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Poetry

Contributors

Elizeya Quate, Howie Good, Ceilan Hunter Green,

Jessie Janeshek, Lana Bella, Vanessa Saunders

Artwork & Illustrations

Titus Groan, Sharon Suzuki-Martinez,

Daniel de Cullá

Editors

Alessandro Mario Powell & Samuel Rowe & Emma Mackilligin

Contributors…………………1

Contents…………………2

From the Editors…………………3

Contents

Cymera by Daniel de Cullá…………………4 What’s Real Is Feeling Opposite…………………5 Somewhere Yesterday…………………6

Hunter…………………7

Hen Night…………………8 Obvious Concealments…………………9 Noirpoem #2 / Afterbite…………………10 This Perforated Morning…………………11 Dear Suki: Letter U for Untangled…………………12 Near the Bottom…………………13 What’s Real Is Feeling The Same…………………14 He Was…………………15 The Next Last Night…………………16 Cymera by Daniel de Cullá…………………18

Bios…………………19

Front Cover: Untitled by Titus Groan Back Cover: Unamused Orca by Sharon Suzuki-Martinez

From the Editors

Our ominous, gorgeous Killer Whale Journal cover for Volume Five says it all. 2016: a bad year for Apple Inc., worse for humans, but a fine year for whales. Perhaps the whales are right, and 2016 will be viewed in the rearview as the time of plentiful blubber. Let us hope the whale are wrong.

More than our previous Vol.s, Five bears an uncanny resemblance to the mad cow of a year that birthed her. What’s more, we seem to have settled on "Vol." instead of "Issue" as a nomenclature— vol. is a calming word, I think, whereas issue has proven problematic. 2016 was a bad haircut on a cold day, my friends. We simply need more volume.

As our submission pool swells with the tide of fresh faced internet poets, so too grows our self-respect. We promise to take ourselves seriously in 2017 if you will too.

– Alessandro Mario Powell

It has been a raw year. But I am reminded of Charles Olson, who opens the Maximum Poems as “…I, Maximus/ a metal hot from/ boiling water, tell you/ what is a lance,/ who obeys the figures/ of the present dance”. Thank you to Work to a Calm for allowing us to reproduce ‘What’s Real is Feeling Opposite’ and ‘Obvious Concealments’, which first appeared in their eleventh issue. And thank you as ever to our poets and illustrators. We’d be empty without you.

– Samuel Rowe

I am honored, nay, humbled to have had the pleasure of helping Sam and Ale put together this Vol. Reading through your submissions was an inspiring and faith-in-humanity-restoring experience at the close of this strange, dark year, so thank you all for sharing your words with us. I hope that you are uplifted and bolstered by this Vol. and detect no dip in KWJ quality for my input. I am but a friendly dolphin cavorting in the slipstream of two majestic orcas…

– Emma Mackilligin

https://killerwhalejournal.wordpress.com

https://facebook.com/killerwhalejournal

killerwhalejournal@gmail.com

What’s Real Is Feeling Opposite

None of

this is real.

I am

a bus station.

You are

a pair of

enormous

sunglasses.

I am

a motel lobby.

You are

a road

sign war-

ning of

mudslides.

I am

a steering

wheel.

You are

a crackly

Bible’s

radio station.

I am

an empty

intersection. You are the horizon of I-80, flush -ing scar- let with

a sudden

dawn.

Elizeya Quate

Opposite: Cymera by Daniel de Cullá

Somewhere Yesterday

This is America, what comes with the dawn,

a wrapped rose,

optimistic boxes,

a place just

up the stairs

but somehow hard to find.

Howie Good

Hunter

Ceilan Hunter Green

My grandmother has eaten dog and so that is why when I am playing the game she wants to play she is happy, and why she asks me questions, and that is why she insists on making dinner to feed me and longs for me to say Yes today I did meet someone, a stranger

My grandmother, she says, has eaten cat and so she is soft and looks me in the eye and why she will change her mind as we are sitting painlessly in sun, and she wears only black or white or navy and why she travels so light

My grandmother once ate tarantula and that is why her hair is always in place and she places each foot carefully and moves through the house with one hand placed to hold her; why she tells me how my father learned to talk; why she remembers when my father learned to talk; why she offers me wine and money, and why I touch her shoulder gently when I go to kiss her goodbye.

Hen Night

Four women to a room, road trip, prosecco in the car, straws shaped like dicks & all the rest. A deposit on our silence after midnight. Our silence is expensive. My silence is free. I straighten my hair too. I take a shot too and put on more foundation. One of them is changing and I don’t look at her body. She tells us about her dog, how she took it to the vet who found a wound in its leg by its asshole. Cleaned it out and found it honeycombed inside with maggots. We shudder. We apply perfume and sit on the terrace, smoke cigarette and cigarette, drink. Only one fly needed to lay eggs. The dog was uncomplaining as they pulled the little bodies out and rinsed his sick wound. My hair looks good. I practice smiling for the photos.

Obvious Concealments

Sometimes I want to conceal that sweet lemon glimpse of last sum- mer’s moon inside this poem.

That’s

not what

I’m try-

ing to

do here,

though.

At least

I’m not

trying

very hard.

Obvious

conceal-

ments

aren’t

really

conceal-

ments, I

think, be-

cause they

only

draw at-

tention

to what

one’s not

supposed

to wish

was there.

Elizeya Quate

Jessie Janeshek

Noirpoem #2 / Afterbite

You lie on the Superman towel

a doll with no neck sanction your leg.

the girl on the trampoline almost a coolness summer a cheat

wondrous though

watch the female horseflies I want to talk about

the Sun-In made her platinum

a Jean Harlow death double.

Her gun-happy family

reckoned the high grass

feeding her cake in the dark.

There’s something real to walking

the creek in the heat

dinosaur bones Our mother said the girl’s head a cloud

We calmed our own hair with lemon and butter understood the path to the paradox

spider music inside us. peroxide’s the dirtiest word of unmanageable fluff.

no streetlight

no father

hurtling forward.

I wished for the luxury too young to fuck.

the pregnant lady in the black mumu not mention the baby.

of infertility I wanted to talk about

We tried bikinis

on our increasing bodies made fun of the fat

in my armpits.

I wrote the lifeguard lust letters on Miss Piggy stationery. You thought my burns were stretchmarks.

I changed my tampon in conditioner dark.

for the first time

The turtles paddle black water know your shriveled nipples get married in morning.

I kick the cicada off the deck say I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were still alive

and once we die all the nachos

we eat for lunch

become significant.

This Perforated Morning

This morning

I look at with one

eye stares back with a thousand.

I can’t tell if it’s filled with tiny holes or not, my stomach aches.

On the subway

I fell into a man

and said I was sorry. I don’t know if he accepted

my apology. He didn’t have any hair but

I think we were

the same age. That

got me thinking.

This morning

I look at with one

eye stares back with less than zero.

I can’t tell if it’s filled with tiny holes or not, my stomach aches.

Elizeya Quate

Dear Suki: Letter U for Untangled

Lana Bella

Dear Suki: Blue Lakes, California, November 3rd, draped in white, shored by the autumn flecks of peeling sky, you walked the thin visibility with I beside, scant conversations between fine screech of overhead larks and fog groping the way a mad woman paled behind sanity. Moccasin-robed feet crept outward, each step crushed to confetti of our shadows untangling in independence; close enough to be discernible. Lakes of me, flesh of you, dearest Suki, have you ever thought how the whole of us still dripped from my lips? lacking the caresses of nuptial fingers, and how I am still nursing me about the halfway point, as my legs tumbled down and ached my hips arranging the miles-long road back to you.

Near the Bottom

I wanted to tell you but my voice has gone soft like a mad crab falling noiselessly into a boiling pot, given the scale of such hindsight, I turned away, sure that my masquerade would soon pull gravity from its earthly station, holding up the edifice of our love story in the palms of the atmosphere—

the story began with you eternally remembered, in this photograph of aged sepia tone and frame- less corners, I was eight and you ten, your shirt rolled up about the midriff, my left hand draped over your thin shoulder, fingers coiled into bare flesh, and in that snapshot, I held the lump of your innocence in my caress—

even now, I knew whose acoustics would pollute you, when the sounds of my syllables became thick with gurgles as a tired drunk struggling with speech, so we both ran away from this place of longing and consolation, still, I reached out for you, but you appeared distant, so indiscernible as to be abstract--

What’s Real Is Feeling The Same

None of

this is real.

I am

a gravel pit

You are

the paused

music

between

our breaths.

I am

a cement

mixer.

You are

the hot

chirr of

wasted

nights.

I am

an exit

ramp.

You are

sweating,

you are

grinning,

you are

getting,

getting off.

None of

this is real.

We’ve

become

an ambi-

guous omen,

until even

I was not

sure we’d stay the same.

Elizeya Quate

He Was

Vanessa Saunders

He was a man. I could not compete with his body.

A

wind shakes the androgynous branches of an oak tree.

It

is like that.

The word ‘important.’

A car-ride through a fake black tunnel.

Then broke up trees. His chest squared and even. My voice mud and blunt. Verdant leaves, the light drops off into the sound of a crushed all quiet. Honey, I’m home

The Next Last Night

The next last night I started at the beginning and afterwards it wasn't any different just twice as frizzy like a brown VCR tape that’s been re- wound too many times.

The next last night I started over at the beginning but only by arriving

at such a middling kind of end, that

I felt no choice

but to seek a fresh finish from the outset.

Then I walked outside breathing stiff vapors, watching that silver peach of a moon get knifed by a Victorian spire near Zeit- geist, kicking her legs over the dense abyss of Market Street.

The last night it

was the next night again and I went out, saying goodbye to new beginnings and the night after

I welcomed them

Elizeya Quate

back into my denuded cheeks, burnt with famous last words, my eyes befogged and friendly.

The next night

I stayed late

at the office catching up on paperwork and the night after that it was already yesterday again, once more at the kind of beginning where I could at least shed my grace and end.

So I started nothing. And

ended every- thing. It felt good, I think, it felt the way a no-

thing’s

supposed

to somehow

feel, good

only when

it’s just

begun.

Then the next

last night all the streets reeked the randic tang of fresh piss and marijuana. To stroll last night’s to feel so loose with sainted filth. The night after

I had a mild

stomach ache and decided to stay in and read a magazine.

Opposite: Cymera by Daniel de Cullá

Elizeya Quate

Bios

inspired by Clarice Lispector and OBERIU, Elizeya Quate is an invitation to dance and/or denounce the equals sign as a self-negating sham. Quate's first novelish-in-stories The Face of Our Town (Kernpunkt Press, 2016) is out this summer.

Howie Good

is a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

Ceilan Hunter Green

is a poet and printmaker from Spokane, WA, who lives and works in Edinburgh. Her recent work appears in the zine Reality Bites, in the Unprecedented Review, and online at ceilanhuntergreen.com

Jessie Janeshek

’s second full-length book of poems, The Shaky Phase, is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press. Invisible Mink (Iris Press) is her first full-length collection, and you can read more of her poetry at jessiejaneshek.net.

Lana Bella

is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark and Adagio (forthcoming). She resides in the Us and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever frolicsome imps.

Vanessa Saunders

enjoys green tea and long walks on the beach

Titus Groan

: though little’s known of him, make your own assumptions from the etchings he musters.

Daniel de Cullá

is a Castilian and Aragon poet. Highly involved with natural life and love. Popular and often quoted. Editor of the cultural reviews Gallo Tricolor and Robespierre.

Sharon Suzuki-Martinez

’s photos have appeared in the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center, 92Y’s #wordswelivein project, and Right Hand Pointing. She is also the author of The Way of All Flux (New Rivers Press, 2012), and the Editor of The Poet’s Playlist

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