13 Ways of Living Without You

Britt Gambino

by Britt Gambino

_

(1)

I traveled and fucked around
the world, with every ethnicity,
every cup size.

(2)

I eat every kind of food, dress
how ever I want. I live in
your state which is now mine

(3)

and you are in Jersey
which I have escaped
along with the fear of getting lost

(4)

in strip mall parking lots, looking
for your car where I’d spend days
in the back and nights in the front.

(5)

I stopped expecting you
to sidle out of a red Honda
like you did when you’d pick me up

(6)

for an adventure. Each slab
of cracked pavement
is another day out – Delivered

(7)

from the closet and the clubs now,
I have a girl whose skin is white like yours
but tastes like sweet sweat.

(8)

She brings me into the sunlight
of Christmas Day, the Theater District, trips
to Bermuda or nights in on our couch.

(9)

She doesn’t shove her hands
down me and call it something
like love –

(10)

Our life isn’t a cop
we’re trying to outrun
in the back woods of our hometown.

(11)

I can circumscribe the holes
you left. I’m absolved
in this booth you cannot enter.

(12)

The heat in my one-bedroom apartment
is self-contained
and so is the beer.

(13)

I don’t clean up after you –
your vomit, your chaos. I sleep
all night and the phone doesn’t ring.

 

 

Britt Gambino lives in New York, NY, at the end of the universe (a.k.a. Washington Heights). Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in anderbo.com, DecomP, Xenith, and The Arava Review. This fall, she will begin pursuing her MFA degree at the New School. She enjoys brunch on a Sunday afternoon, making musical compilations, and rearranging furniture with her partner, Trisha, who has always believed. To read some of Britt’s ramblings, visit her blog at http://gritsforyou.wordpress.com.

Camping

Russell Jaffe

by Russell Jaffe

_
Now look:
everyone took turns to talk, there are black braches, the birch bark tears quickly
a______like an envelope
It isn’t a lying, shirtless night, and there aren’t crickets
it’s cold
the surf melodies a scatter in leaves
a_____dead ladybugs salt the sand. There’s sand in my dinner and the salt tastes like a dead ocean. _

I love: I have loved, I am in love now. I am over here, I am distant in love
something in an overhanging cover of dead branches told us that’s ok
a_____somebody built a lighthouse that a robot runs now,
a_____and there was a sign driven wet into the sand that said KEEP OUT
but we came in the wrong way from behind
a_____and from a science perspective, from a rational perspective, from a quiet perspective
there were so many ways to enter

a_____a_____how could we have seen the sign?
a_____And why was there a shed for firewood in a forest of downed, dry trees
dry in the cold, dry, dry crisply hanging in branches on the ground over the damp undergrowth
a_____firewood cold is as useless as smoke
a_____smoke, smoke decidedly goes up and up from our surrounding figures like a secret helicopter, our firewood smoke
into trees, how I wanted to capture that flow but I only have time for another beer,
So, what I gather:
We have marshmallows, fire and
a_____a seat
a_____something other than

 

 

Russell Jaffe teaches English at Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, IA and holds an MFA in poetry from Columbia College in Chicago. His poems have appeared in Shampoo, MiPOesias, The Portland Review, Spooky Boyfriend, Writer’s Bloc, and others. Additionally, he writes a hot sauce review blog called Good Hurts.

2 Poems by Feng Sun Chen

Feng Sun Chen

by Feng Sun Chen

WAKE: the eighth of 72 transformations

Wukong, protector of hollows,
squeezed his eyes into needles.
At age twenty he had accepted his fate
to be exiled into a unique freedom.
Distilled from beginning stone, this blood
must transform into anything.
His voice, a crescent of fugitive smiles.
His arrival, an apparition.
While riding on the rail he read wonder comics. He felt that
he understood the german scientist made of vapor.
He liked the dotted way color, dark and light
ransomed living characters on flat surface.
Their dyed bodies melded into one another.
Running his fingers over their flammability,
his hot monkey suit weighed on him.
Panic dripped from his in-between pores.
As he stepped through the sighing doors he felt the seeds
of what it is to touch unfiltered happiness,
light skating on the domed heads of nude humanity.
As the crowd surged around him, dragging with them
inadvertent simian hairs,
his insides sunk on the burnt edge,
synapses stretched like dawn on the bed sheet,
soul in blood on floss rushing with water
down the metal esophagus. He could be many. He could be all.
He could be anything, nobody, an army of moths
surfacing the electric cocoon.
Anything but one.

CLOUD DANCING

In mixing with the thinnest atmosphere
he came into a special power
and took large masses of cloud into his arms like children.
Maybe it would snow.
One of the elders had gone stiff.
Wukong had watched him die.
They sat behind the drape of waterfall, faces dusking.
He thought of Adonis.
Adonis dying, perhaps posed neatly on a slab of marble,
hands content with themselves, not to own
their perfection, and now to release it.
You cannot release what you do not have. This logic
pained him and echoed between far peaks.
Climbing to the summit of the highest mountain,
Wukong thought to achieve a productive anger.
He ripped out a fistful of fur, chewed on it,
flung it like ashes to the dull wind.
They would become an army of protectors,
a swarm of selves. For this he related most to bees.
The was an intake of rare breath, twin dust motes for each flake
that closed on them
before mixing with his emergency,
and the dark animal body
confused by cold and the tiny bleached points
of hard water
slipped quietly into flight.

 

 

Feng Sun Chen is an MFA candidate at the University of Minnesota (starting this fall, in poetry), and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in nthposition, Pop Serial, So and So Magazine, Illumination, Vellum, and Paper Skin Glass Bones. Her website is fengsunchen.com.