Broken Ink
1Untitled by Michael Boasso
1Untitled by Michael Boasso
with your long legs
and greenish--I'm all the fun
you need--eyes,
how do you do it?
Steal all the fame and
leave me plain, boring, and brown
like a bag stuffed with tampons,
milk and bread
little sister,
green and happy
how in such a short time
did you take my life and
make it your own?
My flirty "come here" shoulder
on your body
my tease, my laugh,
my words
translated into your talent--
that must--
be nurtured.
Oh, happy little sister,
I'm green in the
shade but
I'll grow like a weed
happy little sister
those flowing locks will
drown again
cut from their stem
little rose,
'cause roses whither.
Sister, little happy
green sister
explode--with the
stolen light and
in the mirror I'll
lurk
watching her toss your
hair, call you hon
and pamper your
perfect little self
little green sister
mama's pride--who
has--all the attention,
the talent,
the future--Come Here,
down to my level.
You--shrink into my
shadows little rose
Little and happy
green sister
tell me, how you
can do it? You're sooo
fine and mama's
dead--the one who
should've been mama
but you
little girl have
forgotten who
I am,
little green rose
my little green rose
I'll protect you
baby
hide you from hurt
in the shade
'cause happy little sister
little golden green child
it's not your fault you're
splendid
you're polished
little happy green sister
sweet child
how did you do it
little rose?
--Kristina M. Snowden
He cannot paint the water's pictures,
He cannot write the water's poems.Roberto longs for rivers,
Longs for where the search begins,
Longs for the river who was the lover,
Longs for the lover who was there all along.Roberto lolls at water's edge,
Dipping hands into the shallows,
Balancing water drops on fingertips,
Sipping the drops.Roberto swims the river,
Fondling the water,
Its curves, its water's shape,
Its form shaped by the water.Roberto's lover looms in the waters,
Rushing steady in the lucid eddies.
Roberto revels in the circular pools.
The river moves, moves,
The lovers twist in the current,
The colors fade,
The type fades,
And fades again.
--Delmar Brewington
after Jack B. Bedell
Drawing a leg from under tangled sheets,
I feel the fan's chill breath
caress the moist damp of my knee.Laying your poems aside,
I reach, take up my pencil,
write an "in accord": connected withthe rhythmic rumble of the train
tracking its way through the
moon glazed dark, whistle moans.And the she-dog barks, a Discard,
anxious guardian to my heels;
waits for the breach of day.Hazily I wonder how you've come
to know a Michael, Heather, Ross--
names so closely bound to me.Then wander random memories,
in hopes of being lured by
haunting fingers beckoning.Dark hair man, words penetrate
a sensual side of self; and
brow arched, frames your detached stare.Mere picture in a book, bedside,
some names. A gift, addressed:
Appreciation. Thank-You.Paths merge here once, or cross,
enough to just have been at all.
Sated, I sigh . . . I sleep.Lured by wraithlike phantasies,
passe' shrouds of mystery-
lost in Louisiana magic.
--Caroline VII Miller
He rolls a coin over each knuckle
and rechecks his outfit for doves,
sponge balls and hidden scarves in the sleeves.Between the fourth and fifth acts
The Great Jensen waits in the wings.
The clowns in the back laugh
and exchange jokes and stories.This sorcerer looks at his watch,
studying the hands as they move round the face,
keeping time with the music, time enough for a taleof villains and heroes each labeled magicians,
waiting in their own wings
to show the world their magic,
each as misunderstood and lonely
as Jensen himself,whether crossing Arabian sands
with thick goatees and gold earrings
or shrouding themselves
in the breath of a dragon,putting right what some blundering apprentice
made wrong while out searching
to find ingredients for spells,whether spurned by strong youth,
the seventh son of a seventh son,
or ill-advised by the greed of a king and his lust,selling beans to some farm boy for the price of a cow,
or shifting shape to animal,vegetable or rock,
to stand on the peak and summon the very winds
causing mountains to crumble and the oceans to roar.Jensen wraps himself in the leg,
drifting off to sleep,
to braid locks in his hair
and grow a beard, long and gray,
to perch an owl on his shoulder
or a raven, dark as midnight.He closes his eyes and then begins to dream
of flowing robes, half-moons and runes carved in wood.
--James Enewlow
17Clustered Mind by Matthais Jung
The tracks in the snow disappeared around the corner of the barn. Leaning against a pile of ice-covered firewood, Paul fumbled to close his zipper. The cold snow and ice that burned his face and neck seemed to blow from the top of the mountains like tiny missiles, each causing just enough discomfort that combined was almost unbearable. Paul staggered back into the barn, stopping to look with clenched eyes through the gray gloom. He could barely see the massive rock of the Alps in the distance even though the sun would not set for a couple of hours.Back in the barn Paul rubbed his cold hands on his old, spotted leather apron before he opened the burner and threw in a couple of pieces of wood. The pressure gauge was still reading 500, almost in the red, but it was the only source of heat in the barn. He wasn't worried about an explosion. He had helped his father make this still when he was a boy. It made the best schnapps in Vorarlberg, and everyone knew it. He reached down and filled his little shot glass from the batch he had finished the night before. He turned it up and held the clear liquid in his mouth for a second before he swallowed it all in one hard gulp. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the taste. It was good, actually better than the batches he sold: 76% alcohol, which was 26% stronger than what was allowed by law. This is the good stuff, he thought. He made it for special occasions and for friends as gifts, and today, after all, was a special day: the first good snow of the year, his favorite mare had her foal . . . the anniversary of his father's death. He looked down bitterly at his empty glass; he drank for celebration and mourning.
He poured another glass and opened the vent on the side of the burner to allow just a little more air to feed the fire. He held the full glass in his hands, staring into it, trying to picture his father sitting in the chair beside him. His father wasn't a handsome man. He was an older version of Paul: tall, strong shoulders and arms, a man who worked hard and didn't care much about anything except his family, his farm, and his schnapps.
When Paul was just a boy he would help his father gather the apples and pears in their orchard and carry the big baskets to the barn. Paul would wash, cut, and prepare the fruit for the cooker while his father would hum in a low, quiet voice, keeping a careful eye on his son. His father loved to hum old drinking songs. He was famous for humming but not as famous as the schnapps he made. He definitely made the best schnapps in Vorarlberg, maybe even the best in all of Austria. Paul turned up the glass, draining it again for the . . . what was it , he thought, tenth, fifteenth time? He looked over at the liter pitcher. It was almost empty. Maybe he had drunk more than he thought. He poured another, this time draining the pitcher completely. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs wide in front of him, one on either side of the burner. He held the glass in his lap, the same glass his father had drunk from many times. He could hear the blowing snow outside. The steel walls of the burner glowed red, and the fire inside fed on the air that was being pulled through the breathers. It sounded like one of the old steam engine trains he had seen as a boy. It was a soothing, rhythmic sound. What else did he hear? Was it a voice? He tried to concentrate. It wasn't Milli. She had left him not long after his father had died. She said she couldn't live with him until he could accept his father's death and start living again. He tried to be perfectly still. It was hard to hear over the sounds of pulsating fire. The sound got deeper, deep like the sound of his own voice, deep like the voice of his father. I must be drunk, he thought, looking over at the pressure gauge. It's 500 or 800, he couldn't tell. He looked around. Everything was a blur. He looked back down at the glass full of liquor and thought, Yes, it is strong. He lifted his glass, closed his eyes and swallowed.
When he opened his eyes the barn was much brighter. The fire was blowing from the melted seal between the burner and the cooker. The door on the side of the burner blew from the hinges, and an arm of flame reached out grabbing hold of the condenser and igniting the flammable contents inside.
Paul woke in the snow outside of his fiery barn. He could see the flashing lights of the fire trucks as they slowly worked their way up the narrow, snow-covered road to his farm. He reached up painfully to feel the side of his head where his ear used to be. The leather apron that he wore gave off streams of black, smoldering smoke. Men in heavy dark clothes stood over him. He saw their lips move, but he couldn't hear their voices. He couldn't hear anything but a slow, deep humming.
The Thresher by Lorenzo Williams
"No monsters, Dad?" I ask him.
He is shutting off the light.
"There is no such thing as monsters.
Now, go to sleep, good night."
I hug my teddy, rub my eyes,
pull my blanket off the floor.
I actually believe him,
until he shuts the door.
I sit a while, watching
the second hand on the clock,
I listen to the bathroom faucet
echoing "Drip, Drop."
The late night passing headlights
cast shadows on the wall,
while the sound of creaking floor boards,
become footsteps in the hall.
The closet's rusty hinges
squeak in ghoulish glee,
and slowly, slowly, slowly,
opens steadily.
Eight eyes peer out, two rows of four,
they stare in strange delight.
A bony hand crawls 'cross the floor,
to my bed,
then out of sight.
A tentacle sweeps freely by,
tugging at my sheets.
A muffled, gargling, raspy voice calls out,
"Yum, when do we eat?"
My throat closes up.
My mouth goes dry.
A slimy hand grabs my jammies,
tearing at the collar.
I'm going to die. That is for sure,
So I begin to holler.
I kick, I punch, I struggle,
pull my blankets over my head.
I'm about to throw my pillow,
when I see Daddy by my bed.
"Monsters, Dad!" I try to explain.
Boy, does he look sour!
"Ugly things with knife-like claws!
Huge, bigger than a tower!"
Dad taps his foot, he rolls his eyes
he turns to shut off the lights.
"I told you.
There are no such thing as monsters.
Now, go to sleep, good night!"
--Elizabeth Mark
I wasn't the one
diseased by fear,
unable to open
his hand to show you
his scarred palms.
It was my narrator.I did not weep
when the green and yellow
turned to black and white
and the laughter iced over
into silence.I was never a caged animal
snarling and pouting
at freckled children
with bags of peanuts,
pacing back and forth,
praying for you and your key.I did not hide
beneath the covers tending
to a fire started by the touch
of your tiny hands,
nor did I quiver at the sound
of your moist whisper.It wasn't me who loved you.
My narrator did it.
--Clay Morton
The feel of three-day-old stubble
Wears on my face and begins to itch.
I smile at the fact the kids down
The street shirk at my front door
And whisper rumors about me
In the backs of school buses,
Then run by my porch,
Ring the doorbell,
And then run away.
I laugh at them as they stumble
Over the junk mail that's been
There since last Halloween.
They cringe in fear behind
The tree in my yard and wait
For me to come to the door,
But I don't.
Bo, my youngest pug, barks
At them from the door.
Sometimes I hear them exclaim
While walking by my house
On the way to school,
"Old man Stevens must have
A doberman or pitbull in there!"
"Oh yeah, well I heard he catches little
Boys and then he feeds them to his dog."
I chuckle sometimes and make the
Curtains move near my desk.
It pleases me to see them scamper
Down the street in fear
At the hint of movement.
Other times I open the window
and just smile at them. I laugh
When they nearly wet their pants
As they stand frozen in my driveway.
I've been called several times
By their parents and chastised.
Been told I should be ashamed
and should learn to act my age.
Is it my fault they flock here?
I don't invite them to ring my bell
And spend their time having nightmares
and making up stories. Several times
I've lit up the porch for Halloween
And invited them to the door
To fill their bags with candy.
They just scream and run away,
And they call me senile.
All I really want is peace and quiet.
I have my rights, I pay my taxes.
All I want is to just be left alone.
I guess it's just a phase. I'm thinking
Of opening the windows more and
Getting the house painted a different color,
Maybe even letting my dogs out into the yard.
Hell, what's the use?
They'll just grow older,
And then tell the younger children
Lies about me.
A whole new generation
Will learn fear from my name
And a whole new bunch of phone calls
Will follow with that.
By my watch it's about time
To part the curtains again.
My fan club has arrived.
Take your seats boys and girls,
The show's about to begin . . .
--James Enelow
She sits on her front porch
Watching him pedal by,
Followed by several skinny hounds,
Panting loudly, trying to keep up.Every time she sees him
She thinks of the stories,
People in this town love to talk.
She wonders if they are true.He was burning a pile of leaves,
His eight year old son trying to "help."
The boy spilled some gasoline on his pants,
And ran too close to the flames.Burned up before his eyes, they say.
His wife blamed him for the accident,
Packed her bags and left for Charleston.
The man lost his mind.Folks say he was the richest man in town,
Sold insurance and farmed his father's land.
His big house sits abandoned
At the southside edge of town.He'll go inside the house to check on things,
But sleeps under the town picnic shelter
During the day,
Moving into the fire station in the winter.The town pays him to watch the stores at night.
He takes his job seriously,
Keeps a thick log of his nightly check
For locked doors.People tell her he's a harmless old man,
Keeps mostly to himself;
Hanging out at the corner store,
Taking baths in the creek outside of town.She's seen him there through the trees,
Stripped naked to his waist,
Water dripping from his long, white beard,
His clothes hanging from the bushes.
--Lynette I. Corder
Cafe Crazy Pie by Liz Kasner
Standing tall, thin in organized rows,
A green army of sentinels, battling
For space, for light.They sometimes bend to each other.
Their feathered, fragile limbs
Sway, sway and exchange whispers.But at night, they guard and shelter the secrets
Of the day, keeping them from the stars and moon.
Orion is ready to cut them with his sword.
--Susan Poorbaugh
27Tree by Angela Watkins