Shannon Baker
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boatpaper.
by shannon baker
every
“why i am not someone else”
lifts restlessly unwanted ribs.
the rest are forced to listen.
this
lip of matter
troubles
an expected knot
of spine. fog reflection, greenish
was your father’s eye such is
certain.
bright, the budding fishfarm
neon bathtub in rebirth.
the physical world humiliates.
real people ignore themselves.
vacuum bags, aluminum,
rope hang
almost warbles.
bombs, but very
soft bombs.
also some hundred eggs of milk.
sentient outmotion,
overturned
upside&downlooking.
that is to say,
we sink.
eleemosynary @ May 9, 2008
Guest Writers
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Applesauce and Brown Sweater in the Morning
by nicole kuwik
Garbage trucks
sound like school busses
until they start picking things up but
hearing them
stop
outside your floor-level window
at the dumpster across from your door still
makes you feel like you are missing
something
Editor @ May 8, 2008
Guest Writers
Comments (1)
Eternity
by mary ferrari
for Kenneth Koch
at the end of every cigarette that burns there is of course
a soft little bright light which means
hope! eternity! so you are not
killing yourself when you
smoke you are preparing for
heaven where the loving lavender
cigarette angels have soft ash wings
or for hell where a flaming cigarette forest makes
a marvelous explosion in which at least you are involved!
Editor @ May 7, 2008
Guest Writers
Comments (2)
Till the Gardens of Machpelah
by Halifax
Galatians 4:27
Her vacant womb, barren, screams for flesh. A low black fence, bright gilded rail,
squares a yard and bounds the pale. It aches to swell with blood and water but is answered with soured Muscat wine. Across that, a green field dotted with stone shaded by oaks fed well on bone. Ahead the empty endless future taunts her, dancing with fruitless pleasure. There’s a stone church, with plain front doors, the right wide open for you and yours.Wincing, livid and wild-eyed, she roils like a cornered predator.Within, glass views of biblical fellows, coloring Sunday service in blues and yellows. Hands and claws rake furrows in her own face to quench the hunger, to slake her gut’s first need.Past hard oak pews in columns paired, afflux with red carpet to an altar shared. Black birds on each transom arm lend themselves to her efforts.Under heartwood beams, under a lowercase “t”, in a lit pool of water caustic like a sea,She suffers starving in an indifferent ideal, tied and bound by unwanted care.Old Fire & Brimstone speaks the Name then drenches the alb to quash the flame. Her beauty fades like thick white clouds before a descending rain. Here is the church under stark timbers enjoining rebirth for all the members.
Each life never lived rumbles out of her for denial, “No flesh! No blood! No purpose!”
`Proverbs 8:4 Perfect, stagnant and unchanging, the saccharine garden birds sing to her. The lilt of their song tears through her as lashes on her bare skin. The seeds within her will never know the sweet sound. This knowledge drives her away, to gnash her teeth and rip at her hair to feel pain for them. Her punisher made her a comfort for creation and knows her pain. The devourer of birds, fiery and more beautiful then her, He walks the garden and tells her what not to eat.
` Thomas 9 & 10
Halifax @ May 6, 2008