside her study doorand getting closer. Then she heard her daughters

anguished and angry voice coming from the roomdown the hall and around the corner that used tobe her room as she continued her fight with herboyfriend.

After a while, Marianne went into herbedroom and got ready for bedremoving hercontacts, brushing her teeth, washing her face, and

applying her night cream. Then she undressed andgot into bed with her kindle. After she had beenreading for a while and dozing, Posey came intoher room. Marianne prepared herself to talk withher about her boyfriend, but Posey had not come into talk but to borrow her landline. Her phone haddied and she was not done fighting with her

boyfriend.In the middle of the night Marianne woke up.

The light was on in the hall outside her door. Sheturned if off. She walked down the hall and aroundto Poseys old room. The light was on, but she was


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gone. Marianne turned out the light. Probably thelight was on in the kitchen, too, but she didnt wantto go all the way down there.

In the morning, Marianne got up, went

downstairs, and turned off the light in the kitchen.


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you r

even when you dont want to ____.

even when you feel you have nothing to ____.when you feel your ___ isnt good enough, or

profound enough,

prolific enough.

your ___ doesnt touch people, even those you

love, even those who try to take an interest in

your ___.

even when your ___ feels stranded in a crowd.

even when your ___ isnt yours. even when

your ___ is repetitive. even when your ___ is

repetitive. even when your ___ is wrong.

even when your ___ is supposed to be having

the best time ever. even when your ___ is only

a part of a program.

keep on ___. keep on ___. keep on ___.even when your ___ cant distinguish between

the many voices speaking. even when your

___ is sorry.

especially when it isnt.

even when your ____ is broken glass. even

when your ___ says some day too often and

isnt sure when. even when your ___ is last in

line.


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Nicole McFeely

keep ____.

it will happen. it will happen. at least, it has before.


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Its walking away/

Its knowing when to/

I wanted to have something beautiful to say to you

but lately, I'm all moon

full floating though shadowed

far off and frowning

watching men babble, battle

back and forth, quiet then blind

pouring their lives into illustrations and illusions,

poking at progress with the point of a stick sharp-

sharpened to wound

that is in error

that is a mouth fumbling

at coattails

the highest criticism backwash

and I way off

off mighty

casting light not crafted directly

majestic in sky

dreaming of life, quiet and blind

sucked, stuck to earth by my shine

gravitational pull, pulled back into


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Nicole McFeely

this curious pestilence of colorful emptiness

a new creation, eclipsed, grown weary of

passions not known

or known too well

falling like a madness: heads or fails

sickened suddenly with unlimited possibility

expressing nothing, seeing the object as it is:

heads

whispering without words

1000 things not present

bearing the resemblance of my face in yours

and one message to deliverto the critic:

I wanted to have something beautiful to say to you,

but great things less noble take its place.

life cheats us with shadows.


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You Call It

He puts on a pair of shorts after youve made love,grabbing at the piles of clothes in the dark by his

bed until he finds something suitable to cover hisnakedness. Thats not what you call it, of course,making love. You call it what it is: an affair. Still, youresent him for covering himself. He is always socovered. Since your own clothes rarely come offduring these exchanges, however, you can hardlyfault him. Not out of prudishness, mind you, but

urgency. You tug your skirt around until its facingthe right direction, but remain topless, to provesomething that you are, if not quite an openbook, then a topless one at least.

Is that a tattoo? you ask, suddenly quiteaware of how little you know about him, his body.

Its a joke, he says.

A joke, you repeat. Thats exactly what Iam, you think. What this is.

It says S Se Puede in henna. Or it did,rather. My brother and I got them when we wentto Mexico. Then I got tan. Damn thing still hasntgone away, he says.

Thats not a joke, you think. In this moment,

you think you might hate him, even more so thanwhen you first met, for coming between you andyour real, actual boyfriend; hate his flat Mexicanass and one-dimpled face; hate that you are drawnto him still, across cities, countries even, lovers oldand new; and now you definitely hate his stupidreverse henna tattoo.

Do you have any tattoos? he asks. He playswith the beaded curtain masquerading as abedroom door.

No, you say.Oh. I didnt think so. You stare at his

stomach, at the space where the henna ink used to


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Anna Pullley

be, looking for nuance, for a hint of somethingbehind his words other than what he has actuallysaid. You try to remember if his expression everchanged, when he bent you over his bed, when he

pressed himself into you, when he said hello. Youremember him always looking composed, thoughsurely that couldnt be the case.

Then you think: Could this really be theconversation that two people whove been sleepingtogether on and off for a decade have after sex?Was it because you had so little time together? That

your boyfriend knows about the affair now andthat this may be the last time you ever see him? Orwas it that adultery made for terrible icebreakers?You try to think of something to ask him, but canonly manage, Do you know what time it is?

Quarter till, he says and pushes himselfonto his knees. He stops playing with the curtain

and begins tracing words on your back. You wantto know what hes spelling, but do not have thecourage to ask. Youre not sure you like this,actually, this feeling of intimacy. You oncepreferred these interactions to be like groceryshoppingin and out, with as little crying aspossible. There were few pleasantries exchanged,

save for the necessary words, Yes, Please, A LittleTo The Left, and now the presence of cordiality hasstarted to make you uncomfortable. You must havesomething in common, you think. A ritual, aceremony other than sweat, that strange fruit, andthe chemistry you can only refer to as destructive.You look at him, on his knees, the beads still

swaying gently from side to side. For the first time,you realize that youre in this together. This is not

just happening to you alone.


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In the middle of this struggle to find meaningand common ground, he says, Want to go again?and you hate him all over again.

No, you say, calmly. I should be going.

You break from his touch as if scalded and dresscarelessly, throwing this on, and that. The beautyof his studio is that there are very few places tohide.

He walks you out, his bicycle on one side,you on the other.

Where are you going? you ask.

For a ride, he says, and you realize he isntobligated to tell you anything. That, in fact, yourrelationship depends on not expecting any answersfrom each other.

You should wear a helmet, you say, lessout of concern for his safety, and more because thatis what people say to people who dont wear

helmets.I know, he says, ignoring you and placing a

foot on the pedal. You turn to leave, feeling thecold lash at your freshly chewed lips, and try toremember the last time youve worn a helmetyourselfsurely it has been years, you think.

I was hit by a car, you say, feeling now as

though you need to explain yourself, and yoursentiments.

That sucks, he says, and gazes at yousteadily. You want to say more about it, that youfractured your skull, that you couldnt walk foreight days, that when you called in to work,everyone thought you were joking, even though

why would anyone joke about that? And whydoesnt anyone know what a goddamn joke is?

But you dont know where to begin. He looksdown at his bike, then back at you. Hes clearlywaiting for you to release him. Yet you cant. A


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woman crosses the street and gets into a car todrive away. You wish you were that woman. Youwish you were any other woman. You even wish,for a moment, that you were the Other Woman.

Then you could just flit away.I told him, you say.You told him? he asks.We were eating dinner, you say, as if this is

a relevant detail. Clam Chowder.And what did he say? he asks.It doesnt matter, you say.

He said it didnt matter?No, Im saying it doesnt matter. What he

said, you say. I just thought you should know.Eventually, he says, Its really cold out

here, and breathes into his hands.I wish you would have said something

else, you say.

Like what? he asks.Like anything, you say. Like you can

never see the stars in the city. Like the snow is stillpretty, even when it gets trampled on. Like Ill missyou.

I will miss you, he says. I miss youalready.

You smile at him, even though the cold hurtsyour teeth. I havent left yet.

Youre still smiling when he bends down tokiss you, and for a brief moment, his warmthspreads across your whole face. Then is gone.


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WOLFS SPEECH

1.

Wolf, do you see?

I see horses without collarsdriven to the river yes the river

I see water flicked like sparksdelivering & quitting the radio

I see the rams standing in briarssilent storm clouds with gold horns

I see brass in only light todaythe shine of declawed houses trimmed with

grassthere is only an illusion sight brings

the safe haven

I see the bird on the electric wireout of the stationhouses window

the heat of phone wirespeoples mouths makeis under its feet

it stands up on it then it leavesthe names travail mustve spoken


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Chris Carosi

2.What is a home?

when they disguise their ignorancewhen the wind has dresseswhen the meaning of fire is lostwhen the trees burn in winter

when they go there they need a dog

when asking the trees their namewhen they sew the feet into the ashwhen they follow the bark taking the path

when they purge creationwhen they cross the firebreakwhen I gowhen I step crumb by crumb


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3.Do you hear?

I hear the fabrics are winding meand the trees protect every seed

I hear the wind in the bandages hangingon the studs in the axe-handle shed

the state-made sayDont stay here

they say dont stay here wrenchesin the corner felt to make a face

do not pass through, outsideryour brown hair is caught in the catch on the

gate

cannot find the latchseparated from speech with a fence (that no

one understands)

they say count the objects with your 11

fingersyou may pass, strength, mind the mouth of

the lion

the cat-ghost that bats at silencehoof-palm across the knuckles a plaything

over the seal of door

say you are, now dont, dont saydont wake the pigeons sleep on the curls of

twigs

the nests are hollow on the elms


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Chris Carosi

plastic is sewn thru the nests

I cannot rest breathe, talk, stand, sit, teach,wham, drip, dark, coin, cry, crap, yawn, or

bitch

it gets dark and the rooster saysthat hes the loser of the dawn


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4.come back sleepwalk to the roost

(a pile of sticks and bandage forms)

come back to the house the housewe unlock our jaws there we breathe again

there

we say, You all live the best as we excurse

we feel the grass worry about it, as wetrespass

we say, The white smoke you all exhaledangles

from your mouth which is sweeter than ours

we say, No one creeps here to spy us

not welcome we approach the heavy doors

touch its void with our eyelasheswith our eyelashes touch its void

a person is asleep we touch carefulthis phrase on the stair

the morning is asleep the nighttime we hearbreathing look the fragile the knee-back of

neck

lie down lower a thousand ways find usjust like keepsakes on the floor


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Chris Carosi


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Lost Highway

branches

paradise

unbuttoned

she turns on the light: to have seen what is wet,

to have known what is wet, to have seen what is

loose, to see the climb, rain-spine: she turns off

the lightit's dark on your shoulders, it's night

on your chestthe way, the way we live in

bodies: oh snap, oh scatter, and to your scattered

bodies goit's dream inside your face; it's night

inside your morningare you architect, are you

sound, are you blue, are you green, are you fire,

are you gold


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

When he was

In his prime

When he was

In his prime

Break

Summer

Paint

Fear

He was wild

A little wild

Hes dying


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You cant exhale

Hes dying

Hes asking

Why

You

Love

Him


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

Its dream inside your face, its night

Inside your morning, are you blue,

Are you green, are you fire, are you

Gold:

Have you

Come, have

You

Come, to

Sing to

Me, to

Sing

To me


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Lost Highway

Kisses that we share across the sky, he is the

drunk lane, the mayor, drunk lake, drunk in

the lake, hes so tired, and he cantwhat?

my father just feels Sidney Bechet, Hart

Crane, Krazy Katnow he doesnt have any

he gives lifekisses that we share across the

sky


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

The book will save the book; oil will kill the world:

hes just trying to see, pay attention,

He said, he said joy, he said feel this, blue-green

voice; he said, violet, blue wind pushes, river light,

maples, he said


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Lost Highway

And any dead man sad enough or

Free enough, confused enough or

Safe enough or running home at

Last enough


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

Hes dying in a town full of rabbits

Hes dying

Lying on the couch


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Lost Highway

He hates sentimental slophold his handhes

from Coney Islandhes tougher than youhe says

when I squeeze your hand Im squeezing her

handhis mother in the roomhis mothers me

tell him, tell him, your mother loves you


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

Drunk like coins, like coins: Our lifestyle is

wrecking the planet for Christs sake, shes drunk

like a gold coin, hes drunk like a gold coin: the TV

says the TV: farmers are farmers: corporations eat

them: rabbits are perfect, there was always all this

death, there was always a photo, a photo and

money, rain in the street, a bus and a photo of

moneyice and the river


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Lost Highway

blue

night

comes

No

No one

Nobody dies

Nobody loses


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

Where is the distance, where are the toenails,

where are the gym shoes, where is the pain,

where are the toenails, please stop this

screaming, please breathe my newsprint,

my

eyes dont fit


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Lost Highway

joy could

blue fire torn blue

you

dear one

dear smart

shining you

dear you

my fathers

what

my fathers

rain

becoming

rain


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Joseph Lease

Lost Highway

Soft wind like a road

Done

I wrote done

I tried to write dont

Dont

Dont

Dont


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Law and OrderGhosts, revolution: everything means you in thatdying you dream blue snow in desperate rooms:

like tattered worlds in streets in blue snow, the

revolution, the world: hes a good ruin, hes a

fool, night runs away: night face to face: write

May, write trees, write laughter, other rooms:

what is your facewhat you threw outdrugs

understood: snow like that, impossible rooms,

people will die: and parties paint pictures, and

mystery, depravity, the lost one, the fool: fathers

lost in blowing snow, fathers drift in blowing

leaves: and all the lies in any town, in any

house, in any moon, and all the lies that fly

away, that fly around in blowing snow: the ones

who died, the ones who froze: you crawl awhile

and then you end: you fall awhile and then you

end


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Joseph Lease

Kindness

so

willows

so

lost


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no

in waves youmust

paintfrom

plenty to

nightmare

allbrightness

you must

pain

nopaint

angel

flesh

paint


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Joseph Lease

so

willowsso

lost


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just

squeeze daylight

from

your finger

justspill lifetimes

on

the floor


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Joseph Lease

so

willowsso

lost

so

openso

long


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To the Dead

I said, Ill see you in the morning: he said,

Even on mornings when I dont see you Ill see

you: I was crying why not admit it:


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

Soft

Wind like a road

The old couple upstairs, shes

Walking back to him, hell live

Longer if he eats more, were all

Doomed, he says, so, yes,joy

Soft

Wind like a road


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To the Dead

Leaves and moon

Dead again

Sing me home

Just say when


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

If anybody needs me Im a hawk

If anybody needs a branch in light

If anybody needs the lakes glass

Skin


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To the Dead

USA was a parasite, a way

of happening, a seizure floating between word

and meaning

we

are

running

out of

eyes


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

Death is here, you took a photo, sure, death

Is near, remember, remember, today we fight

Like birds, fight like burning rags, today we

Fight like gods, today we die for gods, how Much

is that Ahi in the window, here you

Are, here we are, no mercy, no future, lots

And lots of turkey sausage, death tangles, Death

shakes, death breakfast served all

Night, death tangles, death shakes, death-

Flavored ice-cream, deathberry gum


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To the Dead

Can you slide inside some wind,

Can you slide the sun back home

You want

to glint Electric rain, its hard to think of anyone

but You, hey shadows playing shadows, say the

Names, Ill try to flow like hair, like wind, like

Gold,

Ill try to

glint like Birds behind the rain


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

You want me to have health care, right

America equals ghostI tremble

for my country when I reflect that

God is just


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To the Dead

bright

branches

Secret name like love like dust,

Ash, lavender ink: voice

Moon

Stay in love


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

They had a body crammed into a mailbox

and it was just a brown suit with bones

sticking out

prisoner /

citizen

Dear You,


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To the Dead

Soft

Wind like a road

The old couple upstairs, shes

Walking back to him, hell live

Longer if he eats more, were all

Doomed, he says, so, yes,joy

Soft

Wind like a road


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Joseph Lease

To the Dead

Leaves and moon

Dead again

Sing me home

Just say when


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To be continued


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Joseph Lease


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Siamak Vossoughi

Where I Come From, People Listen

One day a guy brings a frisbee to school, and thenhis friends are throwing it around at lunch, andthen pretty soon they're playing a game with it thatthey're not sure if they learned about or invented,and then next thing you know they've graduatedfrom high school and gone to college, but all that ishow I found myself on the University of

Washington ultimate frisbee team, the only brownfellow on a team of white graduate students.

The game itself was beautiful. There was grassand running and diving and all along I wasmaking a study of how the grey sky over Seattlecould look so magnificent, and I was beginning totheorize that it had to do with what was happening

on the ground. There was a connection there, but Ihadn't quite figured it out.

And the players themselves were more likewho I had hoped to meet in college. They hadsomething slow and unrushed about them, andwho they were seemed to take in more than justthe school and the party over the weekend. The

team was co-ed and the men and women were easyaround each other.

Every other Saturday, I would go home and atsome point while I was studying up in my oldroom, my sister would come in and tell me aboutlife in seventh grade. It was a hell of a relief to hearabout it. It was a relief to hear that somebody was

struggling with life besides me. It was the same oldstuff. People and what were they trying to do inbeing how they were and what was anybodysupposed to do about it. It happened to be aseventh-grade version of it, but that was where she


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happened to be. She didn't have any other versionof it to speak from. I'd listen to her and the grey

sky would do that thing it did again and I'd make amental note to give it some more thought againlater.

The frisbee team would practice on Fridays,and on the way back from the field, they wouldstop off at Big Time Brewery, a pub that I dreamedof someday entering. But I was too young and they

were strict about I.D., so I would walk home withLaura Cary, the ex-girlfriend of the team captain,Mike Tunica. She told me that she felt okay to playfrisbee with him but not to drink around him, andwhen she said it, life seemed wonderful andmysterious.

On the way home, she would tell me about her

and Mike. She started telling it and I listened, so Iguess she decided to tell some more. She wasn'tdesperate about it. She had already given herfeelings a lot of consideration. She had given therelationship a lot of consideration, and the chancefor reconciliation too. Still, I knew her and I knewMike, so I was somebody to tell.

I liked listening to her a lot. I like thedifficulties of feelings. I liked complexity. It felt likesomething that matched the grey sky in theafternoon, the way it was something that nobodywas supposed to like but somehow I did. I would'vebeen happy just to go on one date at the time, butsomehow the language she spoke in wasn't

unfamiliar to me. It was something I had alwaysthought people had in them, all this time that I hadbeen walking around the campus looking at thehundreds and hundreds of them. It turned out thathere was where they had it: in their relationships.It was as good a place as any. They were absolute


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geniuses in it when they were given a chance.Laura Cary was, at least, I thought. It wasn't so

much the content of what she said as in her tone:How do you ever really know one way or the otherwhen it comes to human beings? That's a goodgoddamn question, I wanted to say.

We got into a routine with it on Fridays afterpractice. I looked forward to it as much as theplaying itself. She was twenty-four years old and

when she told me about her relationship withMike, I felt like I was going past the school and tothe world, which was all I was trying to do all thetime.

At one practice, Mike and I were warming uptogether, tossing short throws. He jogged over tome.

"Sorry about Laura," he said."What do you mean?" I said."She's been talking your ear off about us.""It's all right.""You can tell her you're not her therapist, you

know. She's probably right about everything shesays about me, but if you're getting tired of it, you

should tell her.""It's all right," I said. "Where I come from,

people listen.""What do you mean?"I didn't know. I had just felt that I wanted to

say it."Iran," I said.

"Iran? How long did you live there?""Until I was two."He looked at me funny and we went back to

throwing. I didn't know where else it was that Imeant but I made a mental note to think about itsome more later.


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Laura had to leave early that day because of asprained ankle, but the next week when she and I

were walking home again, she said, "I don't meanto be taking advantage of you if there's somecultural reasons why you feel obligated to listen tome. You can tell me if you're tired of hearing aboutme and Mike."

"That's the thing," I said. "I don't know if thereis or not. But I really don't mind hearing about it. I

like listening to you.""Thank you.""I have a question though. What exactly are

you supposed to do if you don't listen?"She laughed."You don't know how good it is to hear you

say that."

At the next practice, Mike was warming upwith me again.

"I'm going to say something that is going tosound very mean, but I am going to say it," he said."You are going down a dangerous road. You aregoing down a dangerous road listening to women."

"I am?"

"Yes."I knew where he was going, and I even

thought he might be right about it. It was just thatnot listening to women felt like a dangerous roadtoo, and I felt inclined to go with the danger that atleastfelt less dangerous.

"How come you and Laura manage to find a

way to talk about me but not about each other?" Isaid.

"Well it's different. We like you.""You like each other."


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Siamak Vossoughi

"We like each other, but we don't like thatthird thing that's just sitting there. Everything we

have to talk about. I don't at least."I felt like I liked people for having those third

things, as hard as they were. They really went along way in making them who they were.

"Well," I said. "It's not going anywhere."The next day I went home and when my sister

came up to my room while I was studying, I told

herabout the frisbee team and walking home withLaura and everything that Mike had had to sayabout it. She listened the whole time and then shetold me about seventh grade and what her friendshad been saying that she didn't like about someother people. I listened and wondered if ourlistening could be from Iran when all we did was

speak in English and all we talked about wastrying to understand people here in America. Itwas still possible. But it was also from itself. It wasfrom a second ago and a day ago and a year ago. Itwas from itself because there really were someparts of life that moved in a straight line, asimpossible as that seemed, and you learned from

them as you were doing them. You might evenlearn word by word, as it was in our case. Itsounded precarious when I thought of it like that,but not if my sister and I were both doing it.

It was the same thing with the sky over Seattle.It was beautiful because it had other grey skies init, all the grey skies I had seen in Seattle, which

meant that it had me in it, it had more of me in itthan a sunny day would, because the biggest thingI believed in without actually knowing it in thosedays was that what was actually happening wasbigger than anything I wished was happening, andI didn't know how to tell anybody that, even my


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sister. I didn't know how to tell anybody that whenLaura Cary was telling me about her problems

with Mike Tunica, it was bigger than anybody Icould wish was telling me about anything. But itwas why I couldn't get behind it when there was afeeling in people on a sunny day that everythingthey were waiting for was finally here. I hadn'tbeen a fool on those other days. I hadn't been half-paying attention to life. There had been worlds and

lives affected by those other days, and my onlywish was to know about every one.


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Siamak Vossoughi


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The Old Man in Her Closet

Her living room smelled of old wool andsandalwood. I desperately wanted to open awindow and let in some fresh air, but this was thefirst time I had spent an entire evening at her placeand I didnt want to make myself overlycomfortable. She lived in the top flat of anEdwardian building and her apartment was in

immaculate condition. The fixtures and detailswere all original, the wooden floors were freshlypolished, and the antique furnishings were fromthe exact period as the house. Along the far wallthere was a bookcase full of nineteenth-centuryliterature, mostly Russian. I scanned the titles for awhile, settled on Fathers and Sons, and sat down on

the couch to read.An hour quickly passed, when suddenly a

rustling sound came from a closet in the corner. Iignored it at first, assuming the noise had comefrom the apartment below. Then a couple ofminutes later I heard it again, only this time it wasfollowed by a loud thump. I went to the door and

put my ear against it. A gruff male voice could beheard muttering curses and shuffling about inside.I dashed back to the couch, grabbed the book, andpretended to be reading. Seconds later, the doorflung open and an old man emerged, unshavenand wearing a dirty gray trench coat. He looked atme, said nothing, and headed straight for the

bathroom, leaving behind the overwhelming smellof stale tobacco and liquor. After finishing in thebathroom, he opened the front door and left.

Once I was certain he was gone, I went over tothe closet and peeked inside. Her closet was the


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Mira Martin-Parker

size of a small bedroom and the racks were packedwith clothing. Everything was neatly separated by

type and color. There were long black cashmerecoats, short black wool jackets, vintage furs, camel-colored blazers, 1940s gabardine jackets in jeweltones, and 1950s cropped jackets in black wool.There was even an entire shelf with handbags linedup like soldiersblack leather, black alligator,brown alligator, patent leather, brown suedeshe

must have had one to match every conceivabletype of shoe. Resting atop a small built-in bureauwas a jewelry box overflowing with jeweledbroaches and strands of pearls. It was in every waythe closet of a princess. But off in the far corner,beneath the long black coats, the edge of a greenmilitary blanket could be seen poking out. Sitting

beside that was a rusty tin can filled with cigarettebutts.

When she finally woke up that morning, Imade us both a pleasant breakfast of coffee andtoast; I never mentioned anything about what I hadseen. But that night, while enjoying a lovely mealat Boulevard, I made the mistake of bringing it up.

We had just polished off two New York strips anda bottle of Bordeaux, and were discussingDostoyevsky (all of our discussions had alwaysbeen kept rigidly confined to either Russianliterature or the psychology of twentieth-centurytotalitarianism, her two favorite subjects). She wasin the middle of telling me something having to do

with the bordello scene in Notes from Underground,when finally I got up the nerve to ask her.

By the way, I said, pouring the last fewdrops of wine into her glass, do you know youhave an old man living in your closet?


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She raised an eyebrow and stared stone-facedback at me. And? she said.

Oh nothing, nothing. I just wasnt sure if youknew, thats all.

She must have felt sorry for me at this point,for I was clearly embarrassed (my cheeks turnedbright red and I began anxiously looking about forthe waiter). Then her face softened and the smallesthint of a smile appeared.

So you want to know about my old man, doyou? You want to know about all that, she saidwith a laugh. Then she quickly changed the subjectto Grushenka in The Brothers Karamazov.


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Mira Martin-Parker


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Sad Little Bitch Thoughtsfirst published in the Instant Pussy No Mas UterusAnthology

Never mind, never mind, never mind.Its silly. But,

I bend sound the way I choose,not up and down, like most iambs, perfectbut strange, creating spondees from madmen, accentedthe ways madness almost always equals man but

never more.The words quell me and I quell the words.Lipstick. Hairspray. Max-factor Red. Curlers.

Conveyer Belts.Complacency. Polyester. Bloat.

Juan Granada starring as Johnny Pridewill light a cigarette and howl with the bats

who hide in the Laugh n Scratch theater at the end ofAlvarado street.

FUCK THE STOPLIGHTS!Who cares at this ungodly hour of the morning?All there is is fog and seagulls and bird shit.So throw a card throw a card any card.The widows of Cannery Row are in black and

weeping on the graves.Only their grand-daughters can speak of their grief.Tralalalala, (this is the sound.)Tralalalala, this is the roll of death kissed mouths

bitch lipped prim,ears plugged, ignoring death and

the ghosts

who offer only the silence of the dead,from a playground cemetery and tombstone

photographsof the workers when they were young and

beautiful.(I notice, I have a phd in such vanities.)


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Nicole Henares

While the widowers will vindicate themselvesand scream at their sons when they die YOU IDIOTS

and IM NOT READY YET at her spirit:Everything is hummingbirds,

hummingbirds, hummingbirds!


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The Dormouse Speaks

The Knave of Hearts obelisk hovers softIn the distance, pulses

a spangled treacle. The mercury of the madmanshat works

slow like the rest of me. I have given upall attempts at communication. Yes,

the roses must be red.

Yes, mice can fit in a tea-pot.When did you leave the party? Why

didnt I notice your arrival?I might snore, I might even be

solipsistic and therefore meanbut I always remember

to bring bright yellow tulips.

Though the roses must be red,Must be red,Must be red.

Must always be red.I beg of you to spare me

My paranoia, my perceived wrong-doings.Late winter rains bloom

leaky hearts. My mouthis a faucet.

When I do, I speak too quickly.My letters may punctuate,

But my meanings only murder the time.


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Nicole Henares


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Hong Kong BardoFlitting through Hong Kong airport

a leaf-blown ghost confused by my karmastanding in the wrong lineor frozen in one spot check-inwhile secret calls are madefor the 2 giganticIndian men gorged to bursting, petulantbut a few hours in the Hong Kong airport

will make a petulant unhappy ghostw/ huge stomach & tiny mouthscratchy bored explanations that are incoherentprickly sweat gathering at the memory of a neckthe STARBUCKS croissant a Chinese lanterndissolving into dustfingers of dust

tongue dry hanging cow-likeeyes blurringas this world goes awayin a whisper of desperationthe black out preferable?the kiss-off preferable?get me to the church on time

station to station hearse to hearseblack plume lady wont you go out tonight?nova moon collapsing black tar black holeBlack Sunday I am my own Barbara Steelegigantic eyed B-movie scream queenstaring into the empty mirrorof dissolving stars, falling sputniks

a brief quiet in the industry of the deadhurtling to their destinations


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Marc Olmsted


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Vignettes: short fictionsfrom

My Life as a Cheerleader

Marsha didnt need to tell me. I thought it up onmy own. By Friday we had formed a club, but things changed. Marsha got back together withJimmy and Sally started sleeping with Roberto. Iquit the club because I was the only one without aboyfriend. I looked at myself in my mirror, had

thoughts about Mr. Linker, my second periodchemistry teacher. Mr. Linker passed very near to me in the hall. When he came closer, almostbumped into me, he said, Excuse me, andsmiled. As he moved farther away I watched him.I put my books in my locker, wished I was puttinghim in there so I could see him everyday betweenclasses smile at me. I like that hes black. It

makes him dangerous.

I walked to the top of the stairs, stopped in frontof the locked door, knocked and listened for yourfootsteps. You knocked back. I could hear yourvoice, kind of, thought you said, Help. I ran downstairs to find hammer to break door down, findyou. When I came back, I got lost. The stairs wereall messed up. The door which was there was thirty feet up in the air, in a tree. You keptknocking, though. I looked at the sky, saw bits ofmy pom pom, I think. I started to believe strange things. Started to believe that maybe my pompom took you away. I played with a loose threadon my skirt, the one you liked. I am afraid of what

might happen if I keep trying to stand onMarshas shoulders.

I was reading over Marshas shoulder, waiting forthe bus. A dark, shaded building was reading overmy shoulder, wondering about us. It leaned way


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Janey Smith

over, made me wonder about modern buildingson the upper west-side. Without even looking at

me Marsha asked, What are you doing forsummer? I said, Spending it with you, so quietlythat the modern buildings on the upper west-siderelaxed into place, and stayed hushed.

Light shone through branches. Then, my pompoms shadow, blended with branches, swoopedinto sky. My pom pom traveled super fast, made

me think about life, if I still had my bus pass. I putmy arms out with longing eyes, watched my pompom disappear. It came back, flew away again. Iwas happy to watch it do that. I kept my arms out.We would soon share the darkness, I thought.

The baby birds lifted their little wings, flapped

wildly like moths stuck on my cell phone light. I tried to call Marsha. The baby birds swooped allaround me, made me feel light-headed, like amillion spinning halos on my hair. I stood there,waited for the bus. The woman next to me stood there, waited for the bus. The baby birds stoodthere on the bus stop hutch, singing happy songs.Cars passed. The cars made the womans hem-

line quiver. I studied her purse, carefully, noticed itstill contained my one pom pom that, I knew, shetook from me. I stepped toward her, grabbed thepurse like a crazy woman, ran away super fast,bits of pom pom floating in air. I went into analleyway, sat near a gated door, my pom pomslightly worn, but still warm, still warm.

I make a snow angel in the snow outside ourwindow. Sometimes I can hear you breathing. Ipush record on my new digital camera, stare atthe stars. Its a clear night but so cold. I listen tothe sound of the stars. I wonder why there are nopeople around, only empty streets, blue-white


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snow. I push rewind on my new digital camera. Ilisten to the sound of the stars. I will bury the

sound of the stars with us when we die.

Sometimes I am upside down. When sun moves through Marshas hair at noon and I watch it,lying beneath her, doing my stretches, I amupside down. When a fly lands on the wall in thegym, and Im alone listening to band practice, Iam upside down. For me, a storm on the sun is a

fly on the wall. It moves a little, I believe, makesshadows here on Earth, where I lose things, like asingle, solitary pom pomalone and I am upsidedown.


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Janey Smith


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Vacation on the Baja Coast

Day 1We crossed the border and I quickly got us lostbut not for long. Tijuana went by and after a whileRosarita Beach. I kept the pedal to the metalalong the coast and down through Ensenada. Thedestination I had found in the guidebook was along way off, considering we would only be gonefor a few days. But I was insistent on getting usfarther south. I wanted to camp on the Sea ofCortez. I was already so familiar with the PacificOcean. In the car you were mostly quiet and,when we began to drive inland, complained of aheadache. I was tempted to say, It figures.Instead, I suggested that perhaps you simplyneeded some coffee. A half hour later I pulled

over and made a cloud of dust in front of a cinderblock cafe with a big Starbucks logo hand-paintedon its exterior. Inside they served Nescafe andafter a couple sips you said that I could have therest. Outside I took a picture of you near the roadwith your hands on your hips and your headcocked to the side, indulging me. Back in the caryou put your bare feet up on the dash and closed

your eyes. Hey, I said, dont forget were goingto have an entire beach to ourselves.

Day 2

You had not said much all morning. The air washot but this was okay because we were walking in the baby blue water of the Sea of Cortez. Wewere heading toward a small and isolated bay,

hidden around a rocky point. I was in front of you,maybe fifteen feet, when I stepped on a brokenshell that was partly submerged in the sand. Theporcelain-like shard punctured my soft skin and Ibent awkwardly before losing my balance andfalling into the knee-deep ocean. I spent a


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Jason File

moment flailing around in the water and thenwatched as three drops of my own blood floated

by. When I got up and kept walking you said, Thatwas dumb. Thats all you said to me. I turnedaround and wiped the salt water out of my eyes. Icould see how you were trying to hold back asmile. You looked dirty and nervous. Your hairwas blowing around your face. I wondered if youcould see how I was trying to hold back my angerand how I could actually feel the anger inside of

my mouth, like it was pushing up against myteeth, wanting very badly to come out. That was aspecific kind of pressure. Right then I felt sogoddamn fragile, generally speaking, that I wasamazed I had managed to live successfully for 21whole years.

Day 3

You were lying on your towel near the campsiteand the tiny waves kept pushing up against thebeach like, Shhhhh, Shhhhh. The wind had dieddown and it was even hotter than yesterday. Ididnt know what you looked like, maybe a corpseor something. You had been on your towel theentire morning, occasionally drinking a beer but

barely moving. I was bored buteven worseanxious, so I put on my shoes, grabbed mycanteen, and swung my backpack over myshoulder. Quietly, I set off into the desert. Behind the beach I walked over a bunch of dunes. Hotsand fell into my shoes. I wandered through anold forest of Cardon Cacti; their big green armswere bending and flexing in the air, like

bodybuilders. At one point I crossed a dirt road,only lightly suggested. I took a long drink of water.There was no one around so I felt like this was allfor me. When I later came upon a pile of trash Isaid, Fuck. The brittle plastic bags and rustycans of beer were slowly blowing away. I kept


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walking and found a sprawling Prickly PearCactus, totally alone and heavy with fruit. I felt

self-reliant and purposeful as I picked the red fruitfrom the spiky green pads of the cactus. When Ireturned to the campsite in the afternoon youwere sitting up and looking scared. In the sparseand neutral landscape your big, bewildered eyesstood out. Where were you? I pointed vaguelybehind me, then opened my backpack. I took offmy shoes and grabbed two beers. We sat close

on our towels and slowly peeled the skin from thefruit.

Night

There was no one around us for miles and thewind was blowing hard. We were having sex in the tent. It was the first time we had slepttogether on the trip and I was eager even thoughI was pretty sure we were now broken up. Maybe thats why you felt kind of new. Your eyes wereclosed but I could see you just fine in themoonlight. I thought you looked peaceful on top ofme, moving with precision, with your hands firmlyplanted on my chest. I felt happy to bedeliberately and successfully causing you

pleasure. The end of a relationship is mostly sosad and stressful. For a brief time this tripbecame what I had hoped it would be; I wasconnected to you in a simple way that I had notfelt for months.

Day 4

When I came out of the ocean I heard music. I

took my snorkel mask off and saw you in the car,dressed only in your bikini, feet up on the dash, the windows down. The car was parked so that you were looking out toward the Sea of Cortez.You were listening to the iPod hooked up throughthe car stereo. I dug my feet into the sand for a


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moment, then walked toward you. When I was alittle closer I could tell that you were listening to

good old Jao Gilberto. He was quietly strumminghis guitar and singing softly in Portuguese. I touched the hot steel of my car roof and leaneddown. You probably shouldnt listen for too long.If you kill the battery well be stuck here. Youturned your head to the side and said, OK. Twosyllables, not bad. I stood outside the car andlistened for a while with you. I even put my hand

on your very smooth arm and you didnt move.There was a chance that I would hate you whenwe returned home but for now I felt all right. Apelican flew gracefully over the water, then shitinto it. I walked toward the campsite, in order todismantle it.


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Untitled

Whether you believe themythology or not,it is no accidentthat Edenis a garden.

One time

all of the earthwas divided by a linethat ran the middleof the Atlantic Ocean

The Pope was worriedthat Protestants would

convert all the brown spacesfilled with other racesto the wrong Jesus

so he split the worldfrom left to right

Soon after,the world was criss-crossedwith European linessaying who was whom

depending

what color of earthwas under your feeton a mapin Europe


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Charlie Getter

Before thatthe middle of the world was Jerusalem,

or in China,or in the Valley of Mexico,or wherever you were at the time.

Now every man, woman and child,when they stand, sit or lie downdo so directly above

the center of the earth

more or lessI guessthat's progress

is it?

in the skythere are linesnow

I worked for a pirate radio station

and the monkey who ran things(named monkey)had to hide from the feds

because the government(of the people, by the people)sold the sky

to whom?

hmmm

& they build buildings


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that climb into the skyand sell slots of them

to people to live above the fog

and cast shadowson the little people below

& some people shout and screamowning the air

with their pain

I don't want any more air than I can breathe

and no lines on a mapcan keep me inside them

my mind circumscribesmyself much betterthan any cartographer can

no wonder Eden is a garden

then what is heaven?

& what good are clouds foranywayif not to build castles upon

so they can evaporateinto nothing

their battlements soona ruin like so many battlementsover so much time

in the hills


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98

Charlie Getter

on the coastnorth of the Gate

old gun emplacementslook out over the Pacific Ocean

& you can climb within themand look out of the narrow shoot holes

at the sea and the sun

but the concrete is crackedas the tree rootsgrow through the roofs

and some lay open,

bare to the sun, salt spray and air

and for realwere just as permanentas those cloud castlesI build below the firmamentwith my mind

but what is a garden?

if not the fulfillment of our hopes?

when every clippingstops everything slipping into chaospulling life from loss

making dirt into tomatoesgiving quince treesfor snakes to climband flowers in linesthat don't dividebut revive and imply


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99

sPARKLE & bLINK

that we can make something of this timesomething sublime

something that's something


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100

Charlie Getter


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101

sPARKLE & bLINK

Fog in Berkeley

Massiveslow moving silent cloudstarting from somewhere

in the Pacific.

Advancing ghost legionspassing over

the mansions of the rich,the homeless cocoonedin doorways.

Voices of the drowneddriftingpast streetlamps.

Unavoidable, coldrolling field.

Blinding,dangerous to drive in.Like thoughts or

the memories of our families.Or our fates.

Risen smoke of our cremation.


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102

Michael Palmer


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104/104

sparkle & blink 2.8

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