by Ron Androla

Music is always about life.  Painting,
Novels, the best films armed with
Magic, fur spoons, sculptures of
The wind.  Is that the sun
Or is the moon a raw yolk?
Speaking is always about life
Even when talking about close
Death.  Taste is always
About life, bourbon is
A bleeding echo behind
The wax entrance.  Listening
Is always about life:
Sub-zero snow crunch.
Furnace ah.  Daylight
Midnight is always
About life, time, the frozen
Stone this winter.  Thought
Is always about life
To the zen degree, everyone
Sins: contaminating
The chunky stew
With blood.  Art is always
About life
& the lifeless mysteries.
Life is always about
Life.

by Jefferson Navicky

I’ve cussed myself into a concussion, and I can no longer speak, only write the dumbest words, like ‘frog” and “cup” and “fart” and “butt.”  That will have to do in my addled brain.

In fact, my stupid brain likes being stupid.  It feels good.  I just think about sex and food all day and then it’s time to poop and sleep.  Sometimes I watch Netflix.  I no longer care about beer or gardening or cars.  All that’s even stupider than me.  Than I.  Than me am.  Than socks that I don’t want.  Than emoticons.  Than bosses who are dickheads.  You’re not the boss of me; my concussion is my boss.  It makes me lie.  In a good way.  Fuck this shit.  Step off.  I’m heading into the New Millennium of my Brain. At the tail end of it — I can already see it now — is my dead self wrapped up in a ball, puttering away, doing the same shit I’ve always done, only happy to be doing it, finally, for the last time, and laughing my ass off.

by Jefferson Navicky

He worked as a young man in the medallions collection of the National Library, and published scholarly articles on nuministics. Somewhat later in life, more destitute and living in the provinces, he married a younger actress.  After a few good years, she said, “God, please breathe on me,” and watched the rain write autumn on the window.  In a year, she died of pneumonia.  He returned to Paris to again work in the National Library, the memory of her love clinging to his skin.  He shaved with a thick cream, a beaver brush, and a straight razor.  He cut his face in sadness.  His nights were unemployed, stars and rivers, a fear of a hernia.  The Library as Memory.  People come and go.  Your eyes are lonely.  He met Francesca in special collections.  They married in 1946.  She cared for him.  He became slightly sadder, and began to lose his sight. He died as they made love on a cold April evening, their naked spines in the moonlight moving quickly and delicately through the unreal city.

by Michael Estabrook

Things are about the same
here, same as always, snowy out
another boring lunch.

Did you know that King Arthur
(of the Round Table and all that)
was real and died in 538?

Simply trying to imagine
538
so vague and dark.

Tons of rubbish written
about the Arthurian Legends.
Try finding the historical Jesus.

Albert Schweitzer tried and failed.
But questing after the historical Arthur
could prove fruitful.

The big problem is having to learn
all those archaic languages: Saxon, Anglo,
Celtic, Kentish, Pictish, Jutish, Cumbric, Irish.

Welsh too, don’t forget Welsh.
Forget it.  Just getting modern English
down has kept me occupied for decades.

No, no Arthur for me.
Besides I gotta go make myself
a sandwich or something.