Contributors
Benjamin BuchholzLinh DinhRon AndrolaGrace CavalieriHelm FilipowitschTom BlessingWalter BjorkmanAaron BelzZachary BlessingAndrew LundwallLorna Dee CervantesLyle DaggettAmy King
OCHO#3
pagina 1
for rene
I
don’t know where or how to begin, he admits,face low, tongue like the flip of a yo-yo anchor from the sky. I don’t believe I have anythingto say, he confesses, that is unlike anythingever sd — I’m a limited brain creature,dumb dot of a man, with all the force& mystery of the cosmos around achip of human mind; he mopes. I can’tburst my angels under the press of oxygen,he ascertains. I feel myself talkingbehind my eyes, nasal cave echoes,& I sound like a cow with a chopped up moo.moo moo to you, he laughs.apples are full of flu.ed sullivan is god’s righthandmanof adog, & the sun spraysthru us allthru the very planetpaint treetopseatstonebeblue gluestopthickeningexistencehe sitsblank on a blank chair hesmellsapples
ron androla
More Than Likely
I was sent here for this purpose,to discuss the troublewith water colors and loss, the two cupson the table,a profound sense of responsibilitywhere someone else built the house, whileI was going out against a dying fall,setting out for a placeI did not know,saying‘an ungrateful love were as nothing.’Although in a reduced state,when I return, and I always return,there are two cupson the table, the coincidence of two personswho are what we have left,the faith we havethat the other will be there. The noteon the table, sayingdon’t turn away from me.
Grace Cavalieri
Debutante
From the motel room, we walk derelict roadto the sand dune. Here, chain-link fencesags in its embrace of the abandoned theme park ride.In the lees of April, the wind skips off the lake; a cold slap against bare skin.You hesitate, back away. I continue acrossflattened fence, grass tufts, winter bilge fromthe adjacent subdivision. Sand lines, like arteries,crisscross to the frantic waves. South of me, a treeleans over the ragged beach. I raise my camera,adjust to sepia, boost contrast—focus.Six times, the waves are trapped in amber.I struggle up the ridge, my back now to the wind, and stalk your retreating steps. At the contorted crab-appletrees, we’re again walking side by side.‘How long have we been walking now,’ you ask.I look at my wristwatch, still speckled with living-roomtaupe. ‘Fifty minutes.’ The rattling in your breathingis more pronounced. ‘No…no, that’s not an hour,that’s not enough,’ and I agree—less than the goalwouldn’t be very positive at all. We veer towardthe subdivision. Your chemo begins on Mondayand the magnolias are ready to bloom.
Helm Filipowitsch
pagina 2
she falls into the moon
late night at the kitchen tabletalking politics and poetryhalf a lime sits on the blue platehe squeezes the other half intohis beer and follows it witha drop or two of tabascoshe watchs her father's handsworn by years of workrepairing cars at his shophe first read bukowskiafter he saw some moviehe'd always thought poetrywas what you read in schoolnothing to do with your lifebut buk opened a windowand he climbed throughmom never understoodwhat he found in the poemsnever knew that what he'd found justified his life, said okayyou're doing fine, yeah just finethey empty their glasseshe closes his eyes and recites a poemit isn't one of buk'sthere are others he has readandrola, chandler, monroesplake, moore, moffeit,townsend, lifshin,hartenbacha litany of names she'd never heardin her classes at universityhe places a book in front of her a long dead chinese poeta divine drunk like bukowskishe opens to a well thumbed pageas she reads she falls into the moon
Tom Blessing
In the Trailer Park, it’s Eight AM
your wordsflattened by rainagainst open windowJuly is hollow filledwith silent angry poolsmorning falls coffee and ryeover toast over jamover sight across news froma thousand placesare no longer connectedchair is here cane thereand doorway misplacedwith my body’s dictionarywe no longer communicateI’m a pile of wordsperhaps in the corner with the wash unsortedcollection of thingsthat have happenedstill emitting life’s sour odour
Bird Flying
Believe in the world of air. Set sailon this ocean propelled by iambic wind.Marvel at tree islands, the isthmusof telephone pole shot straight throughslow whorls of adiabatic tides. Gather the courage to bend a wing intoa dive that captures the marvel of deathescaped. Control the contours of eachmoment portaging between. Acquirethe courage to fold your feathersinto the haiku which brings you againto the cold and other-worldly touch of earth.
Helm Filipowitsch
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