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Poetry - The White Crow v3, i4 - Osric Publishing Death of a Small Cactus we are the dried men we are the fallow kin, maybe that is the way the poem should go. your small but ever-ripening cactus surviving three years of our separation. i left it behind the blinds on the window sill one day sick of remembering it was you who gave it me. it dried up and withered after three weeks. panicked, i flooded it with water, talked to it sweetly. i put a multi-vitamin beside it on the rocks and dirt, under the soft stove light and it seemed to come to life overnight, shedding its orange shellacked skin, but the plant lies moldering in its wretched pot. i talk to it in whispers. i tell it that i understand. - Mark Brimm Return to Contents I Was Wearing a Brand New Shirt when i opened the door the faint blast of trumpets sounding in the distance should have been an omen. walking down the balcony steps i notice the young asian crowd watching closely, cameras clicking each step cause for extensive commentary, one trying desperately to record the event in sign language for the hearing impaired. when i get out on the main road, ten immaculate patrol cars quickly flank me on all sides. at the post office i tell them, "really fellas, i can do this myself," but like lightning they all jump out to cover my back. at the drive-thru the crew is quite put off by my sudden appearance and making up for the dispreparedness of the proper tributes, the manager offers me a thousand hot fudge sundaes, covered in nuts and, hesitating, i slowly take one. as i speed along shaking the cops off into the adjacent buildings i turn a sharp corner and the last patrolman skids off into the horizon, bullets flying. as i reenter my apartment complex parking lot, the residents all rush in to cheer and clap and laugh and wave and nudge their friends and smile. - Mark Brimm Return to Contents Exit A perfect winter's day. Air like glass. I could scrape my nails down it, send my nerves rushing for the exit. A lover I have noticed leaves by barge, floating slowly away from land so that I can measure time and distance by the size of her, my heartbeat handling its caliper functions quite well, until the darkness, the horizon, whichever comes sooner, takes her in. A barge is flat and wide, a stage almost, perfect for taking your hair down. It will snow soon. Thick ice will bar the way back. A poem will die in my hand like a bird that can't feed. I love the dumbness of the white stuff, smothering the ground, wanting nothing better than a footprint. A lover should leave that way, masking her absence in deep gulfs that lead from here to just about every place. Better yet, she could leave under the weight of it all, disappearing like family do, silent and focused, flake by flake. The snow is flat and wide. It turns the world into a mirror. As you fade away, you can take your hair down and be done with it. So cold now, the air is brittle. One push and it caves in like a dream. By a sleepy fire, I welcome my nerves back, one by one. - John Grey Return to Contents David's Enclave in the Mountains The birds don't know the window's there. They crash into it. Many of them die. For him, those deaths are living proof that he's established something here cozy and inviting enough to attract cardinals and kingfishers. His wife is dead. His kids left years before. They're not coming back. Still, familiar blood drips from ceiling to floor, pretty feathers stick to glass. - John Grey Return to Contents Travels in Central Europe The old lady says the town hero held off the invaders for days and days with just a broad-sword and a shield. One of these mongols or huns or whatever name they were going by finally got lucky, stabbed him a hundred times. By then, of course, the relief troops had arrived. His blood is the river you see before you now, she adds. His heart is the mountain that still watches over the town. You mean there was no river here before, I ask her. No mountain. She says yes, they were here. They just weren't his body parts then that's all. - John Grey Return to Contents Nightmare on the Mediterranean The Marquis rejects 20th century ways- he in his frilled blouse and flounce pantaloons. He grins through smeared lipstick as I paint his portrait and boasts of the novel way he has beheaded his wife, with her lover's unwitting compliance and a drawn knife. As dusk sets in, I cover the canvas, then bid him adieu and set out for more pleasant surroundings. The evening is warm and festive, filled with stars. People are sipping cocktails in the outdoor ampitheater. I mix with the crowd and sit near a French-Arab lady seated at a long table. I can't decide on a screwdriver or a bloody mary. In the sky, at first barely discernible, A cratered rock drifts high above, growing larger, Passing over, a phantom uncloaked. The great stone becomes a mountain Over the nearby air base, then recedes from sight. Helicopters, planes, a flurry of red lights in the sky, Spell imminent danger. The long wail of a siren triggers a mad dash to our cars. As I am about to depart, a military jeep approaches and stops. An American man in uniform tells me to go to the base with him and join others in waiting planes. He says the shock wave is minutes away yet, but we'll get out in time before it reaches us if we move. He says I'll never get far enough away trying to escape in my car. We speed rapidly toward the shrill sirens and chaos of red lights- the Marquis and a female figure embrace, silhouetted in an orange-lit balcony window, as we hurtle past his great chateau. - Michael McClellan Return to Contents Amsterdam I walked down the narrow lane past the pile of dog shit and across the road then as I turned the corner into a row of red lights the beautiful slim brunette wearing black lingerie and standing outside the first door smiled and shouted "hello" I returned her greeting and walked down the row although I already knew that I would go back to her some of the other whores shouted as I passed and most of them were ugly but mine was gorgeous I walked back up to her and asked "how much?" she came from Thailand had been in Amsterdam a few months and sang loudly in a tuneless voice as we undressed we had sex and it was just sex even a little clinical but as I left and walked back up the lane past the dog shit I knew that before I returned to England I would see her again the second time was much better I recognised the lane mainly because the dog shit was still there but when I got to the row of red lights she wasn't outside her door probably with another customer or having her period I thought and went for a cup of coffee later I would try again she greeted me like an old friend and we chatted outside her door for several minutes she told me she had a cold and I commented that maybe she should wear more clothes and then she said "you don't want something today?" inside the blue walled room she caught hold of me and kissed me first on each cheek and then on lips before helping me undress she sat astride me on the bed and after putting a condom on me said "you want licky licky?" I did this time the sex was more like making love when I pulled out having come she even pushed me back in again and as I was leaving she took hold of my arm and whispered "you come again tomorrow?" had I not been returning home that night I most certainly would have the following week back in England I realised she had given me her cold to remember her by - Colin Cross Return to Contents Paris I can't understand why people romanticize about Paris maybe it was romantic in the old days when writers and artists sat outside street cafes or smoked opium pipes but the last time I visited my bag was attacked by an alsation and two cops before I had even descended the steps of the hovercraft I paid the equivalent of £4.50 for a 1/2 pint of Newcastle Brown the pub rock bands played Beatles songs on accordians the whores were old and ugly I met an elderly couple in a bar who claimed to be Scottish but spoke with Lancashire accents I stayed in a thinly walled hotel room next door to a couple whose voices I recognised as coming from my home town and who spent the whole weekend either fighting or fucking but both loudly climbing the Eiffel Tower was the most boring thing I have ever done and the only place I found any enjoyment was in the peacefullness of Pere La Chaise cemetery I found more romance in Amsterdam at £15.00 a time - Colin Cross Return to Contents Stranded state of the heart fried and bony barely warm to the touch another nameless pustule stranded and horny scenery boring as appliance store windows guitars jump around on the pages of the newspaper sandals flop on deserted streets candy bars cadmiun-coated coins scurry away, hide rats flip you the finger nothing spirals correctly bongos from a window deep in an alley's canyon camera with a spotty lens spending days in all-night restaurants and evenings in cheap movies lost balloon in a bad neighborhood photo without a caption bruised turnip no sheets for the mattress overcoat for a pillow - M Kettner Return to Contents 1932 Quiet madness: Womb disease: Hysteria: In the summer, on hot peeling porches we sit: we of the mad basket: women bitter like the souls of thin cats, burning hay spirits loose on the blood river. Dry and blue our lives are reduced down to coal black kernels: hands bent from wringing juice from air, the oil of children frying to a rusty patina, our eyes open a bit too wide, mouths show too many long teeth, our bones spread too far under tents of skin. Around us swarms the almost-heard screaming of unspoken things, below the murmering staccato moan of the womb forever filling and emptying for no good reason. The men drink and laugh but we can only look at each other and nod over the backs of babies. - Leslie Young Return to Contents Untitled Clawman, glassbones- stiff and cold: a half gnawed apple- consciousness a siezure when you stop nuzzling infinity, your eyes are black, round, like bitter olives or birds' eyes glittering in broken mirrors-psychedelic imbecile burning in the green fire, you're an oblivous receptor of the pure poison blood of god- in ecstatic shaking borne to bed of nails of eggshells: an old man inside young fragile cage beating your fists to ragged sacks, each needle purifying, prying the bars just a little farther apart. - Leslie Young Return to Contents The Same Feeling You Get When You Lose A Fifty Dollar Bill the future lingers like a hollow thump to the chest, you can feel it there not quite hurting but there like an echo of thunder, like a numbness the size of a fist and you stop, you shift to the left and pace to the right; like being lost halfway through some silly errand; nothing left to lean against nothing to lean into. the jelly dream of youth has melted with clear and sturdy routine; the diamond ring is in the river, the t.v. set sits at the pawnshop, and you, sitting alone, the memory of your name just a simple souvenir to the female long after being traded-in for men less tarnished men less interfered with by the questions of living you sit as landladies sing and bank presidents roar you sit with a bottle of whiskey and a future that is starting to hurt like hell. - Mark Senkus Return to Contents Jonah I lie, tell them that God freed me. Truth is, I didn't want to leave. I'm probably the only person who's heard a whale's song from the inside. I've been in many churches, sang many tunes, but a whale is a movable underwater symphony. No, I wasn't lonely. Any whale carries the world's history. I made contact with saints and savages, the brilliant and the brainless. Outside the whale, oh, then I was lonely. I listen for a song nobody knows. I look the same, but it turns out I took the whale in, her music that travels the same way light travels from stars we know nothing about. - Kenneth Pobo Return to Contents Dear Dr. O'Connor My love gave me a cherry that had no stone. My love gave me a chicken that had no bone. Then she gave me a gold-plated ring and a baby that never cries and took a bus to Detroit. The cherry was fine. I ate it on the day when she left town. The chicken was no problem. It flopped around the back yard until it got on my nerves. So I boiled it for soup. I pawned the ring to raise money for baby formula. But the ring wasn't worth much. The kid never cries. But I don't like the way that it's been looking at me. When is she coming back for her kid? That's all I want to know. And what am I supposed to do when this baby formula runs out? - Stepan Chapman Return to Contents Casting My Pearls I have gathered these from what the blood knows when it nourishes cellular explosions that take the form of light flashing its messages from one neuron to another. If you hold them against the light of the sun, you can see the bruises they collected along the way. Each was like a single grain of sand that becomes the oyster's most urgent condition- the sweet irritation that starts the DNA singing into the darkness until its little voice tells what the stars know about bones and the sacred dance that makes all things holy. In this way, the sharp edges of suffering become rounded and lustrous things-objects precious as any jewels, touchstones, points of light- that will help us find grace in the least likely of places. - Christopher Thomas Nothing's Coming to Mind My fish died; it's drifting soggy rubber, thready and limp-like. That makes only one in our tank, and I'm tired of swimming. I thought life was bigger- That I couldn't fit it in my shoe box. With room to spare, I pad it with cliches. This makes me laugh so hard I can't stop shaking. My hand once was steady, I could carve detail in a veiny fin frittering as mossy sheets shiver in pushy water. I can't reach the wrinkled balloon slouching in the stagnant tank. Maybe someone will stop by to shove some air back into it. But, my fish died today; Why on a Tuesday? On a Tuesday, my lover kissed me last and her pistol kissed her to death. Then there was one left in our tank, and I'm tired of swimming. The sky is a tilting blue crouched over our tank. My mind is stiff wally pins holding my milky brains in- like a stagnant bowl. I slam my lifetime in my shoe box, and walk to the edge of the blue. - James Notner Return to Contents Xanthic Blues Fats Domino wails from the next room the clocks all tick backward and in descending order. The gods lie down in a row like days or wheat in hard rain. - Robert L Penick Return to Contents exploring space the moon, pear shaped sinks above a brick house a bird walks up the shadow of a tree on the adobe wall its powder blue against cerulean blue random expressions rounded impressed - b chown Return to Contents responsible perceptions it is not that we need more awareness it is that we need to be more selective our capacity is such that new information jostles with old pick a detail, focus on it a color or shape actively ignore unpleasant impingements assign valuations - b chown Return to Contents by Eileen Bell Picture this: a naked eight year old girl steps her big toe on to the black tile floor of her parents' shower. The water is warming and so she follows with the sole and then the heel of her foot, then swings the long side of one leg up to her hip under the falling water. It is night and through the distressed window glass she can see the silhoutted backbone of a coconut palm curving against the backyard flood light. The girl turns the spigot up all the way, as hard as it will come, and the water pelts her back and cheeks. With her eyes she checks the door to see that it is locked. The girl leans out through the pink plastic curtain to pull a washcloth, her mother's best with the doily white edges, that hangs behind the toilet bowl just for show. She places it carefully over the shower's drain. Water starts to collect rapidly. The girl can hear the slap of the droplets in the pooling water, tickling at her ankles now. She stands under the shower head, her brown curls pushed by the water, around her neck and ears, into her eyes. IT'S A HURRICANE. She pulls an imaginary raincoat tight around her neck and untwists the hose of the enema bag that hangs by a clothespin on the shower rack. She looks directly into the camera's eye. THIS IS A BIG ONE, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN. She stumbles, as if caught by a strong gust. THE EYE IS COMING. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOMES. The girl pulls the red hose closer to her mouth. Ennuciating meticulously, squinting and leaning to brace herself from the wind. THIS IS EILEEN BELL REPORTING LIVE FROM HURRICANE CLEO AND THE STORMY SHORES OF MIAMI BEACH. And then the girl nods and gives a broad smile. There is a knock on the door. What are you doing in there for so long? her mother says. Let's get a move on it kiddo. Bedtime. ALL RIGHT. The girl drops the hose, turns off the water and pulls the washcloth up from the tight sucking of the drain, listening to the hollow slurps and gulps and choking of the water as it is pulled under. entropy She runs arms outstretched along the shore Her red bandana its tail snapping inthe wind Following behind her a phalanx of boys taking formation in a winged triangle She is dressed in blue denim threadbare and girdled around her hips, her ass and her tight young crotch The boy in black dives groping at her heels her ankles and she tumbles As they gather 'round one takes hold of her tiny ankle the other, her foot while they drag her through the sand to the water's edge She wriggles free rolling in the glistening sand catching her breath She stands to run again her face small and shadowed arms above her head above the crash of the shore and I can not tell if she is laughing or screaming She is prone now The boy in black on top of her They are tossing their heads their hair wet the bandana like a puddle of blood on the white beach The boy in baggies takes her arms the other, her legs the one in black has picked up the bandana is waving it at her They carry her further toward the water Her knees like tender twigs ready to snap In the sand I can see the sluggish trail of her body like that of a mother turtle's having made her nest They toss her skyward and there is entropy as her body leaves their grip and slides on the humid air When she hits a wave engulfs her and she is swallowed by the white And when I do not find her at the surface when the water subsides and she is not floating in its wake I think that perhaps in the deep quiet of the ocean's floor she has found a place to hide. - eileen bell Return to Contents Contributor's Notes eileen bell does not know this, but her poem, "entropy" caused great strife amongs the editors here at Osric Publishing. Jared claimed that since "the system had not yet reached a point at which it broke down," it was not entropic. I told him that a body flung into the air above the ocean is certainly a point at which many systems break down. Our system broke down and a knife fight proceeded. Mark Brimm, from Chattanooga, Tennessee, is well known for his snazzy designer shirts and the incomparable flair for which he wears them. He enjoys listening to classical music and he lives next door to a neurotic bodybuilder. Stepan Chapman is actually a human-shaped sausage casing full of bugs. b chown has been recently published in Bonfire, Art Mag, and mark hartenbach's Wooden Head Review. He lives in Ann Arbor, but none of us have ever seen him . . . he may actually possess the amazing power of invisibility! Colin Cross lives in Norwich, England. John Grey lives in Rhode Island. Guess which city? That's right, Providence! M Kettner is from Seattle where, on a daily basis, he has to battle contractors to keep them from leveling his apartment and building a Starbucks. Michael McClellan lives in Lockport, New York. James Notner is studying in South Carolina, where he plans to become a teacher. "Teaching," he writes, "interests me because it is an art form, with young minds as the medium." I am frightened. Robert L Penick is crazy. He took a road trip last summer to the upper peninsula of Michigan so he could hang out with fellow contributor Mark Senkus. He also edits Chance Magazine, and recently published an excellent collection, Fuck Death (available for $2.00; same address as Chance Magazine). Kenneth Pobo teaches English in Chester, Pennsylvania, which makes me wonder . . . what language do people usually speak in Chester? His poetry has appeared in numerous chapbooks, including Ravens and Bad Bananas from Osric Publishing. Mark Senkus recently started editing a 'zine called Simple-Minded Cocktail, featuring top-notch poetry. He lives in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. Mrrranda L Tarrow is putting together a book of little stories she sums up as neurotica with Tourette's Syndrome of the heart. She once saw the world as a tiny candy heart spinning in space on a silver thread. Christopher Thomas has been published in such publications as Chiron Review, Duckabush Review, Evergreen Chronicles, and Paramour Magazine. He's currently attempting to publish a collection of his work entitled The Smell of Carnal Knowledge. We at Osric Publishing are hoping that this will be a Scratch-n-Sniff book. Christopher Thomas resides in Omaha, Nebraska. Leslie Young has become annoyed with libraries. "They always want their books back," she says, "and they get mad when my four-year-old licks the book stacks." She lives in Franklin, Massachusetts. Return to Contents Last Updated 06.25.2000 |