A Catholic Girlhood in Queens
by Ron Kolm
Her life was:
Frank Sinatra on the radio
Hiding cigarettes
In the top of her uniform
Going to bars on Saturday night
With her daddy
And bowling at the Legion Post
On Sunday.
“You broke your Father’s heart!”
I shout at her. “You won’t break mine!”
She turns slowly away
Already becoming someone else
And tucks her soul
Behind a barrier unbroken.
Style Status
by Adrian Blevins
Yoga pants are comfy.
They’re also an assault
on manners & a nihilistic
threat, said Kerry Folan
of the Washington Post
that day of the Aleppo
dead. Day of lesion
& cut. Day of gash
& ambulance. Day
of getaway, day
of egress, day of
me wanting to know
what to do about
the yoga pants
like where to get
a drone or a pigeon
to tie this poem
to the leg of something
to say how good-for-
nothing Athlesuire is
& gross & shiftless
like the worst eye
of a dead witch
& incorrect & illicit
& slothy & indolent
like it’s got a bad infection
or some kind of virus
like the women
of the DC suburbs
wearing it everywhere
have got the sickness
of not heeding
the clothing desires
of this fashion editor
from New York
this day of the sick
& dirty Aleppo dying
& sick & shabby
Aleppo dead.
The quoted material beginning this poem is the title of an editorial by
Kerry Folan, Washington Post, December 15, 2016.
Saturday, in the Park
by Peter Manuel
This Librium-sodden soul stumbles through the park.
The fountain pools there, its vortex dark . . .
I envision my doped carcass mugged
And wonder if my thoughts are bugged.
To Becky’s for omelettes, the Java’s task;
The caffeine lifts my mood, but will it last?
Should I gorge on hope and pray to Mary?
Or is that relief just temporary?
Now Apollo’s bloody robe’s unfurled.
Roseate gulls hover, to survey my world.
God! Why re-bind wounds in bloody patches?
When I dangle string, my Bobcat scratches . . .
I back-track Lincoln Park — homeward — emoting
Tomorrow the cops might find me floating.
Some disembody says, “Thy ‘stay or go’ conflict:
It’s like a nasty burn your pet has licked.”
But Sunday . . . I’m aware — the fountain’s brimming,
I’m not face-down at East End Beach; I’m swimming!
Why not choose to align, with this fine/
Alt-emotional-angst design?
Inconvenient Ice
by Peter Manuel
Inconvenient Ice
[T]he mad enterprise of writing in order to be forgiven . . .
Jean–Paul Sartre, “The Words”
Thuggish snow, lack of
“Blow;” sweating
Of my friends’ pipes
When they — attempting to forgive —
Say, “I know, I know . . . Mania
Has plowed you, Peter, from
Prosperity’s pavement
Like inconvenient ice;
With the pre-exquisite taste of
Lithium salts in your mouth.” How
Steely sleet crowbars
The maw open for cuisine,
Pounds me non-prolific;
Tamping verbs and moods a-slattern.
“Inappropriate metaphor,” My
Hoariest mentors gripe,
“Why this ungodly tripe? Is
Life truly worth
Naught?” Amis, je ne sais
Squat.