The Storm

by Kat Georges

Stocking up on water getting ready for the storm.
Don’t know how or if I’m even going to stay warm.
At least I won’t be thirsty when the storm begins to form.

But what if the storm lasts longer?

Water? Hmm . . . Maybe something stronger. Bold.
A glass of old tradition that will keep away the cold.
Something that will let me think I’m never getting old.

But what if I do? What then?

And so it goes . . .

Preparation.

Cover the bases.

Contingency plans.

Get ready.

Study old cases.

Know what to do . . .

in case
in case
in case
in case

Follow my Ferrari to December 2012.
I’ll show you what I look like when I’m on my way to hell.
I’ll take a photo of myself and send it to my cell.

And then I’ll go—

Petites

Guest Appearance by India Almgren

Tricycle Man,
once, like a redwood, stood tall -
head held high in the sun…
was the sun…
an Adonis.

Mercedes shining.
Silver glowing moon mobile.
Someone else’s chariot now.
Push on the peddle speed.
Lost down the road of life.

1/28/2010

Displacement IV

by Raphael Moser

The gauze and cloth
the powders
saturated into glycerin granules
fine flakes splintering
rivals
of diversity and order

a microscopic inglorious sight
deciphering
the omniscience, the omnipotence,
the infinite

bargaining for paradise
a market
of canny divestment

Told to Another far from Where You Live

by Wendel Scutti

this city my heart
love of anonymity
my blind journey home

this fluent body
evident earthly presence 

record of my birth

streaming consciousness
chosen thoughts, selected time
future self unveiled

A Good Day

by Kat Georges

Kay is 84. Lovely woman.
Lives in the apartment below.
We meet on the stairwell.
Walk down together.

Good morning, Kay.
So nice to see you.
How are you today?

Ahh . . . so-so . . .
But—at my age—
I figure—any day
I can get out of bed
is a good day.

A lot of my friends—
some younger than me—
have either passed on or
have a hard time walking.
Thank God I can still get around.
I have no business complaining.

I open the door to the street.
She shuffles past.

Have a good day.

And I do.

Bud Powell – for Yoshiko Otomo

Guest Appearance by steve dalachinsky

ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo oh oh Yo shi ko

oh oh Yoshiko – throat is gloved & we are so full of self-pity

taut urges diminished

nightingale singing outside your window ( oh oh Yo shi ko oh oh Yo shi ko )

followed unexpectedly i send you my twisted fear & young man’s love

strutting like a wild bird of desire in the dense rainy morning

& breaking down – stroked & diminished

( your appetite still full like your smile )

i kiss you gently on the lips & say goodbye

you chanson me with your tiny voice & utter Bud Powell

i kiss you again on the forehead – yup that Bud Powell is really sumthin -

you die on a beautiful spring morning

slight wind

scent of flowers in the air

one canary yellow sock on – the other off

there on the floor beside you in the kitchen where you had fallen

it is Mother’s Day

what is this strange gift you give us @ 9 a.m.? Ah Yoshiko

the talking doll that kept you company

sits on the kitchen table

mumbling unintelligibly in its funhouse voice -

i break with the room

pull away the table

& become that brilliant partner

soft stuffed lizard of a doll with its programmed emotions

i’m not allowed to eat bad food but i do

the day smells of perfume

the women break down then the men

i send you my slippers

my lonely selfish consciousness

strawberries

watermelon

pudding – french toast

& romantic french cinema

wrought iron roses – linked arms – & a kiss on the lips every day

soft pale lips – OH OH YO SHI KO OH OH YO SHI KO

a tear falls on my shoe – single voice clustered harmonies – ghost of a chance

there is a perfumed wind as you cross the channel

a slight mist hangs over the mountains

this one’s about grey hair i think

Bud Powell splashed quick & delicate around the kitchen

i missed your departure but saw you lying there breathless

a shy & breathless dignity that even death could not dismiss

a slight wind & i hand out tissues to everyone

as we weep a tear falls onto my shoe it is Mother’s Day

everything but death is in a language i don’t understand

but maybe death too

alright i’ll stop crying – a perfect gift for us all on this day of mothers
we all write our own stories

the emergency room is one legged bleeding fingers

teeming with LIFE

it’s Mother’s Day

did we push your innocent smile too hard?

Oh oh Yoshiko Oh oh Yo shi ko

i pick up your tiny sock & place it on the chair

push the table back into place

this time it was death that brought us here

not good food – scenery – or strong constitutions

those these are in abundance

clusters of notes fall

you must learn to live for others

if you’ve given up living for yourself

don’t wear red on red days

breathe Yoshiko breathe

this is a perfect gift you give us on this day of mothers

even the doctor must feel blessed
mist rising & exploded

wind exploded

tears falling exploded

smells exploding

your heart full just exploded

i touch your brow – break down

Bud Powell

i whisper

Bud Powell

mist rising from my eyes Ho oh Yoshiko Ho oh Yoshiko Ho oh Yoshiko

sasebo city japan 5/14/06

youre not

Guest Appearance by Eve Packer

thinking
abt this, good
as it is, youre thinking..
green apples, a doctors phone
number, hot shower, news-
paper, the very small almost square
light on the wall, & in the street,
lines on concrete, space/between leaves
we are
in the park, ozzy
& me,
theres no rush i say
looking at holiday lights & trees
thru brownstone windows
on degraw

theres no rush

thats it, thats it
i can hear a dad say to his kid
thats it, thats it

theres no rush
i say to the hush, dusk, night air,
no rush

in the dark, distance

Displacement III

by Raphael Moser

Turning away

ephemerality and labor
glance across the land

mangled avowals
compartmentalized

and in its most crystalline
circumference of deliverance

brightness frags
the perimeter

Told to a Stranger far from Where You Live

by Wendel Scutti

my birth certificate is filed inside a room with
windows obscured by factory soot

at the edge of the town where
my birth certificate is filed
prison guards sleep

a tumor grows inside the lungs of
the clerk who notarized my birth certificate

in the town where my birth certificate is filed
citizens sit staring in
houses humming with machines built to feed, to
relax, to warm, to clean while
plastic bags wash up on its shore

signed by a doctor, a smudge mars
my birth certificate, a clumsy fold
creases its parchment

my birth certificate remains inside
a cabinet locked shut like
the minds of town daughters who learn early
to lie to their fathers and to confess to a priest

identical steel cabinets
hold death records and property deeds

on the street in the town where
my birth certificate sits within
color-coded file, children race home to
some mess of intimate
strangers known as family

the next-door town to the town where my birth certificate sleeps has been
abandoned by european races

in a synagogue across the street from
the building housing
my birth certificate a rabbi prays
remembering his addicted brother

clerks pass to and fro,
soiled thoughts echoing
within the airless room of my birth certificate

those who remain in the vicinity of
my birth certificate medicate themselves with
sweet-tasting pills prescribed by
grown boys once bullied by
those boys whose
fathers drank,
paid whores, their money earned from piecework

tired ghosts of our fathers rattle
the panes of snoring homes
while we trespass vestibules of
the dead

Green

by Kat Georges

Come to me: luminous, shimmering thing.
I want to start the season early. Dazzle me.

Today you are tectonic: turbulent and hot.
Touch my lips, my breast, my thigh. Linger,

shift my second skin. Metamorphosis
in a graze. Emeralds in formation.

Tension is genesis. Disparate, we collide.
Afterwards, cool, we emerge, green.

Flawed, but transparent.
Rare and ready to be cut.