unclean

It’s been three months since he was there-- Since anyone was there, And the smell of my own body still nauseates me. The fingerprints Fading from purple to yellow Were gone after a few weeks, But it’s still here: Filth through my pores Screams in my blood. I’ve tried Load after load, bed sheets and underwear Scalding water My skin.

The Coolness of the Moon

The moon is pissed. I know because he stopped me outside my house tonight. He hung there like a smile, slung back, low, relaxed and so cool. He wore dark rimmed spectacles, burly mutton chop sideburns, poured low rise, hip hugging black pleather pants, while balancing a cigarette with a tremble on his lips. The smoke swirled past his torn RANCID t-shirt and circled Orion’s belt. “Yo, dude. ‘Sup?” he says to me. Dude? He is cool, there’s no denying that. He is low in the eastern sky, a crescent on his way to a new moon. He would barely get up off the horizon tonight and he was just feeling like a raw scab. He stretches back, draws a few puffs on the cigarette and waits for me to answer. Then he tells me why he’s pissed. He’s tired of the sun being so everything. It rises, it sets. It’s the sun, no changes, no “phases”. He verbally creates air quotes by emphasizing the word “phases”. He’s sick of the sun being the center of everything. Maybe he would just spin off and start his own solar system. When I explain this is not possible, that there are laws of physics, there is inertia to consider, he just spits. He doesn’t care. He knows people. He has friends. Take Saturn, for instance. Some traveling asteroid comes swinging along, knocks her up and before you know it, it’s wham-bam-thankee-maam there are a dozen moons. “She’s such a slut,” he says. “Saturn?” I ask. “Yeah, and she’s always has to show off the bling-bling.” “The rings?” I ask. “Yeah. Still those guys are my buddies. They would so totally follow me.” I try to leave, but the moon will have none of that. He’s so pissed, his color even looks odd. More yellow than white tonight. He rants about the clouds, how they just cover for that slacker sun; how he’s often off chasing rainbows or things, and no one even knows. And all he does is give people cancer and start forest fires, destroy crops and create droughts. Still, everyone “ooohs” and “aahhhhs” whenever the sun enters or leaves the day. If the moon had arms, I am certain he would be waving them about now. He’s tired of depending on sunlight for his presence. On some days of the month, he hides to show up that big show off, but it’s hard to hide, so he has to show his face again. “And look at this face!” the moon says exasperated. “Tell me if I don’t look like a thirteen year old in a chocolate factory!” It is the marks. It’s not easy getting dates with a face like this, he tells me. I know. I can relate. I tell him some things that I hate about the sun: how you can never really look at it. How it's always too bright and it always gets in the way when driving – especially east and west. The moon takes a deep breath and seems at ease. He tells me to stay cool and have fun at the party. He is heading to a bodacious game of cranium with the Seven Sisters who really know how to party. He tells me about how when they drink too much they always try to start up a round of “strip-twister”. He tells me to get moving, I’ll be late. I thank him and leave. The moon is coolness personified. The sun is a pretentious metrosexual always flaunting his knowledge of wines and the most gauche places to shop. But the moon drinks his beer with no glass and no twist off top either. The moon would never be caught drinking a Lite beer. The sun gets all the press, but the moon is where everything happens; where the hidden comes out, only to be chased away again by the sun’s daylight brashness. The moon is pissed tonight. Better stay clear if you see him. I’m off to my party, but man, is he ever cool. M C Biegner 2004

Group Card

dear josh

dear josh, your absence has outlasted your presence in my life. what i remember now is only the space, the silence. love is a memory i re-enact because there's nothing else to say anymore, and i have to account somehow for the marks the love left behind. i wonder where you are sometimes, even though i like to think i've stopped being interested in the answer, i guess because some long-silent part of me still expects the knowledge to rise up from somewhere secret. i wonder where you are even though i can't really imagine it--i only ever see you in the places that you've been before, even though it's been years since you've seen them. i wonder what there is to miss anymore, since you faded so gradually that it took a while to notice you were leaving, since there was enough left to put my heart into--your writing on the back of a photo, that hat you used to wear, those letters that never told me anything but meant everything. i wonder when these things stopped being you. i wonder what you'd be like if you'd stayed. i wonder what i'd be like if you'd never left, what i am like since you have. what i miss doesn't even exist anymore, probably couldn't, but the absence stays with me, like a scar my body grew into, like a line carved into a doorframe at the height i used to be. i wonder what would happen if we started to say your name again, if we stood for a while in the absence instead of turning from it, a door no one meant to open, a feeling no one meant to have. i wonder what would happen if i let go of the regret. i wonder if it's even possible, if it's even mine. i wonder if the regret is really yours, something you left behind for me to find and carry around in case you ever wanted it back. i wonder if i will be faithful when there's no faith left. i wonder if the hope is for you or for me, if the grief is for what i might have been without this pain, rather than for its source. i wonder if you miss me. i wonder if you will. i wonder if i love you, i wonder if goodbye.

things i've done in churches

i. inside it is nothing like new york in august. the sounds of traffic are turned away at the vestibule like false penitents, the heat and air and light made chaste with a sprinkling of holy water. the pews are filled with people who want to be there and people who just walked by, people with nowhere else to go and somewhere else to be. without noticing they shed their skins when they walk through the door, letting the pain out to breathe. they will be healed here. at the altar stand the supplicants, turned to face all the closed and open hearts, dwarfed by the room's ascent to ward heaven. the space is too vast, too vacant with god to be filled by their dreaming. the task is impossible, essential. but soon the air begins to swell with the chord change, the heartbreak. it quickens and stirs like a tide just woken. urgent, the strengthening cadence pushes against the limits of the vacancy it's filled, bursts through like a heart broken by too much joy, makes everything that's still come to life, wakens every pain from its secret home. the brokenness and the humanness are what sanctify the sanctuary. when the music stops, so does the silence. ii. the church is open until ten o clock at night and so she goes there looking for an answer, moving alone through the darkness, anointed with cool night air. the church is dark and probably empty, and she tests the knob before pulling the heavy outer door and slipping inside. the space seems still, and in it, her heart loosens, unfolds. she will pray in the darkness, where no one but god will see. but inside the sanctuary, someone is already frozen in grief or in sorrow, kneeling in the godlight that falls on the altar. her face is unfamiliar, but her desperation is not. the small sound of the door falling closed is enough to break the silence, and the girl on the altar wakes up then, turns from the light into the darkness, is gone before she can cover her eyes to keep from seeing her private pain, to apologize for interrupting. she can't pray either, now that the solitude is gone, isn't sure she knew how in the first place. she leaves the demons at the altar and turns toward home. iii. what might also be sacred: the knife seaming the flesh of the mango, its teeth drawing the sticky sweetness toward the wound the foam rising to the top of the coffee brewed in silent early darkness the tremor of the hand in the moment between striking the match and lighting the flame waking up to rest in the space between sleep and consciousness the space between each heartbeat filled with blood and love

13 corners

13 corners we live in a culture where 13 is an unlucky number but it's always been my grandmother's lucky one and i've always believed more of her superstitions anyway i may not call this luck but i am fortunate and blessed here in this house brimming with the prosperity of this fall harvest with voices giving and receiving with water and life in every room i've rediscovered that 16-year-old poet at home in that palo alto alley watched over by saint michael and all the old souls who had heard and read so much more but never what she brought to that corner there are many more corners more alleys more springs more old and young souls to give and receive by teresa wong, 11.7.04

Downtown by Michael Biegner

Downtown His hands were like broken concrete yet they wrapped the pole of the subway car tightly. It was almost a year ago that the towers fell; when the plume shuttled uptown and the dust tossed itself willy-nilly over lower Manhattan. It was almost a year ago, when shards of paper representing lives flew like souls across the Hudson into Brooklyn, signifying all that was left. McNab took the “F” train downtown every day to get to his job. He got on at Kew Gardens and he always wore his construction helmet backwards. After the collapse, they slapped one of those American flags on the backs of all the guys’ helmets. McNab wore his so the flag faced forward. McNab was a rigger and had been for years. He’d been working downtown since the collapse. He was a slight man, but wore his work belt, heavy boots and thick gloves which gave him monstrous girth. At Jackson Heights the crowds in the train pushed out against the bodies lined up waiting to board; there was a panicked effort to catch the number 7 train to Flushing. McNab pulled back in the car. He never sat. He always preferred to give up his seat. At the Roosevelt Avenue station the train performed its purge and binge of riders. Marisol always stepped on here. Same spot on the platform. Same car. McNab always instinctively turned his head discreetly toward his outstretched arm, trying to catch his own body odor. Marisol was a slight pretty Puerto Rican woman with thick red lips who wore too much makeup. She rode until Rockefeller Center where she always smoothed her pants or skirt, gathered her things, just before she would rise and stand by the train door. As Marisol went by she always brushed against McNab’s gruff toil smeared body. He breathed in her perfume, and marveled at her rich black hair. Marisol always read; her dark almond eyes peered over her newspaper appeared like question marks to McNab. If she ever suspected that McNab watched her, she never let on. These were two dancers among many on all the cars that hurtled through the tunnels under New York. When the train descended under the East River, McNab felt his ears “pop”. The lights would go out momentarily and he could only see the shadow of Marisol’s head against the tunnel lights through the car window. Together they rocked and lurched, evident for that half hour that they were subject to the same laws of physics. When Marisol’s stop arrived, McNab made a deal with himself to follow her out, to talk to her and strike up a conversation. He planned it from Roosevelt Island. When the door opened, he saw himself follow her. He felt his body want to move. As the doors closed, the chimes seemed to berate his lack of initiative. “Tomorrow”, he would mutter and then begin the negotiations all over again. The doors closed, as the great beast dumped McNab off at West 4th Street where he would walk the rest of the way. There was still rubble to clear.

Meredith's Lullabye for the Country

Come in, close the door tight behind you I can't do much but it's a start I can't promise there's not demons out there But you're safe here inside my heart Let your guard fall down around you I'll give you open hands and dashboard light We'll get up and fight again tomorrow Rest here in my arms tonight I've seen all that they've put up against you But you're not doing this alone Here between the end and the beginning Is the place where I can call you home Let your guard fall down arounnd you I'll give you open hands and dashboard light We'll get up and fight again tomorrow Rest here in my arms tonight I'll smooth your brow with my calloused fingers Untangle all your stomach's knots My arms are stronger than you'd give them credit Let your bruises heal and I'll keep watch Let your guard fall down around you I'll give you open hands and dashboard light We'll get up and fight again tomorrow Rest here in my arms tonight. Meredith Killough

Someday My Apartment

Okay, you have to picture a Disney character singing this... SOMEDAY MY APARTMENT Someday I'll have an apartment in the shitty part of town I'll see trash and broken bottles whenever I look down There will be lots of locks on the doors Cracks in the floor for the mice In that shitty apartment complex Won't that be nice? I'll eat Ramen three times a day Chef Boyardee straight from the can With a six-pack of generic beer Won't it be grand? Someday I'll have me a boyfriend who I'll meet in a seedy bar He'll make me pay for my own drinks then grope me in his car And maybe we'll have a baby We can't afford to feed Wouldn't it be wonderful? Wouldn't it, indeed. Life would never be boring Even walking down the street Knowing I could see a drive-by shooting I'd feel so complete In that shitty apartment In that crappy neighborhood It hasn't happened yet But I know inside my heart Yes, I know inside my heart it could. Gwynne Watkins

The Sage

The Sage – Melissa Eva Miller Was the sage left there for me? Tucked in a tight bundle of pungent leaves at the bottom of the basket with the other odds and ends. A little reminder that all is not right with my world; maybe just not completely balanced. Like the way the tea packet marked “joy” refused to open until I bit it hard and forced it to rip. But isn’t that what faith is? A bit of a struggle here and there to help calm the exuberance that threatens to bubble over in the blood and spill out wastefully? “So,” the sage tells me, leaving a velvety residue in the whorls of my fingertips, “That’s the fun of it, baby. And just think, you’ll do this for the rest of your life … just like I have in the hands of the faithful all over the world.” The sage sighs, letting off a tiny plume of omniscience. “Faith is all about figuring it all out and then realizing you left one shoe on a porch somewhere along the way.” “Well,” I tell the sage, “I can take it. Next time I see through something clearly, I won’t be surprised when I blink and the pane is replaced with a wavering piece of hand-made glass that I can’t make heads or tails of.” The sage chuckles a puff of fragrant smoke. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

The Desert

Desert – Melissa Eva Miller That space lit my desert’s light tries to find a space to sit quietly, say its grace. Dropped in from without could one find a trace that would then overcome the seeker; myself understood. I have faith one such traveler would come back weary, burned with lathe to spin me learned. One such man would write pages about what he discovered, would plan to reveal me uncovered. Would they believe or would they lift fists with jealous fury and conceive these chronicles to bury? Lest my dunes be let out to dust over their minds and runes once quiet suddenly shout. For now dear traveler take heed I wish to keep my desert here within my heart’s seed. My face will hide it well instead of reveal too much or still a brew to quell.

The Captain

The Captain And the Captain and passengers are dressed to the nines, Ignoring the bells and calls to pull in the lines. With a smile and a nod the Captain waves off the commotion, And we all sail onward through the turbulent ocean. We put on our gowns, tuxedoes and shoes, And stepped up the gangplank for this four year cruise. Over half went willingly and wanted to go, the rest ‘cause we had to and thus it is so. The crew plays cards and passes a bottle of rum. One eye on the helm and one eye on the fun. They don’t notice gas gauges on low and the compass that’s broken, Or the map room on fire, quietly smoking. We fill up our glasses from the champagne fountain. And iceburgs in the distance tower like mountains. We could see the dockworkers if we gave it a chance, But the band calls again to get out and dance. Then another game of shuffleboard needs to be played, And another trip taken to the all night buffet. So there’s no time to stop and feel the ocean, Rolling deep below with discontent motion. And the Captain and passengers are dressed to the nines, Ignoring the bells and calls to pull in the lines With a smile and a nod the Captain waves off the commotion And we all sail onward through the turbulent ocean. Truth my truth my truth don’t be silent now I’m listening finally just for you Before, I admit it I let you hide Knowing you were there quiet, ready, poised to speak And as long as we’re being honest Sometimes I even kicked you deep behind those shapes of fear And there I left you crumpled at the feet of jealosy, envy and my need to be liked that just seemed larger at the time And on my really bad days I boxed you in. The worst abuse really, to have floor, ceiling and walls of what-I-think-I-should-be keeping you from daylight. I don’t blame you for your silence I would be silent too after being treated like that So this is my apology for what it is worth I’m hoping you’ll remember this and rise up anyway my truth my truth By Gayle Huntress

Birding in Babylon

Birding in Babylon My salvation is beauty’s kiss -- It approaches me like a windy spiral of foppish leaves' dancing denial. It leaves me with wonkish truths Which bolster me with deepened roots. For Mesopotamia, now midnight soot, Has acquiesced beneath the boot; From humankind this snake has grown Hoping to consume its own body, from start to end and head to tail Where human life first burst forth, now it flails. As it was in the beginning, Is now and ever shall be; A world of endless suffering; Saved from pagan idolatry; Carved from empire’s ideology; Inflated by ambition’s puffery. I seek what is invisible Like birding in Babylon, an indivisible faith in delicate things: Feathers and song, and iridescent wings; perched on fetid branches rest these drops of color sporting costumes that dress war’s dolor. It scours me pure like sandstorm grit. It seeps like ink into my vision, I am shorn and weakened like noble Sampson; by a willow warbler’s lyric face Or the fecund insistence of a fruit fly’s grace, These are things that make Peace known, If Wisdom is my head, then beauty is my bone. Michael Biegner 2004

a post-election prayer

Dear God, Give us the words. May ink spill beauty onto notebooks and napkins everywhere, as blood ceases to be shed. Rather, let our blood reclaim its symbol of Life flowing with passionate fury. Let delicate melodies infiltrate the air hung heavy and hopeless. Let us write a Revolution.