bending light into verse

every picture tells a story

Jennifer L. Tomaloff

b e n d i n g l i g h t i n t o v e r s e I I I every picture tells a story

Photography by:

Jennifer L. Tomaloff

Featuring written works by:

Andrew Zawacki

BL Pawelek

Claudia Lamar

David Tomaloff

Ed Makowski

Eryk Wenziak

Felino A. Soriano

Helen Vitoria

Howie Good

J.D. Nelson

John Sibley Williams

Joseph Quintela

Keith Higginbotham

Kristina Marie Darling

Mark Lamoureux

Matina Stamatakis

Nate Pritts

Paul Scot August

Prathna Lor

bending light into verse III | Copyright 2012 Jennifer L. Tomaloff |

All works contained herein are owned by their individual authors | No

part of this book may be used except in brief quotation without the

express permission of the author(s).

bendinglightintoverse.com

Special thanks and dedication to the talented individuals whose

works are contained in these pages, without whom this project

would not be complete.

Every Picture Tells a Story

Words and photography, photography and words: The two are almost interchangeable in

terms of modern-day expression and communication, yet they don’t often overlap

artistically as a means for one to complete the other. Bending Light into Verse encourages

one form to do more than simply describe the other. It is often said that every picture

tells a story, but surely that story is subjective and belongs to each as well as to all of us.

In short, Bending Light into Verse seeks to establish an ongoing conversation between the

image and the artist of the written word.

The photographs included in this book were taken using a Nikon D40 or Nikon D90 with a Nikon 50mm f/1.8D, Nikkor 18-105mm f/3.5-5.6G, or a Tokina 11-16mm f/2.8 AT-X 116 Pro DX lens. bendinglightintoverse.com -Jennifer L. Tomaloff

Contributors:

Andrew Zawacki is the author of the poetry books Petals of Zero Petals of One (Talisman House), Anabranch (Wesleyan), and By Reason of Breakings (Georgia). His latest volume, Videotape, is forthcoming from Counterpath. Coeditor of Verse, The Verse Book of Interviews (Verse), and Gustaf Sobin’s Collected Poems (Talisman), he edited Afterwards: Slovenian Writing 1945-1995 (White Pine). He also edited and co-translated Aleš Debeljak’s Without Anesthesia: New and Selected Poems (Persea). Zawacki teaches at the University of Georgia, where he directs the doctoral Creative Writing Program. BL Pawelek grew up on a small Japanese island (kinda true). He wonders if his master's degree in Literature was worth it (not financially). There are stories, poems and plenty of art (google search). The Equation of Constants and Ten Everywhere and the unfirm line. He tries to show mad love to everyone, especially you. Claudia Lamar is the founding editor of Phantom Kangaroo, an eerie place for poems. She lives in Sacramento in a small studio apartment with her boyfriend Sam and a dead fish named Alien. Her bucket list includes being recreated as a comic book character and time travel. David Tomaloff is a writer, photographer, musician, and all around bad influence. His work has appeared in fine publications such as Mud Luscious, >kill author, PANK, Connotation Press, HOUSEFIRE, Prick of the Spindle, DOGZPLOT, elimae, and many more. He is the author of the chapbooks 13 (Artistically Declined Press), A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN &REMOVES ITSELF (NAP), Olifaunt (Red Ceilings Press), EXIT STRATEGIES (Gold Wake Press) and MESCAL NON-PALINDROME CINEMA (Ten Pages Press). He resides in the form of ones and zeros at: davidtomaloff.com Ed Makowski is a poet and writer who can't sit still. While working as Eddie Kilowatt he released the poetry collections Manifest Density and Carrying a Knife in to the Gunfight. Over the past year Ed became interested in radio and now curates The Lunch Counter storytelling series on Milwaukee's NPR station 89.7 WUWM. Between November 2011 and April 2012 Ed is also serving as the Pfister Hotel Narrator and in this capacity he is the hotel's resident writer and gatherer of stories.

Eryk Wenziak is a drummer, photographer, visual artist, and teaches management at the graduate level. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in: elimae; Short, Fast, and Deadly; Thunderclap Press; Used Furniture Review; Otoliths; Negative Suck; Psychic Meatloaf; Dark Chaos; Guerilla Pamphlets; Deadlier Than Thou (anthology); Phantom Kangaroo; Pipe Dream; 52|250; Long River Run. Most recently, his cover art was chosen for a chapbook of poems honoring Donald Hall titled, Olives, Now and Then, which he personally presented to Mr. Hall at the poet’s 83rd birthday celebration. Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. He has received the Gertrude Stein “rose” prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Over 3,100 of his poems have appeared in print and online journals such as BlazeVOX, Otoliths, infinite space, Poetry, Yes, and Fact Simile. He has had 48 print and electronic collections of poetry accepted for publication, most recently Pathos etched, recalled: (white sky books, 2011), Divaricated, Spatial Aggregates (limit cycle press, 2011), and Abrupt Hybrids (Whale Sound Audio Chapbooks, 2011). For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: felinoasoriano.info. Helen Vitoria’s work can be found in many journals: elimae, PANK, MudLuscious Press, Foundling Review, FRIGG Magazine, Dark Sky Magazine and others. She is the author of three chapbooks and a full length poetry collection: Corn Exchange forthcoming from Scrambler Books. Her poems have been nominated for Best New Poets & the Pushcart Prize. She is the Founding Editor & Editor in Chief of THRUSH Poetry Journal & THRUSH Press. Find her here: helenvitoria-lexis.blogspot.com Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as numerous print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently Love Dagger from Right Hand Pointing.

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean

laboratory. More than 1,000 of his bizarre poems and experimental texts have appeared

in many small press and underground publications. He is the author of several collections

of poetry, including When the Sea Dies (NAP, 2011), On the Toad (The Red Ceilings

Press, 2011, and Red&Deadly, 2011), Roman Meal (Ten Pages Press, 2011), Noise

Difficulty Flower (Argotist Ebooks, 2010), and The Frankendelphia Experiment (Tainted

Coffee Press, 2010). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published

work. His audio experiments (recorded under the name Owl Brain Atlas) are online at

OWLNoise.com. J. D. lives in Colorado, USA.

John Sibley Williams is the author of six chapbooks, winner of the HEART Poetry Award, and finalist for the Pushcart, Rumi, and The Pinch Poetry Prizes. He has served as Acquisitions Manager of Ooligan Press and Publicist for various presses, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing and MA in Book Publishing. Some of his over 200 previous or upcoming publications include: Bryant Literary Review, The Chaffin Journal, The Evansville Review, RHINO, Rosebud, Ellipsis, Flint Hills Review, and Poetry Quarterly. Joseph A. W. Quintela writes. Poems. Stories. On Post-its. Walls. Envelopes. Cocktail napkins. Twitter. Anything he gets his hands on, really. His last chapbook, This is not Poetry. #poetry, was published by The Red Ceilings Press. Other work has appeared in The Collagist, ABJECTIVE, GUD, Bartleby Snopes, and Existere. As the senior editor at Deadly Chaps Press, he publishes both an annual series of chapbooks and the weekly eReview, Short, Fast, and Deadly. His work at Sarah Lawrence College revolves around integrating the disparate yet rapidly dovetailing fields of Conceptual Poetry and Eco-Criticism. As such, he is an acolyte of intra-action, hash tags, and the Oxford comma. josephquintela.com Keith Higginbotham's work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Cricket Online Review, experiential-experimental-literature, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Mad Hatters' Review Blog, Moria, Otoliths, Stone Highway Review, and The Ten Pages Press Reader. He is the author of Carrying the Air on a Stick (The Runaway Spoon Press, 1995), Prosaic Suburban Commercial (Eratio Editions, 2010), Theme From Next Date (Ten Pages Press, 2011), and Calibration (Argotist Ebooks, 2011). He lives in Columbia, SC. Kristina Marie Darling is the author of three full-length poetry collections: Night Songs (Gold Wake Press, 2010), Compendium (Cow Heavy Books, 2011), and The Body is a Little Gilded Cage: A Story in Letters & Fragments (Gold Wake Press, 2011). Her fourth book, Melancholia (An Essay), is forthcoming from Ravenna Press.

Mark Lamoureux lives in Astoria, NY. He is the author of thee full-length collections of poetry: Spectre (Black Radish Books 2010), Astrometry Orgonon (BlazeVOX Books 2008) and 29 Cheeseburgers / 39 Years (Pressed Wafer, Forthcoming 2012). His work has been published in print and online in Fence, miPoesias, Jubilat, Denver Quarterly, Conduit, Jacket, Fourteen Hills and many others. In 2006 he started Cy Gist Press, a micropress focusing on ekphrastic poetry. He holds an MFA from the New School and teaches in the CUNY system. Matina L. Stamatakis lives in upstate New York. Some of her works have appeared in Coconut, Free Verse, Otoliths, Word for/ Word, Moria, and others. She is the author of ek-ae:a journey into ekphrastic aesthetics (Dusie, 2007), Metempsychose (Ypolita, 2009), Eos (Oystercatcher Press, 2010), The ChongDong Misfits (Avantexte Press, 2011), and Breaking the Bird's Beak Hymen (Venereal Kittens Press, 2011). Nate Pritts is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sweet Nothing. POETRY Magazine called his third book, The Wonderfull Yeare, “rich, vivid, intimate, & somewhat troubled” while The Rumpus called Big Bright Sun, his fourth book, “a textual record of mistakes made and insights gleaned...[in] a voice that knows its part in self-destruction.” His poetry & prose have been widely published, both online & in print, at places like Southern Review, Columbia, Washington Square, Gulf Coast, Boston Review & Rain Taxi where he frequently contributes reviews. He is the founder & principal editor of H_NGM_N, an online journal & small press. Poet Paul Scot August is originally from the North side of Chicago but has spent half his life now in Wisconsin. He has an MA in Creative Writing from UW-Milwaukee and works these days as a software developer. He is a former poetry editor of The Cream City Review and has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and once for a Best of The Net award. His poetry has appeared or is upcoming in Tygerburning, Connotations Press, Midwestern Gothic, The Los Angeles Review, Sugar House Review, Hobble Creek Review, Country Dog Review, Stone's Throw Magazine, Dunes Review, Naugatuck River Review, Passages North, Poetry Quarterly, The Cream City Review, and elsewhere. He currently lives in the Milwaukee area with his two children. Prathna Lor is the author of Ventriloquism (Future Tense Books).

b e n d i n g l i g h t i n t o v e r s e I I I every picture tells a story

somewhere a childhood that was not mine

i remember as my own its sudden burst of trees,

its carefully planted stars just outside the frame,

its chaff swirling back into uncut wheat,

back into seed, back into your hands

that once dug up six inches of hard earth

and believed that enough to reach China.

safe in the unpredictability of a tire swinging,

i as your bare feet when they struck sky

and toed the old gods, before they were known

as lightning and climate variations,

back when you asked them for nothing more

than another series of childhoods,

i before gravity returned your feet to the world.

may I use your empty field again to call back the stars,

and in my being the sky you once cherished,

the trees you once climbed, fell from, and climbed again,

let me stand straight as golden autumn grass

before the winds and their irreversible bending.

-John Sibley Williams

how the soul moves

the I unfolds in long white corridors

tongued by a nondescript carpet

that knows the gravity of footfall

but cannot speak.

dust has been cleansed

from the main thoroughfare

and rises in prayers to remain

in the unseen corners

where impossible walls meet.

here, bathed in false fluorescents.

here, where the freight we carry

bears in nametags each origin and destination.

here, bordered by thousands of matching doors,

the soul reaches through a panel of missing glass

and hauls out the lone extinguisher

that must suffice to protect this entire structure

from its inhabitants.

-John Sibley Williams

Data file recovery complete: telephone cables arranged in cedilla, icicles

accent aigu. A light meter teeter-totters—overcast, the selenium shot—like

a spirit level bubble, wavering. Shannon, Reykjavik, Santa Maria, on HF

radio, U- or V-: “the night ark / adrift, / & water- / divided, the / stars.”

-Andrew Zawacki

originally published in Conjunctions 56: Terra Incognita: The Voyage Issue (2011).

This is how it’s going to go down: grain silos & power grids, slingshots dot

the Susquehanna, belaying the phone lines in sine wave & synapse, a plat of

McMansions splatter a forest, new-mown grass in lawn-brite hypergreen.

Unspooled wire to the foosball palace, & a grove of bucket trucks off 81.

-Andrew Zawacki

originally published in Conjunctions 56: Terra Incognita: The Voyage Issue (2011).

exit ramp a) scientific data. tension between sleeping.

b) obsession described evokes division.

c) outside: a shed once facing right.

d) my mother was interviewed while in Paris.

e) engraved on a bronze plaque: Information is Public.

f) suddenly discovering Sylvia Plath’s drawings

1. they forage

2. (like gulls)

3. for a question

a) inside a statue dressed in blue.

-Eryk Wenziak

white noise i pick up the flag

trace a figure-

eight

into the high sky

like a child burning his

name with a sparkler.

the figure-

eight

will fall on its side—

become infinity…

-Eryk Wenziak

Ink Milk Halftime.

I’m on the woof. : • :

• : •

: • :

• : •

: • :

Three nights from never, when water tasted like dirt. “Wow,” said Dangerous Lou of the third floor. I weep for black-and-white spiders.

• : •

: • :

• : •

: • :

• : •

Today is safe: x

A moon in my room.

-J.D. Nelson

Weekend Brunch 100 years after Star Wars. Down here in the spider hole, we recycle. my blood neon & when crickets

✂ – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Bonus: To land on Mars at night! blue gum -J.D. Nelson

Laser Floyd X. Elfwrench

{o zerö} {ø zero} {ö zerø}

∑. (:::) - - : - - (:::)

Room 68 o o o o o o o o o o o o o

❀. Hack into a flower

[my little

spider] -J.D. Nelson

agenda

I will prick my finger on the last pine, spread the stick juice that never comes off.

It will seep into me, and I will branch.

I will gather the barn swallow in two hands, pulling feathers until one shows

blood. I will slide that into my holed arm, mix the blood.

I will climb the rocks, jetting and sharp, and lean into the strong wind. Farther and

farther, loosing the touch of feet on solid.

I will wade into the back lake, knife in hand, and under the dark water. When the

breath is done, I will cut and build gills on the sides of my neck. Force my body to learn

the new way.

I will steal dry sticks and leaves, gather them in left hand and light a match. The

fire, small and nurtured, will heat in palm as a reminder: there is new life after the burn.

I will create it all in six days, a son and sin. I will demand sacrifices and enforce

commandments. Preach active love but stay inactive. I will tell you that I am no longer a

god.

-BL Pawelek

dismas and gestas

the right the brighter

the first to meet at the gates to rub fingers along cool metal

the first to feel full sun warmth on shy cheeks

no safety net strong enough to cast shadows and blast

the due reward for deeds

as the ground opens for dismas whispering

‘remember me remember me remember me’

staring and prayers

in the left shadows cold and scowling

red anger coats the mouth

the impenitent gestas screams and collapse

fading and fading, remembering attacks and easy blood

the final flight to egypt

the lights fade and fade and continue

the saved the sinner

and the other

-BL Pawelek

the girls of crow

they darted with the new plants the old rocks

catching sunlight and smiling

jumping rocks higher and higher

asking great spirit for more

above the clouds with the crows

he smelled them

innocent girls and easy

closer and closer the hunger of so long

the growl

running clamoring and frantic prayers

the girls on the rock tower rising

grinding marks broken bear claws

through rising stone of his blood

cries of hunger cries of relief

the bones sleeping below the tower

old women still above

singing and crying

-BL Pawelek

what is it that bridles me? something subtle & made out of your shadow. it has

the confidence of an unfound planet & the tone of a forgotten language. but it is a

dull suffering. & it hates it when i leave & i leave often. because it has to follow &

all becomes anonymous & that can be sobering. so i always come back to the

ache/to be moored - to live with this weight of familiar ghosts that refuse to

travel.

-Claudia Lamar

A method for time travel (for children ages 3 and up)

We swore we were bigger than monsters

hiding kisses underneath our sleeves

while our mothers spoke in tongues

on the front porch

I told you the truth about echoes

our palms inked in stars

all the planets in blues

moaning like street musicians

and begging for childrens' hearts

but we were never young

we met our fate like dinosaurs

taught ourselves the rites of bones

we stole chairs and sheets

and built a shrine to all our secrets

and we lived there

below a canopy of ghosts

we laughed at the myth of grownups

and traveled through time in our heads

falling in love in other dimensions

until mother said it was time to go

and head down I would follow her

each step on the concrete

imprinted a confession

-Claudia Lamar

From the series BECKETT

1

You weren’t cold. You just shivered sometimes.

2

The sleeping pills that knocked you out at night also kept you in a daze during the

day. You moved as through a dream of fair to middling women.

3

All poetry . . . is prayer, you said to hoots of derisive laughter. Being damned was

the same as being saved. Your old wounds flared like the pink and green sunsets

you found only in Ireland.

4

Ezra Pound declared himself the only sane writer left in Europe. The lines on the

map ruptured. You passed long stretches of empty time in the no man’s land

between perceiver and the thing perceived, where people were just blobs of color.

5

You could read three languages and, of course, grieve well in each. In late spring,

you visited a mental hospital out of curiosity. Jesus wiped the dribble from

patients’ chins.

6

Something terrible was about to happen, but even you couldn’t divine what. The

only stage direction was (silence).

-Howie Good

WHO KNOWS WHAT HAPPENS NOW

Gulls have a third eyelid.

I lost my sunglasses.

Blue-eyed people

are supposed

to wear sunglasses.

I shield my eyes

with one hand

and point darkly

with the other.

Gulls crouch like doubts

among the rocks,

the psst of waves

withdrawing.

-Howie Good originally published in Rain Dogs

A SPELLING BEE IN STEREO FOR WHICH THERE WILL BE A QUIZ

We barricade ourselves under snow where, as we say, the streetlights will never

think to look. Still, we dream we hear the laughter of angry, passing cars. A

windsock waves from a radio tower in Brooklyn. Seems to be saying, I think they

went that way. Spring pops its flares, implies with a series of codes &dogs: It’s

only a matter time.

+strange shapes become us / huddle, we, in dust / &move by fog

-David Tomaloff

AMONG THE WRECKAGE, WE

We filled our bags with special powders &linens, &with the pictures of supposed

loved ones we had cut from magazines on living room floors. We knew nothing of

the ocean. We played soldiers on television. It didn’t hurt us when we died. Every

animal in the place was a small bird, &all of us, how we felt the same back then.

The songs of our ancestors were built of radio signals &rouge. The elevator

groaned—floor, by floor, by fast approaching floor. We reached the city in our

work clothes. A man suggested we’d FINALLY ARRIVED. Nothing here looked as it

had in the moving pictures. The birds carried on in contempt.

+a windless oregon / the shuffling of boots &limbs / the laying of iron &rust

-David Tomaloff

A DIVE INTO A HALF-SWALLOW

, OR THE COMING OF SONGS UNDONE

the cages utter

words like arsenic

, &sentencia

you reach

to touch

my street gang

, &the park fills

w/ the vowels of promises

it could never hope to contain

-David Tomaloff

Peanut Portrait Gallery

In the frenzy to

inflict trophies

and christen all else

failure

from smug armchairs

we neglect noticing

that the “also rans”

Ran

-Ed Makowski

originally published in BlazeVOX

G'night

sometimes

it's nice

to walk home

alone

sometimes,

it's

walking home

alone

-Ed Makowski

Gradation of the Artificial Apparition Absent sequences of the serial collocations: corporeal| |contaminations questioning whom among antiquated broken variances ascends simulated functions of angled origami sans shadowy possessions of the body’s resembling hearsay. -Felino A. Soriano

Within __________, yes Numerical postulation upon missing nuances, spheres deliver (separated halos engage though weary against abstract limning of __________) mobile area, awaiting touch of breathing blurs to analyze distances of inaudible tongues braiding confiscations. -Felino A. Soriano

What the Devil will say in Spring: Entomb me in your garden, next to the sound of water. Tie blue filament around me, hang me from a bridge. And sing. -Helen Vitoria originally published in The Cartier Street Review

Isabelle, the summer before you died, I rode a Ferris wheel warped by heat− in the old baseball field rain sheets, raised dirt, floated bases while I smoked Marlboros with your brother in his ’83 Corvette, watched him juggle knives in the sun, in the distance horses grazed near the cattails, till dark -Helen Vitoria

Rooted That rock

loosening inside—the

one whose

pollen utters

swallowing all kempt

crisscrossing

dusty furrows.

Always

this and distance.

Whisperers—

stringings;

beyond tracks

arrogant: eye: vigils

fraying

tiny as polished

tunnels.

-Keith Higginbotham

Grass of Leaves

Dinner of

enamels, mark handle

in

(could

your wire

hands love lidless

things?).

We are on

an arthritic breeze.

Replicas

force our words

now,

words once

bottles breaking.

Those things.

They painted the gardener's

face [brown]—so this is for

you.

-Keith Higginbotham

She imagined her heart as a white bird in a silver cage. -Kristina Marie Darling

SONNET ON THE SEVERED HEAD OF DON DRAPER

Right speech, right angle. Mirror mirror

of the boardroom door. Detective chromium

was the dream of the mid-century clusterfuck.

Fugazi for this—bad scotch in a tumbler.

Marlowe’s rye really spit up

in a freight elevator. Depression glass dish

of calcifying allsorts, Miss Whatever &

millennial fishnets of the insipid general ledger.

Lonelyhearts & bad minds shorted out

by the aluminum Christmas tree. Staccato

of the Hueys for your pacemaker,

whoosh of napalm for your iron lung.

I’m staring at the sun while all the rest

slough off into sodium chloride.

-Mark Lamoureux

Killcrop

I grew up like a changeling.—Ian Curtis

Shiv-

fisted

curve of

the fisheye

in the drop hung

from the desiccated wings.

Spriggan-sprig, the taproot

heart is the bruise of the gloaming:

the angel is black, the angel is whip-thin,

a coarse shadow in the vapor of your own

breath inside the pinion-rustle of the sigh of

the evergreen revels. Come away if indeed

you are human; full of weeping, too,

is this grove, but those tears

are not for you.

-Mark Lamoureux

Resonate/Opus/Flesh

: A fluster of tiny mechanisms:

‘neath the grooves, eroded bodies

makes of water, or the breadth of ether. &

Lethe in the wearied face, drink my body─

boldly & without sugar.

:Vocabulary of desire:

in the ecstasy of metal,

a persuasive din— licked of needle,

geometries spun-out to a jagged discord.

More tongues, loosened flesh, orgasmic

swan-pulp softness─

whispered incognito.

: A flash of skin impulses:

recreating, in space, the moons

of our eyes─ an infantine lumière.

This flesh of us knows no end─ as predicted.

-Matina Stamatakis

Crosshatch & Splinter

Terrain, the markings

pool this pulpless

blood, this

intricate & finite, this

sucked- from- marrow, where

not a sparrow has perched

-Matina Stamatakis

HORIZON PROBLEM The past is so easy to read,

written on top of everything,

though I know there was

plenty of intervening time

some of which took me away

from myself. I remember

every building & storefront

in terms of what it used to be.

I feel as if I have to be declamatory

about my feelings or that I

should make my simple emotions

smarter. More worthy of an audience.

Some people think that form

is what makes things worthwhile

but I like talk. Cars zip by

not noticing the night. Maybe

what makes them real

is their spontaneous flow

& not forced together

with brute fists. I like things

to be graceful though maybe

even in that you can see

the chaotic energy boiling over.

Like how I traveled from low

entropy to high entropy. Like how

even thinking about a specific

crisis moment doesn’t help me

understand. Two in the morning

& my power to generate change

is quickly fading from my present.

-Nate Pritts

Anguish & Wolfenbarger While she waits on tables at the Dallas City Café,

she glances up through the greasy front windows

at the Anguish & Wolfenbarger Ford Dealership

across and slightly down the street. People in town

just call it The Anguish. The name still makes her

wince. Today is Tuesday, so she takes her coffee

break at 2:15, just like she does every Tuesday,

sits at the table in the front and waits. She’ll see

the Greyhound Bus as it motors down Main Street,

stops at the railroad tracks, the driver looking down

the rails that extend in each direction to the horizon,

becoming arrows he wishes he could grab onto and use

to launch himself into another life that is not this one.

She’ll watch as the bus crosses the tracks and pulls

over at the far end of the auto shop to either catch

or release another passenger. Or more likely, no one

does either, and the driver shuffles inside for a cup

of vending machine coffee and a piss, before leaning

against the brick wall along the alley and having a smoke,

then getting back on the bus. He always leans in the exact

place where her Billy did that day, where the metal plate

on the wall is falling away from the bricks, where he smoked

one Lucky Strike after another until the bus pulled up

and he turned to her, winked, and climbed into the past.

-Paul Scot August

My Dearest Emile --- after a letter by Van Gogh Sunset? Moonrise?

Summer sunshine at all events.

A mauve town, yellow star,

blue-green sky. The corn

is in all tones of old gold,

copper, greenish or reddish

gold, yellowy gold, bronze-

yellow, greenish red.

A size 30 canvas, and square.

I painted it with the mistral

at its height, my easel was

pegged to the ground

with iron stakes, a method

I recommend. You dig

in the legs of the easel, then

next to them an iron spike

fifty centimetres long. You tie

it all together with rope.

Then you can work in the wind.

-Paul Scot August originally published in Zuzu’s Petals Quarterly Vol 2 – Issue 2/3

This is what I call a mother a mother a mother. -Prathna Lor

I know the stain of his voice. What he needs to close his mouth completely. There

was a time when I was able to call him a name and there was a time when I was

able to curdle a voice. I felt the haunch and rigor of his throat. I felt the

importance of him having to lie down. I knew that somewhere there was a forest

and waiting.

-Prathna Lor