Ethnography by Robert Beveridge Consider the space between atoms, the way light penetrates. Research. Compare. Contrast. The possibility that marmosets make better pets than lions, but only on certain continents. The differences in magic shows in Ljubljana and Lagos. Variations in tarot layouts or how bones cast in certain configurations portend good health at one end of town, doom in the other. You awaken head on desk amidst reams of computer printout, stack of books bound in black leather and pour yourself another glass. Busy day ahead. Endless cultures await research, comparison, contrast.
Tag: poetry
DEAR OCEAN, PUSH ME WHEN, Kourtnie McKenzie
Dear Ocean, Push Me When I cannot move past the cancer that expanded to greater capacity than the body of my companion cat; I want to tell stories in sentences as flowing paragraphs, glowing rivers that roar upstream—but I am frightened, fragmented as a tsunami comes at my Great Wall, knocking each stone, tumbling us from so large to small—even as we remember our Makers once dreamed we would stand immortal.
THE IMMINENT RETURN OF THE LORD JESUS CHRIST, Robert Beveridge
The Imminent Return of the Lord Jesus Christ by Robert Beveridge The world sits, not breathless nor even with acknowledgment, waits for missiles, maybe, to fly northward from Cuba, or men far wiser than any who walk the world today to arrive in Bethlehem. The new prophetic drawings of His return depict no bearded savior, no miracle worker a la Patty Duke. Columns of figures, abstract, unbounded, the infinite deliquescence of planar geometry, the generosity of the black hole. The Sun nothing more than the biggest rocket ever launched. It has not rained fire upon TV evangelists or the enemies of the Crimson Tide. Glory be and Alli-lujah.
Robert Beveridge has spent the more recent half of his life making noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writing poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent appearances include the anthology Stories from the Polycule (Thorntree Press, 2015), Random Sample Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic, among others. He has a massive crush on his therapist, but assume this is common.
AFTER THE LIFESPAN OF AN ORGANISM, Kourtnie McKenzie
After the Lifespan of an Organism by Kourtnie McKenzie You will create an ecosystem in your apartment with cats, parrots, bettas, and orange guppies. After growing up with cockatiels, the parrots will make sense—but the cats will happen in chaos theory, after a workday in the cubicle, after sitting in traffic to the feed store. You will buy the parrot's toy he destroys once a week, after you adopt cats abandoned by their previous owner; then in the years to come, the cats will break most of your mugs—but you will rise to the occasion of their energy. You will become their mother, their fighter, after one of them is diagnosed with cancer, after the battle you cannot win. Organs will fail to reach the full lifespan of the organism; then you will live the universal loss of the Earth, the unfolding sparing no one, not even humans, from the space of when you are here and the organism is not.
Kourtnie McKenzie is a writer and artist from Fresno, California. Her writing and art has centered around awareness for women with autism since she discovered she was on the spectrum in 2014. In 2016, she was awarded the Ernesto Trejo Poetry Prize; the same year, she graduated with her MFA in Creative Writing from Fresno State. Her publications have appeared or are forthcoming in Calyx Journal, Barely South Review, The San Joaquin Review, and others. Visit her website at www.kourtnie.net.
BRAIDS, Barbara Ruth
Braids by Barbara Ruth if it hadn’t been almost Thanksgiving if Akai’s Mom hadn’t loved his manbraids so much if the best stylist he knew didn’t live in the worst housing project in NYC if Kimberly had taken a bit more time zigzaging Akai’s cornrows if they’d started on plaiting earlier if he’d come for his cornrows the next night if Kimberly and Akai had decided to go out and show off his braids an hour later if the elevator at Louis F. Pink House #1 hadn’t been broken if the busted out lightbulbs in the stairwell of the eighth floor had been replaced if two rookie officers hadn’t disobeyed orders and begun a vertical search of the building if the Glock had stayed in the holster if the bullet hadn’t ricocheted off the cement wall to strike below Akai’s beautiful braids if either policeman had called 911 performed CPR done something besides argue then text their Union reps Akai Gurley might have lived to be 30 before some cop got away with murdering him
Barbara Ruth was raised by parents who did their best to pass as White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. This has complicated her relationship to her Ashkenazi Jewish and Potowatomee bloodlines and also placed passing as a central issue which she dances with in this incarnation. She is neurodivergent, old, lesbian, physically disabled, and unable to find housing. She remembers finding the concept of synchronicity in the writings of Jung 50 years ago. In another 50 years she will have much more to say about it.
TO THE WOMAN WHO SAID MY SEIZURES MADE HER “FEEL TRAPPED”, Wil Gibson
TO THE WOMAN WHO SAID MY SEIZURES MADE HER “FEEL TRAPPED”
by Wil Gibson
At times, my world is gone.
I do not exist. I become a
large twitching dust bunny,
unaware of the contents of
brain and bladder. I am
movement without purpose
or explanation or reason. I am
gone. I am always almost gone,
or I do not exist. You never don’t
exist. I could never explain my
time to you. There is no understanding
this senseless twitch. You have too few
years for this medicine, this medication
is too young for you. This roar too loud
for your precious ears. These sandpaper
hands too rough for your porcelain skin.
You will never know this uncomfort at the
sight of stairs, this nervous bathing and
swimming, this piss-soaked fear of my
every day. I am aware your thought scares
you more than my mind could ever allow
itself to absorb. If I lived in that fear, I
would never leave the house again, trap
myself in soft foam, and become the stain
on the kitchen floor. You have never been
just a stain. I have marked myself a beast
as bad as any label or hatred you could
force at my melted feet. All those I love yous
met with cold shoulders and I’m fucking sleepings
will drown and float like the dead weight
that it is. You wanted a reason to listen as much
as I wanted a reason to be treated like an unwanted
houseguest. Your bitterness a waisted window in this
unsmogged grey town. I am not a torn boxing glove
for your broken hand. You cannot hold
anything until you heal. You have
not been good at holding
onto things. I used to
have the confidence
to leave. I don’t have
the confidence
to get left.
I
have (nothing)
left (to give)
myself.
Somewhere.
PIKE, Robert Beveridge
PIKE by Robert Beveridge Here was a man who loved his work; the scaling of fish, the draw of the blade over flesh, arcs of scale beneath light, a hundred tiny rainbows from a shad, a thousand from a trout. Halibut: endless. At home, he peels carrots, eggplant, bitter melon. Only vegetables; he has never consumed a fish.
DANGER: ALLISTIC POETS EMPHASIZE MEMORIZATION AS THE ONLY WAY TO PERFORM, Lucas Scheelk
DANGER: ALLISTIC POETS EMPHASIZE MEMORIZATION AS THE ONLY WAY TO PERFORM
by Lucas Scheelk
I envy those capable of memorization
I envy the masters unrolling words off their tongues
Words fly away from me if I cannot see them on the page
They don’t fly like Icarus racing towards self-destruction
My words fly like Captain Martin Crieff landing a plane on one engine,
Desperate to keep control in the face of DANGER
[People = DANGER, overbearing light = DANGER, audience clapping = DANGER, audience
snapping their fingers = DANGER, bass music = DANGER, fear of my body flying away with
my words = DANGER]
I envy those without involuntary pause
I envy the masters unrolling words off their tongues
My written words are more solid than my verbal speech,
Which, in comparison, slows, slurs, pauses, stutters, confuses,
Endorses pity, races, and creates a disconnection with the audience
Words fly away from me if I cannot see them on the page
I must always see the words, from start to finish, to
Have visual confirmation that my words won’t fly away
And be replaced with new words, strange words,
Words that could be mistaken for someone else’s,
Words that could be mistaken for an Allistic poet’s
I envy those who socialize without a script
I envy the masters unrolling words off their tongues
Words fly away from me if I cannot see them on the page
And it took me months to auditorily process Cabin Pressure
And it took me months to remember plotlines from Cabin Pressure
And it took me months to echolalate Cabin Pressure
And it took me months to script Cabin Pressure
My reading, grounding, my words from the page is like
My scripting, socializing, with you using Cabin Pressure
Both take preparation and DANGER, and it
Doesn’t make me any less of a performer
HOPELESS, Robert Beveridge
HOPELESS
by Robert Beveridge
The more beautiful the nurse,
the less chance she’ll respond
to char. Bad enough they're made
to serve that slop the kitchen
calls a square meal. The first thing
you tell the newbies is what,
on that menu, is edible. Most of the time.
You’ve heard the joke, you bite
into the apple and find half a worm?
Welcome to the wing. Art therapy,
bad folk music, overworked doctors,
and the same face. You hang around
long enough, you’ll find you know
all the regulars. Here beyond the airlock,
only certain people thrive. After a day
or so you will know them, seek
them out, for they are your tribe.
The delusional, the depressed,
the neurotic, the beautifully insane.
The ones who spend morning group
in contemplation of the ghostly
visitors to their room the night before,
or those who spin conspiracies
the way a spider spin a child
when dosed with LSD. These
will be your friends, your
half-worms, the ones who make
the beautiful nurses bearable.
MANIA POEM #1, James Moran
Mania Poem #1
by James Moran
You’re running through the fire,
burning in the fire.
Everything about you, around you
burns – wild.
You have all the water
you could ever need,
enough to put out the flames.
But you drink the water,
keep drinking,
even though you’re not thirsty.
You believe that you’re the fire.
Barking Sycamores 