Editors: Ken Harris, Jim Leftwich Poets: Peter Ganick, Steve Fried, David Golumbia, Cheryl Burket, John M. Bennett, Dan Featherston, Charles Ardinger, Michael Crye, Amy Trussell David Golumbia The Veery Grape vines, curled around imaginary central stalks That color us, that while defining us reflect Fine seeds, flax seeds, practice we can see - Fall around us, it is good not to be curtailing Aromatic pull of sight, you tell me to gaze And it is perfect here, night is a garden We lounge in our silk garments, you take me in the Describing myself Your body made of language Water. Rocks formed with rushing over them Your white breath Listens Geese striking the gray-green 5:30 sky It is afternoon - it is night //// Peter Ganick from SPACIOUS // ENTRY // LABEL Increasingly chop-street frond pirouette unceasingly air planet dowse how attach to is cancer beltway of promotion The music is (at last) loud korean ginseng, royal jelly Yonder finicky command nodules free barn price as ordinate from prison thought this Donor set it may be that... //// Steve Fried from plackets Edgar: ..."keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend." King Lear III, iv, 99-101 1\fickler plackets stones lie where the heart remotely is the future faced irresolutely, shaken CAdiz femembered into unprofitable bones be the first to - slowly singed - awaken seize the burning sheaf of poems faker fall pinned to burns, see fleas hear fear feed phones free dreams skin film takes scenes I've sinned, donated piss planned to seek keys lake or window 3\pressure session cancer doesn't mean to be harsh call it my unsympathetic spiel march gold-plates February's answer owl eyes hover where I craftily kneel creche to corpseheap, panzer deals spew spates of stool torque can make any dancer spooled light-tight steal tantra from state sponsored forks mated to fool creeds cautiously masturbate 5\chronic teutonic thy fate lies in thy dread hand had thee played platinum plus sand might train thine eye plaid weeds and peonies dead men push land explosively or with sighs crush the plain lined pad panned across emptily invisible sky bad lenses drain achromatic pus high German stain covertly spanned brain to wad shush who remain 13\parent synapse skin has various faces in our sheets hand half gloved in cunt sweet to please and spin bands of anticipation around a hot lunch fleet as eyelids are thin pun seas seize mucosa and street shrieks mouth can pin standing joined but not one within buckled knees pulses beat freeze under tan shunt our disease //// David Golumbia Gel In this direction, a stream of Fresh buds on spring trees, Detecting strings night stands On, so carefully threaded. To Grasp all this, to hold out towards Harmony a murmur, north star Shining in clear darkness. A strand Fuses, lime on the cool lawn, forms That name themselves, our fronds. //// Michael Crye desert recipe red rock, burned forearms of a boy who never met the sun so close to his face, high in the sky where the stone is transparent beneath, resting like air beneath my heels. the roads and rivers below, twisted into snake tracks, bare skins of god's past lives, his first stirrings dead in these stones laying out in the sun to rot hard and pretified a fossil of deceased moons, lifeless civilization of sunlight's ruse off road and barb wire rusted into thin shadows of birds, making the horizon wet and flowing with empty seas of space, sweating from my skin, a smell hanging from the rock cliff, bringing vultures from the scrub. their weak break in the atlitude muttering "feed off this dead air of the world, be a carrion creature, and in your own belly learn what small creatures digest here ...devouring silence." //// David Golumbia Amy Model These blue powers make a whole - the rib String, a potent gaze, a noise - I know The rain pins us, the sea is our focus, Your name rings, exploring me, a bell - My grasp of the matter is firm at least. I feel, full - I want something impossible. //// Cheryl Burket IN PLAIN SIGHT I. Beginning with last night's blackouts & those lullabies. I thought I had a vision, something to tell you. Acres out back, willow trees & power lines only in this land. And then the blackbirds, hundreds from nowhere, in one gesture bring the house down. The willows side by side, wood snapping in half here & there. Their incessant screeching disturbs the base of our necks with delight & fear. Absent of any corridor they wait for the rain. Tiny claws curled into the bones of the trees. Our road outside suddenly taking in nothing. No one driving through for miles. II. Vertical the color of the beachfront winds. Back inside lighting one silver columnar candle, boneweary matches slipping to the floor; picking them up again, hands shaking. Walking out of the kitchen with the candle & placing it on the front mantlepiece. We have the radio on for good now. It will only be time before these power lines snap in half under their clutching weight. III. Standing back outside, finally, watching them. All of us in plain sight. Suddenly the landscape seeming to age too fast. Taking us back to a childhood photograph. Somewhere between a white road & a white sky the memory returns to its beginning. Pictures & words of this landscape piece together. IV. It changes in a word & they lift off, black point meteorites into a new translation of the coastal fog. Left behind under one willow is a rock the size of a desert story. We were awake long into the night thinking about those birds. Was there the chance pacing of a mountain lion outside the black screen door late last night? Or did we dream this together? Increments of rain falling the next few days over our beachfront house. //// Michael Crye helen's skeleton Troy lifts into heaven as pieces of ash & cinder a trail of black ships sliding spear point between the ribs of wooden horses helen lifts herself from the ruins her beauty, vulture wings reduced to burnt offerings language's love burning in her mouth //// Dan Featherston 1-900 SEXTINA Despite distance, anonymity may contain hot conversation recorded through the core use of telephones. As feral is to phone, complaints may be directed as samples: imagined arbitrary and wild, or anonymous and you know what I mean: teased with the breathy flush of mean as meant to allude a furtive glance at hot. You don't have to say, just listen for a wild: hear feral housewives, swingers at the core. Any hole may mean you or me or samples - aural swatches fitting fetish to phone. Buy straight sex, but no vistas by phone; nonetheless, you're alone and way the mean. It may be the best, you and I for x samples: a soundbite, a gist or highlight of hot filling some hole, some hollow core dialed open, each phoneme triggering wild. The brotheled body probably bottled, wild wriggling awake from sleep to phone, out of the cradle endlessly desiring core. Says he, About that wild ogre last night: what's it mean to say a lonely housewife's pain throbbing so hot round the clothed line of her life, hanging hot samples? Says she, Grip any phone and I'll yell for samples, (that tubercular cough so kinked with wild). It's tongue and cheek and get a grip, collar hot and why bothered, barking over the phone? It's all commodity changing hands to mean something hard extracted from the core. He thinks to unwind, dialing life loose from its core. But how make-sense-per-minutiae of life's samples? Who cares the content or context? It makes him mean what he says for once: going out for a wild, be right back ... down to the pay-phone for more of the naughty tongue's hot. The paradox of core: both hard and wild. It's only samples we bear on the phone, to mean, despite distance, something close, hot. //// David Golumbia The Spar The aubade of consciousness, a crack In drapes, it shows bare trees reflected Light cast on them. Now last night is gone. Now in the feeling dark you will forget What gulled all this, material thought Marking our grounded outlines together. It's cool on skin but warm outside, your lace Covers sight - morning, barely after night. //// Charles Ardinger KEN LOVES BARBIE smiles made possible by industrial process. no elbows. crotches like tables. no dinner. no problem. in their dream home. nerves painted blue perhaps (but probably not) inside their hollow torsos. no hunger. they smile forever. //// David Golumbia The Funnel I will not give in - model sash Consciously reflects that here Stalk, altogether - alliterative, mark Insistence, diction - bowl of picks And nut-meat, shells - fluent Blank confounding simple taste Celery on the wet - every word To repair as we evoke. Solve Rows of white houses in afternoon Country of inland respected cap Discussion granite conclusion tip Thus the wild forest reduces In full degree - how dark it is - Ice becomes pyramid of meaning The port - right atop - sprung //// John M. Bennett Plantings Smells like the seashore "my (eye sluff)" wiping's palm hanged off the shelf of chin like a chew o' 'baccy leave "(ink sinks in the) sheen sure back slops" same shoes every day, surfy path, clings to's leg like's pants' rank drip. Burying the fish or the rope's thick wrist, he's in the manure naked, "groping through the fist" Later, "on the coffin-log sits you", biting back sand, where the thirsty rotting ... Crumbling, fertilization, sticky hand //// Thomas Lowe Taylor RETIVO balanced person change ________________________ roto mindfuc maledict nomen shithead prolax sensitive dick sed the whole thing blasto profundo, nodded downside plutarn, the other side out memory of the whole the blood of the fathers intact they'd shented down, made plain the history of it nosko the bold whence trained they folded time-out the further sign design Nay Mox! baby blue, its all over now you know who buttressed and calm in sheer number magnitude what persist agon describo hints afar synchron'd Look they'd occluded calm, and made pretense out of sheer disaster Here at not knot) in general terms to spuds their own porn silence edict, a non tribute gainsayd politic-all what sux demento predicto funk -ola give me signs and no bullshit in between signs du ya wanna some my plum in hearts heat heated ensue emotion i reach within arcs and come unscathed hod. you'd went them down and sung alot aloud along the way inseeming and tense perhaps another keeper in the flame betides yet held outward gnomes at polar stumps attached within sentences thucks newer plint her ardor unattended tew longe, recall formers at added rooms delight return joy at joy, there scampers plowed good night. yeast prints held at last regained within lights portuned //// Amy Trussell Libations To Bridget Slippery as a broomstick the branch which crosses over the creek taking the spill in mountain cold The false skins ditch them next to the tent then go in with Patrick breasted mountains swallow the sun Stars rise to the top of the sky sweet cream we pray Brie take the blood that still trickles from under the fourchette possiblity lost under a mound The butter urn you tipped over has been burning five hundred years we stand before the sky filled and flaming Earlier we had spotted a dark mass at first I thought a lightning charred stump he shaped-shifted into bear we took slow backsteps A sequoia grove held us we waited our turn on the narrow passage while he pulled off berries juice darkened his tongue then he vanished Knowing the scent of lochia bloomed on me painted self with invocations started down the path after Patrick pack as heavy as a small child My sisters used to drive a spike into a tree trunk to drive out a changeling and bring back the baby The midwife called it a blighted ovum went into the garden and eventually fed the meloned vines of summer At Kildare where Bridget reigned St.Patrick took the corridor to the underworld and cornish money-wort sprang in her footsteps The color returns to the skin of the sky we hike off the map and it blows away a wolf sneaks from the lake mercury gray rippling haunches Breathless we muscle to the top of the pass come over a blanket of snow tinged with red algae growing up from beneath Cliff face a waterfall is mostly hidden by snow though there is an aperture where we see through to liquid Your invisible harlots pulled me into the creek and through to the karst with its cavities From drainage points we scaled up to where earth swells and arches to you tensely from its bed of rock //// Michael Crye a brief history of fireworks popping black jacks into the river, watching them implode, clearing off dark eddies. the belly of fish ignited. his unfinished face crumbling back into darkness as the flare sinks, turning cold in the murk. upturned glass lips screaming off bottle rockets. our childhood lapsed years in slow rivertown. excited purple dusk whistling and cracking K-Mart parking lots. those July nights the rockets rain trailing kite strings of unmade bodies. spark babies of gunpowder without hearts or craniniums. an autopshy of howling lungs, turning to ash and cinder, bits of small color that linger on your eyelids. the crickets hushed as chinese mummies sleeping in clay beds. places where children make cheap watches. our hills and river valleys loud and smokey as revolutions in burned hands, or dragons snoring.