Song To Accompany the Dance of the Bella-Coola God of Wealth from the Corner of First and Main to the Door of a Squad Car

Song To Accompany the Dance of the Bella-Coola God of Wealth from the Corner of First and Main to the Door of a Squad Car by David Wagoner

by David Wagoner

_

See him!  Sing for him!
He knows which leg goes first
and which legs follow!
How else could he have risen
out of the seawater
and brought himself ashore
in the cold morning
with his crown of many feet?

Hasn’t he danced all day,
all afternoon and evening,
from one dry place to another
to deliver to the People
what he alone understands,
what he alone can bear—
the power of Starfish?

Sing now for Copper Maker,
Wealthy Man from the Sea!
He has never forgotten
those who have nothing to sing,
who have never learned to make
their names out of breathless air!

They are praising him!  He goes
to the door of that black shell
with as many legs as stars
to embrace it, to force it open,
to feast on it, to begin
to empty it, still dancing!


David Wagoner has published 18 books of poems, most recently A MAP OF THE NIGHT (U. of Illinois Press, 2008) and ten novels, one of which, THE ESCAPE ARTIST, was made into a movie by Francis Ford Coppola.  He won the Lilly Prize in 1991 and has won six yearly prizes from POETRY (Chicago).  He was a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets for 23 years.  He has been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and twice for the National Book Award.  He edited POETRY NORTHWEST from 1966 to its end in 2002.  He is professor emeritus of English at the U. of Washington and teaches in the low-residency MFA Program of the Whidbey Island Writers Workshop.


The Saloon

An Archive of Manly Questions

by Lisa Marie Basile  

_  

There were no real men here,
no one that could make a little
soft claret cup bloom, no
one that could take a little
coffin varnish without feeling
like he needs to shoot a man.
 
I stood with a white sleeping gown in the door, and
the sunset flooded under my feet, and by the looks
on those faces they thought I was La Llorona
with my black rock eyes.

The shush was drunken,
the sound of clinking glasses against the
wood, the falling dust into the sun. I prayed
somewhere inside my godless head
don’t give them lick and a promise,
don’t smile don’t smile don’t talk.
It takes a crazy batch of sweaty men
to make me sing my scorpio song.


Lisa Marie Basile is a writer, living in New York, and Editor-in-Chief of Caper Literary Journal . She has had work published in CommonLine, Aphros Literary Magazine, Vox Poetica, and The Medulla Review, among others. She studied English Language and Literature at Pace University in Manhattan, where she received 1st place in PU’s Annual Writing Contest for poetry and fiction. “Her book, “A Decent Voodoo,” will be published on Cervena Barva Press in 2012. Her web site is www.lisamariebasile.com and www.caperjournal.com.


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.