Volume 2, Number 1 2009

Joseph Stanton

NIGHTHAWKS AS NOIR

                 for Tony Quagliano

It was a scary scene, and I didn’t want any part of it.

I could tell that the big man,                        
sitting alone three seats to my left, down the long café counter,
was casing the joint and up to no good.
He was well dressed, sure,
but too well dressed for this joint at this hour,
sporting a Norfolk jacket
and a natty vest you’d hardly notice because he’d buttoned up so tight.
He was clearly not a guy given to small talk.
You could tell he would shoot you as soon as talk to you,
but that bulge in his pocket and the stains on his hands gave the game away,
telling me more than I wanted to know about how he made his dough.

He was an artist all right,
probably a painter from the look of those colors under his finger nails.
That bulge under his coat had to be a fully loaded sketch pad,
a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.
Every so often he’d yank it out
and scratch away for a few minutes then tuck it back in his pocket.
I could see the couple across from him–
the red-haired dame and her hawk-nosed beau–
were getting nervous and wondering what he was up to.

I figured I’d better get out of there, while I still could.
So I set my glass on the counter and left.
You can see it there still,
if you care to look,
up there on a wall in Chicago.

Joseph Stanton is widely published as a poet and scholar.  He teaches art history and American studies at the University of Hawai’i at Manoa.

John M. Bennet and C. Mehrl Bennett

John M. Bennett is a poet and artist who has been published widely. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.

C. Mehrl Bennett is an artist and poet. Many of her images are imbedded with text. She often creates her art in collaboration with other artists.

Karl Koweski

still life on a shelf

the dull roar of the furnace,
so absolute and implacable,
this must be the sound of all creation.
the lampworker honey spools
molten glass from the crucible within
and births it onto the marver.

sure hands find form in the formless.
shears sever the cooling placentas.
a breath through the blowpipe
instills a center around which
all else coagulates.
heated tonsils creates an orifice.
a paddle to the bottom imparts balance.

varying degrees of flame
renders frozen perfection.
smoky glass shot through with
tendrils of blonde and cerulean.
this vase too immaculate, precious
to know the scent of flowers.
still life on the shelf.
terrible in its emptiness and beauty.
born untouched
and untouchable until death.

Karl Koweski is originally from Chicago, Illinois.  He now lives in Alabama.  His poetry has appeared in such publications as Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Blue Collar Review, and Hazmat Review.

Doug Sutton-Ramspect

TRAVELER

Because in his dream his wife is gathering
the vinegar apples that have fallen from the trees.
To rot and ferment. Which is another way
of saying they have died. And because she lifts them
from the loam where the bees are hovering to help
the apples decay once more into nothing, to seep
into the rich summer earth. And because again
and again he tries to remove the basket
from her hands, to place it aside, but knows
that if he does her swollen belly will appear to him
like a hollowed tree, perhaps the shagbark
that fell across the river then split in two.
And because in his dream he and his wife are walking
in a field, searching through the milkweeds
and lamb’s quarters–searching like a traveler
for how it was they came to be lost–he is afraid
to awaken and find her by the window or perhaps
in the back yard beneath the apple trees, lifting
a dead apple and holding it close against her breast.


MOSES FOLLOWING A RADICAL PROSTATECTOMY
DREAMS OF LYING AS AN INFANT
IN THE ARK OF BULRUSHES

Though once I transformed a rod
into a serpent before the Pharaoh,
carried with me the bones of Joseph,
stretched my hand over the sea
to drown the Egyptians, cast a tree
into the waters to make them sweet,
now I lie in a hospital bed
in Cleveland and cannot stand
or even piss except into a catheter.
You might think that as the pain medication
conveys me in and out of sleep
that I would dream of the flame of fire
forming out of the midst of the bush,
of frogs and flies swarming, of boils
breaking forth as blains, of the river
transforming a clear tube of urine
into blood, of a great scythe seeking
me in Canaan and slicing every
private part of me in two. But mostly
I dream that my parents are hiding me
once more in the ark of the bulrushes,
are daubing me with slime and pitch,
are leaving me with little hope of being found.
Perhaps, for a time, I will play with my imaginary
golden calf, or will dream of a brass staff
protecting me from the water snakes,
but mostly I will feel as though a plague
of locusts has eaten from the center of my life,
has darkened my earth, and I will fear that I will
lie here for all eternity with just myself.
Who can hope for a Pharaoh’s daughter
to save you twice? This time, I’m afraid,
she will pass me by, and that will be the sum
of it. I will lie here listening to the river without end.
No one will come for me. And every thought
I have will be ripe with my longing to be saved.


Doug Sutton-Ramspect directs the Writing Center and teaches creative writing and composition at The Ohio State University at Lima. His work has appeared in such journals as West Branch, Connecticut Review, Nimrod, and Seneca Review. His poetry collection, Black Tupelo Country, was awarded the 2007 John Ciardi Prize for Poetry, and was published by BkMk Press (University of Missouri-Kansas City). He lives in Lima, Ohio.



Gabriel A. Levicky

Gabriel A. Levicky is a writer and artist who is originally from the former Czechoslovakia. He calls his collage work “gablevages.” He lives in New York, NewYork.



Alan King

AFFAIRS

Every night, I’m met by a woman
with skin the color of sun-glazed honey,
her dark and thick lips open

like a sliced plum; thighs long
and curved as melons. She pops up
at 3 a.m. in a web ad and asks:

Need a girlfriend? as if all it took
was an answer to get close enough
for my tongue to snowboard down

the slope of her neck, or for lonely
hands to cup her breasts like passion fruit.
And couldn’t our lives be a little kinder,

our interactions with one another
less complicated, if we were upfront
about what we wanted?

Her question as casual as
asking. Need any dessert with that,
or more sugar for your coffee?


PROPOSITION

Fred picks at his batter-
fried onions, shakes his head:
She said it would never work

with me; that I know too many
women. An ex told you the same thing
before demanding you either
cut your play sisters loose or lose her

for good. And why does it always
come down to the final proposition,
as if life had a limit on possibilities?

And what happens when neither party
stops fighting the forces of arbitration?
Maybe you end up dateless on a Saturday night,
sharing appetizers with your boys

in a log cabin-style restaurant —
considering the symbolism
of a talking moose head on the wall.


Alan King lives in Fort Washington, Maryland. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Boston Literary Magazine, Black Arts Quarterly, Hudson Review,
and Beltway Poetry Quarterly.



Mary Ellen Derwis

Mary Ellen Derwis is the coauthor of JOMA–online, an online gallery of concrete poetry and photography. Her work has appeared in such publications as Otoliths, Oregon Literary Review, Bosphorus Art Project Quarterly, and Unlikely 2.0. She lives in Brecksville, Ohio.

Aleathia Drehmer

STEWART STREET

We sit on the front porch
of your three-story apartment building,
the wooden planks unkempt with edges splintering
and nails driven up through rotted holes
leaving empty spaces.

You smoke your non-filtered cigarette,
though not the same brand I remember
from childhood, the smell less aromatic.
It is somehow stale and crumbling like the moments
passing slowly between our shoulders.

Both of us watch my child, with her sun lightened,
blonde streaks curling around her face. She is cherubic
and fresh sitting in the grass digging for treasure
in the dark earth with an old stick,
looking up at us with untamed innocence.

I think about all the things I want to say
that I won’t ever have the courage to,
or be able to find words good enough
to bear the weight of their meanings. So
we talk about poems and seasonable weather

and lean only close enough to hear each other.
You turn your head to tell me something important
and I am lost in sunset reflected off your glasses,
heart beating faster than it should,
unsure of where we go from here.


Aleathia Drehmer lives in Painted Post, New York. Her poetry has appeared in such publications as The Toronto Quarterly, Zygote in my Coffee, Cerebral Catalyst, and
Ottawa Arts Review.



Sean Patrtick Hill

LONG DISTANCE

I. Corning Memorial

My father slept for three days after the surgery.

The tumor they dug from his armpit was a blub
The size of a softball–

My wife asks, how can you live without realizing
Something that big is rooted there?

I called his room this morning. The phone rang and
Rang off the hook.

II. Faded from the Winter

The snowstorm stranded one of my brothers
In the airport outside Detroit.

The other, driving in, was spared the brunt of it.

Now they’re delivering my father
the antique smokestack he used as a planter in our yard.

They call to tell me they’re having trouble
Finding his new house in the dark.

III. Weather Report

I’m waiting to hear word, but the lines are all down.

I’ve been reading Dover Beach all afternoon
And walking through my neighborhood, thinking.

Late afternoon, already the clouds are naked shingles,
The sky a darkling plain.

The clouds gathered above his town are the same
that hung here days ago, a continent between us–

They left the same way I did twelve years ago,
As if they had somewhere to get to.

As if they could never love this world enough to stay.


Sean Patrick Hill lives in Portland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Exquisite Corpse, diode, In Posse Review, and Unlikely 2.0.
He graduated with an MA from Portland State University and has had
residencies at Montana Artist Refuge, Fishtrap, and the Oregon State University
Trillium Project.



John M. Bennett / C. Mehrl Bennett / Jim Leftwich

John M. Bennett is a poet and artist who has been published widely. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.

C, Mehrl Bennett is an artist and poet. Many of her images are imbedded with text. She often creates her art in collaboration with other artists.

Jim Leftwich has collaborated with many writers and artists.



Jason Floyd Williams

REPLACEMENT FATHERS

“Man turns his back on his family, well he just ain’t no good.”

Bruce Springsteen


My ol man’s been growling, involuntarily,
these days.
After a meal, after a conversation,
after anything, he just gutturally growls.
A baby T-Rex hungry & thirsty,
Howlin’ Wolf at Show & Tell,
planks of wood pressured by water
before the break.

My ol man’s mother, a former, medical
Social Worker, believes it’s a sign
of brain damage.
She says, “You can’t drink 20-50 beers
a day for 14, 16-years & not expect
some residual damage.”

I support that idea.
My ol man admitted to me, a few months back,
that he doesn’t remember my birth
through my late adolescence.
He was drunk everyday.
“Those were pretty formative years
for me,” I told him.
“Yeh, I know they were.”

Part. 2.

The San Antone, River walk, boat Captain
had a wit & a smooth improv sense-of-humor
found only w/ Alan Alda in old M.A.S.H.
4077th episodes.
I’m sure a lot of the lines are automatic:
“This building on the right . . . This restaurant . . .”

But his reactions & remarks in dealing
w/ the unexpected–drunken boat passengers,
bystanders walking by–seemed genuine.

My feelings of admiration drifted after
the tour when I saw him eagerly–almost
frantically, like an addict–sifting through
his tip money.

I thought the dough was an after-thought
to an honest desire to entertain folks.

Part 3.

Denny, the local ma & pa, gas-station owner,
is Irish short & has a James Cagney pinball
swagger & hustle to him.
I had seen him directing his grease-monkeys,
his oiled orangutans & lubed lemurs mechanics
to move the repaired vehicles here,
to move the broken vehicles there.

I admired his hands-on leadership.
An owner that works harder than his employees.

This changed when he picked me up
walking to his shop–I live a couple miles
away & usually just walk home and back
after serious truck repairs.

Denny’s vehicle was a brand new
Lexus SUV w/ GPS tracking, massive
CD system, color TV & imported Rhino
leather interior.

I always thought he drove
an are-furbished, early 50s, Ford pickup.
Bright red, like an emergency vehicle.

Part 4.

I had just learned that Bruce Springsteen
was being sued by a horse dealer
for trying to back-out of a purchase.
Springsteen spent $750,000 on a horse
for his daughter.

Part. 5.

My ol man growls tranquilized grizzly
when he answers the phone.
I say, “Happy Father’s day, dad.
Guess how much Springsteen
spent on a horse?”


Jason Floyd Williams lives in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. His poetry has appeared in such publications as My Favorite Bullet, The City, Nerve Cowboy, and Opium 2.0.



Kenneth P. Gurney

FORD

Over by the compost heap, the shovel
rests in turned earth–its blade an obstacle
for the many earthworms that rise up
from the firm ground to consume vegetables.

She gathers rose petals in an old washtub
on the back porch and water from the well.
Her bare feet depress the green grasses,
the brown grasses, the prints of mice.

Larka puts on a swan white blouse,
tweed pants, suspenders. Her hair,
fresh from washing, drips onto her chest,
plasters blouse to flesh.

The creek flows past the orchard,
past the dogs’ chase games without noticing.
The water’s rough decent flows around rocks
sets spray to light for shimmering mist-bows.

From the front porch swing, she sees
the dust cloud on the gravel road.
It approaches until the old truck bounces
into view, engine cranking a drive shaft.

He step out of the cab, sweat soaked shirt
beneath a ragged blue overall bib.
His farm blunt hands unhook his brass.
His sun bleached lips draw her upward.


Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. His work has appeared in such magazines as Word Riot, The Centrifugal Eye, madswirl, and The Houston Literary Review. He was the editor/producer of Hodge Podge Poetry, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, and Origami Condom.



Ellen Jantzen

Ellen Jantzen was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. She currently lives in Valencia, California. Her work has been exhibited widely.

Doug Draime

COMING DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN UNENLGIHTENED

We trudged down the mountain path
to the water
like warriors beaten.
Our whiskey bottles empty,
all of our mescaline eaten.
Five days without bathing, we threw
ourselves, filthy
and stinking, clothes and all,
into the ocean.
The two girls stripping down to
their panties and bras.

Thomas claimed he saw
a flying saucer.
Lucy swore she had
a brush with Big Foot
on a rocky ridge above the jade cliffs.
But the rest of us
knew that mescaline
was the cause.
And we mixed our trips
with a few cold beers
to level them out a little.

I laid in a foot of water
staring up at the mountain,
thinking how normal everything appeared.
After five days of
psychedelic musings
and discussions of
astral projection, change shifting and time
travel, nothing in the world
looked any different.
We dried ourselves in the sun and
headed down 101 for home, still unenlightened.


Doug Draime lives in Oregon. His poetry, short stories, and plays have appeared in numerous publications.



M. Blake

ARE YOU?

How many mornings did he laughingly nod
When Jimi asked if he were experienced,
With a quart tilted to his lips,
Still smelling of that last hot roach,
A big imposing image of Teach
Looming seriously over his good time,
Knowing (yes, the student had learned something).
The chemically scoured halls would hold him
Captive once again in the seemingly endless
Stretch they called education,
Red eyes watering at the bite of malt
Or maybe it was sweet brandy in the winter.
Just one more album side, one last song
Before leaving the sanctuary,
The chill of the world slapping his face,
Adult warnings kicking his behind.
Straighten up, son, your slouching ass
Is in for one big surprise, you don’t know
The extent of it, how you can be hurt,
This just a cakewalk compared to that very real
Wolf lurking just outside the school grounds.
But he and Jimi knew it was said perfectly
In that hotwired, amplified noise
That delicious touch bringing embracing rainbows
Instead of plain old discipline.


A NEW APPROACH

It is too much dealing with the dead that get to him
Too much shuffling around of inanimate items
Too much waving away of long dusty ideas,
He is sick of looking back on forbears
On a history that has been tidied up for the scrapbooks,
That has no bodily stink to it
That oppresses with the silence of the crypt,
So distant as to be ungraspable
Except by a lively imagination
And then he might as well call it his story
With his stamp on it, carrying it through
While he beats, breathes, groans,
With the intention of sustaining
His ongoing story wit bits of the past,
A structure from which to spring from
Proudly, knowing his history, galloping on
In the grand tradition, chin up,
Staring defiantly into that camera lens.
No, he laughs and is through wit it now
In scornful middle age seeing how he had been tricked
Into seeing the threads and the themes
Until he detected patterns, too.
He even had a scholarly bent, it was said,
A man with a nose for books and rooting out the truth
A soul who could see the larger picture.
No, he is done with that vision of himself
That old cliche of the page-sniffing loner
Dedicated in his attack on that ever swelling pile
Of knowledge, progress, cutting edge theory,
With relief he lets that go. He wants out
Of the museum and to get out on the paths
Much less taken, those promising
Real adventure, starling, humbling,
Bringing out a kid long neglected
Putting some snap in his days,
No longer hoarding his thoughts
For ambitious texts and tomes.
He’s had it up to here with collectors
Specializing in the deceased,
Dealing in nostalgia and sentimental tokens,
Glowing with what has been,
Oblivious to what brushes their noses.


M. Blake lives in Rhode Island. His writing has appeared in such publications as Hackwriters, Zygote in my Coffee, Girls With Insurance, and Fiction on the Web.



Peter Ciccariello

Peter Ciccariello is an artist, poet, and photographer. His work has appeared in such places as MOCA The Museum of Computer Art, Oregon Literary Review, The Long Island Quarterly, and Otoliths. His book Imaginal Landscapes, an experiment with the poem in landscape as it relates to poetic geography, was published by Xexoxial Editions. He lives in Providence, Rhode Island.


Justin Hyde

at the ronald mcdonald house

i always thought this place
was for poor people,
but the hospital recommended
we stay here
the night before
my son’s eye surgery.

he and my wife
are already asleep
up in the room.

i’m sitting on a couch
in a little lounge
full of stuffed animals and books
trying to decide
if i should go find a bar
or get some sleep.

two little black kids
are playing with crayons
in the corner.

the older one
with his arm in a sling
grabs a book off the shelf.
he walks over
and asks
if i’ll read it to him.

(he looks old enough
to be able to read)

i ask him to
read it
to me.

i can’t read,
he says
and chews on his finger
while looking down
at the floor.

he sits to my left.
his little sister
sits to my right.
i read them a book
about a dog
who runs away from home
because he’s afraid
of baths.

we read it
over and over.
they ask a million questions.
it’s like nobody ever
read them a book before.

devon!
tanisha!
you leave that man be,
says a large woman
standing in the doorway
of the lounge.

she looks drunk
or high.

no
they’re alright
i was just reading them
this book.

suit yourself,
she says
and disappears
down the hall.


waiting for the temp office to open

guy sitting on the curb
says he was pumping manure
onto farm fields

fell of the sprayer
and cracked his head.

straight to the brain,
he says
thumbing a large soft spot
above his ear.

disability ran dry
last month

his old lady in nevada
put him out
till he could
bring a steady check.

all they had
was grunt labor
for a construction outfit
up in story city.

i told jacky
i’d give him a ride

picked him up
at the homeless shelter
every morning.

they were remodeling
a nursing home

we carted garbage cans
full of drywall chunks
and dumped them
into a huge
mobile dumpster.

company guys
saw us as scab labor
did everything short
of spit in our faces.

they took off
for an hour and a half
every day around noon.

jacky and i ate lunch
sitting on five gallon buckets
in the shade of the dumpster.

he had an ex wife
and a seventeen year old son
out in seattle

nun sister in dubuque
sent him a rosary
and five bucks
every christmas.

he’d gained
and lost everything
five times over
because of alcohol

but he’d been sober
over a year.

he didn’t come
to the car
one morning

shelter said
he’d come back drunk
and they had
to kick him out.

after work
i drove
to all the bars
within walking distance
of the shelter.

found him
at Thumbs
elbows on the bar

hands wrapped around
a bottle of jack.

don’t you go fuckin my buzz
either sit your ass down
or get the hell on out,
he said
without looking at me.

i put some
neil young
on the box

then i
asked
the bartender
for a
shot glass

and
took my
seat.


Justin Hyde lives in Des Moines, Iowa. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications.


David-Baptiste Chirot

David-Baptise Chirot lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His work has been published extensively. These two images are from a series entitled “Demolition Derby.”


Tim Hawkins

WHEN THE PAGES ALL FALL OUT

Things flatten out to two dimensions.
There are no longer smells in the world.
Easily overlooked, I become my surroundings,
easing into the cool and soothing corner
away from the sun-blasted corridors.
No one calls to me in gibberish here
and the favorite books lie nearby,
prized possessions, inscribed by friends,
that I have lugged all over the world
in these strangely diminished hands,
that now teem with new inscriptions
of spider web, insect larvae, and
sentences I am unable to decipher,
as you another page flutters out.
When the pages all fall out
I will have read the book.

There are smells in this book, but only in this book
and not in the world. There is freshly cut grass,
but only in this book and not in the world. There is
someone speaking to me, someone I can understand,
but only in this book. When I close the cover and
look out, the world is a gabble of foreign tongues
that love themselves all over and clamor for
more love.


Tim Hawkins lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His work has appeared in such publications as The Literary Bohemian, Umbrella: A Journal of Poetry and Kindred Prose, Blue Print Review, and Underground Voices.



David Salner

MINERS

Not proud or ashamed, just miners.
I changed out rollers, lying on my back
in frozen mud. I torched the rusted bolts
and watched a shower of sparks
sizzle on the ice.

During maintenance shutdowns, we put our safety locks
on everything that moved. Like ants,
we swarmed all over huge equipment. That’s me,
on a mill the size of a bus, ten-pound hammer
clanging on a slug wrench.

When I said “miner,”
some people looked at me like I’d just said
“red ass of a baboon.” They cut a wide swath, as if
the dirt under my nails might be contagious. Miners,
just miners. We were all laid off.


David Salner lives in Frederick, Maryland. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Prairie Schooner, The Literary Review, North American Review, and Southern Humanities Review.



John M. Bennett / C. Mehrl Bennett / Jukka-Pekka Kervinen

John M. Bennett is a poet and artist who has been published widely. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.

C. Mehrl Bennett is an artist and poet. Many of her images are imbedded with text. She often creates her art in collaboration with other artists.

Jukka-Pekka Kervinen is from Finland. His work has appeared in numerous publications.



Kyle Hemmings

BEFORE I DIE IN TOLEDO

My artificial heart keeps me upright
but I’m still leery of microwaves
and fast women. It’s only a matter
of time, before I slip on glass bits,
the remains of a bottle of Southern Comfort
from a lover who went sour. In bed, she died
with a poker face, a liver like an old hard sponge.
Before I die in Toledo, I’ll jump off the wagon.

If someone says, “You only have 144 hours
of battery life,” I will throw myself
in front of the raging car, snatch the toddler
from headlights that blare anonymously.
I will donate my entire trust fund
to a woman named Margarita,
already on her last
nicadium recharged life.

Tonight, unnamed stars hover above me
perhaps the eyes of a dying universe. I’m not
looking for a round of orchestrated applause.
Just want someone to notice
for a moment
that I’m still alive,
no billboards or last minute memoirs,
before I die in Toledo.


Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Unlikely 2.0., Mad Hatters’ Review, Neon Literary Magazine, and Thieves Jargon.

Edited by Joe Balaz

Joe Balaz lives in Northeast Ohio in the Greater Cleveland area. He edited Ramrod–A Literary and Art Journal of Hawai’i, and was also the editor of Ho’omanoa: An Anthology of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature.


All works appearing in 13 Miles from Cleveland are the sole property of their respective authors and artists, and may not be reproduced in any way or form without their permission. © 2009