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Little Lady burned silent and I’d never thought a snoutfull of drugs would cause me such problems like tigers buried in asphalt or drunken pianos dancing on the Persian rug— patterns rhythming down just turning into a stew of syllabic stupidity at 11:11 then you know each of us must be going his or her separate way yes you say yes and even the clock says alright About the author: John Kuligowski currently lives and writes in the the core of the Midwest, otherwise known as the Armpit of God. I wondered what might happen if some cool writers looked back into their baseball-playing histories and created prose poem documentary baseball ‘cards.’ Below are the first five cards of a longer project I’m working on with some friends. Wax Statues #1 BRIAN OLIU RIGHTFIELD⎟ READINGTON JUNIOR BASEBALL The hat, a light blue one year, a maroon the next, a yellow the last, remains on. The bill of the cap was bent in an arc: God knows that no child keeps things flat—it lets the sun sit above your eyes and earns a punch to the arm. The hat, light blue, Exformation This woman’s only got one boot. This man’s got two boots but only one foot. This is how the story ends: everyone gets married. Later, everyone dies. In between the pony delivers its secret payload and the war is won, but still in the night the great noose tightens and even the birds hunker down, those whose instinct is to fly. Even the dodo. Even the chicken crossing the road to its doom-laced punch line. Every good joke requires something important be left out: the poison-tipped rapier, the blank page at your eulogy. Slowly Listen to a reading of “Shadows” by Joe Dornich. On her arm is a tattoo of the Eiffel Tower in the middle of the desert. From his place at the counter he watches her work the grill. Cracking eggs and flipping bacon. Plating food. It’s tight back there and she barely has enough room to turn around; she’s a big woman. She reminds him of all the great beasts locked away in zoos. A waitress sticks an order slip on a metal wheel. This happens every couple of minutes, her rushing back and forth to the same spot. She is When Shirley came in from the shops and found him lying flat-out on the kitchen floor, his skin purple and his mouth gaping wide, she said, “You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you?” She shook her head and dumped the groceries on the table, which made the wine bottles rattle—both of them empty and all the whiskey gone too. He’d promised her, but she should have known better than to leave the drink where he could find it. His arm was in front of the fridge. With one foot she nudged it to the side. Then she » Continue reading Nothing To Be Ashamed Of by Gerri Brightwell…
Peter Grandbois Peter Grandbois is the Barnes and Noble “Discover Great New Writers” and Borders’ “Original Voices” author of The Gravedigger, The Arsenic Lobster: A Hybrid Memoir, and Nahoonkara. He teaches at Denison University in Ohio and can be reached at www.brothersgrandbois.com. What projects are you currently working on? I find that I work best when I have multiple projects at various stages of development. The reason is simple. Having things to work on drives away the terror and despair that seem so much a part of the writing life to me. And working on a new project you are » Continue reading An Interview With Peter Grandbois by David Hoenigman… IF I DREW GOD Big belly Open hands Brown eyes Laugh lines No shoes Not very tall Ponytail Wrinkled robe The kind of person who gets frowned at, whispered about: Is that a woman or a man? CABBAGE CURE Stuff the leaves inside your bra to dry up breastmilk. They’re shaped just right to cup your boob. Feels like a frozen underwire. Green ruffles might peek out: this is not the day for that little black dress. Pull your sweatshirt over the wrinkly lumps, and pray you don’t get in a car wreck. Those nice EMTs have seen every brand I’ll be in Tribeca for a wedding and I want to call you and tell you that I’ll be going there. From the plane I’ll see the mountains in white jackets and watch the prairie turn to glass. Steel and stone will block the sun and trap the heat, once I reach the city. I’ve told you how I sweat when I garden and you’ve said you’d lick the salt from my collar bones. I liked it when you said it, but I don’t think you’d really do it. I’ll have to wash the garden off my knees before I Our land was swaddled within a mountain, bereft of sunlight. For sustenance we licked the algaeic underbellies of stones. Distinguishing was a luxury we could not understand, our minds were still blooming flesh-folds of cognitivity. Father and I left the mountain. The grief we felt revealed itself in the sound of horse-claps, far off, without manifesting horses. We settled in a seaside meadow of bloodroot, pulled back the soil in sheets, and buried ourselves, refusing further displacement. Our eyes were coated with gelatinous skin, and we spent our time calling out to find each another. A wandering ascetic taught me |
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