September - Poem 15

Drifter / Laura Bandy

Last night between rows at the grocery,
my husband sighed and said he wanted
not to know what he now knows. “Let me
crawl back in the Matrix,” he said, “I will
happily eat the fake steak.” He is a handsome
man, tall and blue-eyed of Irish and Quaker
stock, distantly related to Daniel Boone, and
his growing up was fraught (father in a
motorcycle gang, their side of the tracks
decidedly wrong). His song is a familiar one
from good white men who do good now and
are wistful, still, for former ignorance (blissful).
Same, you sons of bitches, same, only unknowing
was never an option for some (including XX
chromosomers, population of our household? One).

In the novel that I’m reading, a drifter comes
to town (not Shane) and causes quite a stir. He
has weary eyes that have SEEN TOO MUCH and
blur black when alone with pretty women (in a
sexy, not threatening way). It may be that he
has had to partake in some regrettable actions from
a mysteriously checkered past which, entomologically,
takes us back to century 14th (late) and game boards
marked with squares (exchequer) light and dark. It is
French, or maybe British, and those fancy tea-drinkers
use the Q instead (let them have this, their isle so tiny). We
here in the states understand the ying/yang of it all, the
need to acknowledge how evil deeds are sometimes bathed
in bright, baptismal, even neutralizing beams, so molten
you might find your heroic self on (liar liar, pants) fire.

Mirrored Souls  / Alicia Boemi

What do they say about us?
That we walk among the stars. 

Float across space. 

Travel time.
Hand in hand.
Mirrored souls.
A fire that burned away the others.

Step Back and Watch the Toad Plop in Your Drainage Canal /  Jesse DeLong

1.     Find, as long as it’s only ankle deep, the best entrance to the river. There will float a brown leaf.

2.     Allow the onions to caramelize slowly, never force them, so that they turn a deep and rich color.

3.     Drink, in the parking lot as the neon lights of the car cover electrify the light rain, this not-so-bad cup of gas station coffee.

4.     Find one more excuse not to weed out the wild blackberries from your flowerbed. The birds, mostly finches, will forge soon.

5.     Step over, no need for mercy, the cicada, rattling its death song on the walkway.

6.     Understand that, just because you’ve crossed off most entries in a list of things-to-do doesn’t mean you’ve had a worthwhile day. 

Ordinary Astonishment /  Shelly Krehbiel

A theory for alternating venues, /  rob mclennan

This continuous, present. Translated, The Rotter’s Club. When do you sleep. Open form, wired. A nuance of decades. I can write English. Short stature, thistle. A pub at one point. Two pints, a third. Where I met opposition. Brigands. What if, in this life. Over, ambition. It was true I was plenty. The sky, gives. Offers. This bustling lot. In order, excessive. Composure. In the beginning. A matter of energy, prejudice. Punk anthems, pink. A love of parentheses, career paths, karaoke venues. Is this antiquarian? The scent of used books, decomposition. Vanilla. Almond, and sweet. Lost, in a snowstorm. It all falls apart. I don’t know what this is.

Robert K Ryland, 1938: "after a print"   / Piper Rasmussen

the a/c rattles like it's full of loose washers
and David Speicher's name is being called

sounds like he's missed his summons
I could look him up, find him...  we are permitted to use our phones...

on the wall, a mural of Ft. George
& a trompe loiel painting of a clock

stopped at 4:30. visions of ships. I spend a waiting-long time
looking at that fort

a video from the Perception institute plays & shows us
triangles which we think are triangles

but lack sides, as if to say
all is not what it seems

imagine feeling secure behind a stone wall
when after 9/11, we are not allowed to take photos of the wall art

only a Faraday cage 
might save us now

on recognizing  / Connor Simons

beneath music a murmur

                                                a river
whose waters rush disappointment
                                                & goodbye
greeting & remembrance to whatever
                                                estuary all
waters go to     one woman brings
                                                her dog
to sit at the edge of the bar & another
                                                walks by
with her dog & today i’m wondering what
                                                i mean
when i say recognition   there is an
                                                older man
here every day & i know his name but
                                                i don’t think
he knows mine   each Tuesday he plays
                                                vinyl records
so maybe he thinks my name is rumors
                                                because i said
rumors is a good album   i don’t know but
                                                i do know
that i’ve created him   his daughter is
                                                older & lives
elsewhere   he sees her on holidays & his
                                                limp isn’t
a wound it’s just aging   in five years he hasn’t
                                                changed
his glasses so at least that’s not getting
                                                any worse
& now the dogs are barking shouting
                                                it’s you
it’s you it’s you it’s you over & over again
                                                & even that
is part of the susurrus i make when i
                                                put on
these headphones & make instead of
                                                recognize

Dream Science / Veronica Vo

The fastest way to fall asleep is to pretend
you’re already sleeping. If you want too much
to fall asleep you never will. No matter how
many sheep you count you’ll stay awake.
To become what you’re not you have to act
like you already are. As a child I was despised
simply for being myself. I wanted to be
beloved. I wanted to be celebrated for entering
a room and mourned when leaving it. I pretended
all the time I was anybody but myself. How
do you pretend to be asleep if you’re awake? How
can I ever be anybody else

What Would You Do for a Horehound Drop   /  Melinda Wilson

Drop the Klondike bar and head straight for Grandma’s 
crystal candy dish. Medicine or confection? No matter.  
These sanded drops delight the tongue and soothe any  
angry throat. I’d root through the cinnamon and butter- 
scotch discs, discard Dad’s Root Beer Barrels, scoff  
at the Starlight Mints and Lemon Drops. I’d pine for flavors 
of black licorice, sassafras, menthol, or dark tea. It didn’t 
matter to me. Take me to these suckers’ Mothership— 
the white horehound plant, a perennial in the mint family. 
Once my fingers found the desired wax paper, they’d 
work fast to unwrap. Then sweet contact between tongue 
and thick sugar dust, enough to offset the bitter notes 
of the herb and blast me off to another time and soil.