Eye Injury Hallucinations, by Ennis Rook Bashe

When they tore my eye like ripping paper

I saw a staircase of jawbones,

red velvet, gold banister

I saw Manhattanhenge in the cherry blossom esplanade

Light-sculpted fetus charging reindeer unicorn

The archways under bridges bloomed with doors

Something never a horse fluttering violet mascara-strewn lashes-

wearing human eyes,

unbloodied

too much like my own when it stared back,

when it saw me. 

Ennis Rook Bashe

Four Poems by Mark Young

A line from Alain Delon

 

I am learning the ropes of a new

role. I am not sure I want to join,

but persuade myself it's time to

escape the empty chatter that fills

 

most lives. I am somewhat uncer-

tain that it is wise to do so, still

believe that, in the main, we're all

loners, to differing degrees, that

 

close friends will always be hard

to find & maintain relationships

with. YouTube videos paint a world

without conflict, where we thrive

 

from connection, are certain that

we matter. The kind of solitude

that I desire is born from a disparity

between my personal ability & my

 

creative vision. I intend to avoid

talking about current events: what

would you like to talk about? I'm

ready. Grief demands to be felt.

 

 

retirement

 

What can we take

out of it? Just

some com-

promised

 

memories; &

perhaps a small

poem in lieu of

severance pay.

 

 

Leaving LaGuardia

 

When finished being polished,

the Mayor of New York has a

warm red color & is often used

for jewelry by the Bantu. It is

one amongst many manifestations

of him in their mythology. Some-

times he is depicted as a female

 

nude, big-breasted, long-necked,

wide-hipped, with all the orifices

one would expect from a blow-up

doll made from synthesized Ro-

manticism. Elsewhere he is seen

as the last surviving member of

an ancient group of gymnosperms.

 

But those the popular aspects. The

Priests have greater regard. To them

he is the pinochle of perfection, a

messiah already come. One who

has achieved enlightenment but

still remains on the human plane,

ready to put the self into sacrifice.

 

 

The Gates of Paradise

 

Dogs at the gates, alligators

in the conservatory — all part

of a playground for inhuman

resources. Within which, sin-

ging either in a descant or with

the assistance of a tight ankle

bracelet, impresarios line up

to offer services outside any

 

human rights laws. The key

shifts; now suitable only for a-

moebae & a few axolotls. A

changed rhythm, also. We try

to sing along, a long song, in

an impossible counterpoint.

Two Poems by Kenan Phillip

sin azul

Every morning you drop into yourself still alive,
a bolt of Peruvian prattle,
gasping like a fish at the taste
of your own breath going solid,
paraffin in a junkyard,
waking to falling sheets of blood and bone,

the sweet coolness of
plastic like a new noose,
handsome nails and shaggy
teeth, scented-gel-hair slicked
and pushed just so. A shape:
life, presented as a heap of
atoms on this side of time,

a form radical enough to match
all other forms in intensity,
so intense that every
now and then it jars you awake
to the realization of time
like a lead flower unfolding
heavily every which way you turn,

and it is something percussive
and oddly foreign inside your chest
which informs you with certainty:
should you despair of any hope at all
and throw your eyes to heaven
you will find, even there, a bolt of time
from a pale clear sky,

a sky sin azul,
without even a gust of blue.

It is as Cortazar said:
I say this

and it dies.

midyear

That familiar scent which is as weird and wonderful as the happy incident of your own birth, which is at other times capable of reminding you, if only faintly, of oranges. Can you hear it beating under your toes? There are the wondrous patterns woven backwards and forwards in both sinew and satin, there are tea parties held sincerely and without the least irony on Golgotha Hill, there are ancient and indistinct faces burned indelibly into the sides of the pyramids, and there is each breath fluttering in an iron cage, not very unlike a witch’s wind moving terrible and certain under heaven.

Through it all there is your heart moving like a thresher, an endless cutting force, always expanding, expending, exhausting. This must be the nail they spoke of, which runs straight up through the foot of god.

Kenan Phillip

Wax Paper, by Pravasan Pillay

Like many South African children, my mother would send my school lunches in a lunch box. The lunch boxes, made of cheap, colourful plastic, were divided into two compartments. One compartment was for sandwiches and the other was for a juice bottle that came with the box. My mother would typically fill the bottle with a weak juice concentrate or sometimes – which always came as a shock to the system – plain water. I would usually lose my juice bottle a month or two into the school year.

The lunch box provided crush-protection for my sandwiches, but my mother additionally wrapped the sandwiches in wax paper – in order to keep the bread fresh. The grease-proof paper would be wrapped snugly over my sandwiches using a precise, intricate fold. I was always impressed by how secure this fold was. The paper never needed any tape or string to stay sealed.

I also loved the soft, matte texture of the wax paper on my hands as I would take it out of my lunch box and unwrap it on my lap during breaks. The ends of the transparent yet cloudy square of paper would be a little rough. This roughness came from it being torn off against the serrated edge of the cardboard box that the wax paper roll was sold in. I would often steal pieces of paper from this box, which I would use to trace pictures from my comic books.

As I would eat my lunch, the wax paper would act like a napkin, catching crumbs and fillings that fell from the sandwiches. When I was done eating, I would scrunch up the paper into a ball and put it back into my lunch box – which was my way of thanking the chef.

Sometimes, my mother would send my school lunches wrapped in aluminum foil. This was either because we had run out of wax paper or because the dimensions of my lunch dictated a more pliable wrapping – for example, hamburgers, cheese buns, hot dogs, or snacks like samoosas, vadas, or bhaijas.

I never liked getting my lunch wrapped in foil. It didn't feel right in my hands. It was too hard, almost sharp – I felt like I could cut myself. I was a clumsy child so this is not as ridiculous a concern as it may initially seem. One other minus of foil lunches was that it gave the impression, in my working-class primary school, that my family was rich – aluminum foil being more expensive than wax paper.

My single-parent family was far from rich but my mother, unfortunately for my street cred, wrapped lunches like a member of the bourgeoisie.

The only good thing about foil was that afterwards you could use it to make small silver dinosaurs with. You could also scrape a ball of foil on cement to make it smooth and mirror-like, which was as good a way as any to spend the dying minutes of your break.

There were, of course, other ways my mother wrapped lunches, whether it was newspaper, cling wrap or plastic bags. But only wax paper had that indefinable quality that somehow made my, say, fish finger and tomato sauce, or fried polony, or curried potatoes, or cheese and tomato sandwiches taste extra good – like they were gift-wrapped bread.

Four Poems by Mark Young

a small gazetteer for harry k stammer

 

It is a bipolar re-

ordering, unencom-

 

passed by direction.

South is elsewhen —

 

places you came

from, been, are.

 

North is the point

you move towards.

 

Bosch's oranges,

dreaming giraffes.

 

 

 

re: verse

 

rage road

unseen sight

example shining

mail express

paper daily

charge static

card credit

merchant dream

stones rolling

pot chimney

fire open

cabin holiday

shave close

fight title

water open

pole south

chapter final

 

 

sequins / sequence

 

appear

 

fruit

of the

loom

 

the punched card

programmed

loom

the fruit

of

Joseph Marie Jacquard

 

who was

the apple of

Babbage's

eye

 

lum-

inary

for

Turing

 

enigma

 

 

Badiou’s Bad IOU Blues

                    aka A line from Alain Badiou

 

The word as notion. Love is.

Don't the moon look lonesome

shining through the trees? Who

does Badiou owe? Why does he

 

wish to pay them back? Noun as

an oddment, the minimal form of

communism. 33 words unscram-

bled from the letters in NOTION.

 

Sent for you yesterday & here you

come today. What is the reason

for his ill will & when did it come

about? Evil is the interruption of

 

a truth. Can it be comprehended

through listening &/or reading?

How will he achieve his desires?

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