V

by Raphael Moser

Sweet orb

Lambs about the milkstone
eucalyptus and nightshade

Slightly lying round
the lilymend as

nectarines in cinnabar

A blowtorch or bell
handles the itch

of significant frisson

Long necked and loping
on the gauntlet

Origins of the Unconscious

by Susan Scutti

compelled to
tell the truth, Earth
punctures Moon with
jagged
insight and soon
dark seas pour
out of Moon, drown
Earth’s mind in
cold calculations yet
the cold dark seas remain
forever Moon’s… rising

falling

rising again

Moon’s…

And the Tree Looks Beautiful

by Kat Georges

Sure it is snowing—actually a big blizzard—and it is
dark and cold and sure it would be a far better idea
to wait until tomorrow when the snow stops falling
and just sits on the ground looking gentle and pure,
but who wants to wait to see New York City in the snow—
it is sticking to sidewalks after snowing for hours—
at least three or four inches—and when it snows
it’s not as cold as before or after and you feel like
you’re walking around in a kind of crystal-neon paradise
when you’re walking in a snowstorm, where everything
looks gorgeous, even panhandlers and investment bankers—
hell, even obese families of suburban tourists look adorable
in their determination to enjoy the best place on earth
(although they really liked Disney World and New York

Las Vegas a lot better), walking four abreast on
snowy sidewalks built for two with a passing lane.
I wind my way around and between and through
these tourist family clans, cursing only a little and
always under my breath as if I actually give two fucks
about these out-of-town mom-pop-two-kid monsters.
The snow compels you to do things like that—
be kinder and gentler to strangers and beasts.
And I scoot around them because I’m in a hurry:
I have to see the tree, the tree, the Christmas tree
in Rockefeller Plaza with all its lights consuming
enough power to feed and house half the homeless
in New York. And yes it is a tourist attraction and
yes it is a symbol of overabundance and yes it is

a pure manifestation of bigger-equals-better, but
when I veer onto 49th Street in a snowflake swirl
and dance through ice and snowdrifts past the
NBC Experience Store with a huge multi-colored
mirrored ball lobby, past the glowing neon sign for
the world-famous Rainbow Room (which has been
closed since summer), and finally past the iconic
First Republic Bank (headquartered in San Francisco),
then a quick glance to the left and there it is—rising
in the manufactured nighttime shadow of 70-story
30 Rock. A tree that must be at least 65 feet tall and
35 feet wide but is usually taller and wider. A tree that
uses over five miles of lights and a single star on top.
I look up. Snow in my eyes. And the tree looks beautiful.

Poem’s about my Dad

Guest Appearance by Joe Maynard

this poem’s about my dad
lived his life in a garbage can
only came out when he had to go to work
always looked like he lived on dirt

this is about my mean old man
you’d think he was raised in a lion’s den
he hisses and he snarls all day long
he snarls at my mom and he snarls at the cops
& he don’t care if he lands on his head

this here’s a poem bout a desperate little man
who never had a goal in the sight of his gun
he never moved forward, though he never slid back
so they call him a gnarly little hack

this here’s a poem bout the freedom tree
that grows in every man’s mind
it’s branches twist and turn
pokin clouds grabbin birds
yet it stays on the ground all day long

this poems about my dad
who gave me everything I had
though I never knew I had a single thing
but you grow up anyway
& all them games you like to play
turn out to be your whole reality

this here poem bout my old man
might make a high school counsellor sad
it might take the power from his academic robe
all I can say is this, every man, has a pot to piss
and every lady should step aside
& if she don’t, they’re both gonna die

Perhaps you’ve realized now I’m insane in a sane man’s clothes
but did you know there ain’t one sane man?
the more successful they are, the more they love war
and the more they send the little ones to die
and all they ladies, they stay home and cry

lookie here in the dirt, is a white clean shirt
and over here a suit and a tie
the lord hath made a miracle from the earth itself
now I tell all kinds of preacher lies
love to tell all them preacher lies

get back here sinner man
you ain’t livin’ like god planned
you ain’t lovin’ the whole day long
stop chasin’ money and guns
live like moss in the woods
but the sinner man knows only what he does
and if he does he’s confused and hates himself

but self hatred fills the soul
of men who are rich or live off the dole
and if they’re happy its only for a moment or two
once their head is clear, they’re fighting in the mud
to control a little hub
and history will tell them what to kill
lord, history knocks against every farmer’s till

so I preach to the east, and I preach to the west
and I tell them this world is a lie
I say every soul is sacred, I say every heart is pure
& I tell them to hang their uniforms to dry
be cleansed by the blood of the lamb,
for that’s why he died

New preachers come and go
every age has new foes
though they don’t seem so different if you line them in a row
pluck a flower from their grave
smell what made them think they’re saved
& leave them to rot til the morn
til the flower children dance in a whirl

bring it back, bring it back
peace and love, and drugs and sex
was the girlie man’s way to her heart
though he knew deep inside
it was his nature to fight and die
he lay in a garden with a girl
suppressed an enormous urge to kill

It came out on wall street
them number crunchers look so meek
inside they writhe with a serpentine smile
they took us all in their clutch
every bean, every bush
now their beamers shine like rainbows in the sky
don’t follow that beamer, it only goes to a tacky restaurant

lessons here and morals there
every poet has a flair every cinder has a spark within
every cliche has a past, every pinnacle a mass
beneath the stony ridges men climb
to breath into the sun of their mind

go hither go far don’t forget your old guitar
be a hippy or a preacher, I don’t care
make the nun play guitar touch her habit, even flirt
god’s a swinger who likes to laugh and lie
and godly swagger’s what we’ve got left
once we’ve rotted inside

the beef trade in suede

Guest Appearance by Joe Maynard

the beef trade in suede
gobbles all the giblet
from the gravy train

the beef trade in suede
saving all it’s money
to blow on a pretty dame

One shot rings true
your death belongs to you
reach out & greet a world of mutes

the maker had his calling
creation had it’s falling
evil stalks the pasture
the good recalls the master

one shot rings true
all men must fall
our lives true blue
to truth recall

the beef trade in suede
crashing all the parties
for the latest recipe from spain

the beef trade in suede
spilling all its gravy
on a random rainy day

fly me down to miami
so I can shout at
castro & tami
drop me at the track
to meet the dogs

The Raptor

by Raphael Moser

raptors strip the permanent seal
when flight pervades so markless
dishonored freedom

echoes harsh and slant
so wonders joy and argument

if reaches down below the soul
presents a forked service
in rays expanse or extinguishment

imagined for their absence

Neglected Pulse

by Susan Scutti

She squints, uncertain: This
music sounds like
Rome, three years after
the fall.
Carthage, he
corrects her.

His austere love-making
revives forgotten
jurisdictions… love’s shadows,
ancestral corners.

We are prisoners of
arctic winds, he
tells her. Aware
of the benevolence
of distant stars, she
watches his anguish
transform.

That 70s Show

by Kat Georges

An old friend calls to say he is dying—
which is true, except for the calling part.
When old friends die they don’t usually call.
Off they go. One-by-one, or sometimes in clusters,

Another old friend said, “Most go in their 60s.
“If they make it to 70, they last a long time.”
He’s living proof, pushing 80, strong.
In love again—married girl in her 40s.
So full of life. Still a pain in the ass.
Also told me: “The nice ones go first.”

I imagine a world of septuagenarian pals,
reeking of mood swings and backhanded compliments,
gathered in church basements for hot meals and bridge,
cackling and whispering about who’s losing their mind.

Pointing fingers, empathy-free.
You don’t make it to 70 because of good deeds.
“The nice ones go first” (in one man’s opinion).
“The nice ones go first.” We shall see. We’ll see.

Supper Time

by Madeline Artenberg

Our mother never cooked
like our grandmother did,
her mother, Katie,
with ingredients from scratch
took an hour to prepare,
a whole morning to get done,
filling the apartment
with warmth.

Our mother reduced food
to its driest, flattest state; broiled
what should have been babied
on top of the stove,
or tenderly minded inside.

Our mother would throw under the broiler
flesh or fish, never look until edges curled
into the same brown, no matter what
it started out as, until
it toughened up like a wrestler
punching our teeth and gums
as we tried to chew.
No sauce on top,
no salt, no spices.

We couldn’t talk much for all the effort needed
to eat the halibut or dry white chicken.
We couldn’t complain,
couldn’t ask for things we weren’t getting,
like allowance or summer camp,
couldn’t plead with her to stop hitting us,
stop screaming;
all we could do was chew and chew,
get through supper time.

Her Crown is Made of Laurel Leaves

by Raphael Moser

A girl dressed up
as little Clio

Determining
the Hapsburg map

Fat chandelier

The objects we create
undulating out

Of prime matter so
then there was light

His red stockings
mark the crossed tile

Beret
and black velvet back

Hands form a face
on the space

beneath the leaves
trumpeting the birth

And right of this man