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Featuring Melissa McEwen Edward Nudelman Amy George Michelle McEwen Terry Lucas Coleen Shin Adam Fieled
a community of sorts...
Art by Jeff Filipski Laura Orem Didi Menendez March 2009
each little blinking photon making its wispy way through what’s left of cohesiveness. it’s a welcomed exchange for this your blessed ennui. under radar. on half a wing. bending neurons like Beckham. comingled in barely recognizable quanta. After months of distraction in the moment’s stasis or decades ruminating on something tough. coming in on boats and busloads into your blockhead brain. for all this fritter in front of Idol and Network Dancing. Inexhaustible. dodging bullets. .you’ve got to admit. Status quo only works if you’ve got nowhere to go. incomprehensible. Open your gills and take a dunk. So gear up and fight the flow. Here they come on wheels and winds through open windows or backdoor breaches snakelike on paths or trampling through bushes green-eyed with bushy tails on springs and flexors or floating in as gossamer as your half-witted feather brain. sprawling through pores.Dark Thoughts That Thoughts That Illumine These are the ways they move: in waves and particles. through what used to be the way it was. bursting or battering through thin sheens and tough coats.
You’ll thank your lucky stars for your sacred second messengers: white hot. cutting open your sutured eyes. riding the wake on their own slick waves: angel. birdsong. razor sharp. Let the retro’s fire and park your rocket in your own backyard right under the shocking firmament. cloud. EDWARD . demon.EDWAR ARD EDWARD NUDELMAN tripping switches.
like the girl who had all of the above by the time she finished high school._____’s Girl MELISSA MCEWEN In Junior High School. the correct way: a hickey on the face so the whole school could see that you were his baby. like having his baby and giving it his last name or whole name if it were a boy. wanted to possess it. peel it off and stick it on me. like a tattoo of his name on your left breast. study it at home in front of the mirror in the bathroom with the lamp with no shade. like a wedding ring. . I couldn’t look away. I wanted to be owned by a possessive noun. owned by a noun—proper. I remember in chemistry class how the hickey on her cheek shined under the classroom’s light like she was stung or bitten and we all knew who did it.
feline friends in field of red Jeff FIlipski .
quick and warm on the back of my legs as I ran by it. Aunt Minnie’s girls were there already— taking turns making whole dinners. through the kitchen and out the door instead of pulling up a chair to watch. But you needn’t have worried. I was always aware of the oven’s heat. unafraid— even with the recollection of daddy demanding his breakfast . unwashed/half-dressed. No heat has ever come close to matching that heat except maybe the heat of lovin’ and it’s this remembrance that has finally dragged me into the kitchen for keeps. to take in the leveling of baking powder.Red Velvet I always caught the gleam of worry in your mother-eye when I would run. the separating of eggs. the pounding of meat.
I have yet to master that art: the art of turning big pots & cast iron skillets into a dinner for four. but I can bake my ass off: red velvet cake.Cake be ready by the time he set foot on the bottom step. But you don’t know my men— they skip meals. Michelle McEwen . Your mother-eye says men need real food. golden harvest muffins. prefer dessert. banana nut bread.
make an inquiry. devour me. a brave peep. an alien angel. engendered with the feminine sweet the masculine urge to eat what falls from the sky.the habits of prey and carnivore We long for a diversity. It is there in the eyes. embattled beneath I am your love. How long does it take to flip it over. lands at our feet. COLEEN SHIN . silent and shining the speak. friend. To often. meat? Swallow? How hollow a homograph. the smile. a wreath the tender trace of velvet sheath along the wing where the sun has melted the wax and yet it begs an answer.are you human.
Portrait of Blake Pastel on paper Didi Menendez Front cover portrait of Sina also by D. Menendez .
LAURA OREM At Night. All Cats Are Gray .
all some weird minor scale. a dreamer of pictures could never have made you redder.. Or poignancy of words meant to hurt. Yet your redness tells a story of consummation.Adam Fieled Redness Beyond objectification is an object of maleness that admits to frailness. becomes the sine qua non riveting me to black coffee. I have this weird feeling like I'm a xylophone being struck repeatedly. Or as much of grass in your eyes as there is. or a whipped cat. All this is a way to flirt.. .
. how one day it will engulf the entire family of squirrels racing along the wrinkled bark.Some Days I Find Myself Terry Lucas Some days I find myself sitting at my desk for fifteen minutes without thinking about dying. bees—every violin will scream as music melts. Or about the sun. the feverish sun hoisting itself up the back-lit eucalyptus trees outside my window. the dolphins. how its malignancy even now is forming a swilling tsunami. elephants.
But tonight I watch the moon’s thin shadow the way a child watches an abused mother sitting at the kitchen table. curled-up toes of shoes in Salvation Army stores. And now it is sleeting in the streetlights. Mona Lisa’s smile. the massive missives written from sagging motel beds. packages of Trojans. ice particles sighing through spaces in the spaces. half-lit pock-marked scars shining like coins. waiting for the father’s eclipse. naked candles dancing behind brown luminarias’ parchment. or fists .along with all the crumbled roads. like runes. before the white noise hits cement like tongues against teeth. golden Gideon Bibles. buzzing neon signs.
fellow fugitives from the enormous fire that gave us birth. and I find myself again thinking not so much about death. Terry Lucas . even now flexing flaring arms to embrace us. but rather listening for the sound of claws skittering up the eucalyptus trees.Some Days I Find Myself against a whorled-grained desk.
. It will hover for a while.. like a lost spirit. just like my bubble when I open the rejection letter.. They don't want to know how it drifted like a cloud bathed in moonlight as soft as a kiss or how the trees reached out with arm-like branches and snagged it. the sentimental. mushy one about the boy who had a dog and who lost his birthday balloon and whose mean sister pointed and laughed while cartoon horns sprouted out of her head.The Poem That Nobody Wants I am writing the poem that nobody wants. then burst sometime during the night. that two lovers watched while holding onto each other. AMY GEORGE No editor cares that it floated over a wheat field in Kansas above lowing cattle beside junked out cars with rusting skeletons. burning in the echo of the sunset.
mipoesias. Listen to the poems while you flip through the pages.MiPO a community of sorts.ning. mipoesias. © 2009 Created by Didi Menendez © 2009 MiPO Contributors www.com www...com This publication is an online community chapbook.miporadio.com .