13.
*
12.
Glimpses
Black
Golem
In
the corner
Eyes
me
Through
gold nugget eyes
Irish
folk song
By
invisible flute
Lilts
Through
the empty house
Praying
mantis
Four
stories high
Climbs
up the building
While
I interview for a job
The
world is split
Between
the humans
And
the Wooly Bullies
Across
a great divide
My
mother is the floor lamp
That
I cry to
While
the room is melting
And
The Shadows come to call
The
Green Man
Shows
Himself
An
Elemental
In
the leaves
Every
painting a living world
Images
shrug off their chains
Drift
out of their frames
Loom
in the air
The
Last Rites
Read
to me
On
the radio
In
Latin
My
body convulses
Raped
In
the chair.
Nobody’s
there.
Military
Inserts
insects
Into
my brain.
They
are crawling through my ears.
Woman
wrapped in pink blanket
Says,
“Don’t worry”
As
The Four Horsemen
Charge
through the night.
Fat
black men
From
1934
Chortle
in the room.
Cast
iron skillets form on the shelf.
An
angel above some
A
devil over others
Everyone
had one
Hovering.
A
giant insect
Inside
me.
I
feel myself splitting open.
As
it tries to get out.
Sunlight
reveals
Dog
like
God
like
Giants of splendor.
Ten
black youth
Clad
in long white T’s
Descend
from the clouds
Evaporate
on the ground.
The
green witch
Followed
me.
I
walked in a circle
She
pulled my hair.
Barefoot
in November
Face
down
in
the gutter
Because
they told me to.
The
Jewel case
Opened
its lid.
Hissed
“You
suck.”
I
am a giant
Wheel
of a snake
Being
rolled across
The
sky.
Three
hooded Ancestors
Encircled
in gold
Pour
blood over my head.
I
am so blessed.
~Susan Wojnar~
*
11.
Blood work
*
11.
Blood work
~MISH~
*
10.
Someone To Watch Over Me
The
devil appeared
In
the palm of my hand
It
blackened and blackened.
The
room breathed in and out
As
the dead gathered ‘round the foundation
Rustling
and whispering.
Thousands
of spiders, centipedes, flies
Erupted
from my eyelids
Covered
the walls.
I
left my body.
Sat
next to it.
Translucent
blue spirit
Gazing
upon myself.
We
rode out the night
~Susan Wojnar~
*
9.
*
9.
Deborah
~MISH~
*
8.
Twilight
of the Ashes
Ashes,
ashes, falling down
Out
of a predawn sky.
I
am driving, driving
Out
of necessity.
The
mother of invention keeps creating
Out
of my mind.
Ashes,
ashes raining down
From
a phantom steel mill sky.
A
graveyard shift canopy.
Is
it Heaven....crack it open.
Crematorium
Bursting
with the gritty sooty dead.
Out
of necessity
The
mother of invention keeps creating
Out
of my mind.
Ashes,
ashes falling down.
I
am driving, driving.
Frantically
dialing and dialing the radio.
Does
anyone else know
About
this explosion over Mayfield Heights?
I
roll the window up, down, up, down.
Is
this acid rain? Will it burn my skin?
It
does not!
I
am driving, driving
‘midst
the gritty sooty ashes of the dead
On
Mayfield Avenue at 3 a.m.
I
am all alone.
I am not!
A
black man walking along the side of the road.
Does he see the ashes?
Yes!
He
looks up to the sky, reveling in heaven’s exhaust.
Encouraged,
because he is a black man,
I
pull over to the side of the road,
stick
my face out of the window
and
reach with my tongue towards heaven.
I
am driving, driving
Dialing
and dialing the radio.
My
son's voice tumbles out.
Rips
and reaches
From
inside the old school rhythm and blues
To
his three years AWOL mother.
I
scream at the radio, “Can you hear me?
I
can hear you.
You
are on the radio!
And
I can hear you!
It’s
your mother I think I am dying!”
My
son’s
voice insinuates itself
Between
Al Greene’s
shouts and moans.
He
sounds bored, disinterested.
I am sobbing, sobbing,
“Are
you alive? Are you ok?
I
can hear you on the radio”
His
voice, a monotone,
Fades
in and out through the polyrhythms.
I
strain to hear his words
He
is distant, blase.
I am sobbing, sobbing.
My
son’s
voice -- imbedded in the airwaves.
But
we cannot connect.
I
am sobbing I love you I love you I love you
I
think I am dying just remember I love you
No
reply at all.
Is
anybody listening?
There’s
no reply at all.
I
feel the dead within me
The
dead
Fill me.
~Susan Wojnar~
*
7.
Deborah #2
~MISH~
*
6.
Dreams
After an hour of sleep
I suddenly wake,
alone in the hotel
bed,
and after feeling
something crawl across
my arm,
and on the wall,
beyond the other side of
the bed,
a spider
big as a dinner plate
and I turn the light
on
get up out of bed
and,
carrying the thick
paperback book
I'd been reading
before sleep,
I walk around the bed,
but,
no spider:
not behind the lamp
stand
or under it
or on the floor...
Did it go under the
bed?
I decide to stay awake
all night,
keep the light on
keep the book handy,
but quickly
I become sleepy
so
wrap the blanket
around my head
and lay face-down
(keep the spider out)
but then
I start to wonder if
it was a waking-dream
as,
how could I have seen
a spider from
across the room, in
the dark?
And what would a giant
spider be doing
in the state of Maine?
Soon
I fall back asleep and
then I dream
about a guy who
catches spiders
and keeps them as
pets.
~Wayne F. Burke~
*
~Wayne F. Burke~
*
5.
Belly-to-Belly
Crows fly from me
and the neighbor does
not reply to
"good
morning."
At the family reunion
the
relatives move to a
different table
after I sit.
I say "fuck
'em,"
or could
but won't
because I need six to
carry
my casket,
and besides,
I have become
comfortable with
myself
most of the time;
not to say that
I do not need other
people.
I do.
Not in crowds
necessarily but
individually
eye-to-eye
cheek to cheek
and otherwise.
~Wayne F. Burke~
*
*
4.
Acceleration
Yesterday
fades
into
the past
faster
and faster,
until
blank spaces
confuse
memory,
recall
falters,
making
us worry
as
deterioration
devours
us.
3.
When Greed
Prevails
As
an empire fades
servants
of the state
see
an end to careers
built
on exercising power
that
brought prosperity,
the
reward for loyalty.
The
average citizens
support
the nation
by
payment of taxes,
their
sons and daughters
join
the military,
obey
the orders
sending
them to foreign shores
where
they are wounded, bleed, die
without
ever knowing
they
sacrificed themselves
for
the profit of a few,
who
retain their riches
while
everyone else
sinks
into poverty.
2.
The Antichrist
and I, and Foreplay
I used to keep a small,
wooden box under the bed. Inside was a thumbtack, a sewing needle, and an old
knife from the kitchen no one would miss. Later, a different knife, this time
in the nightstand, and a tiny pin rattling around in a drawer.
Opening the skin is
best done at the leg, where the skin pulls thinner than the rest. The soft
inner thigh, so close to the whisper of an artery, is a lingering memory where
the scratching grew into crosshatch. There, on the floor, I wished and wished:
don’t let me live long, but let me live bright and better. Wherever you are,
wrap me in your wings and squeeze and squeeze until it’s time for us all to go
at once, for good.
What is worthy, I ask
Michael, if I’m left with this? And I know this
is wrong, because he is another this,
and this is an exchange both fair and even.
Before this, the
antichrist and I lit nine white candles and spread them around the room.
The things I’d cut to
the bone with but can’t: cymbals tapping gently; a burning; Michael’s lips; a
crescendo; the crack of lightning; petrichor.
Watch me instead, he
says. And in his left hand is a silver dagger. My eyes open wide, and I taste
the sweat between us.
Where, where.
You know where, he
says. The candlelight spreads along the curtains, and the bed, and his bare
body. He raises an arm and the palm of his hand holds the dagger that cuts to
the bone. His right arm streaks red.
I reach out a hand to
touch, and trace the warm blood along his bicep, and as I do, his wound closes
up. He smiles, presses the dagger to his chest, and draws a vertical line.
Slower, please, I say.
My hands shake against him.
His eyes meet my eyes,
and he digs the dagger along his chest in a horizontal line. The dagger
disappears, and my hands move to the bloody cross on his chest in the space of
a breath. He’s right. I know where.
His fingers spread my
skin taut. His fingers are a tether between the profane and sacred.
Sometimes seeing blood
is the only way through, but a scratch, and then repetition, can also be
enough.
~Nicole Oquendo~
*
1.
*
1.
Welkin Waltz
of light, we're too fast
for
motorways—the theoretical
spacecraft design
of our skeletal structure,
the jet
fuel of our muscles
lifting
us into flight
and
beyond.
for reach. We burn
antimatter,
a pas de bourree
between
the spiraling arms
of galaxies.
Our
interstellar
dance steps
invent history, tapping out epochs.
We choose the slain,
welcome
them to
the journey.
to our new star. Imagine
such
interstellar flight.
Join us
for air so thin
you won’t
breath. Thoughts release.
weightless,
made of
particles,
stardust,
aurora borealis
in our
wake,
disintegrating
in the
nothing night
of space.
