Yellow Chair Review Issue #3 - August 2015

YELLOW CHAIR REVIEWISSUE #3 - August 2015EDITOR: SARAH FRANCES MORANCO-EDITOR: IVA MONTGOMERYCOPYRIGHT 2015

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Welcome to Issue #3 of Yellow Chair Review. It has been a rollercoaster these past 3 months! As usual this issue is packed full of words and art that will take your breath away (or punch it out of you!)

If you come across something that especially moves you head over to www.yellowchairreview.com and check out the contributor bios. Send the author or artist some love at their website. If one isn’t pro-vided shoot YCR an email and we’ll get it to them.

As always thank you for reading and for supporting small presses.

Sarah Frances MoranEditor-In-Chief

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CONTENTSCover: Cactus - Yellow Chair Review

Emmanuel In The Rain/James Morgan Williams! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 5

Emmanuel/Julie Hogg! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 6

Broken Home/Beth Konkoski! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 7

Feathering/Ethan Leonard! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 8

Punch/Ben Banyard! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 9

Sinister Minister/Alison Ross! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 10

TUG AT/Tom Montag! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 11

Texture fascination/Felino A. Soriano! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 12

Birthday Poem For You/Nalini Priyadarshni! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 13

Untitled/Bekah Steimel! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 14

Mr. Lipson/Patricia Carragon! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 15-16

After The Coyote Rides Away/Joshua Medsker! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 17

After The Coyote Rides Away (art)/Aaron Morgan! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 18

Workshopper/Gary Glauber! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 19

Bedfellows/Colton Huelle!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 20

Things You Will Learn When Working In Tomorrowland/Danika Miller! ! ! ! ! 21-22

A Fable/Janna Vought! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 23

Subversive/Sheikha A.! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 24

Harmony/Grace Carlson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 25

God Left That Part Out/John Berry! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 26

VOYAGER/David Cooke! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 27

Air Mail/Anne Britting Oleson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 28

Stolen The Path is.../Scott Vanya (words) and Debangana Banerjee (art)! ! ! ! ! 29

The Eyesore, the Nuisance/Jessica L. Walsh! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 30

Aunt/Kersten Christianson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 31

My Dream/Corey Cook! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 32

Art According To Oscar/Rie Sheridan Rose! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 33-34

Kittens and Cupcakes/Scott Thomas Outlar! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 35

Womb of the World/Azia Dupont! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 36

Mother At The Town Beach/Marianne Szlyk! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 37

Not For My Eyes/Katherine Waudby! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 38

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Until The Wanting/Reina Adriano! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 39Steps in Darfur/Brian Burmeister! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 40My Sister Is.../Paulina Ulrich! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 41Crescent Tenderness/Janne Karlsson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 42Tongue Writing/Kris Price!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 43The Alien In Meeting/David Anthony Sam! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 44[rooftops and]/Charlotte San Juan! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 45Word Count/Glen Wilson!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 46Fickle Daisies/J.A. Sutherland! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 47She Calls At 3AM To Say She Is Going To Harm Herself/Mark Jackley! ! ! ! ! 48Anticipating the Apocalypse/Jenny Sanders! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 49Vox Vigilante/Mark Antony Rossi! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 50[unfinished]/Jenuine Poetess! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 51Phreaking The Tracewire Asunder/David S. Pointer! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 52Sick Lady Taking Off Her Hat/Ernest Williamson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 53The Sounds of Charlie/Ernest Williamson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 54Particular Curves/Natalie Morales! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 55Sitting In The Bathroom/Jennifer Smith!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 56Backyard Swing/Thomas R. Thomas! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 57Lack of Redemption/Emma Moser! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 58A Mole/Linda J. Knop! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 59-60For T--/Scott Edward Anderson! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 61Timelines/Sneha Sundaram! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 62Hiding Places/Michael Friedman! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 63Things My Mother Never Told Me/John Alwyine-Mosely! ! ! ! ! ! ! 64Pim Pam Pollo/Jennifer Lagier! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 65Pim Pam Pollo (art)/Jennifer Lagier! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 66

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Emmanuel In The RainWatercolorJames Morgan Williams

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Emmanuel Julie Hogg(After Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath and Emmanuel in the Rain by James Morgan Williams)

and we wishedwe were diamond dust, never quite

glamorous enough,dragged up from somebeck, liquid scrim,

slightly sphericalmizzle at the whimof the world. Did

you see us today?Silver-screening the moor? Ruffling

a hare? Shiningincandescently onfaceted glass? We

wept from Mary, baptised her baby,fell in plaid fields,

laid on the serrated edge of a blade and bled into grass.

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Broken HomeBeth Konkoski

The shower curtain in the kids’ bathroom got it started, a crashthen plaster shrapneled in the tub.Next the ice maker, the dresserin our bedroom, the front doorbell,the dryer sending smoke throughoutthe house before thunking silent,still filled with wet towels. For monthsit was appliances, objectsthat faltered or broke: the headlighton my van, a door off its hinge,the bowl I use for cookies slidingto the floor after I washed it.Like Midas has an unluckysister, each touch stirs up destructionand demise beneath my fingers.Frantic with repairmen, messes;my hands and feet and checkbook allstretched to keep some other cornerof life from disintegration,I didn’t notice the quiet snap that was you breaking from us.

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Feathering Ethan Leonard

My grandpa's laugh wheezed like a bellow over old coal as he told us he would soon be a bird. The nurse shifted him from the bed to the wheelchair and, following our usual routine, we brought him to the gazebo outside. Mom and dad spoke quietly to each other out by the parking lot, occasionally looking over to where grandpa and I bent over a book on ornithology. !“Take a look at this Keaton,” he said to me. His fingers began to fumble with his sleeve. I guided it over his elbow to reveal a row of white feathers along the backside of his arm. “These have been coming in nicely.”!I promised not to tell anybody, and his face beamed like it did when I was younger and he was still able to come to Christmas. At Burger Bomb, the two of us went through his book, illustration to illustration, considering the possibilities of which bird he might become. “I like the idea of a dove,” he said, “being a veteran and all.”

The nurse was waiting for us back at the home. He approached my grandpa and rolled up his sleeve. With a warm, wet towel, the nurse dabbed the feathers and carefully tugged at the base of each one until they released from his skin. “Last time was your final chance Mr. Ramirez,” he said abruptly, pocketing the feathers. “No arts and crafts for the next month, and no feather pillows.”!We returned to grandpa's room and helped him back into his bed. He stuck his hand in the pillowcase while my mom and dad tried to comfort him. “The community allows pets, right?” mom offered. “We can get you a bird if you want a bird.”!Grandpa rolled over and faced the window. We said goodbye and watched his breathing for a minute before leaving. We made it down the stairs when the front desk manager hailed us over. She slid grandpa's book over the table. “He dropped this in the entry-way,” she said, gently smiling. !I volunteered to run it back up to him. I entered without knocking and found grandpa with his legs dangling out the window. I dropped the book to the floor and raced over, locking my arms under his and lifting him away from the edge. I lowered him into the chair in the corner. He stared at his feet and flexed his toes. “I know what you're thinking,” he said with a smile. “but I only wanted to feel the air.” !When the doctor's told him about his bone loss, we were surprised how he responded. “One day,” he said. “The wind will carry me away.” !He said it now with more enthusiasm. He emphasized the word wind, whipped the w to make it sound closer and stronger than ever. I picked him up and brought him over to the bed, his eyes closed and his arms outstretched.

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PunchBen Banyard

The whitening of knucklesnotches up the tension,like the hammer's cocked,

locked and loaded, readiedfor a wild snarling haymaker.I have a dream where I swing

and though I'm treacled in slow-moand my glancing blows won't connectit's enough that I've made my fists.

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Sinister MinisterAlison Ross

The minister of the sinister has a well-stocked lair of charred Bibles and molten crosses. He preaches to the roaches and smokes a dozen roses. The minister of the sinister is evil only in the month of April, when the skies are stormy and the mood just right for a cocktail of raindrop rum and the Type A blood of an anemic christ. The sinister minister plays Chopin in the key of doom. He rocks out with his clock out, which tells time in the most frivolous fashion  - which is to say, not at all. 

The minister looks sinister, but really he's just a sweet old man with horns, who reads plagiarized poetry and sips moonbeams from a spoon. 

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TUG ATTom Montag

what is snugand let it

loose. Love is

on the way.Oh, darling,love is

on the way.

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Texture fascinationFelino A. Soriano 

contemporary to fingertips,a type of detonated flail,this neoteric camaraderiecomposed of nuance andconfirmed wholeness throughdisallowing fractions to persuadeenvironmental precision; pause isthe form of a body’s practicalrelease to experience disparaterevelations; delve into the innersyllable of a song’s mostdeliberate lyric—what freedomis found hanging from the tailof S, the horizontal roof of T,the 1st story evidence of F?  whatis bland is a smoothed contour.the inward magnification of a grass’singular blade, —this is the leaninggreen glare not noticed untilreconfiguration of cultural captivationspins and dizzies into awakening, aninnovative philosophy of the eyes’tool of oscillating wisdom.

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Birthday Poem for You (You know who you are)Nalini Priyadarshni 

Sit me on your lap, darlinglet me inhale amnesiafrom your lipsand uncork frenzySo it runs down our throatsscorching our innards. Drunk on aphrodisiacwe string our ecstasyand agony into wisps of mistthrow them to northern winds filling niches of our heartswith intemperance  Talk to me of your unfounded fearslost loves and unlived livestill their slivers get beneath my nailsand I taste blood on my lips. Rub your scent into my skinpour your moans into my earslet this wretched lump of heartbreak every night with too much love

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UntitledBekah Steimel

I want to tie a string to an anchored star and slip down                             a wormhole         slide into a mystery only rivaled by deathand return with tales only rivaled by birththe dash between the bookends of creation and cessation        the hyphen I walk along                                      is laced with spike strips and taralways sidelined                                                                         always stuckI want to rub clouds from my eyes, scale the blue until I’m climbing the black                                                                     I will not be satisfied until the earth is just a spinning globebut only Peter Pan and angels have such a viewI must learn to make peace with the adhesive of breath that binds me to such boredom,                                                  and exercise my lust through the sleepless dreams                   of poetry.  

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Mr. LipsonPatricia Carragon

Mr. Lipson,you were a stone thrower, paint tosser,slasher, arsonist.You weren’t Matisse, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Da Vinci,or any great artist.You were a cantankerous “old fart,”a painter of “happy trees”against mediocre landscapes.

You defaced two pieces of my artworkin Aunt Celia’s and Uncle Henry’s Stuyvesant Town living room,as my parents satwithout intervening.

The pen-and-ink boatcapsized under faultfinding—my lack of perspective,my lack of experience.Even the lighthouse couldn’t be saved. Your words deliberately smashed the DayGlo pink bottle,rotting the cheery flowers and fruit, in and around the ceramic bowl—too two-dimensional and amateurish.Even the bowl cracked under pressure.

Not one word of encouragement for an artist struggling with pimples and self-worth—an artist simultaneouslydisappearing from her craft.

The pictures were intended for Aunt Celia—she left space for them to hang on the family art wall.But instead,they went into her closet.

A few years later, Aunt Celia handed them back to me—She said that they wouldn’t fit in with her collection,but I saw that she made room for others.

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I didn’t argue—instead,I became a stone thrower, paint tosser,slasher, arsonist.I could never be Matisse, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Da Vinci,or any great artist.Nor could I become a cantankerous “old bag,” a painter of “happy trees”against mediocre landscapes.Remnants of the pen-and-ink boat and lighthouse, and the DayGlo still lifewere unceremoniously,donated to the museum of garbage.

Years later, I became a writer and poet.But I’m not Dickinson,Kerouac,Bashō,Woolf,or any great writer or poet.Just someone who writes without paint or ink,wondering . . . what would have happenedif Mr. Lipson read my work?

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After The Coyote Rides AwayJoshua Medsker

he is retiring from the roam, buthe has at least a noveletteto cuckoo on her behalf about.

He is eye-opener and opiate-a chump, deadbeat-he is a finch mandible, producedby a woodcutter.

What a fate.

He also sips, tied with McGrawfor the most sips with seven.He was her fifth straight fiasco;he was the epigram of the yes, buthe was named and void in the dust.

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After The Coyote Rides AwayAaron Morgan

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WorkshopperGary Glauber

And he breathes the false assumption:infinite time a place wherein he crafts phrases, hones words, mastersmeter in this occupation of hazard.Modernists mumble dead rhymes, then turn and run, rather than beaffected, extended, emended.He sees, senses, and aspires. Adieu, kissing an illusion of truth, capturing nuanced imperativein curious ways, eagerly imagining success as puzzled illumination.Prince of process, each ensuing draftoutstretches, pulling and polishing ‘til technique negates meaning, and he begins to believe artifice as experience, this stale sheen as natural.

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BedfellowsColton Huelle

The steps of kitchen-ghosts tonight smack of something vital, of some stake in life I can’t pretend to understand now,

nude & upright in bed, beside twenty tootsie wrappers, thinking maybe twenty-one would have done the trick. I would have kept going

til I broke my jaw or asphyxiated, & then I’d haunt the all-night storewith holograms for hands, reaching always after one more. But as it is,

I sit, directing mumbled wordsto god at my hairy knees. The clock reads 2AM then it coughs up phlegm

into a bloody handkerchief, wipes its mouth & now it is 3 & the poltergeists come to slam cabinets & feel sorry for themselves, for they know not

what orphaned memories they moan after in the plaintive language of old house noises: floorboards settling, ! wooden stairs creaking,! ! the staticky, labored breathingof a dissipated record willing away its grooves.

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Things You Will Learn When Working in Tomorrowland Danika Miller

1. Tomorrowland Terrace is the most popular restaurant in Disneyland. At first this seems exciting, but later you realize it just means you’ll have the longest lines. Apparently when traveling to the Happiest Place on Earth, people want saucy burgers that have sat too long under a warmer.

2. The uniforms are designed to make everyone uniformly shapeless and self-conscious. You’ll wear coarse tablecloth fabric, Beetle-juice stripped; sweat pants. And a chef coat that looks like a straight jacket. Don’t forget the black balding cap, necessary for dehu-manizing.

3. Abbreviating of tasks makes a kitchen more efficient. Tomorrowland Terrace is called TLT, but only the people who work at TLT actually use this. Refrigerators will be called reefers. When your Lead tells you to clean the reefers, do not mention marijuana. In the end, that will ruin the efficiency of calling them reefers to begin with. When you’re told to “do baskets,” don’t panic about never hav-ing taken that underwater basket weaving elective, this is much simpler than that. To “do baskets” you stand under the A/C and fold pieces of wax paper on top of small plastic green baskets that will eventually hold a kids meal. This is ironic because they re-mind you of your old Barbie picnic basket, but with more ketchup heat washed on.

4. You hate your yelling voice. There’s a lot of yelling in the kitchen. Every time you go around a corner, yell “CORNER”, whenever you walk behind someone, yell “BEHIND”, when you’re down to one tray of chicken or meat, yell “DOWN TO ONE TRAY OF [in-sert FDA approved ‘meat’].” Eventually you’ll stop caring about the hoarse unsteady voice you are forced to project.

5. Somehow you’ll manage to respect Tony. He’s your forty five year old Lead who has been working at TLT since he was seventeen years old. You will pity him at first. You’ll question why he’s wasted so many years in the hell pit of Disneyland. He’ll make awk-ward jokes about you and Nick; eventually you’ll find them funny. Tony will give you a lot of responsibility and will always assign you as Expo, the head of the burger assembly line. You might think this is mean, but will realize it’s because he trusts you. Tony calls you Apple, because you’re from Washington and the only thing he knew about Washington is that there are lots of apples.

6. Sometimes Minnie Mouse is an old man. During your first lunch break your employer’s sweetheart, Minnie Mouse, will walk into the employ cafeteria and take off his/her elephant sized mouse head and reveal an old, possibly Asian, man. Don’t worry; this won’t actually destroy your childhood like you think it will. You almost still feel the magic of Disney when he winks at you.

7. Cherish your fellow new hire. Nick will be the only one to understand how crazy everyone else is. He’s a frat boy from San Diego but doesn’t always act like it. You’ll toss dry shreds of lettuce back and forth when no one is looking, lose a little integrity begging the Leads to take lunch breaks together, and if you ask nicely he’ll switch you positions so you don’t have to scoop fries under the greasy hot heat lamp.

8. Everyone is crazy. Although Sam is the same age as you, she has a child, is kind of divorced to a guy in prison, and will have faked a pregnancy to get paid leave. She’ll develop a crush on Nick, and then get jealous because Nick spends all his breaks with you.

There’s also Bruce. Bruce is most definitely mentally handicapped, a part time clown at Knottsberry Farm during Halloween, and has almost stabbed someone…twice. Be nice, but not friendly, avoiding eye contact is effective.

Robert is a human seesaw. He teeters back and forth on his short leg while reciting all he knows about the entire Marvel Universe. You will eventually know all there is to know about the Marvel Universe and very passionately believe Wolverine should be in-cluded in the Avengers.

It is okay to befriend Topsy. When you aren’t looking, he will put slices of thin processed cheese on your shoulder, tape “Microwave is Broke” signs on the main microwave, and deal out unwanted relationship advice.

9. Don’t feel weird when Paige, the dyed-blonde cashier, gives Nick her number. This might be difficult because she tells him they should “party sometime”, and you know frat boys like to party. You’ll toss at fry at him and raise your eyebrows, teasing like usual. But like I said, don’t feel weird because not only does he have a long time girlfriend back home, but also he’ll later talk about how annoying Paige is and invite you to Laguna Beach instead.

10. You both take a day off at TLT to go to the beach with his friends. You’ll later be frustrated with yourself for not getting in the wa-ter. You pretend it’s not because you were too self-conscious to be wearing just your swimsuit, but that the water was just really cold. You might also feel bad for not talking enough, being a bit too quiet in the car ride, nodding your head like you’re just really into the music. These worries feel silly when Nick texts you that night saying he had a great time.

11. Darth Maul will ask you for ranch, not a wrench. Try not to jump when he pops up backstage after the Star Wars stage show in front of TLT. The black and red striped face will blink yellow contacted eyes until you respond. “You want a wrench?” you will re-peat this a few times. He has some sort of accent and his whispering doesn’t help. Eventually he’ll raise his voice, “raaaaaaanch!” You’ll both burst into laughter as you retrieve ranch from underneath the front counter.

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12. Paige will confide in you frequently. You’ll be sitting in the TLT break room, rubbing away the hat marks on your forehead, when she’ll ask you if Nick has a girlfriend. You’ll confirm this, reiterating that he talks about her a lot. She’ll say that’s weird be-cause they were both drunk the other night, he kept kissing her, and they ended up sleeping on the couch together. You won’t fully trust her version of the story, but he’ll be back to being the frat boy from San Diego.

13. You’ll start to hate TLT when Nick quits. He’ll get a job offer back in San Diego and on his last day at TLT you barely do any ac-tual work. You wont be as distantly kind to Bruce, you’ll no longer respond to Robert’s monologues about The Hulk’s lack of de-cent solo movie, and Topsy’s jokes quickly grow old.

14. You hug Tony on your last day at TLT; he calls you Apple and tells you to stay fresh. Despite eight months of pining after a posi-tion in attractions and cursing your hiring manager, when you’re finally free you’ll miss the hell pit of Disneyland.

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A FableJanna Vought

Once upon a time:

Depression came, arrived from nowhere, eager for new adventure, hung clothes from her suitcase in my closet, prepared for an ex-tended stay. She claimed the jetted tub, took long baths sipping from a glass of merlot, surrounded by lavender candles. I enter-tained her for awhile, fed her ripe blackberries, honeyed oats with vanilla almond milk, toast leaking butter and peach jam, organic eggs with sunny faces, moist thick wedges of devil’s food cake—my self respect. She promised to stay only a little while. Two years later, she remained. I protested, demanded she leave. Crocodile tears welled in her eyes, her bottom lip quivered. I relented. Her name is on the mailbox now. She answers my phone, refuses to take a message, controls the TV remote, determines what we eat for dinner. She sits beside me on the sofa, sleeps next to me in bed, snoring softly, stares at my neighbors from the curtained window in the bedroom (self-induced paranoia), follows me when I’m running, huffing and puffing, fuchsia hot pants ablaze in the mid-morning sun. She crawls inside my mouth, gagging me. She’s here to stay. I suppose I’m to blame. I opened the door, let her in.

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SubversiveSheikha A.

I usually find myself caught ina pompous arena of jabbering verbosity;

the vernacular gladiators goat me out,noses higher than the sky, eyes raised shut;

I find I have never been able to contendsuch gods, their (w)holesome parlance,

my undecorated commas applied like breathers,semi-colon’s induce comas in my words,

and the full stop behaves like an incompleteellipse; my clumsy feet tread over

expressions like running with two left feetin a sack race.

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HarmonyGrace Carlson

In the classic psychological experiment by Leon Festinger, participants were asked to perform a variety of dull, meaningless tasks, such as turning a wood peg around on a board. Half were paid twenty dollars for their participation, while the other half were paid one dollar. At the end of the task everyone was instructed to tell the next person in line that they genuinely enjoyed the activity.

Those paid twenty dollars had no problem lying and saying they enjoyed the tasks. The money was enough of an incentive. But those paid a dollar felt they had to justify what they said; the dollar wasn’t enough. So when asked later what they thought, research-ers found that these participants had convinced themselves that they enjoyed the tasks.

The conclusion: We want our beliefs and actions to match. When they don't, we feel uncomfortable. Cognitive Dissonance. We must either change our actions, or change our beliefs.

Now. Imagine my grandfather: clean-shaven, hair still dark despite his age, thick, worn hands that fit perfectly around the books that littered my childhood. Imagine him in a suit and tie, an honorable Elder in his congregation, standing behind a podium in the King-dom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses, delivering talks on righteous living.

As he gives his talk on the dangers of associating with people outside of The Truth, he tries to forget that two of his three children left this Truth years ago, that his grandchildren are not being raised the way he would like. He has to forget this, because in a matter of hours he is meeting them all for dinner.

Imagine his discomfort.

For years, he tries to ease this discomfort, justifying his actions to himself. He thinks, Maybe they'll come around. They don't.

So imagine him and my grandmother, driving up to the house of their only son and his wife. The four of them sit down around the table together, two armies that have been avoiding this battle for years.

While my grandmother watches silently, he delivers his piece in the same methodical way he does most things. He can no longer have a relationship with his children. This has been coming for a long time. This is what he feels is right.

Finally, actions and words are in harmony. No more justifications. He is rid of his one dollar family. Imagine his relief.

I am twelve years old and living in a small town made up of nothing but drugstores and churches. And Target. I think I know every-thing about everything. When my mom tells me what my grandfather has done, I am filled with the sort of consuming anger I al-ways feel toward people who don't agree with me. He was an idiot and I had no trouble saying so. I wrote him angry letters. I cried a lot.

Looking back I am unable to remember exactly when I learned to ignore my anger, just that I did.

I am unable to remember the exact day my grandfather changed his mind.

I do remember that I forgave him easily. Maybe too easily. I have held life-long grudges for less. But this time it was enough for me that he couldn't handle what he had done.

When I was eighteen my dad went into the hospital and it was my grandfather who came to lend his support. Our family reunited in the emergency room. My twelve year old self, the one who knew the answers to everything, wouldn’t have been able to understand how I could welcome him back. How I could sit across from him in the hospital cafeteria, the years of silence and anger folded away. I still don’t understand. Maybe I never will.

Maybe Leon Festinger would understand. After all, what is forgiveness if not the ultimate act of cognitive dissonance? To forgive someone there is always a lot you have to be willing to forget or ignore. To forgive someone, you must find your twenty dollar rea-son.

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God Left That Part OutJohn Berry

The devil was grass-fedfree-rangeline-dried— cleanand Saturday night fresh! when he took my old man.

He got duded up specialfor this one.Smartly pressed, combed just so,crisp new red suitand cowboy boots,fancy flame stitched! the color of nothing at all.

He had a broad yellow-tooth grinand smelled sweet of Old Spice and old lies.He almost skipped down the lanewith the screaming winds of Marchdragging behind like a cape,to cover his tracks.

He sure was happyto see the old man—Put his arm loose and casualaround his shoulders,told him they were gonna be chums,! gonna be pals.

The old man looked back at me,perplexed—

said God didn’t sayit would go down like this.

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VOYAGER (after Carl Sagan)David Cooke

Imagine that somehow you’d climbed on board,and the world you know has shrunk to a dot,with everything that’s shaped you through senses,hearsay, reason, lodged now inside your head.

You won’t be the last of us, not by a mile, but one day your distant kinsman will be –wild-eyed and famished, muttering the soundsof syllables no one else understands.

With no sense of self-worth, unenlightenedforms of life, as purposeful as hopliteson the march, will fine tune team-building gamesthat guarantee success and, in the end,

create new mythologies. But for now you are hurtling into an emptinessthat stretches out beyond you, awaiting, like us, burn out, your own unique demise.

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Air MailAnne Britting Oleson

Weeks pass, after I leave my letter with the postmaster who coos over your address,until finally I make a wish and open the mailboxto find your reply: pages upon pages of a flighty mind impressed upon heavy paper,handwriting squared off in the wayI've always associated with British schooling,yet with words laughing at themselvesas they pirouette about each other,down the center, sideways along the margins,across and back down the other edge—he's so lovely, we're moving to Crete,we're getting married so buy a hat.Your stories sing and dance like actresses from your favorite musicals, and I fall in love all over again, for when I touch the page,I touch the hand that wrote it.

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Stolen The Path is             from He or She who walks too heavily.             With touch light enough, it is as if you are "Standing still for all Eternity"

Words By Scott VanyaMixed Media By Debangana Banerjee

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The Eyesore, the NuisanceJessica L. Walsh

In the absence of parentsweeds seized the yard.

Grass gave way to grass-like,green to another pallet of green.

The papery jittery mothsand stupid hooting mourning doves

were not migrating monarchs and vivid finches, true,

but neither were they killer beesand rabid bats.

If there were warnings I missed them.

I received a bill and I paid it,then watched the problem grow back.

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AuntKersten Christianson

Ginny by most, Virginia by my grandmother with the emphasis and drag on "gin." Vir-gin-ia married into an old Norwegian Bal-lard family. We all wore the Norse sweater vests for it, knitted wool and pewter buttons. Grandma Annie, the matriarch, let us cous-ins race through the house, tumble into the backyard for summer popsicles and sleepovers. It's hot wearing a Norse sweater vest in summer. Every day Ginny played tennis. Classy, impeccable taste, much more a carbon copy of my grandmother than either would care to admit: shopping at Nordstrom’s, the click and swish of credit card, the spin cycle of return and exchange for more and new; dinner parties with fine cloth linens and hors d’oeuvres (an average three, with at least one containing a spinach or artichoke ingre-dient); and the wine, always the white wine, propped between the morning Bloody Mary, mimosa, and evening bourbon. White wine with ice cream. Vir-gin-ia divorced, hooked up with the banker, spent chunks of the year in Hawaii, Arizona, and the Pacific Northwest. She worked as a hospice volunteer. Her laugh was contagious for a long time. She thought Alaska was weird; it may as well have been Siberia. She came up one year to take care of our family. Visited me at college. Helped organize my wedding on a Sitka dock. Met my daughter two cold springs ago. Built winter fires in her fireplace with Duraflame Fire Logs from the QFC on 24th Ave NW. Ginny spent the last month potting spring flowers for her balcony. She visited her favorite restaurants. Returned her unused chemo pills to her doctor. Last weekend the hospice workers moved her bed into the living room, the best view of bloom, sea and quiet breeze. Aunt, you are missed.

32

My DreamCorey Cook 

I wander from room to roomin his parents’ house.Past a greasy skillet.Around distorted shadowsof houseplants.Across a rough jute rug.Fingertips stuttering over spinesof books he promisedto read me in high school.

Find him in a back room.His sun-kissed hair tousled.His eyes inviting.

I take my place beside himas he leans over.His hot breath in the crookof my neck.My hands climb the smooth trunkof his torso.He raises his head.And my lips partfor the soft wedgeof his tongue. 

I awake and sit up in bed.Look down at my wife’s bare chest.Her pale breasts glowingin the moonlight.Separated by a sweeping valley.

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Art According to Oscar…(Found poetry from the Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde)Rie Sheridan Rose

To revealartand concealartistis art's aim.

Those who findugly meaningsin beautiful thingsare corruptwithout being charming.

This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meaningsin beautiful thingsare the cultivated.

No artist desiresto prove anything.

No artist hasethical sympathies.

No artist isever morbid.

The artist canexpress everything.

Thought and languageare to the artistinstrumentsof an art.

Vice and virtueare to the artistmaterialsfor an art.

From the point of viewof form, the type of all the artsis the art of the musician.

From the point of viewof feeling,the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface—and symbol.

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Those who go beneath the surfacedo so at their peril.

Those who readthe symboldo so at their peril.

It is the spectator,and not life, that art really mirrors.

The only excusefor making a useless thingis that one admiresit intensely.

All art is quite useless.

35

Kittens and CupcakesScott Thomas Outlar

I am the forgotten man – left out in the blistering sun to reach a state of overexposureas the metal death apocalypserains down in solar ray saturation

I am the nothing/nowhere – dragged by the hairto the edge of a graveand skinned to the boneto feed the maggots below

I am the last remorse from a bloodstained heart – kissed by an angel of terrible vengeanceupon my scabbed, blistered lipsto usher in the chaos stormthe harbingers have been heralding for eons

I am the night sky full of shadows – lost in the vast reflectionof a tired moonthat wants its pound of flesh deliveredbefore pulling the tide of blood to shore

I am the cancer worming its way back home – dripping with cum and sweatbetween torn, soaked sheetswhere lovers once slept in peacebefore the disease of denial completely set in

I am not the first, but will be the lastI am not Hallelujah salvationI am the final note in the song of annihilation

36

Womb of the WorldAzia Dupont

!I met God and her shoes were fabulous. She said something about thedevil being a sexist, and the heaviness ofunrequited love. She told meher womb could carry every universethat ever was. That she hadhoped this small universewould be enough, that she had never intended for usto feel all this pain. The wrinkles under her eyes assured meshe spoke genuinely, as concern and heartbreak nestled between each wrinkle,each syllable of I had wanted so much more for you.We talked about creation, and she said, And on the 8th day God created misogyny,then all the light left God’s eyes.She rested her soft brown hands alongside her soft brown faceand paused there like that for a long, long time. Hereyes closed as tears silently slid down her cheeks. She had notwanted all this death, all this doubt.She had never wanted Woman,the womb of the world to beunder foot. She said Isent a son to showmen what they had become,what they would do to their own butstill their hearts would not change. She saidthey would kill a millioninnocents if it meant even a smallvictory, if it meant they could have all the beasts in their hands.That they would allow all the babies to be bloodied, orphaned and all the hearts shattered for the slightest bit of power.And he’s won.She mumbles something about the devil’s playgroundthat those who believe in her don’t know her at all.

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Mother at the Town BeachMarianne Szlyk

You don’t want to swim here. The weeds won’t drag you down to where you gulp greeny-brown water instead of air.  They won’t bind you to the bottom. You’re not drunk like the boys who drown. Those weeds may not even graze you with your short legsas you flutter-kick above. But there are weeds.

The water is cleaner, much cleaner than it used to be. It won’t leave faint scum on your skirted swimsuit or your flabby thighs. Its dark, sour smell won’t last, not on your short hair. A quick shampoo will wash it off.  But you don’t want to swim here.

The water is cool, not cold like the ocean. It sparkles warmly like a snake in the sun, like the women in bikinis basking, not swimming. The water is too cool.

Now the sand is damp, even smooth. No one pitches broken beer bottlesinto this lake anymore the night before the beach opens for the season and the kids’ lessons start. Still you don’t want to swimhere.

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Not For My EyesKatherine Waudby

Pollock scarleton dove stonebreathed to burgundy.Cool as Jackie O's head -scarf,muted in lucky moneyand jungle gloss.

So distant I watched goats bleedfor our Dussehra feast.

Jasmine on thick windand hints of fishy sea,from the hillsideI spied x-rated slaughter.

No bleatno shout or chantno crack of blade on bonestirred sticky air.Slow-motion streams

Pooled.

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Until the WantingReina Adriano

The conversation falters among the noises or silent movements. The aura, solemn and fragile.

Lack of gestures creates tension: the woman may or may not have been angry, the man may or may not

have cheated. The other person at the backcould be part of the heated argument. Maybe

I know this to be a fact. Then again, he may just be the shop owner. Or an onlooker. Or the riddle –

does it matter that he is not only staring but also listening? What of the unnecessary details. I see the end

or the beginning of a relationship, the proclivity of a couple, the insistent nagging of words to appear in the form of images,

then perhaps, I could say that stories compensate for the stillness. I imagine answers coming out less often

than questions. To understand what happens from afar means not to observe but to inject life within the painting. The man:

"Do you understand?" The woman: "Do I have to?" It's hard to create scenery especially at night. What more to distinguish

the head or tail unless I force drama into the scene. I think I must have gotten everything wrong: the shop is closing, the man is in want

of leaving, the woman losing, the conversation has not yet ended.

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Steps In DarfurBrian Burmeister 

If you walk barefoot here You’ll notice the hardness of things,Dried, harsh gray and ecru. The ground looks like sandBut does not give. Here, dirt, rock are the same.Walking, running, the same. Your feet do not sink. In this place, not even knees get saved.

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My Sister Is...Paulina Ulrich

There was never a definitive, exact, or precise moment of time where my sister stopped and plateaued. Or maybe there was but I hadn’t been there to see it settle in her eyes, the moment that things sort of…froze, stopped, screeched to a halt somewhere on the mind-road she’d been driving on. An innocent deer in the headlights of unknown. She’d been transforming her whole life though, despite the lapse she faced. She was like one of those furry little caterpillars that metamorphosed into a cockatiel instead of another one of those clichéd butterflies. Damn those butterflies. Seems like everyone today was one. What a boring existence.

Anna could see things I couldn’t, which was why I thought she maybe had magical eyes that could explain how my things went missing growing up. Somehow she managed to know where to hide all of the things she stole from my room: a beaded friendship bracelet, my CD collection of N*SYNC when my ten year old self realized what celebrity crushes were, embarrassing pictures of my middle school phase (which she then took to school to show her friends my red speckled face and braced teeth), and on occasion she’d swipe a stuffed animal from its nap on my bed to stock her collection. My sister the cockatiel. My sister the klepto. That’s what she was. Everything unknown to me, she knew. Anna was always transforming and most days, not even I knew what she’d become.

I’d like to know how she viewed the world. Maybe the world twisted and turned like the way a kaleidoscope made beautiful shards of color fill her realm, like the colors that stained the feathers of birds. The way that the hues of life had branded her. Above all, I hoped she saw the world considerably less cynical than I saw it. Majority of people I’d encounter would automatically be filed into ‘A Total Scuzball’ category and I have Sofia Petrillo to thank for such a wonderful categorization. Anna though, never revealed much on how she felt about the world. Maybe it was too much to think about. I knew most days I couldn’t handle the fuckery that was planet earth.

Maybe she was a flower today, though that sounds just as dumb as the butterfly gimmick, so instead she was a sprout. This tiny lit-tle being surrounded by a vast, sometimes overpowering world and yet there was that little sprout that only saw the details of the dirt, the blades of green grass, and pollen seeds wafting through the air. Details were her thing or more accurately, detailed memo-ries. She’d notice the way the flowers bloomed with color, especially orange. Then she’d asked me: “Hey, remember that time at that place with the orange flowers?” I’d stare back blank as a board, trying to file through my brain’s RAM memory to know what the hell she was talking about. “You know, that place. With all your favorite flowers.” Tulips? I’d ask because there was no other flower I was more partial to. “Ya, and you especially liked the purple ones. Purple is your favorite color. I like orange the best. What other colors do you like?” Ah there it was, my brain finally found the memory of that time and place with the orange flowers.

Anna always had a bigger collection of stuffed animals than I did. Even when I grew up I kept all of mine in a box, too weak to get rid of any of them that had a special meaning for me. She still had the ones from childhood that she slept with every night, its plush body limp, its fur worn, but it still smiled at her even after nineteen years of cuddling. She still loved and adored every animal she got. Sometimes I wish I had that love for stuffed animals the way she did. I wish I had never grown up and despite the difficulties she faces, I hope she never has to grow up either.

42

Crescent TendernessInk and Lead PenJanne Karlsson

43

Tongue WritingKris Price

Clarity is an opaque cage,filled with empty intros and pale bodies. Conclusions bound up in twine of nonsense, joining a railroad to Nowhere.

The building is clay and cannot be formed. Contemplate, contemplate how to proceed or fail. My brain swings like a beehive around jumbled words. The mood of my reading blackened by darkened letters I don’t understand. Can I save myself from a white story form? Analysis stares at me like a blurred doll. Fragments are slices of my body which never rejoin.

Unable to carry the burden of connecting to a reader, my writing burns out like every ash of the back space button. Don’t know how to fix my own dead critic’s voice. Teeth chew grammar, I puke sentencesthat create vague forms of rhetoric, that no one will speak.

44

The Alien in MeetingDavid Anthony Sam

 Bitter as the smogI seek different aircrossing the frontier

Any wind that blowswith regrets seemsmisbegotten A man must dailyunweave his pastto sew new pages Otherwise what he isand what he wasdivide at a streetcorner: a foreignerlost to his halvingrepenting himself

45

[rooftops and]Charlotte San Juan

rooftops anda bird chokes on its echo

from across shinglesa woman lets night into her

window, Chinese opera staticsomeone outraged on the ground

floor and horns horns hornswindows, different shades

white cream marigold flickersa banner of windblown

socks a door slam nightis the standstill voice of

neon verticle lives, nobodylets the dog in

beneath me footstepsbeneath me stairs, Taiwanese

girls, loud is their musicloud electric charges a man

and his balcony cigarette silhouettewatching me drag the both of us

into midnight scriptthe ash I see falling I can hear

you, bicycles, feel the bad cold breath of this city

it closes its mouth slowand I am still in it.

46

Word CountGlen Wilson

I said fuck today more than I said love,

I look back over the occurrences, embossed in red,stab wounds just missing the heart but leaving me pale, less me than before.

Reports say that men speak on average seven thousand words per day,and I think of these words being spun back to me on ticker tape.

The ums and ahhs like little chains keep the day together, the staccato rhythm of small talk, the opening acts for the words of weight;

the conversations we remember due to information sharedor the attractive inflection, these revealers and concealers of truth.

We wrap our days between the comfort blankets of clichés and then there are some words birthed just today - new arrivals .

Coiled around me in their massed significance,a life of characters to evaluate,belted and braced by commas, semi-colonsline breaks and full stops.

I said fuck today more than I said love.

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Fickle Daisies J. A. Sutherland

She plucked another petal, thenanother when she found it true.And thinking she’d been fooled, she plucked another petal. Thenpresuming luck – or fate – pretendto know the answer over-ruledshe plucked another petal; thenanother when she found it true.

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She Calls At 3 A.M. To Say She Is Going To Harm HerselfMark Jackley

In the black stillness in between breathsshe performs the first coast-to-coast telekinetic transplant of the heart. The patient gasps.Two organs are now beating each other to a bloodypulp inside his chest.

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Anticipating the ApocalypseJenny Sanders

Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?! ! ! ! ! ! ! -Matthew 6:23

Here beneath the gropingswell of want, I’ve buried the budget.I’ve wracked shelves.I’ve clamored and claimed.

Here at check-out, my cart runneth over.

Back home, my spoiled catyonks and howls for kibble, insistent, by his brimming bowl.

That stroking, feeding hand –he thinks –cannot be trusted.

Nor does it trust.

Instead, it proffers plastic,to credit gods of threat and chance.It bears, as a fist, the flimsy bags that stripe the flesh with weight.It secrets the plunder.It closes and locks the door.

Sometimes, it opens up, pale underside to sky, to pleadagainst the smite of higher palm so poised to fall.

50

Vox Vigilante Mark Antony Rossi

I have come to a life-altering conclusion: those whom believe in Justice are often those whom rarely require it. Which means most are fools acting on faith for something than can be as elusive as the deep sea squid but as necessary as the fundamental air we breathe.

Enter the Vigilante whom is a saver of the lost soul slowly dying from the poison of a process favoring the comfortable; not the in-flicted. The Vigilante is not the Law nor does he operate outside the Law. The Vigilante is Justice pure and simple and accepts the ugly truth that the Law is usually the problem and not the solution.

Remember always if you are not willing to stand up for what is right you will be stepped on by what is wrong. And you’ll deserve it.

51

[unfinished]Jenuine Poetess

I stumbled over ourunfinished poems and I let out an unfinished sigh before drifting to sleepin the middle of an unfinished sob in morning I woke from an unfinished dream to remember the unfinished us

52

Phreaking the Tracewire AsunderDavid S. Pointer

Super currency kingpins called their high servants to away camp profit making retreatsSuper currency short-code consensus networks hired the subcontractor commandoes to expand secret kill zonesScareware infotainment buccaneers gobbled parity bits like breadcrumbs Scareware wand manufactures surfed on hovercraft above boot sector foot powderTriple incident obscurity-avalanche quadrupled allowed conspiracy theory to disappear like vaporwareTriple incident greedlock encryption prevented snowbaby sidewalk corps from gathering cyberdelic resource fumesDefrosting misshapen reindeer mostly famous for overinhaling drug mule perfume was expensiveDefrosting steam radiator apartments and infrastructure was also expensive and crashed elevated euphoria like a controlled burnAlpha software Santa Claus allowed easier guilt reduction gift giving to poor children at Christmas timeAlpha software New Year’s elder edition returned quietly to extreme economic exploitation throughout the oncoming calendar year

53

Sick Lady Taking Off Her HatErnest Williamson

54

The Sounds of CharlieErnest Williamson

Charlie makes sweet mumbles of the ghetto, ghostly smoke from his horn knows my street. his tunes walk rightly only when crooked cops arrests their crimes. times are ticking tautologies of trite talk but Charlie’s horn doesn’t know that.  the funk of the juke sails high over the sad tides unlike stationary windmills moving fast over dead grumpy fruit.  Charlie is a cool  man,  but he won’t  speak to me; especially when he is trying to sit still, in the midst of undeniable trouble. blood filled streets  streaking still in the same ole fillsin the same ole ghettoeven as the blues in jazz make me wanna grab a horn and listen to all of the other sounds,  Charlie refuses to make.

55

Particular CurvesNatalie Morales

Eventually, our future plans become memories. Our bed sinks spokes into the carpetand there’s dust where there wasn’t.Our beginnings become photo albumsand suddenly we’re in the middle not knowing when the end comes in.It’ll creep up, sure, one day. That’s when we’ll open our eyes turn around and look at a worn path, remarking about particular curves…

the torrid sun and cold wind slapping our faces redas we embrace the asperous redwood bark,the Irish coffees and wine-drunk girl with a penis,finally understanding Lady Gaga’s second album, the curves of our bodies’ embracing topography, LSD architecture and a sleep-paralysis hangover,Bukowski’s dry spell in Jefferson Square Park,heavenly Sunday strippers switching genders and almost succeeding;in an amalgamation of moments, the paths of our lives turn together,as we weave our way through the world’s profanation.

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Sitting in the bathroomJennifer Smith

The shower water ragedabove my apartment but it didnothing to dampen his voice.

Get out of my way!

His anger seeped into my bathroom wall, pouringin from his living room on the other side.

That’s more money spent!What have you to say for yourself?

The gentle voice tried to patchthe cracks in his voice, but

still the water wept in.

I tried, I really tried.

Leaving my bath tub ledge,I hoped the pipes would clearby the time I returned with the mail

and they did stop.

Later, as the hot water washed over me,I remembered his nod andthe puppy’s happy tail as bothgreeted me outside.

I waved with my letters in hand;He waved with the soiled rug and torn newspaper before returning to his small friend,

I can’t believe you did that.

57

Backyard SwingThomas R. Thomas

you have to go sohigh until you reachthe slack, then fly

and now canwrite withboth hands

and still canfeel the pain thesweat the itch

remember all thetattoo names writtenon your arm

you smile

58

Lack of RedemptionEmma Moser

There’s only black, she whispered So I peeked behind the cover and fell On her godforsaken shore Nothing to hold me up Nothing to holdWho knew that holesCould obstruct so much Inside a walking doll-carcass What happened to the lights? I askedI chewed them, she said Ground them to make burnt-forest seeds So I carved between her tombstones With my tongueDigging, digging To find something not dead there I uncovered nothing But the rotted shell Of something once lava Now cold, cold stone Taste the flower, she saidSo I kissed her And choked with the soot

59

A MoleLinda J. Knop

During eighth grade, in the only history class taught by a math teacher, I met Toren. He wasn’t like most of the kids in the class, and it took me longer than it probably should have to realize why. At first I found him annoying. I thought he was just another middle school boy with a short temper and no tact. But as the year progressed, I realized that wasn’t it. My classmates, especially my male classmates, picked on him incessantly. One moment he could be very sweet and quiet, but then someone would say something, and he’d change moods completely. I realized he was mentally disabled in some way—I never learned how, never even thought to ask.

Partway through the year Mr. Hall rearranged the seating chart, and I was suddenly sitting in front of Toren. I had never interacted with him, too shy and nervous to make any effort to reach out, or stop the bullying, or do anything. But Toren, he wasn’t shy at all. The first day I had my hair up, and he noticed a large mole I had on the back of my neck.

“Does this hurt?” he asked, and poked it from behind.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, reaching up to cover it and turning around to look at him. For a moment I thought he was teasing me, but he just smiled, cocking his head to the side like a puppy.

“No, it’s a mole. It’s just skin.”

“Oh.”

Every day after that, without fail, he would comment on the mole. He thought it was a tick, one of those bugs you find in hot states that latch on and suck your blood.

“I had one once, my grandma burnt it off me,” he explained, pocking at it again. I’d become used to it and let him.

“It’s just a mole, remember? It’s not a tick.”

“I know,” he said, examining it still, as though he hadn’t seen it a hundred times already.

Near the end of the year, while in the library working on a project, Toren left the table to ask the teacher a question. A girl used that moment to pull me aside.

“Linda, you’re too nice. You don’t have to hang out with him all the time just because you feel sorry for him.”

Oh.

I remember the feeling, the burst of anger followed by the hollowness.

It was the same feeling I got in high school, when walking down a hallway with a guy I had considered to be a friend. One of the mentally disabled students walked past us, a bounce in his step, swinging his arms. I don’t remember his name but I remember his fondness of reading, his smile when I helped him check out a book from the school library. My friend glanced at him and laughed under his breath.

“Heh, disabled kids.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. I wished I’d misheard him, but I knew I hadn’t. I must have been frowning, or glaring, because I remember watching as his smile shifted to one of confusion, and then the exact moment of comprehension, when he connected the dots.

“Oh,” he said, and he rushed to apologize. But he never tried to take the words back, never tried to defend himself. Just wanted me to forgive him, to forget he’d said anything at all.

60

I forgave him, eventually. But I never forgot.

In both instances, I couldn’t understand how two people I thought I knew so well could view others in such a light. To see them as burdens to be dealt with, rather than people who could be friends. Perhaps it was my own history, growing up with a mentally and physically disabled sister, but I couldn’t, still can’t, understand.

At the end of eight grade I said goodbye to Toren. He was going to a different high school than I was, and we never got around to exchanging contact information. I haven’t seen or heard from him since, but I still think about him. I still wish I’d done more to try and make his time in middle school a little easier, and hope that since I last saw him he’s made friends—real, good friends.

61

For T---Scott Edward Anderson

I asked her to dance at a black tie dinner for Literacy.She said she didn't dance; I'd have to teach her.Her friend, sitting next seat over, who later played Hagrid in the Harry Potter films, cautioned, "Be gentle with her now or you'll be answering to me."

She smiled when I bowed before taking her hand. She was light on her feet and let me lead. No one had moved her that way before, so in control, she whispered in my ear. And when the dance was over, I bowed again.

She thanked me, asked did I want to come see her in "Hamlet" on Broadway? I did.I brought flowers, met her backstage; she came out with me; later, I put her in a cab."Do you fancy coming uptown?"

I demurred, made some excuse.Perhaps another time, I suggested,knowing there would be none.(I’d no business being there in the first:I was married; unhappily, but still.)

It couldn't have ended well. No doubt,we'd divorce after a few violent years.She moving on to stage and screen;me, the scapegoat in the press,spilling popcorn on myself in the house seats.

62

TimelinesSneha Sundaram

In telling tales of mankindI found the keeper of secrets,Hidden in cryptic mazes Of ancestral myths.The Lynx’s eyes, Leaving amber crumbs of flightLost, between the sun, the moonThe earth and me,Dressed in folklore, embellished,With a necklace of skulls and gemstones,Through ritualistic sacrifice and goddess rites,I dusted for prints.Patterns and genealogyLong extinct now, But the DNA was foundIn Twisted tales of squiggly lines.

Lifelines, Blood lines, Love lines, Vain linesNerve lines, Age linesUnemployment lines, Food linesDecision lines, Mistake lines‘This far and no more’ linesUncharted unknown linesHis lines and my linesLost and found linesEnough lines, Guidelines‘Forever searching in circles’ linesPride lines and Fate linesRoot lines and Home linesDirection lines and Mile lines‘Reaching out to the sun’- branch lines‘I seek, what will define’ linesInfinitely resurrecting lines‘Where do I begin?And when will it stop’ Lines.

Lines that rise, Like disobedient subjectsPiss and vinegar, heroic linesTime the enemy and Time the friendUnabashed, unashamed, nakedTime, like the Lynx Ethereal, hidden in clairvoyant lines.

63

Hiding PlacesMichael Friedman

Why am I moved by the meta clicheof garbage as art in American Beauty?What Ricky Fitts saw as votive,billowing and diving in the wind.“Dancing” he called it,

alone and unashamedamong the swirling bucolic bitsof autumn detritus.The usual focus of my attentionreduced to background noise.Upstaged by a flimsy plastic bag.

Ephemeral varnish,microwavable and ready-to-wear —introspection I acquire at a an angle,circumnavigating the edges of my dark matterobsessions. My elderly parents becomingmore burden than pleasure, dwindling into translucent parchment to be lofted out of view, and me fearing relief over remembrance.

64

Things my mother never told meJohn Alwyine-Mosely

I was born a natural son found next to sea caught salmonI was born on the wrong side of a blanket before duvetsI was born without a vicar having to get his dog-collar onI was born from chance at a danceI was born a son of a body unknownI was born like the ring of a bell struck too hardI was born in lust as a love childI was born from a stall skimper for a whimper.I was born the son of a gun when his cannon misfired. I was born with a fizz and a fitzI was born on the wrong side of his staffI was born a mother's error

65

Pim Pam PolloJennifer Lagier

Lard is a sacrament dispensed at this Spanish food booth: dismembered chicken, flayed potato fragments crispedin a baptismal vat of molten, roiling fat.

The graffiti advertisement of a wok is very deceptive,implies healthy stir-fry, succulent veggies,wishful thinking, wildly imaginative street art.

Camille watches patrons crunch fried nuggetsfrom cardboard containers, wipe greasy hands on brown paper napkins as their arteries harden.

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Pim Pam PolloPhotographJennifer Lagier