POETRY collection [from issue 4]
These poems haunt alleys, driveways and dreams...and even weave a darkly humored tale involving our editors’ corpse and a midwest vacation. Just...you’ll see...?
Homeless Driveway
by Luke Smith
Sometimes it’s been long enough
that you really forget the thing,
but the scar is always there
even if you’ve forgotten what
caused the wound.
The Alley
by Evangeline Keiser
shadows and fog,
murky streetlights;
a pigeon somewhere,
screaming incessantly
oily-mud, gravel,
(be careful where
you step)
corners stacked
with debris;
there’s a
dumpster full of
god-knows-what....
hold your breath
but look down:
see ?
shapes of glass
sparkling like:
urban confetti
gleaming like:
pieces of diamonds
shining like:
an explosion of stars
that silently
splashed
to the ground
when
no one
was looking
Sane
by Nova X Moonbrook
The pencil fits perfectly in my grasp
And I feel my fingers numb
As I drag the point across parchment
The lead staining my thumb
I hear the wood scratch the page
The tone changes with every swirl
Pages flutter as my lines lengthen
As I whisper the words that I stir
Dust fills my nostrils
I sniffle a sneeze and stay sane
Sweat floods the surface
And my memories flood my brain
My tongue brushes my lips
And salt I taste in my tears
They fall from the raging sea
Gathering cold from the winter years
My eyes barely register the words
As there’s a current from these words I know
I’ve known the images of those letters
Since before I was even born
My mind is set in motion
My body responds in plain:
Break down and lose it
Or let the pages stifle the rain
My pages don’t hold the answers
My pencils don’t hold the pain
But they carry the words unspoken
And without them I’d go insane
Dreaming of you
by OctAvia E.L. Griffin
I dreamt
Of you
Even when
I didn’t
Want to
Within
This dream
Written
Amongst the stars
And in the sand
You wrote signs
In a language
Only misfits
Can understand
“You are mine”
Is what they read
I’m not yours
At least not yet
The Last Will and Testament of Mark 9schwander
By Lance Schaubert
illustration by Brennan Davis
In the heat of July how I said my goodbye.
Read his will. It said, “Carry my carcass
Through the swamp and the sand to the Dis-en-ey Land
Sincerely, love Neuenschwander, Marcus.”
Well it wasn’t a thrill to receive such a will
When his family got gold off his carcass.
Still I strapped on the body — my lifelong old buddy —
And hitchhiked with Neuenschwander, Marcus.
Now the truckers are suckers for bone-chilling shuckers
They find out on route forty-four.
So whatever the case, I shall bless human race
For picking up me and Mark’s corpse.
Now the first thing the motorist asked me, the votarist,
Why I would vow to drag Mark
Through the wind and the rain and the old bunion pain
To the Disney of Walt’s little park.
Well I said, “It’s his testament: lifelong Mark’s estimate
Factored in considerations.
This one he sacrificed till he met paradise:
Old-school midwestern vacations.
“So instead of this saving he went for his craving
For getting in one final word
And asked me, his buddy, to tie up his body
As if he’s my backpack or sword.
“Now armed up with Marcus and girded with carcass
I’m on this vacation for… fun?
He smells like a bunghole got filled with an egg roll
That rotted in Ten-Ninety-One.”
Well the truck driver dumped us and I checked my compass
In case we met Marilyn Manson.
But I thought that we couldn’t since the neon said WOULDN’T
IT BE NICE TO GO TRAVEL TO BRANSON?
I thought it was lame but Mark had some acclaim
In the hillbilly version of Broadway.
So I shouldered the stiff and we hiked up the cliff
And I prayed for the Judgement Day.
Well it turns out the actors account for prayer factors:
They’d put on a play by that name.
It was closing that night and The Raptured set sight
On the carrion: they knew his name.
“Say old pilgrim,” said one, “that’s my favorite son
Of Joplin. What’s left of his carcass.
Come on boys, help this puss on up into our bus:
It’s the body of Neuenschwander, Marcus!”
Well we travelled a ways with that old Branson play
And I counted the trees and the quamash.
But then I and deceased knew we’d gone too far east
Cause we landed surrounded by Amish.
Guess it turns out play pastors have twins in Lancaster
And that plays — for the Amish — aren’t gears.
So I set my eyes south, put my hand in Mark’s mouth
Like a puppet: ventriloquized fears:
“Well old Lancey of Pantsy this dancey was fancy
But soon all my skin will turn green.
And I wonder if maybe we get a bit lazy
And settle for Saint Augustine?”
My knuckles were pussy, so then I got fussy
And said, “I have given a vow.
I have dragged your cadaver through pit stop and tavern.
So we are not giving up now.”
From there a whole family of gators came rapidly
Up to us both on the curb.
“Just give us the body and we won’t be naughty.”
I said, “I am rather disturbed.”
They look shocked that I mocked them, but I kept on talking:
“I’d heard that you gators had couth.
You’d really revoke a poor dying man’s joke
For the sake of one little sweet tooth?”
Well the gators weren’t haters, but appreciators,
They struck me a bargain instead:
They wouldn’t eat me and they’d let Mark ride free
If we found them some Walt Disney bread.
Well we rode on the backs of the things who thought snacks
Came in packages labeled “long pork.”
Came at last a solution to our persecution,
Admittedly it took some work:
They footed the bill for the sake of Mark’s will
And me and Mark’s body rode rides.
While the gators devoured for hours and hours
All the C.E.O.s, cosplays, and guides.
In the heat of July how I said my goodbye.
Read his will. It said, “Carry my carcass
Through the swamp and the sand to the Dis-en-ey Land
Sincerely, love Neuenschwander, Marcus.
Luke Smith
is an artist and writer living in Joplin, Missouri. He recently published his first novel, American Howl: An Epic Poem which is now available in print and ebook on Amazon.
Follow him on Instagram at @l_u_k_a_r_t for art and updates.
Evangeline Keiser
Evangeline lives in Joplin with her eccentric husband, two brilliant children, a couple of magical cats, and a strange dog. She drinks copious amounts of hot tea, reads books about the meaning of life, practices yoga, occasionally models, plays violin, writes tragic poetry, and creates bizarre but rather pretty little drawings and paintings.
@velviesays
Nova X Moonbrook
I am an extraterrestrial, empathetic, inquisitive, and defiant being of light. I befriend the trees and draw inspiration from many aspects of nature. I would just like to be heard, to be free, and to be myself. I am Nova X Moonbrook, resident of Joplin, Missouri.
OctAvia E.L. Griffin
I am a deep thinker, dreamer, and very curious being who loves to create art with her words. I fear I will never truly be understood, by others or even myself, and wonder if it is even possible to try to explain this crazy world with my poetry. But I won’t give up trying.
Lance Schaubert
Lancelot Schaubert is the author of the novel Bell Hammers, the songwriter of All Who Wander, the co-producer of the photo novels Cold Brewed and the Joplin Undercurrent. He has sold hundreds of poems and dozens of essays and stories to markets like The Anglican Theological Review, The New Haven Review (Yale’s Institute Library), Poker Pro’s World Series Edition, TOR, McSweeney’s, Writer’s Digest, and many similar markets. He’s an artist chaplain, husband to the grooviest bride on earth, and lives in Brooklyn with a houseful of unemployed bridge trolls.
Find more of his work at lanceschaubert.com.
brennan davis
Brennan is a cartoonist because he doesn’t know how to raise alpacas. He wears bowling shoes and likes to pretend he’s Davy Crockett. He also goes swimming in RV park pools.