Archive for the ‘Threatening Weather’ Category
The cover photograph, entitled ‘Flood – Racine, WI (June 2008)’ is by Jennifer Tomaloff.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the journals in which the following poems originally appeared:
- “Qualms” in Right Hand Pointing
- “An Armed Man Lurks in Ambush” in The Prose-Poem Project
- “Threatening Weather” in Silkworm Ink
- “Welcome to Hard Times” in Prick of the Spindle
- “The Stockholm Syndrome” in Amethyst Arsenic
- “Spring Melt” in fwriction:review
- “Nightingale with a Toothache” in nether
Whale Sound Audio Chapbooks was established by Nic Sebastian in November 2010. Nic’s first collection, edited by Jill Alexander Essbaum, is Forever Will End On Thursday (Lordly Dish Nanopress) and her work appears in numerous online poetry journals. She blogs at Very Like A Whale and is founder-editor of Whale Sound, an online audio poetry journal featuring her readings of the work of web-active contemporary poets. Whale Sound Audio Chapbooks has also published:
Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as 28 print and digital poetry chapbooks. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net and Web anthologies. He is a contributing editor to the online literary journal Common-Line, co-editor of the online nonfiction journal Left Hand Waving, and co-founder and -editor (with Dale Wisely) of the digital chapbook publisher White Knuckle Press. He blogs at Apocalypse Mambo.
Several dead sparrows
dangle from the clothesline.
Should we leave
or press the doorbell?
The hostage in the video
blinked in Morse code.
I shout for help.
There are gallows at every crossroad.
Don’t forget to be happy,
the automated message says.
the only splash of color.
The sensation of drowning
is added to the list
of what’s not allowed.
video based on this poem by Marc Swoon Bildos Ney
Angels in pink silk shoes decorated with rosebuds wandered through the rooms. It was the house of a hanged man. The cat made every effort to appear elegantly bored.
A wheelbarrow of weathered skulls stood off to the side, white in the morning, lilac during the day, orange in the evening.
The muse was in the woods. She had handed me over to the firing squad. A blond light pervaded as softly as a piano playing.
Doomsday, a Thursday, dawns gray and wet. I meet a woman with a backside like a pear. The city wears a slouch hat. We move from one color into another. The words “mushroom” and “music” are contiguous in most English dictionaries. She brings an ancient wind-up phonograph with a horn loudspeaker. I give up trying to have the snow painted black. Everything we do is music. There’s something odd about seeing a piano burn.
A woman tries on a straw hat like the local peasants wear, the short blue jacket of Parisian street sweepers. It’s not my mother or she’d know what became of the earlier violet man planting in the sun.
The train clanks into the station. Sunflowers with purple eyes search the faces for clues.
Rain machine-guns down a couple dashing for the shelter of a doorway. A cold voice answers when I call the helpline. My mouth is full of debris. I shouldn’t compare, but Van Gogh also had eighteen teeth pulled and yellow poured through his curtainless window all morning.
Libraries had died, and the snow was almost gone. “If the storm within gets too loud,” the man said, standing against the whitewashed church, “I take a glass too much to stun myself.” A general emerged from the woods waving his slouch hat on the tip of his sword. For the first time in months, I could see long, long rows of graves again.
We were children together, licked by the same black dog, no witnesses present when a bloody ax was found among the tools in the backyard shed.
Years later, we went to live in one of the rectangle states, a necklace of red berries around her neck. Our nearest neighbor was the far-off weeping of a long freight train.
A canary usually doesn’t chirp so much. That other noise was dusk gusting toward us across a stubble field. If there were ever records of it, they’ve been lost.