Fragile Arts Quarterly / Winter 09-10

Fragile Arts Quarterly

Winter 2009~2010

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"Untitled"


FRAGILE ARTS QUARTERLY / Winter 2009~2010

Moongaze Publishing, Pittsburgh, PA Contact us: [email protected]

Obtain free PDF back issues at: http://fragilearts.tumblr.com

All works in this issue of Fragile Arts Quarterly are the copyrighted property of the creators of said works and are used by permission.

Cover photo & page background Silver Sand by Brenda Cheason

This page photo by Raymond Sapienza

Sharon Messina

G – 20 Summit Pittsburgh, PA

September 2009

Lola Nation

Clean and Sober Clean and sober It’s the shampoo and condition syndrome, Switch brands from healthy brainwash scams to spiritual cleansing Drowning in repetition Following the siren on the bottle thinking there’s a median just because Aristotle once said that a person must go to both extremes to find their center Of course, at times like this he’s a mentor Should I or Shouldn’t I Pixie twins of indecision residing on my shoulders whispering new plans to take over the world one day at a time but forgiveness and apologies are not nearly the same I crave redemption, but I’m sorry I came.

City Slickers The pavement a canvas to oil slick paintings reflecting our images while those crazy kids are singing to me, that whatever, I want I'll get did I ever add a regret to the list never Aderral attention span mind soaked in wine coffee stained teeth grind light another cigarette to confirm my lust for life, while I let Jonnie in again He leaves the lights on all the way home when I finally call he tells me, I don't need them I could do this, regardless of wherever I roam, do I need more time, freedom I lie and say no when the truth is I haven't any idea

Beatback Cover

Can’t pick up the phone today

I see, clearly –

the ungrateful display,

like cheap artwork

at a church bizarre...

Last week-

you were happy to have

your fingers knuckle deep

dragging in my honey

I get you

You’re just a creep back into my life, sideswipe, leave me be type.

The last cigarette of the night The last cigarette of the night. Amber thoughts and fleeting realizations before bed, I wish I could keep these thoughts organized in my head but the piano keys are too sharp and I wish you’d strum guitar instead I could sleep easier being bored Heartburn heartache, too much beer Too much, too much never quite enough I had everything It’s still waiting I’m contemplating the fastest way back to Albuquerque Will you point me in the right direction I’m lost next to good intention Please, forward my mail to this address unknown Please tell them I’m so sorry I lost my phone one day I’ll reach out and touch someone The ballet at hand on foot, says run There’s a desert ahead a long hot walk I thirst like I never have before I want not for food, substance, or health I just want to make that last stretch before death

Lola Nation

Slim Letaief http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus http://slimletaief.blogspot.com

Slim Letaief

Dennis Ergle http://www.dennisergleinteriors.com

Fall to your Feet Today I stumbled and I fell. And a blanket of despair enveloped my being. But all is well... for this is yet a new beginning. Blinded by the shade of fear hope escaped my flimsy grasp. But alas, the light will reappear, for God has placed me in his lap. I looked away for just one second. And with that glance... lost all direction. But with my monsters I will reckon. For through my fear I shall take action. And today...I arose.

The Poison Web Somewhere, hidden in the corner of the subconscious, an angry seed festers and begins to take root. Fertilized by hate it grows silently into the consciousness. As it journeys from the Darkness toward the Light it blooms. With thoughts of revenge. And plans for retribution. Like a spider plant its vines weave a web. The human spirit...its prey. But with the courage to cultivate, and the patience to prune, an angry seed can grow into a heroic hostile. Housing the hate. And building a wall to protect the innocent spirit from its own subconscious anger. Thus, anger fueled by its own hate, emerges from the Darkness and into the Light as a secret garden. And what a beautiful bloom anger yields.

Renate van Nijen www.renate-kunst.nl

Angelic Passion

Seaside Meditation

Ceramic Ball #1

Ceramic Ball #2

Renate van Nijen

Donna in blu

Free as a bird

byRenate van Nijen

Three-dimensional nonsense, too much explanation, whereas what pops up in my head makes sense. Too much

noise, almost annoying. Cyclists being blown away with the wind. Free as birds. They don’t see much, hair

playing in front of their eyes, a pleasant feeling in their faces. The wind creating a fresh soft feeling as if a gentle

force can be pleasant. Flapping umbrellas, sweeping coats, dancing leaves. A flying hat. I decide to sit in it.

The hat takes me to an unknown destination where I will never arrive, perhaps that is him. I feel embraced,

encased in a cocoon loosely spun around me, leaving my spirit free, making me whole, complete again. I feel an

exciting sensation, discovering sensuality in everything that is, nature, myself. I absorb it, allowing the feeling

into my pores. The hat takes me along. A flock of birds flies in the sky, they are very close, I can almost touch

them. Their beauty so powerful. Where are they going? I decide that they are leaving. Suddenly the wind

subsides and the hat ends up in a red convertible. The sun starts shining, warming me. I feel total happiness and

look around. The car is parked in front of a high hedge. If beauty lies hidden in a rocking branch with red

berries, then where am I?

In the rear mirror I see a casually draped white pullover on the back shelf. The mirror shows a limited world, but

when I watch long enough I discover more and the restricted world becomes spectacular. A brightly coloured

bird secretly nibbles on a berry.

Someone approaches the car. He is roughly attractive. A pleasant Mediterranean look with a carefully created

nonchalant short beard beneath his bright blue eyes, which, strongly contrasting his dark curly hair, stare

dreamily into the distance. He puts the hat on his head. I feel his messy curls and smell his freshly washed hair.

He carries me along to the station and takes a seat in a stationary train. He puts the hat on the small table.

I look out of the window and see a salamander escaping between the pavement slabs on the platform. The sun

intensifies its bright green colour, touching me in my belly, almost tangible. The train slowly starts moving.

There is an ocean of sunflowers. I want to dive in, have a swim, inspired. I am an artist and take in the yellow

glow of the sunflowers.

Small picturesque medieval villages lie along the track in the hills and grant me a view of a time past, too strongly present to be pushed away by the overwhelming sound of the

pounding hip-hop music coming from the windows of a shiny black car waiting at the railway crossing. In spite

of the speed of modern time, life seems to stand still. I go along in the peace and quiet and feel satisfied and

happy. In the distance the blue-grey silhouette of a mountain chain, fossilized in time, dominantly present within

my view. It stills me.

At the next station he picks up the hat, puts it on his head and gets off the train. He leaves the small station and

crosses the square, sitting down at a wooden table outside a café in the small village. A few cyclists wipe the

hair out of their faces and park their bicycles against the ages-old olive tree in the middle of the square. He

orders a glass of wine.

I crawl out of the hat; I’m an exciting energy. I don’t feel lonely because I know I am part of a whole, realising

that I am a cloud, floating above the hilly landscape. It’s freedom, and while I swell up into a dark wet

substance, I decide to come down in the form of a sensational drop, full of tension, warm and at the same time

refreshing and exciting. I want him to recognise me and make sure he will notice. With a well-aimed landing,

slightly splashing, overwhelming and very present I land on his nose. I see that he is startled and shakes me off,

with regret because subconsciously he is aware of my sensuality. I end up in a colourful cane chair and suddenly

he notices me. He starts talking and his voice is deep and warm. I want to suck on it, but decide to take it into my

ears becoming a memory.

I look inside myself, distracted by the confusion in my throat and lower body. I can see the tension that I am

feeling, my fast beating heart. Blood running through my veins faster than usual, nervous beating in my solar

plexus. I recognise the symptoms of attraction, of falling in love which will dominate my life for a brief moment

or for ever. I sense a vibration in my lower belly, warm waves taking away my breath, inadvertently flowing

through my body. I am aware of my entire being, consisting of only energy, now so realistically present, like a

fire. A fire of love and passion and the desire to love and be loved. I feel feminine and attractive. Leaving behind

daily worries about deficiencies in a non-existing past.

He is extremely attractive, looking deep into my eyes, asking if I want to come with him, to hide in a tree house.

We both laugh and he takes my hand, it feels familiar. I suddenly know that I belong to him and so does he. We

climb into the tree and sit down on a colourful carpet in the tree house. He pulls me towards him and puts his

arm around me. We look around us in silence. We can see the sea, blue as it should be, a little wild and

pleasantly moving. We can hear the waves rolling over the colourful pebbles on the beach, soothingly…

shhhhhsss, shhhhss, … creating a wonderful romantic melody together with the rustling of the leaves in the tree.

After some time the compact clouds disappear, making space for a beautiful veil which hangs in the sky like an

invitation. Pink, almost lilac, behind a gentle wall of light turquoise, very intense. A few floating clouds pass by,

like an enormous hammock. Birds fly, allowing themselves to be guided, touching the careful clouds. We also

want to enter that wondrous world. He gives me the confidence and together we take the plunge, falling onto a

soft veil, sensual, with appropriate passion. He takes me into his arms, softly kissing me. Looking for me with

his wet tongue, from my mouth to my ear, my neck, further discovering my body. I hear the soft groaning, sweet

sounds from deep down inside him and he whispers…. I need you. I understand what he means. My hands

explore his body, recognizing it and giving myself to him, sharing. He helps me to feel free in my body. His

touch changing me into a magic ball of emotions. Alternating warm, goose pimples, wet, electric and shockingly

uncontrollable. I enjoy him as much as he enjoys me, absorbing the smells that belong to him, never to forget

them.

I feel more beautiful than ever and totally fuse with him, unifying with the clouds, never feeling lonely again. I

realise that I am part of a whole. He knows it too. He looks up into the sky where he sees a bird flying. That is

me, with a smile, free....

Distant Attraction detail Renate van Nijen

Michael Mc Aloran

excisor marks (wasteland) i restive to sense a transparent tomb of tears of the impossible flesh martyred the blood ii spine of all truths empty of whispers bootheel of the sky pressed down upon like death iii my death oppresses the long shadow of my being severed intoxicated iv I burn my blackened teeth corrupt bones the bled eyes of a calf v scar-tissue unforgotten the tongue left loose in the blazing sun an apocalypse of night

vi words are fragrant thorns in the mouths of the unborn vii rifts of cold teeth line the pathways I vomit to moisten the earth viii in the cold cut of the breeze of this endless night I may sever my tongue and eat of it ix inhalations of razor-blades the stretch of the skin love is but a wasteland of burnt orchids and concrete tears x excisor marks of the sky the candle blown out

at the edge of the sky head of a heavy frost open-ended sky of flames of the butchered animals kiss more reluctant the eye a shimmering of cloud through which the lightning breaks wind tearing the open grave of the heart a pulse shattering resplendent at the bottom of the well sacred songs are sung in a debris of words the skin is shorn to burn the light out of the sky wormed tongues fragrant with destitution at the edge of the sky only the soldered teeth belong

in the foreign breeze to taste the vellum artifact of night clamour of unrest the shivering flesh a dead-end trail usurped the flow of the tide naked ripe ripped the steam rises hollow death beneath a meaningless sky as words drift out of focus shadows rest without conscience as fingernails claw bare white walls the leaves drifting listlessly in the foreign breeze there is no room beneath a sky of shadow endless

drift black blood to shine in the light of the black sky the churning flesh, an avaricious need the crackling of dead leaves nothingness melds, with the absence of air drifting shadows in the turning of the sky my bones my bones will seep the marrow yet pregnant with laughter, the abyss all that I see the walls bleeding their emptiness inhalations of razor-blades and the sheared light drifting downwards like petals to dissipate upon my ashen skin... grated inwardly, I drift echoes of where I have been like a trail through the dark

Michael Mc Aloran

Claudia Phares www.claudiaphares.com

literary osmosis II self portrait

I want to be like Yoko Ono self portrait

the journey

Where were you? self portrait

Claudia Phares

the shadow that never was self portrait

blue

barely Claudia Phares

Roseanne Aiello Morales www.Myspace.com/kinderkitty.

Confident Skin My pieces are floating in the midday sun the fur is beginning to fly, like puffball milk weed from a little girls lips blown in the wind to cover the miles from here to there to eternity. It hit the fan a long time ago when I spoke my mind and my brain shut down. The drama club sent back my application, I'll have to take my act elsewhere. Truth will not sail here, the calm seas flattened by a spate of snake tongue, oily medicine for percieved symptoms while the disease progresses unabated. Leaving me naked and unprotected out in the heat when the rains don't come, I will dance for the shamen in this arid oasis being totally free in my skin.

Epiphany Woke in a cold sweat from a hopped up chopped up wet behind the ears anal dream shitting the rainbow through Dr Dentons tooth in a cup of bubbly madness. Realization hit me like a bullet in the dark stark empty box a pillow and a velvet lining defining my future as useless shuffling. And I knew right then right now I would never be 21 again. Primal scream in the ruthless night and back to sleep.......... to dreams.

Mannot When is a man not a man? Baggage shackled in the lower class hold shipped, wrecked, parcel post to nowhere.......................(tool) trimming, planting (trees where strange fruit grow) A number on a page (tatoo) name, rank, a series a numbers in an infinite set (kill one) see the fields where the millions sprout (replacement parts) monkeys in the wild a child beaten down because he thought he might be more (human) than that dog scratching in the dirt with no money (no value) a negative sum in a calculator or an agitator stirring up the status quo (bullet in the head) because there is a replenishable supply of whores and toys chastened, drugged enough to spit out the puppies for the next assembly line (thrown a bone) a penny for a pound (of flesh) then send them home, a dirty nest beneath a crushing foot (cockroach splatter) antennae ripe for the coming out party after the f bomb is dropped. (The under rock will rule the Earth)

My Days Are NOT Numbered I was born, as we all must be named and numbered molded, and stamped taught all THEIR mores their words, their rules and marched out, a manikin to walk in their world. Shoved in a box manhandled and pushed in until I BECAME the box or thrown out like the trash within it. (A parrot speaking memorizations.) Your house must be OUR color your garden planted with OUR flowers you will learn what we tell you, and speak as we speak. We will mold you, and tattoo you play the endless looping tape that was played before you, and will be played again when you're gone. And if you are different if you rebel we will ban you burn you crucify and betray you, then turn around and martyr you, to show how far we've come.

But........... I REFUSE the box refute the logic negate the dogma. I run my own show and play it to the world. I am not white nor black nor brown or yellow. I am not a color, or a group, or a land or a people. I am ME. I am Homo Erectus. I am HUMAN. And the RACE is on.

Roseanne Aiello Morales

Slim Letaief http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus http://slimletaief.blogspot.com

Mather Schneider

I RECOMMEND CALLING A TAXI I was bartending and we got a telephone call: “Hey, this is Sally, I’m at the police station, I just got a DWI and they won’t let me leave without a ride, can someone come get me?” Chuck volunteered, drained his beer, got up and left. An hour later we got another call: “Hey, this is Chuck, You’re not going to believe this but I just got a DWI, can someone come and pick me and Sally up?” George stood up digging into his pocket for his car keys. He slid his pitcher of beer at me. “Can you put this in the fridge,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I BITE I took my cab to the tire place for a new front left. They said it would take 45 minutes so I walked around in the early sun smoking a cigarette. Behind the tire place I saw a little black gate I had never noticed before and went through it. Suddenly I was in this little eastern meditation garden with lots of plants and peaceful things. It smelled like a greenhouse, and there were these tables and chairs on a brick patio and frogs chirping from small pools and fountains and birds singing and there was a little restaurant but the sign said "CLOSED". There were other signs too: “NO SMOKING” “NO YELLING” “NO TOUCHING” "NO RUNNING" and there was a gigantic bird cage with a gigantic yellow and blue bird and a sign that said "DON'T FEED ME" and another that said, "I BITE”. There was a little pond also with yellow and orange fish and it was all very nice and it made me feel good and I thought I might stay awhile. But then a little bald guy in eastern robes came out of nowhere, looked at me with a smile as big as a lily pad and bowed toward me,

Mather Schneider

John Clowder http://www.etsy.com/profile.php?user_id=8639152

The Morning Star

Under the Open Sky I met a girl whose freckles formed the twenty-eight constellations. Each appeared according to its cosmological location. At Capricorn I kissed her, and she explained to me the simple agriculture of season, soil, and seed. She lead me to her capitals and I toured the sites under the guidance of her night. Aquarius curled at her thigh and the herdsman cupped her breast, but it was the eagle that the water bearer wet. The eagle, where underneath we met. We sipped the dipper, we linked lips with Leo, and placed our hearts in the hands of Perseus, the Hero. Within her the Zodiac concerned what my astronomy discerned, to navigate by her stars and celestial shapes with the cadence of a lover's grace.

In the morning she dawned the day as I watched the sun candle to its routine stay. Breakfast was light, so was the talk. I asked her the date, to which she responded the eighth noting that my horoscope recommended I not lose faith. "Honestly", I said, "it never felt more safe."

Red and Wolf

Signing Off

It was after night in my bed, but midday in my dreaming. There I stood, interposed within a funeral service for a friend we buried in reality some years ago. The burial was taking place at the bottom of a deadend street, whereabout a coffin atop a dais exhibited the deceased, so those attending could autograph the corpse. When my hands inherited the quill I inspected the departed's body for a space to write. Her feet were occupied by the names of her parents', her ankles--her siblings'. Teachers, and mentors inscribed her legs, while her loins looked an overcrowded place with many lover's monikers inlaid. Around her belly it was bare, marking where her children might have wrote, had their mother's life made it to theirs. A vest of coworkers aside acquaintances, whose names she could not have all remembered, dressed her chest.

There was nothing inked on her neck spare that tattoo I told her not to get. Her head was speckled with the initials of friends, with sometimes the occasional heart thrown in. On either palm she held the names of her highest choir confidents, who stood by her even when she'd left them nothing to defend. And I, I betokened her cheek, where once I kissed her, where once she turned 'pink'.

Gabriel

The Fox Imp

Azazel

John Clowder

Jillian Parker

Photinia from the mouth of dark shards so clip to the ground where wind is afraid of blood a shattered vase a scream lives there cherry blossoms sift onto wild camellia sorting pieces a glass bird mosaic blinks awake its cries the birth of flight the ash of the rose into the eye of the sun red red red ochre

Mrs. Yang Paints a Rainbow She moves away from the manicured lawns and plants her penny-loafers in the foxtails. She fills her palms with pineapple grass. All along the river-wall bicycle bells dingle-dangle, sport-suited joggers shake their salt-and-pepper heads, lanky legs flash in leather sandals-- they are dark and they are comely-- blonde pony-tails bob behind squeaky strollers, with all of the walking and all of the talking; maybe they will come up with a good idea, like funding schools instead of fighting wars. Or perhaps not, but she will do her part. She pushes up her broad-brimmed hat, straightens the collar on a white button- down cotton blouse, vestments of a high priestess of morning. Raising her hands above her head, Mrs. Yang paints a rainbow.

WATER. TREE. LIFE.

Roaring up the 50 during a downpour, ugly ducklings in search of a tribe, we find one in a gym; there, a boy with braces on his legs shoots hoops over and over, and almost never misses. There might be a maypole that answers to my name, and a boy twisting 'round it, with ears that listen but do not hear, thoughts a-whirl and eyes a-glaze, still stuck at a passing billboard: Silicon Suzie, bursting out of her brassiere, luring clients to an establishment by means of her airbrushed charms (what is a man to do?) I try to see her as a man might, in all of her pink-satin-clad promise, am flattened by the attempt. Into my fantasy flashes a newspaper headline: “Mother of Five Arrested for Defacing Billboard: Apprehended in the act of depicting a tree of life onto and around the female figure, she splashed an enormous teardrop onto the fake-tan cheek before relinquishing her bucket.” (what is a woman to do?) A path insinuates itself down the levee; Marisol and I pass under oaks and sycamores and sniff the reeking air, that stench I now associate with Sacramento. Marisol sets me straight: “No, eet is jus’ a skunk. I tell you truly, a skunk.”

At the goodwill outlet, double doors dilate, give birth to table heaped with stuff; ten people drop everything, run towards the table, pawing, turning, lifting, strangers engaging in an intimate, frenzied encounter. My hand passes over their leavings, touches brushed flannel cotton, seed pearl buttons, thin, white ribbons. A tag: Victoria’s Secret. The price, only a few cents. I buy it, and a shirt for my daughter. When it's washed and dried, I hold it to my cheek and close my eyes, then deliver it to my girlfriend as a gift. A call from Marisolita in the morning: “My dear, I tell you, I sleep like a queen.” Rain blasts against a sycamore leaf, a henna tattoo on the serpentine sidewalk. Just a few degrees cooler and the shape of the water would crystallize, revealing its own branching veins Perfect in its imperfection. Like life.

Jillian Parker

Brenda Cheason http://www.flickr.com/photos/decorsculptures http://www.zazzle.com/brenda2010/gifts

Energy

Jigsaw

Theatre

Richard

Planet Orange Brenda Cheason

Marc Beaudin

http://crowvoice.com

Another Blue (Ardea Herodias) The voice of the heron carries the rasp of pterodactyls, archaeopteryx, and other, older, unknown flyers; it is an unmarked watery grave that reaches out suddenly with taloned fingers and startles the man swimming alone among cattails and imagined turtles. He once, years before, carried a dead heron close to his chest like an infant– this old friend and father, teacher in the school of lake water and moonlight, omen, bringer of dreams, Found, finally, floating in the reeds at lake’s edge, waiting. He placed it within the arched willows of his sweat lodge, offered tobacco, and asked for feathers. Later, gliding in his canoe back to his peninsula, he watched the heron’s spirit fly from the lodge, bank above the still water, and disappear over the mosaic of trees climbing the hillside. Today, standing thigh-deep in the water of the marsh, he rubs that memory between thumb and finger, enjoys the sun sinking into face and shoulders, and tries to ignore the insistent buzzing of an airplane sounding like some small insect at the window, trapped and waiting for death.

My Bones (Haliaeetus Leucocephalus) In the blue blue sky of dream eagle rises, pauses vertically in thunderbird motif that could resemble, but doesn't, a crucifixion Then: rolls, dives, veers, rises; pauses again– a page in a book or mirror of something I may not have lost– again & again, this dance It's long after waking that I remember having had this dream though all through the morning I could feel its flight in my bones.

Distances (Zenaida Macroura)

The thing about mourning doves is that they always sound far away even when they are right inside

your head.

Linguistics (Corvus Brachyrhynchos) The crows near my home are gathering their winter murder like holes punched in the grey-white sky to show the obsidian wall behind They trick the sun as Coyote tries to but always gets distracted by his own dancing shadow (these, being shadow, have none) Their movements are silent negotiations between death and religion, their words hold every dream of flight on the tip of my tongue, They speak and I am speechless, They sharpen the November-dulled edge of the treeline and I check my cheek for blood. Boots crunch snow heading toward the sluggish river Alone, hungry, and all I want in this life of sand and glass and thorns and bread is to understand the language of the crows. Then I will count myself among the few: the happy ghosts that sing themselves to their own untroubled sleep.

No Bird: Memory ( Cyanocitta Cristata) Discussing how much the house has faded and wondering if any of the apple trees remain, This memory came rising from the mist of all those things I thought I'd forgotten: Summer vacation at Grandma and Grandpa's my cousin Billy and I wanting to play "Indian" but needed feathers for our hair So, string tied to stick, to prop up an apple crate, we scattered bird seed under the trap and waited Taking turns holding the string hearts pounding like hail our idea was to catch a blue jay and just "borrow" a few feathers I since have learned that there’s no such thing as a blue jay, there’s no such pigment in a feather, it’s merely an optical illusion, a trick played on us all, which may explain why, during hours of whispered waiting, no bird came anywhere near our trap but doesn’t at all explain why, to this day, whenever I’m in the woods and have let myself drift from the the vital here and living now, it’s a blue jay that suddenly scolds me back into the moment that darts from the trees flashing a colorless blue.

Marc Beaudin

Lighthouse at Manistique Walking the breaker into the April fury of Lake Michigan wind tearing at my clothes and with each wave shattering on the limestone: an icy spray blasting across the slippery walkway and holding a momentary rainbow in its grip I have ignored the warning signs, forgotten common sense, am aware of the pain that waits if I am swept off, down to the chiseled rocks, and the only reward for the journey: a few moments in the wind-shadow of the lighthouse–watching gulls ride the daggers of air– before having to make my return Yet I continue, undaunted, into the blue, streaked with sudden rainbows, step after perilous step and all the time, plastered to my cold, wet face: a ridiculous, madman’s smile.

Plum Late morning sunlight pulling the blanket from Lake Michigan (asleep and dreaming of ravens), climbing the cedared bluff, and pawing at the windows of a shoebox diner. Her at the next booth a cascade of hair over bare shoulders Me road weary smelling of last night’s campfire Her dad disapproving of my beard and ragged clothes of my too-long looks at his too-young daughter I can’t hear the waves questioning the silent rocks I can’t remember what I ordered for breakfast and I can’t see her eyes

or her mouth Which is just as well, because as she takes a bite into a fresh plum I can only imagine her lips, nearly the same color; her teeth, breaking the fruit’s resistant skin; juice gathering at the edges of her mouth, pausing momentarily, and then running down to the edge of her chin and allowing one

delicious drop

to fall into her waiting lap. To have actually seen such a moment, a man such as I would have completely forgotten why he was on this road, where he was going, and what he would possibly do once he got there.

Marc Beaudin

First Phone Call Standing in the rain to have a quiet place to talk to you A little too happy to see your name on my phone A little too happy to hold your voice in my ear A little too happy to feel you as the dance to the song That plays relentlessly in my head like this rain.

Nomad In that dark country that is your mind I am a nomad, passing from province to province w/ only the occasional smoldering firepit to mark my existence there. In the “wine-dark sea” of your memory I am that depth-hidden fish that scientists search for hundreds of years before knowing that it even could exist. Tomorrow, while brushing your hair, you will imagine fingers trailing musically along the back of your neck all the way down to the small of your back and you will almost speak my name.

What Ever Happened to Niévas García? He was the fastest kid in school running with arms straight, fists at his sides, leaning like a crow into the wind On my birthday, eighth or ninth maybe, we raced our bikes peddling hard and not tiring around the block again and again Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh Past the houses of friends lined up like worn sheets on a clothesline mismatched and catching each word spoken by the murmuring wind Past the chain-straining dog on the corner seething not exactly in anger (I kept my distance, not exactly in fear) Past the haunted church where, we knew, a giant lived (who else would need ten-foot oak doors?) it was against the grey stone of its back wall facing our alley that I smoked my first cigarette and scared the hell out of Junior with a planted wooden cross that had the awkward letters of his name scrawled across it like paper cuts JUNIOR (that was the only name we knew him by, he was famous for swallowing a handful of dimes in the hospital, and while I’m at it, what ever happened to him too?)

Van Buren, Tenth, Jackson, Eleventh, everything becoming a blur except the black flow of Niévas’ hair snakelike in the air between us– And then the front tire of my second-hand bike jammed somehow and I enjoyed the timeless freedom of suspension like a bird or a held breath cradled by emptiness until my face struck the cold apathy of pavement and the world came flooding back in bloodied and real That’s the last memory of him I can recall though I’m sure there were others We moved from the neighborhood and all those people faded; became shadows about which I can never be sure of their true form or color or shape But I remember that dog on the corner and imagine that he finally broke loose and never came back even though I suppose that most of those people are now either dead or in jail or worse, dying slowly working in some box But then, sometimes, I can almost hear that chain dragging fast over the broken concrete away and away from this world.

Marc Beaudin

Dee Jordan aka N.L. Snowden

www.inandoutofmadness.net

www.sneakaboardpress.com

Coffee Break's Over

Abstract Mania

playing with fire

Self Portrait 2002

Dee Jordan

Michael Aaron Casares

Across the Mind Smooth star, glass body,

stone black deep engulfing me.

Caressing the black of you,

releasing the head clouds and bane,

you lie tender in your youth as I coolly

wonder while beneath the covers

if for this shall death we soon

discover?

Diamonds for Departure Liquid diamond droplets

fall from my eyes, they

are the essence of you.

Tender lips, my tender

ghost, are the host of the

warmth you provide. Your

sunlight, your sacred

beaming light like auroras

streaming through the

daytime melts away

uncertainty and doubt

into crystal water.

Be happy, my ghost,

don’t melt away.

I simply let you go,

you simply stepped away,

so that I could see your face,

before I had to go.

Routine

In the apple, the flame

licks to its core. The

yellow tongue curls.

It sears the flesh. Sweet

turns tart, then brittle

and bitter and dead to the

tongue. But for all the

mild discomfort, the

pungent shock upon the

pallet, the smoke is

fine going down. The smoke,

like a woolen cloud, itches

the throat down the neck,

down the passage to your world,

down esophagi into the womb,

and siphons out through every

tube into the brain and into the

blood where from there it becomes

like mud, and serves into the very

pores and becomes thought and

becomes more, not just the tangible

that once was breathed, but a shattered

wall in which one sees the second

nature of his life.

Brave Revolver Studios http://www.cafepress.com/BraveRevolver Prints of original paintings, photography and poetic clothing by Christina Harrington

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Contributors Sharon Messina is a free spirit, flitting around the globe, but can often be found in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.

Lola Nation Originally from Venice Beach, Calif. and currently living in Kansas City, Missouri. Lola Nation’s

writing has been published in literary magazines such as the racy Cherrybleeds Zine and urban ThugWorks

Magazine. Her current projects include finishing her fictional book All the Men I Slept with Volume I (accounting

for a woman’s witty memoirs from teenage-hood to early 30s) and a musical (adapted from Shel Silverstein lyrics).

Slim Letaief 30 Years Old Student Pilot Gear: Canon EOS 450D + EF 100mm 2.8 Macro USM + EF 50mm f1.4 usm + EF-S 18-55mm IS http://www.flickr.com/photos/snocturnus http://slimletaief.blogspot.com

Dennis Ergle: I'm a 36 yr. old gay male born and raised in Atlatna, GA. I live my partner Steve and our two dogs in Woodstock, GA. I'm an Interior Designer with my own business Dennis Ergle Interiors. http://www.dennisergleinteriors.com

Renate van Nijen: I am a Dutch professional artist living and working in Spain. I create and exhibit

paintings, ceramic sculptures and other types of hand painted design. I previously lived in Italy for 5 years

and since 2003 I have been living in Spain. The culture and the colours of southern countries clearly

influence my use of colours. I have held over 100 exhibitions of my work, both in galleries, large business

enterprises such as AKZO NOBEL in the Netherlands and various national and international art and cultural

festivals. Exhibitions of my work have taken place in, among other cities, Rome, Paris, Amsterdam and

various locations in Spain. I also write sensually themed, often somewhat surreal flash fiction with a twist, in

English language and am in the process of getting my book, which

includes 7 images of my artwork, published. (11 of 24 stories from my book

can be read online via www.authonomy.com – search Renate van Nijen).

My art website is: www.renate-kunst.nl

Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976), his family moved to the south of Ireland due to 'The Troubles.

He elected to study Fine Art & Design, but left after one disillusioned year. He has travelled extensively in

Europe, living for brief spells in both Holland and Italy. He has been writing poetry for almost a decade but

has only recently begun to submit. His work has been published by 'Poetry Monthly International', (U.K), 'The

Gloom Cupboard', (U.S), 'Counterexample Poetics', (U.S), 'Full Of Crow', (U.S), 'The Delinquent,

(U.K), 'Eviscerator Heaven', (U.S), 'The Recusant', (Scotland), 'Lines Written W/A Razor', (Canada),

'WritingRaw', (U.S),and is forthcoming at 'Clockwise Cat', (U.S), 'Origami Condom', (U.S), 'Why

Vandalism?', (U.S), 'Gutter Eloquence', (U.S), and 'Deep Tissue', (U.S). He also likes to entertain himself with

paint, alcohol and cigarettes...His first published book of poetry, entitled 'In The Black Cadaver Light', was

published by 'Poetry Monthly Press'.

Claudia Phares was born Montreal and is now living in Melbourne.

Lately, she has been developing a body of self-portraiture and has been involved in various

photographic collaborations with local artists in Melbourne.

www.claudiaphares.com

Roseanne Aiello Morales is a 52 year old poet from Miami, Florida. She is published in

various magazines in the United States and Great Britain. You can find her work at

www.Myspace.com/kinderkitty.

Mather Schneider is a cab driver in Tucson. Also a poet and story writer. His work has been seen in the small press for fifteen years.

John Clowder: The pieces herein are all collages created traditionally with the use of cutting utensils, deceased horse, and human hands. Red and Wolf, constructed as a valentine to a friend, represents my most intricate effort, being comprised of nearly eighty individual fragments. The poem Signing Off was a winner in the annual Florence B. Palmer poetry contest. http://www.etsy.com/profile.php?user_id=8639152.

West coast wanderer, recently relocated from Alaska to California, Jillian Parker manages a menagerie currently consisting of five children and 8 cats, hoping in the process to figure out what she is going to do when she grows up...

Brenda Cheason was born in Oxford U.K. in 1946. She attended Bath Technical College,UK and worked in the technical field for many years, while also studying well known artists. Brenda has won awards both in the UK and US. Her fine engineering degree has helped her to develop and design abstract art which in this modern world brings people to reflect on colour, culture and development in an abstract world. http://www.flickr.com/photos/decorsculptures http://www.zazzle.com/brenda2010/gifts

Marc Beaudin, poetry editor for CounterPunch, is the author of The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Other Poems, several chapbooks, and the novel A Handful of Dust. His work has been published in Avocet, The MacGuffin, CounterPunch, Temenos, Pirene's Fountain, FlashQuake GlassFire, and several other journals. His radio broadcast "Report from the Mountains" is heard weekly on WUCX Delta College Public Radio and is archived at http://reportfromthemountains.blogspot.com. He lives in Livingston, Montana. More information can be found at http://crowvoice.com.

Dee Jordan, author of In and Out of Madness under the pen name of N. L. Snowden. www.sneakaboardpress.com www.inandoutofmadness.net

Michael Aaron Casares is a poet and artist living in Austin, TX. Michael has recently had several of his poems appear in online and print journals. He has two poetry chapbooks, Ghost Roads and The Terrorist, both published by Virgogray Press. He has two new chaps forthcoming, Green Tea America (New Polish Beat) and The Winter King (Shadow Archer Press), which is a post-modern, metaphysical epic prose poem about a man's journey into the arctic heart of his subconscience. Michael is a part of an art group called The Black Light Contingent whose work is on display at The Calcasieu Gallery in downtown San Antonio, TX.

Fragile Arts Quarterly / Winter 09-10

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Transcript of Fragile Arts Quarterly / Winter 09-10