Seas tú el extraviado que regresa hacia la niebla de nuestros cuerpos.
Catástrofe
El amor será poseído por los únicos sobrevivientes de esta masacre.
Vaticinio
Tu cuerpo disuelve las cosas para anunciar un gemido o recóndito extremo de la noche que ya no esconde nada ni siquiera una nueva forma de estremecimiento.
Extrañamiento
Me miras como si fuese tu fetiche me tocas cuando estamos solos no soy nada de aquello ni la sombra de nuestros propios pasos.
Escritora nacido en Viña del Mar, Chile. Profesora de Lengua y Comunicación de la PUCV, poeta y crítico literario. En 2012 publicó su primer libro, Los ojos invisibles del viento. Ha publicado en reconocidos medios digitales chilenos y extranjeros: Babelia (España), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov y Athena de Portugal, entre otros. Durante el año 2017 participa en el grupo Xaleshem con textos poéticos para las antologías surrealistas: “Componiendo la ilusión” en honor a Ludwig Zeller y “Luna Llena”, en honor a Susana Wald. En 2018 integra la antología feminista IXQUIC estrenada tanto en Europa como en Latinoamérica. En 2020 participa reseñando el libro de conversación “Poesía aleatoria, Surrealismo en América Latina” de Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), también escribe un texto en prosa poética para el libro “Arcano 16, La torre”, del mismo autor. Asimismo, participa en el libro “120 notas de Eros. Retratos escritos de mujeres surrealistas” de Floriano Martins (poeta, escritor, artista visual y gestor cultural brasileño surrealista). En este año (2021) publica su segundo libro de poesía Poética de la erótica, amores y desamores de Marciano editores, Santiago.
When I was a little kid my first years were spent with my mom and dad until they parted ways when I was in kindergarten. Before that, I remember my mom walked a lot because we didn’t have a car. My last memory of my dad’s work was he was a taxi-cab driver in Billings, MT. I was their only child and spent a lot of time with my mom, dad, and paternal grandparents. My dad would sketch a lot and my grandfather would do Absaaloke (Crow) art by making artifacts he could sell throughout his travels in Montana and Wyoming. Art was always a part of my family’s life in some form.
Qwasqwi, Storm, Five Friends & the Canoe (2021). 7.7″ x 1′ 7″. Red vintage true-cut, size 13 seed beads, true-cut, size 13 seed beads, deer hide, wood, cotton fabric, wool, leather, stabilizer, czech beads, nylon and cotton thread, brass tacks and spots. The first cradleboard in a series of four cradleboards, representing the four seasons. This board represents the winter season. Award: 63rd Annual Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair & Market: 1st place award in Division D-Functional objects such as bows and arrows, cradleboards, bows, weapons, shields, furniture, lamps, musical instruments, bull roarers, beaded bottles, and other objects. Exhibition: “Expressions of Resilience” at Bigfork Arts & Cultural Center showing May 8-June 26, 2021. Exhibition: “Finding Our Place: Beading and Weaving Our Culture Together” at City Scape Community Art Space, in North Vancouver BC, Oct. 8-Nov. 13, 2021. Awards 2022: Harrison Eiteljorg Purchase Award, Best of Division in Traditional Beadwork (Eiteljorg Museum), First Place in Traditional Beadwork (Eiteljorg Museum). This cradleboard is in the permanent collection of the Eiteljorg Museum.
When my mom and dad broke up, I moved with my mom to Salish country in Western Montana. For the first few years, we lived with my uncle Johnny Arlee, my aunt Joan, and my maternal grandmother Rachel Arlee Bowers. All three were prolific in their Indigenous skillsets. At the time, my uncle had his own painting business and was always out in his shop making large hand-painted signs. My aunt Joan was always doing beadwork or sewing and my grandmother did beadwork and taught at the local tribal college; her beadwork. She was also a great seamstress. Earlier than I can remember, my mom would send me with my grandmother Rachel often and she was always toting her beading supplies and beaded creations to sell.
Salish Bitterroot Story (2022), 7.7″ x 1′ 7″. Combination of vintage and contemporary size 13 seed beads, true-cut, deer hide, wood, cotton fabric, wool, leather, stabilizer, Czech beads, nylon and cotton thread, brass tacks and spots. The second cradleboard in a series of four cradleboards, representing the four seasons. This board represents the spring season. Shown at the 64th Annual Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair & Market Award 2022: Second Place in Traditional Beadwork (Eiteljorg Museum). This work is now owned by a private collector.
There were times we camped at Agne’s Camp, in Valley Creek, and she would spend summers with Agnes, helping to pass on the Salish culture. I don’t remember the earlier years but as I got older the summer was cut down to a week and my grandma would be there every year, camping out, teaching the tribal college students how to bead. I looked forward to that time and I would help her get her camp set up and do small chores so she could work. She would teach me how to bead too and I remember my first finished beadwork was a little clip-on barrette I wore with my dance regalia when I was in about 4th grade.
Felicite McDonald Digital Photograph 2021
By the time I was in high school I knew I wanted to practice art as a profession. I loved to draw and sketched on everything I was allowed to personalize. I wanted to know how to paint and I took every art class that was offered as an elective. I loved color theory and all of the challenges and assignments given to produce art. I wanted to go to art school but as I got older high school had a lot of social challenges for me; for a lot of different reasons; mainly adolescence and social factors. I was fast tracked through high school and when it came time to apply for colleges my mom didn’t agree that art would be the best declaration to pursue. I was so heart-broken but I minded and I ended up doing a lot of other things in college. I was never really satisfied with my majors, and mostly resentful of the ease that came to my classmates when they were following their career passions. I tried to stick it out as long as I could, which felt like my whole life.
Remember That Night At Buffalo Camp (2022). 7.7″ x 1′ 7″. Red and Green vintage true-cut, size 13 seed beads, true-cut, size 13 seed beads, deer hide, wood, cotton fabric, wool, leather, stabilizer, czech beads, nylon and cotton thread, brass tacks and spots. The third cradleboard in a series of four cradleboards, representing the four seasons. This board represents the summer season. Award: 100th Annual Santa Fe Indian Market: 2nd place award in Classification VIII: Beadwork & Quillwork, Div. C: Other items, Category 3102. This cradleboard is apart of a private collection.
I feel that I’ve had a very hard adult life and I’ve somehow managed to take the road less travelled. Like everyone who takes this path, I would say I wouldn’t change my outcomes, but I get a lump in my throat thinking about everything I’ve endured to get to where I am today. I married at age 20 to a Salish man, since I had spent most of my life in Salish country. He had three daughters from a previous marriage that I helped raise. We had two sons of our own who are still young enough to be in elementary school. I used my college degrees to stay near home, in Arlee MT, but I couldn’t handle the local, you-need-to-grow-a-thicker-skin attitudes of home. I’m pretty sure I suffered from PTSD from working in a hostile working environment.
Bitterroot & Huckleberries (2021). 8.5″ x 11″ beadwork surface, not including fringe length. Combination of modern and vintage size 13 true-cut seed beads, stabilizer, deer hide, wool, cotton fabric, nylon thread, czech beads, brass bells, one plastic button. Technique is flat-stitch, two-needle, contour beadwork. Exhibition: Knowledge from Land (2021), University Center Gallery, Missoula MT Award: 100th Annual Santa Fe Indian Market: 2nd place award in Classification VII: Diverse Art Forms, Div. A: Functional objects, Category 2707. This purse is apart of a private collection
One day, I had enough. My youngest daughter was in her last year of high school and she was exploring colleges to attend. We went to a college visit with her in the spring and we sat in on the art major session. I remembered my existing broken heart from not being able to pursue art as a young adult. When I got back to work, I had a really bad day and decided enough was enough. I found out the University of Montana was beginning its first cohort of online art degree program majors and I enrolled. I took as many classes as I could handle, quit my job and got a different job. I worked full-time and took online classes until eventually I finished the program in 2021 and I finally got an art degree. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much, throughout those few years, realizing that I should have put my foot down and did art school from the start.
The Roses We Know (2023). 13″ x 6-3/16″ x .25″. Technique is flat-stitch, two-needle, beadwork. Materials are true cut, size 13 Czech modern and vintage seed beads, brain-tanned smoked deer hide, glass and crystal beads, nylon cord, stabilizer, thread, and cotton material. This purse shows the images of wild roses that grow in Western Montana. The plant is significant to the Bitterroot Salish people as the blooming represents the buffalo are fat and ready to hunt. It is currently in a virtual exhibit, “Stories From Bead Night,” hosted by Carrie McCleary and her Plain Soul beading group, Rock Your Beads at rockyourbeads.com. This purse now belongs to a private collector.
Towards the end of my degree program, I was finally able to do more extensive exploration into art that I was hoping to strongly focus. I was sad that I didn’t know much about being a professional artist so I soaked up any advice I could along the way—I’m still a beginner. I wanted to continue to do beadwork and also was very happy to get a formal educational background on art history. It helped me to better understand genres of the artworld as well as where I found interest. It turned out that all of my time before art school was not wasted. I used a lot of my educational background to express my interest in the type of art I like to create.
Salish Bitterroot Back Bag (2022). 6in. x 6 in., Size 13 true cut Czech beads (combination of modern and vintage). Brain-tanned, smoked, deer hide, nylon thread, stabilizer, and paper. This bag is in the permanent collection of the Montana Museum of Arts and Culture.
I like to focus on Indigenous knowledge and I like the idea of using empowerment to overcome systemic and racial oppression. The environment is most interesting and I try to express ecological concepts in my work, especially the beadwork. I enjoy lots of aspects of my culture, but feel that getting a formal education gave me a leg-up in life and it opened doors for me when I least expected it. Throughout my educational experience, I connected the idea of place-based learning and Indigenous ways of knowing. I believe that when a person is aware of their environment they can grow intellectually and pursue life beyond their basic needs—they are grounded and secure.
Susan At Thunderhead (2021). 12″ x 16″ original photograph and beadwork on canvas. Donated to Open Air for fundraiser.
Although beadwork is my go-to creative expression, I enjoy painting, drawing, and I aspire to improve my photography skills; I sometimes attempt to mix these medias. The past few years I’ve checked off some huge bucket list items, the biggest one being to participate in the Santa Fe Indian Market. Since 2021 I’ve found joy in participating in Indian Markets and learning how to make time to produce smaller items to vend during the market. It’s intense and physically challenging but I enjoy meeting Indigenous artists I’ve admired for years and having the honor of having artworks amongst the “greats.”
Indigenous Bitterroot Land 25” x 18”, Collage and beadwork on canvas 2021
In the future, I hope to calm down a bit and get a better handle of the business end of things. I hope to continue to grow artistically, continue to create art in a cultural sense, and to continue to support my family in this way. At the end of 2021 my husband got a new job and we moved part-time away from Arlee. But when that happened, we agreed that I would give it 100% to pursing professional art full-time. I’ve been doing this and slowly learning how to network and become more knowledgeable about the financial part of the deal. I’m thankful for my husband’s support of my journey and attribute his support to much of my ability to follow-through with life, up to this point. I’m also very thankful for the chance of being born into a family that valued art as a way of life.
Indigenous Hillshade (2020). 24″ x 36″ acrylic on canvas. Shown in the “We are Still Here and this is Our Story” exhibition in the Emerson Center for the Arts & Culture in Bozeman, Montana .
I know that I cannot change the past but if I had to give a small bit of advice, I would say that dreams are always worth pursuing. Hard work, consistency, belief in yourself seem to be at the core of carrying a dream. I’ve wanted to give it up a few times, but I stop and remember things I’ve heard other artists say, such as having hard times and easy times along the way. I know that if I can live a life that I didn’t want for so many years, I can definitely commit to a life I really want and do my best to be accountable to myself and to my children. I love creating art and I’m certain this is how I will live the rest of my life.
John Pelko on Florals Hard sketch crayon on heavy gift-wrapping paper 12 in. x 14 in. 2019
SALISHA ANNE OLD BULL ART, PHOTOS ANDWRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT
Feature photo:Signs of Autumn (2023). 7.7″ x 1′ 7″. Vintage and modern true-cut, size 13 seed beads, deer hide, wood, cotton fabric, wool, leather, stabilizer, glass beads, nylon and cotton thread, brass tacks and spots. The fourth cradleboard in a series of four cradleboards, representing the four seasons. This board represents the autumn season. Award: 65th Annual Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair & Market: Honorable Mention award in Division D-Functional objects such as bows and arrows, cradleboards, bows, weapons, shields, furniture, lamps, musical instruments, bull roarers, beaded bottles, and other objects. This work is now owned by a private collector.
It’s not like in the werewolf movies where I wake up naked in the forest, not knowing how I got there or why I have the taste of blood in my mouth.
It’s not like the stories where curses make beasts of men. No, it’s more akin to those Eurasian primordials of whose tree I am but another branch, where turning men
into wolves was the rite of hunters and warriors. No moon governs me, and I know exactly what I am and where I’ve been. It’s in my very name, by means of it, it goes on all fours.
Some say it started when the Spaniards came, and if you don’t know the story of those years, I probably don’t have to tell you the story of those years, the age of ruthlessness and
conquerors. Sometimes, I think it must be because for so long, we were nomads, and you don’t just shrug off three millennia of wandering, trekking across ice bridges and down the rugged coasts,
but only the Creator knows for sure, they who conjured light from the east, and Earth from a single yellow grain. Sometimes, I think I was born to this, that I only unleashed what
was already there, my nature mutable as the golden tortoise beetle, the snowshoe rabbit, or certain tree frogs. Nothing in my cosmology says I must forgive. There is only balance
and imbalance, and imbalance must be corrected. The sort of trauma that washes down through the generations, like litter in the stream of our DNA, and it’s not as if the atrocities ever stop. I am
the endless Night Chant, waiting for the world to heal, the tireless ceremonial dancer, the ultimate hand trembler, for surely we must remove the source of the malady. I take the darkness into myself, and when our enemies
tell us we are less than they, I am ready to fling it back at them. I am ready to don the forbidden animal skins, to sow terror and harvest a crop of bones. You could see why
I would trade the Pollen Way for blood, why I would call upon the powers of wing and fang and claw, why I would become pitiless as the hawk’s unblinking gaze. I pray you
never know the pain that drives someone to become this, that you never have to pay the price to become this, the agony of transformation: my fingers, once so skilled
at weaving, hardening into talons, canines overtaking my omnivorous mouth, forsaking forever the taste of corn and beans, my feet into paws, and then the aftermath of becoming,
in which I am no one, neither living nor dead, perpetually half human, half creature, all monster, the stench of mass graves and privation. Once you start down this path, there can be no turning back.
And yes, I can be dog, coyote, wolf, bear, cougar, owl and crow, but I would rather be the deadly bacteria destroying you from within, the brain-eating amoeba lurking in the water, the compulsion
that seizes people to pet a wild thing that could maul or trample them. The medicine men try to pray us away. Those who know of us do not speak of us, for fear we will hear. Admittedly,
we are not hard to distract. There’s always some new imbalance to chase down. Dip your bullets in ashes, and if you know the Skinwalker’s human name, then speak it, and they will be destroyed. If you know
my human name, then speak it, and I will take you with me. Unlike you, I don’t fear the world’s end. I know more are waiting if we could but rise to meet them.
Lauren Scharhag (she/her) is an award-winning author of fiction and poetry, and a senior editor at Gleam. Her latest poetry collection, Midnight Glossolalia (with Scott Ferry and Lillian Necakov), is now available from Meat for Tea Press. She lives in Kansas City, MO. https://linktr.ee/laurenscharhag
When I read Richard Gessner’s Voyeur Rising I imagined the story as an adult cartoon with liminal existential qualities. Voyeur Rising reminds me of Vladimir Nabokov’s use of an unreliable narrator who is found in most current social media video and reels. This collective trick usually deceives the viewer with a decoy. This is the place where Gessner’s work lurks, to induce the peripheral mind while feeding the predatory eye. Here we see the ultimate conflict and fantasy of the Freudian id haunting the masculine mind. A pleasure principle with an intrusive desire to poach voluptuous women without any commitment- but to squirt sperm, to clone more succulent women so they are everywhere. The fantasy has boundaries in Gessner’s character who is aware of his masculine delusion, that every women he find’s attractive isn’t a possession but an unfulfilled wish. All this takes place by the primordial ocean, a surface alive with waves.
-Mitchell Pluto
Strategically positioning his beach chair, pretending to be reading a daily newspaper, Joey Genauski, nonchalant, invisible, just by chance, settles in a tight rectangle of sand bordering the burgundy beach towels of two 19 year old college girls the age of his granddaughter.
The girls, an ash blonde, and a brunette with auburn highlights, have soft buttery skin, shapely, wide hipped—all curvaceous splendor—
Perfect brown bodies striped with pale tan lines sharply outlining pale pink asses and naturally large breasts jiggling slightly in the warm breeze of early summer.
The tan lines form a pale faded triangle V of panty line extending upwards. From butt crack to lower back, panty lines curving around thighs to below belly buttons—traces of cast of bikini no longer worn.
Gradations of pale pink skin merging to olive, cinnamon, golden brown, pale breasts encircled with D cup outlines of frilly brassieres. Burnt Sienna areoles and nipples a darker shade of brown than their overall tans.
Crisp yellow and gold designer bikinis, light summer dresses, brassieres. And panties are strewn across towels covered with tubes of sun screen, Purses, car keys, fruit, sandwiches cold drinks, a paperback of classic 19th century literature and a current glossy fashion magazine glistening in the sun.
Furtively, through dark sunglasses, Joey Genauski gazes longingly towards the girls’ spread open legs. Their Smoothly shaven vaginas, A reddish salmon pink, are soothed with cooling aloe vera. Blue and white beach umbrellas with a swordfish logo line the beach Landscape. Its a Saturday afternoon in early June, the weekend crowds work to Joey’s advantage, giving him an excuse to sit close to single women without being obvious about it. The crowds camouflaging his true intentions, allowing him to move frequently, unnoticed by the morally reproving beach patrol seeking to squelch his habit of constantly wandering the beach in quest of a perfect view.
Other voyeurs, Joey’s competition, watch the beach entrance from a distance, waiting for the arrival of young ladies, single or in groups. Approaching the ladies after they have gotten naked under their beach umbrellas.
Most women strip naked, but some keep their bikini bottoms on. Some wear Brazilian string bikinis, flesh toned thongs, almost nude, but not quite. Pale maidens wiggle out of floral print summer dresses, shorts, and candy striped one piece bathing suits.
Voluptuous brown girls peel off demure, white see-through-when-wet suits, revealing all to bulging male eyes, looking, gawking, looking away— Diaphanous mesh panties slide down svelte hips, falling to sand. Brightly colored, fancy brassieres pop off as delicate fingers reach behind unhooking clasps shining in the sun, catching the eye of a seagull flying in blue skies above.
Secret cameramen get up in the nooks and crannies of spread eagled women half asleep in the sun. Joey leaves the two girls, vanishing into thick masses of beach regulars, middle aged, tanned and leathery, marking their territory with windscreens, coolers and little plastic flags poked in the sand.
In Joey’s absence, competing beach voyeurs, some bold, well hung, smooth talkers, will succeed in engaging the ash blonde and brunette with auburn highlights in a lively conversation. Mastering bare body language a virile stud will advance to slow massage, rubbing baby oil of their perfect bodies glistening in the sun.
Slick voyeurs who remain at the top of the food chain will return to the beach, summer after summer, appearing like clockwork as in the legendary return of swallows to Mission San Juan Capistrano—
Their pick up routines with the ladies will remain similar and predictable year after year, decade after decade. Enticing the girls with superficial big talk of financial conquest, fancy cookies and little airplane bottles of alcohol.
In the tidal pools of voyeur nursery school, untested new generations of voyeurs emerge like baby sea turtle hatchlings making a mad dash seaward—
climbing the slippery slope of a succulent female ass just over the horizon,
Joey Genauski wanders into a gaggle of girls taking it all off for the first time-
In the distance, randy couples frolic in the surf, avoiding the June Jellyfish in the waves, out at sea, fishing boats come in close to shore, catching a panoramic eyeful of skin.
“Voyeur Rising” (C) 2022 Richard Gessner
Richard Gessner’s fiction has been published in Air Fish: an anthology of speculative work, Rampike, Ice River, Coe Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Happy, The Act, Sein und Werden, Skidrow Penthouse, The Pannus Index, Fiction International and many other magazines. A collection, Excerpts from the Diary of a Neanderthal Dilettante & The Man in the Couch was published by Bomb Shelter Props. Gessner’s drawings and paintings have appeared in Raw Vision, Courier News, Asbury Park Press, Rampike, Skidrow Penthouse, and exhibited at Pleiades Gallery, Hamilton Street Gallery, Cry Baby Gallery, The Court Gallery and the Donald B. Palmer Museum. Richard wrote The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey.
The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing WhimsyAudible
THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT
like
lunge clump canopy canister fraught ganglia, chop
butterudder back
forward
this way
that
twist turn vertiginate
swallow swelter
claim cluster clank crank rustle roundabout
c l a m
bustle break bother broke brother
bother bustle break brother broke
bristle
breathe
bombin-
ate fables of late bludgeon bark bake
sleight slumber swell
B Flat line periphery-burst stride
intervallic surge sully sulk skulk
atti-T!ude
feud fidelity
ferm en
ta tion
in-
stall
un-
install
FRIDAY THE 13TH
Mitchell Pluto inspired this Hinge to the Monk tune “Friday The 13th” Mitchell writes: One of my favorite tunes is Friday The 13th by Monk and Rollins, at first it takes the listener on a slant- a sort of drunk crab walk, and then the block chords, for me create a square spiral.
WOR studios 1953 thelonious Monk/Sonny Rollins
sloop-de-sloop whirl wind full intake reed fill throat splash slippery slant
peek-a-boo inebriate peregrinate in-
cubate square spiral boulder-roll stroll crab colossal hi-hat crisp
chink snap crystalclarioncrystalline bosomy broth ivories wrought bath breadload beatitude concuss allude wedge hook link sinkseepagelodge
laurel sling
carrion fletch
b e t r o t h
clump stump flummery block lump here
come de Monk scruff scamper liv-
ery lurch paint a birch fu-
rl fistful conflagrate agitate French horn ― fog-caster, frog-hopper ― conflate titillate aerate levitate brindle lop Bird-bop
chordal congregation
hymnal meditation
scintilla aubergine
whisk brisk bask peculiar challenge the ruler
adumbrate gestate
spray a mandate
, man
EPISTROPHY FOR T. MONK
ganglion frieze chop
splash melodic purl surge/underflirt slash the line tease conflatethe outer reaches skim bordersperipheries riff the mad notes cyclonesflush curling cuniculi mucid caves jettison spillsof color mutation migration never beforeheard harmonic swoops triadsscribbled above bison head rage ofmemory snarled rhythms stored in stonecircling and twirling a gathering of data raptorial fingers toolboxof the soul aerial lift and poise& strafe the keysprey for salvation litanous chariotsa last chance passagebump into the finalfour bar essence is exhaustionof complexity buck to theride cymbal bow to the bass
Heller Levinson is the originator of Hinge Theory. His most recent books are Dialogics (Anvil Tongue Press, 2022),Lure, andjus’ sayn’ (Black Widow Press, 2022). His Query Caboodle and Shift Gristle are scheduled for a Spring 2023 release (also BWP). He lives in the Hudson Valley, NY.
BLENDED IN THE HOURS From the place where the abrupt sound of the loica ventures
(1) the evanescence of your future breath appears among the vegetation that hides your name and the blue and gray stones of the primal mystery there I will drink from the mist that shouts the perpendicular miracle the only reason at all that moistens the vegetal belly of the beloved and shines the incessant desire. How long does the star take to announce your coming? or there will be no signs in this already long life of chordates
(2) while the empty horn waits for its winds and the opaque flame of sleep leans into oblivion
(1) Signature and unpredictable bird before being (A) bird in the light areas that are shaken by the wind mythical and loving red that drew a smile on a child to open the celestial fields of my pupil that stirred my early neurotransmitters before the new cycle (B) (A) Before being Before discriminating the gray hours from the clear ones I inhabited the only and always proud clarity of my imaginary friend (B) New cycle My lymph is rocked by the wind in a theater of new opportunities those that favor the sweetness of the coots of sober stride mating in the repetition of miracles so that the aromas perpetuate my arcane name and the wandering clouds welcome their polar persistence. I had the option of ascending to lightning by the cosmic warp where perhaps the root of the word would have questioned in coming times of etheric colors where time would have curved for your eyes and I would raise your elusive silhouette that lies in the angle of a sunset irretrievably withers the thaumaturgical vowel (B1) as simple as a smile or the collapse of a galaxy since everything is corresponding and apparent with its prodigious lightness (B2) Like a breath from the forest.
TRAVEL I went down to the inside of your belly caressing the rafters of your cosmic cloud the one that received me with the aroma of the sacred bulbs. There you were the clear love of wood and the vegetal wisdom that embraces the ancient verb when the wind ceases its journey on the shoulders of the floral liturgy How many skies inhabit your seed that furrows the seer’s eye? Is there a niche of smoke that hides your salty voice? Or simply the root of everything has its home in that mystery.
Each step collects behind you, the daffodils that inevitably lose your mark the one that wanders in the deep sands that in the empire of shadows shelters you. The messenger has a singular noise I’ll feel it that dreadful day I will know then that the epitaphs for the sepulcher arrive, where nothing else needs to be done, the metal swallows are an illusory replacement, since the truths remained in the lock, and blind to certainties, I only rest for a few moments to give me strength in the pilgrim sea, the one who confuses the epistolary tides and enjoys seemingly innocuous sacrifices.
I will kiss your lips according to the prophecy
while the breeze will speak the unfinished language
And you will see me with your green eyes
that are not green
are brown
But when you laugh they turn green
and you can draw a different morning
with an approximate solstice
with snakes in the window,
so my useless life becomes useful
because I’m a hobo of solar systems
and I become a wanderer in your body,
as a geographer of your corpse altar
and intruder in your zodiac cenith.
At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.
Chandelier in the mornings
this useless armor
And the leaves are blank
soaking up her violently dance
they burn in front of the cabinets of dubious origin.
I hear the birds giving birth to the woods, in the upper angles of a nebula.
At this moment the end of the thread talk about the miracle of one day unrepeatable and mild luck How strange of an eclipse under the brief abyssal tides like ghostly cardamoms approaching in the deserts of disease appealing to the late corrections as it did for millions of years moss persistence with its epicness selecting the right humidity with your organic and fruity hug in that I put my hope in what you find in front of your eyes because I am the one who reads in the borrascas as I advance toward your directions who fires violent canines before those who offend you to heal that sadness that leaves the middle of the night when you slip inevitably and persistently beneath out the door.
Featured Image: “Beyond the visible world is the non-Euclidean horizon for the dragonfly” acrylic and ink on 250 gm Fabriano paper by Enrique De Santiago
What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?
It is true, not all secrets are created equal. Some add a sway to the hips while others…well…they are a poison that eat us from the inside out.
I’m Tellin’
All unsaids, All secrets are not created equal. Some secrets kin with our bodies because our bodies know that they need to be the safe, the harbor for such things. This is not about that. Some secrets turn a walk, a regular gait to a saunter because the body tastes its sweetness. This is not about that. Certain kinds of othas, secrets that is, well….they bloom somethin else, the poison that eats us from the inside out.
This be bout dat. Dat latter kind. Dat otha kind.
It’s not just in the toxic we trust. We grow. We throw seeds. We replicate it.
*
When I was a child , there was a statement that we would say that would check the perceived wrong doer. It would be something like, ’Oooooh, I’m tellin.’ What precedes the ‘tellin’ is the series of oooo’s mixed with the arrangement of vowels and consonants after that short phrase all together, in sum, in calculation, may make the 24 million miles long tail of Hailey’s comet green-eyed.
I’m tellin’ was a threat.
It was to check the doer who was already in deep doin wrong. It was a nod to the way one was willing to betray secrets, willing to betray the real monster who hid under covers.
The tellers of the toxic became the snitches, the snitches is who we said would get stitches In those streets
What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?
Be damned, dare stitches, dare the can of whoops ass…I’m tellin.’
No threat…but invocation
Viens
Viens ici
Je ne te l’ai jamais dit mais
Oui je l’ai fait
*
Gwendolyn said it best, “…Even if you are not ready for the day,
It will not always be night.” By not ready, we mean whatever you are holding. Whatever is hiding within the folds and wrinkles and twists of unmade beds. Whatever is being passed across through invisible notes
All ink doesn’t vanish. Some just wears…refusin’ ignoring
By not ready, we mean through the hush of phone calls. The phone calls that contain whispers. The phone calls that have no phone lines that require that and only THAT one other person picks up the receiver
The thing that returns to the pit spiraled tight behind the spiral of the belly’s button. The thing that makes it feel like each look by another means they know it because of the way it reads on the body. Tethered and bound. Whatever it is that you are holding and hoping that the sun won’t beat you to it…It’s coming
Je le referais
Je le referais juste pour le chemin
*
What if we said that the keepers of that kinda…. are the sleepers who never awake. What if we said we will nail their coffins shut
And forbid them from wake. What if we flipped the script on the secret keepers, the pain dwellers, all gates and their guards,
The bottom feeders who feed on the toxic blooms, the corpse eaters who grow fat full and bloated off the bodies that become emaciated from thoooose kinda secrets
What if…We take their power back. We read the topography of the secret laden body and become fluent. Armed with the tongues that know how to untaste poison, daggers in hand.
We the kind who realllll good with the way the sun sneaks up, how it creeps from behind the curtains of dark. The heat, we feel it on our shoulders. We refuse to hide from the way it will come get us
Nous avons tous été pese
Nous sommes toujours trouve…voulant
Nous ne pouvons pas le nier
Something about the way a secret taste
Jevu hu fair sa—
Shanta Lee Gander is an artist and multi-faceted professional. As an artist, her endeavors include writing prose, poetry, investigative journalism, and photography. Her poetry, prose, and personal essays have been featured in The Crisis Magazine, Rebelle Society, and on the Ms. Magazine Blog.
The light of old things, of beautiful old things, awoke in me.-- Sherwood Anderson
swathes wash-lift, titillative
fibers twine through time,
tangle through grasses, air,
the storied
the beheld
these old pliers, bruised, complacent,
loose, slackened by the exigencies
of labor, the perfume of application
seasoned armchair yellowing from
the fade of multitude, stuffed
with the mnemonics of repose, the
armature of provision
spattering through the long cornfields sacred vessels
spring alive, drink the oil of the
corn, flutter to the western winds
things patinated,
foamingricketyhistorical,
flux-chugging
Abyssal Eros
techy telltale totem
odiferous refract
calligraphic concert
a matter of teeth
upwards & out
doesn’t anyone say g l a d e anymore?
gloss the glimmer reef really
hammockSplay over-
tures daub mineral-rinse gyre
cumulous curdle
drift
harmonies
formulate in flour
acculturate spray
love is pertinent to confusion
meticulous punctuation is an expensive luxury
the floorboards rose,
then swallowed
Heller Levinson is the originator of Hinge Theory. His most recent books are Dialogics (Anvil Tongue Press, 2022), Lure, and jus' sayn' (Black Widow Press, 2022). His Query Caboodle and Shift Gristle are scheduled for a Spring 2023 release (also BWP). He lives in the Hudson Valley, NY.
Featured Art Photo Grass Drawing for Sherwood Anderson by Linda Lynch
Mitchell Pluto 