13 MILES FROM CLEVELAND

                                                                         

                                                                                                                                                                    

                                                                                                                                                                                                  

                  Volume 2, Number 1   2009

                     

                                          

                                                                                                                                                         

 

   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Previous Issue 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Archives 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Contributors 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                    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. Bennett and C. Mehrl Bennett

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                             

 

                                                              

 

                                                                                                                Flat Fool Fell eN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                 

 

                                                                                                              Xpandsive

 

 

 

 

 

                                      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-Ramspeck

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                 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-Ramspeck 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                              

 

                                                                                                                Fly Away Or . . . 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                    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, New York.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                   

                                   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 a waitress
                                                                                 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                          

 

                                                                                                                Ain't Misbehavin'

 

 

 

 

 

                                    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.   "Ain't Misbehavin' " first appeared in Otoliths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               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 the 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 Patrick Hill

 

                                                                       

         

                                                                                 LONG DISTANCE

                                                                

                                                                                 I           Corning Memorial

 

                                                                                 My father slept for three days after the surgery.

 

                                                                                 The tumor they dug from his armpit was a bulb

                                                                                 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 Artists Refuge, Fishtrap, and the Oregon State University Trillium Project.

 

                                

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                             

 

                                                                                                                  Poets R Us

 

 

 

                                  

 

 

 

                                                     

                                               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.  He lives in Roanoke, Virginia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                   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 

                                                                                 a re-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.

 

                                                                                 I spent--all of his fans spend--a minimum

                                                                                 of $85.00 for his nose-bleed seats.

                                                                                 This money is used for a nearly

                                                                                 million dollar horse.

 

                                                                                 I knew his working-class persona--rolled-up

                                                                                 shirts, worn blue jeans, day-to-day folk lyrics--

                                                                                 was an act, but I had no idea

                                                                                 how far gone he was.

 

 

                                                                                 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 steps 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                             

 

                                                                                                                                Crosscurrent

 

 

 

 

 

                                               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 UNENLIGHTENED

 

 
                                                                                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 gets 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 with 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 with 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, startling, 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                    

 

                                                                                                            And-then,-there-are-no-things

 

 

 

 

 

                                    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 off 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-Baptiste 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 yet 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, BluePrintReview, 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                        

 

                                                                                                          Poem Slab Hum

 

 

 

                                                         

 

                                   

                                                         

                                               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.

 

 

 

 

                                              

                                                                                                   

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Volume 2, Number 1  2009  (top of page)                     

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Volume1, Number 2  2008                     

 

 

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                            13 MILES FROM CLEVELAND

                             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