Bubbles All the blurred circles bursting in the close background while mirrored up front. - Davis
Poem – For an Old Lover
For an Old Lover
I can see your gaze on the horizon, steady,
not like mine as I drive alone
glancing at everything
that measures
how far I am from home.
The number on the trip odometer is a fraction,
nominal in the permanent measurement, scant
but significant, vital to the equation’s precision,
it itself a testament,
as you know
The eyes’ weariness serves warning for the midnight blues,
but music waits in the cold morning
when I’m trembling close to you.
“And these are the days for roses, poetry and prose…
-O'Connell
Poem – Mount Corcoran
Mount Corcoran -Albert Bierstadt, 1877 The black bear waits to kiss the water’s edge Under fallen trees the trout nap together and the waterfall hums almost unnoticed. Just a “mountain lake” before the water dried: From a hidden source the artificial light shines on the sides of white-capped triangles. Under the clouds, poor Al renamed his baby. Under the approaching clouds, cranes relax against redwoods, rubbing against the aging sequoias. The paintbrush dabbed lightly before another application, before the bassinet wails asking to be tended. Oh, let’s frame it. -O'Connell
Poem – Fortune Cookies, Too
Fortune Cookies, Too
The son becomes the father
when the father passes
your obligation becomes your life
We replace the old
hardwood living room
with thick gray carpet
it’s not an accident if you allow it
Katie’s waist thins over time
stretches mark the months
Billy depended on her
make sure to caress them
when you bathe
Mother spends the day with her grandson
the sparkling boy waits
to become a man
everyone loves you, she says
His first word makes Katie
feel like a mother
his second muffled
just too obscure
The cognac is to remember him.
everything else; habits over time
never too much
just enough to keep warm.
He can’t be replaced
she screams from the bathroom
we’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do
The salt in her tears
remind me to keep her
face on my neck
when she cries
Don’t try seeing around corners
make slow wide turns
a moderate speed is key
His face blank when he sees
his younger sisters
distorted reflections of time
sometimes the experience
is neither joy nor sorrow
Katies weeps as she squeezes
and feels him all over.
make sure parts are not missing.
-Saechao
Poem – The Next Day
The Next Day
for Ali S.
As our language thrived
father faltered in his bed
trying to push his once strong thoughts
the noise
he succumbed to
the pitter patter
beeps from machines
sounds of the gong
My nephew blows into a fifty year-old
rhino horn for fun
delight
mimicking the old man
in flowing silks and flat linens
he hops around like a manic Easter Bunny
pink and red and white
flapping against the wind
According to records
he could have been fifty-five
the next day
but who knows
about the next day
she wakes and walks
into a room of smoke
smell of freshly slaughtered swine
the horror hidden when she sees
the lips of the creature, already puckered
pursed for a devilish kiss
Shrill cry of the child
ripping the room’s sheet of smoke
I hand my young nephew to her
the reluctant acceptance
he reaches right for her brown tresses
still ruffled from the cat nap
I almost felt bad about sleeping with her
the night before
we were quiet, almost motionless. Breathless.
The unfamiliar room.
I wanted a new life
a replacement
someone new to love
the timing was wrong
it never happened
The words terse,
ensuring no slips.
Nothing wasted,
nothing given.
Guarding ourselves;
what can happen.
Oh, the memories.
The soundtrack the light provides
the clichés we avoid with might
we don’t want to make love
pushing the trap away
the scorn we possess
And we watched then waited.
And we talked then waited.
Driving through the hills
with the beautiful trees
dying again with their sunset foliage:
This exodus into the ground.
-Saechao
Poem – Wanderers
Wanderers
Looking for a place to settle
my Father walked me
between the tracks
leading to the next town, our town
with a different name, familiar enough.
Trains push air under dust,
it is so dry, our breathing;
like eating dirt
from the earth.
It’s a drought, he says,
not looking at me.
Our destination
is not visible
curves hide
what we’re looking for
we see buildings
above treetops
Later,
Father pours Tennessee whiskey
from his flask
onto my bee sting, Russian vodka
into my shot glass;
we bond that way
desecrating our bodies.
My Father talked
into the night,
our loose rhetoric.
His stories’ morals
I can’t live with
his heroes
suffering
less than he has.
I mumble his words to my wife,
not verbatim,
and in English;
I don’t remember exactly what he said.
My artificial intelligence,
resident of a child’s closet,
remains untouched, unblemished.
-Xiong
Poem – To Jazz
To Jazz
A Conversation with Steve Davis
From the stereo system
someone unnamed from the Golden Age
or so it seems
filters through the dancing smoke
Dueling trombones
on rolling rocks of Pennsylvania
echo of
glacier tympani in Yosemite
Hear that counterpoint
Cats don’t play that way anymore
modern day baroque
and most are broke
“Shit! Man…no more like this, no more…
god bless ‘em.”
Sweet sippin’ gin to
milky singin’
hands, fingers moving
grooving with the break,
wrist slapping
hands clapping
Lace that shit,
it’s gotta stick.
Nothing’s too fast,
Nothing’s too fast,
keep up, cat.
“You can do this,
you won’t need a demo.”
-Saechao
Poem – Permanence of Ink
Permanence of Ink Moth banging against tinted window not knowing the shortness of life. Its seconds ticking away; even grains of sand run out. The permanence of ink crosses barriers of time, the way we thought, And think of life, love, and…death— what color may it be— for all to see eventually. What color it may be, it stands with no regards ever since it’s been put on paper. Much has been written, Even more said, less remembered. Truth, lies. It doesn’t really matter. record the significant they tell me I should keep the insignificant on paper in ink so I don’t forget what I don’t need to remember my father is gone the smell gradually, too the pictures don’t lie but I’d rather have his painting, black and white he used to tell me— I forget the exact words— the gist was to not forget all that was and will be important what were those words he spoke to me that last day Ah, “Don’t forget what matters to you. You can write it all down, but even ink fades.” -Davis
Poem – City Lights
City Lights
in the city’s perfect emanation of light
-Carolyn Forche
Traffic light
spotlights
the hungry man on the corner
holding a cup for change.
Christmas lights
bring out his high cheekbones
ragged pants over thin thighs
eating into themselves.
Red light district
nonexistent
in fishnet stockings
and black leather miniskirt.
Street lights lining
dirt road curving
around a bend a paved highway
migrant worker and colleagues in an earth-brown
van headed southbound
to cabbage patches in Watsonville.
Boardwalk lights
enveloping broken relationships
between high school sweethearts in their thirties
their six year-old on a porcelain horse
chasing a dream that will always stay
a few lengths away.
Wall Street lights
selling the junk bonds analyst
the idea of becoming a poet
his office light is not bright
enough for him to live comfortably,
but he feels fine.
Porch light
waiting for the return
of a prodigal son
lost to necessities.
-Smith
Fiction – The Dragon’s Wok
Chapter One – The Dragon’s Wok
-Saechao
He catches me trying to slip out of the door.
In a game we’ve been playing since his third day home from the hospital, the difference now is he can chase me, albeit with wobbly steps. Like always, he looks up, eyes questioning where and why I’m going. At first, I stopped so he wouldn’t cry, though he had never given me any reason to believe he would. Now, I want to be caught. I want to explain the destination, to promise an early return, to kiss him on his forehead.
We meet halfway in the living room and I scoop him off the carpet.
He leans his padded cheek against my ear as we twirl in front of my mother.
Turning my head, my lips to his ears, I whisper words he has heard many times, a secret I hope he remembers. Before too long, my restless mother asks to hand him over, and I kiss his forehead before holding him out to her arms. I can feel them watching me walk out of the room and the front door.
