Sections of Fog Coalesce

Jigsaw
by Neil Fulwood

Almost forgotten on waking, it begins
piecing itself together as I stumble downstairs
and coax hot water out of reluctant taps.

Edging pieces assemble into an outline
as I leave the house. My subconscious
rummages in the box during the drive to work.

Sections coalesce. An image gains definition
in the upper right, where the stamp would be
if this were a postcard from the other side.

Maybe it is. Mid-morning, the picture’s formed.
The dream rolls its fog back over me.
A field or hillside grey with mist, and Tony was there.

Tony, a decade or more gone but everything he taught me
about poetry coded in my fingerprints,
small proofs littering the evidence room of the keyboard.

Tony, grinning at my incomprehension,
my burblings in the key of but you’re dead.
Tony making himself at home in my dream,

grinning as if to say Maybe it’s the other way round.

————————–

Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book The Films of Sam Peckinpah. His poetry has been featured in Art Decades, Lunar Poetry, The Black Light Engine Room and others. He runs film revue blog The Agitation of the Mind (misterneil.blogspot.com).

The Stumbling Rhythm of Storms

Lake Storm
by Spencer Connell

The wind is strong enough
to parasail with this tent.
But instead, I sit and exhale
as if smoking, and watch the tarp
rise and fall at rhythm with my stomach.

Twice I have refolded my jacket
pillow, following the creases as if they were
plot lines in a novel, while the plants blow
from left to right. The wind is
strong enough to pull the stakes from the earth
and toss them across the lake, rising
and falling like a feather never touching
the ground.

It was a quick thing, the storm
coming over the sawtooth tree-
line, then across the lake and turning
its top to white in a chalk line
advancing to me.

An ant crawls
through the tent holding a crumb
of my bread and brie so large
he stumbles multiple times,
as if drunk. The wind dies
and I go back to blowing the tarp

and watch as the rain that has settled
finds a path back to the ground and to me.

How Scars Bloom Beyond Summer

retroburst

by Joseph Victor Milford

I am tired tonight beyond all summer wasps.

The sounds of the city let me go back to the horde of uninhibited soul.

Dare I say the word soul? Or the word uninhibited?

Please don’t take my pain away; I justify my pill.

A Prometheus to myself, a gasoline Phoenix Viking firestorm wingbeat

and stones and meteors hurled by it, a comet whose ache defines it.

I have a scar on my right shoulder from barbed-wire, but, I pretend

it was Psyche and her lamp. And I have a scar on my cock; I pretend

it was Pleasure, her daughter. Off of my chin drips quicksilver.

I am still the matador of my own bullshit.

I would joust lightbulbs of streetlamps holding their glowing cries of pain.

A braid of lion’s mane, a ground rhino’s tusk, piles of bottle caps fused,

plastic rockets and toy dinos melted into a clump, tattered postcards,

plum seeds. I have many a thing I’ve years been constructing.

I have a scar below my left thumb. I pretend I am its father.

I will always thrive and escape as the concubine of smoky mirrors.

On a frictionless canvas, a ghast painted lingering in the backstage of stanzas.

I have this particular stride. Slow as bird’s flight, fast as man’s thought.

Maybe I plunge over the edge of myself.

You gave me my life, that cloud of dust, that lotus blooming in reverse.

——————————–

Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. He was born in Alabama in 1972, and he went on to receive his Bachelors degree from the University of West Georgia, in English and Philosophy, and then his MFA in Poetry from the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010, and he is presently composing a collection of poems with Hydeout Press, forthcoming in 2015. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. In addition, he is also the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry) and a member of the Southern Collective Experience .

The Haunt of Memoirs

reminiscence
by Joseph Victor Milford

sweet alloys
ring into
my ears
as the winter
disperses
distills
the secrets
of bricks
stay shut
as I walk
through strangers’
bodies
a prickling
ghost memoir
an ancient haircut
or nod
that could kill
a gladiator
and that song
you hate so much
now stuck
in your cranium Ukraine
under streetlights
haunted
by you
as much as you
are by them
as alligator shadows
slink behind kiosks and newsstands
always something
ominous on these streets
something always palpable
like someone
you have lived long enough
to have forgotten
that you once
murdered
someone who haunts
every last forsaken island of
a poem for you
someone holding
that ticking clock
with your last
second in it

———————

Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. He was born in Alabama in 1972, and he went on to receive his Bachelors degree from the University of West Georgia, in English and Philosophy, and then his MFA in Poetry from the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010, and he is presently composing a collection of poems with Hydeout Press, forthcoming in 2015. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. In addition, he is also the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry) and a member of the Southern Collective Experience .

The Mortal Omelet

omelet_morguefile

Omelet
by Adam Tedesco

Crack the eggs with
the butt of your gun

Watch them pour
out of their broken
shells into the cities
and hillsides, filling
the maquiladoras and
favelas at the bowls edge.

Beat them together. Use
something metallic and
hard. Watch their heads
explode against tines.
Smash the lot to a yellow
pulp. Destroy any trace
of heterogeneity.

Place the gooey mess in
a pan over a fire. Protect
yourself from the flame.
Listen to the sizzle. Chop
something good into pieces.
Throw the pieces on top.
Watch them sink into
the goo. See how the eggs
burrow into the crevices
between the pieces of good
things, as if to absorb what
remains of their goodness.
When the whole mess congeals
to uniformity, fold it in half.

Slide it out of the pan. If it
sticks scrape it. Let nothing
escape your power. Take a
bite. Discard what remains.
Complain about the indignant
flavor of eggs.

——————–

Adam Tedesco has worked as a shipbuilder, a meditation instructor, a telephone technician and cultural critic for the now disbanded Maoist Internationalist Movement. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in dcomP, Drunk In A Midnight Choir, MadHat Lit, Pine Hills Review, Similar:Peaks::, Freeze Ray Poetry and Cartridge Lit. He lives in Albany, New York with his wife and two children.