April - Poem 5
The Sun's Uneven Rays / Maureen Alsop
When I Was Your Age / Bob Bradshaw
my college was a Mustang,
and its radio schooled me
in surf music:
The Rip Chords, The Surfaris,
Ronny and the Daytonas,
The Astronauts,
The Rivieras,
The Breakers,
The Ventures!
In my beach town
romances collapsed
quickly,
the way a wave
knocks you off
your board.
A new kind of dance
popped up
every week:
The Jerk,
The Frug,
The Watusi!
Guys and girls
lined up--
in front of cafes
and surf shops—
like 45s on the jukebox
waiting to play
when I was your age.
Music was never
loud enough.
And like Louie Louie
love was in the air
everywhere.
There was no need
for a calendar;
summer was never ending,
sure to replace fall
winter, spring--
when I was
your age
Signature / Stan Galloway
And in my dream I practice cursive writing
as if I were in second grade again
but I am not because in dreams life whorls
instead of marching linear –
each S in uppercase stretched higher
as if growing into puberty
seeing girls trying out their B’s
new letters none of us had known
every letter hooking to the next
until a magic spark enlivened ignored places
mixing up our P’s and O’s in strange but pleasant ways
and suddenly I sign my name across the mortgage
knowing I will pay for this throughout my life.
Ceremony / Ava Hu
*
Holder of ceremony.
Cloud swallower.
Wielder of swords.
Eater of black oil.
You burn the grass
beneath our feet.
The memory of the sea
recedes.
The earth will turn
with or without you.
Do you know how to call
the spirits?
Barnacles crack open.
Mussels loosen from the rock.
The memory of the sea
recedes.
Do you know how to call
the spirits?
Who will remember
the names of trees?
*
Driving to Hurricane Ridge contd / Kirsten Miles
above the Juan de Fuca strait
otters dip in the curve of Ediz Hook and
the girl at Tongue Point sleuths
tide pools for orange and purple sea urchins
crimson sea stars, blackberry stains
on her hands her aunt pointing out tentacles
anemone reaching inside a mussel
on the high ridge
in the lower parking lot
faces turned to the star studded sky
the boy on his blanket slightly bored
between each Perseid streaking
between the screen of sky and void
Soft cries rising around him with each new spark
wondering which will open a world
he recognizes
or which he doesn’t recognize but falls
flaming from his lap
Simulation Garden Party / Sergiy Pustogarov
- After the showcase Simulation Garden by Anna Huff
crystal shatters.
boulders crack.
clay breaks.
insects burrow.
rotting smells.
nostrils furrow.
churches mourn.
blessings fail,
still chant,
hold hands,
walk softly,
to light.
the crystal flower
held in your hand
gives simple decadence in a solemn day.
the stars
no longer
blossom.
we
broken people
cast veils
over shaking
ancient shrines.
letting bugs
burrow into
cursed blessings.
in the back
computers clack.
games buzz buzz
simulation garden
hosted by the gods.
.
afterwards i sat in the grass
let does dig to grass and into soil.
let flies dance on my arms,
and a drone fly above.
i still didn’t know what to call
this deity i had stood within.
sprung / nat raum
we all surround the bradford pear spittoon
of pollen vomit and watch ochre dust percolate
while horseflies emerge from hides. this is to say
it’s april, and my eyes itch. i’ve decided i want
to be the movie theater popcorn machine—
seems like a good life to me. i’d like to be doused
in butter and grease and change kernels to fluff
at will, say this must be how jesus felt. instead,
i take Ls the way i used to down chilled shots
of tequila. let’s get one thing absolutely clear:
you’re in their dms. i’m pissing in a pitchblack
bar bathroom. we are not the same.
Doggy Dementia / Daniel Avery Weiss
to be seen / MK Zariel
i almost passed out in public today and looked
desperately awkward doing it. blurred spots, distorted faces,
and still i mostly wondered what everyone would remember of it.
the spots were blue-green like the inside of my eyes, pulsating
like a heat map. i thought i was going to die
for absolutely no reason—and that would be a weird way to go
passing out in the middle of a crowded indie bookstore
in a city to be loved and discarded. sometimes i feel like
one of the many worn-looking pins on the zine rack—
easily taken, easily lost—like a flyer for a punk show
that nobody actually went to, in the end. i didn’t realize
anarchists were regular people until i was one. i didn’t
realize i could stand normally until i was being told quietly
insistently to focus my eyes. what comes next is underwhelming:
a text chain, a flyer on a wall, a conversation over food, a series
of unspoken questions. there’s nothing so precarious as multiple
flavors of Midwest Nice converging. i’m too polite to ask for help
and you’re too polite to ignore me when you see that i need it.
