The potato has its own eyes,
dry as a sermon.
It’s a cruel, hard, inviolate vegetable,
able to live in a burlap bag
with a hundred others of its kind.
As she peels its dull skin,
her fingers form a cold compromise
with the blade.
If the cut is slow and even,
it will leave her flesh alone.
And, if her eyes are to water,
they must do it on their own.

Her husband’s in the military.
In his world, potato peeling
is punishment.
She hasn’t seen enough of him lately
to appreciate the irony.
There’s no gruff sergeant standing over her
unless life itself is a gruff sergeant.
She looks up every now and then
but that’s not where the orders come from.

She much prefers onions.
They attack her eyes
from the first invasion of their skin.
Tears well up
and who’s to say where they’re coming from.
A potato is indifferent.
An onion sympathizes.

- John Grey

Last Leaves of 2013

I watched them swaying. They’re terrified I thought;

or is it me who is so afraid to fall?

What’s it like to be the leaf, knowing you are as important as a penny in a millionaire’s hand?

What’s it like to be cautious with every breeze, your fingers frozen to the tips,

and Winter comes like an abusive Father,

down the stairs, your heart breaking with every step?

Or is the Leaf ready for anything? A lover of risk and fate’s cold stare?

There’s the skin I want to be in, when the time comes:

to be like that, and guard against nothing,

to ride the wind, and cradle the air, and fall, and fall, and fall.

Dec 10, 2013

- Lisa Konigsberg 


i. Lax Dog Days

“The earth…had entered the phase when cars wear out
more quickly than the soles of shoes.”
— Italo Calvino, The Daughters Of The Moon

Traffic snarled front of a bus stop near LAX, I hear chuffing sounds

from a brooding Van Gogh sunburst vacancy whose pincered fingers pick

imagined bugs out of an absent left ear while euuing crowds hector

the young woman in some sort of high-pitched heat likely No comprender.

Off in the crabgrass, Messr. picks at hair lice, scratches brindled scalp scabs.

ii. Prostate Reveries

One of those smogged-in drizzly days missing the 405 interchange,

a fraught evening commute sours on the Harbor Freeway cloverleaf.  

I panic because Sweetie forgot to pack my bladder medicines.

Everyone’s pissed when a hearse cuts us off at Cemetery exit.

iii.Mister Lonelyhearts By Way Of Nathanael West Et. Al.

“Driven by a desperate hunger to the arms of a neon light,
the heart is a lonely hunter when there’s no sign of love in sight!”
― Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Mini Cooper a crushed meringue just ahead of my steel blimp, I’m prey 

to day-glo Sgt. Peppers deployed all over Hollywood’s on-ramp.

Caught behind the toy car, windows up to avoid street pagans’ buckets,

surrounding gawkers roll his/hers down to drop in cash contributions

no matter panhandlers’ apparent cause. Which makes me the smug alien 

among lifeforms who can fall in love with everyone a little bit.

- Gerard Sarnat

The Childhood of Self Pity

The young boys are learning to share,
but they start with punches and put-downs.
First they have to give away their pain.

The young girls hide their bruises before they arrive.
It makes them old, and they think the future is only
physical. Makeup makes their skin dusty.

No one wants to escape only to find reality there.
What they share is what they don’t have. They give
themselves away to make the dreams real.

Outside the bodies, they can see what the sloppy sacks
of dreams are worth. Inside, they only want out.
Each memory becomes a little balcony.

I can see planes in the sky dragging their white tails.
Their value is in their distance, which I appreciate.
I misunderstood at least one sack of tattered love.

And still the pain remains ambiguous, uncertified. It was in the house
when I visited what was missing. You must think you know
what your self is, if you feel this sorry for it.

- Rich Ives

Twin cities poem

We crossed on the iron bridge
Built by your grandfather,
Biting off a lambskin glove:
Your single finger driving us,
Hands roving, buttons pulled
Open. Last night’s junk steaming
from the needle of Minneapolis
Clotting our brains.

Crossed to your mother’s house
Stacked in St. Paul, where neat
Yards and churches pressed me in
Until I barked at your prim father:
Disapproval in his head, hiding his
Alley wanderings, halved bottles
Hidden in the shed outside,
Waiting for his smooth burned gut.

Silent crossing, slipping over
The River on the concrete bridge
We want to slap each other
Until bruises rise on our cheeks,
Instead I imagine jumping
From the span parallel to us,
Breaking open on the rocks
Like the drunks. Like heavy ice.

A year later one bridge snapped
Down and held the cars under:
Jammed up the River for a week,
I saw it alone on the bank above.
It was the new one, rebar too weak,
A road too fractured by rot
To lift and carry your anger,
my anger, across the water.

- Andrew McCall



Stuck in sage on a brash escarpment, he was left with a crook to shake
At coyotes : wind-sucking shapes in the night that would tear a lamb
In two without a bleat escaping. A ribcage dragged by the sleeping form.
No fight here: his knife now sheathed in leather, creation being its only use.

Had to gouge fake loves in place, up to split in the white bark,
Around a knot, or with the grain and lenticels, jagged out with
Slapdash ovals for eyes, wide-open cartoon legs, seemingly detached
From the width of the pelvis. Breasts larger than two hands on the aspen’s
Arc, soft on hard wood, the only life to caress for days and miles.

“God help me I am so lonely”, was one caption I read, near the roots.
As if the soft of the earth was sacred in this place, the only ear. “Lucia, dearest”
Were the cut words on a lodgepole pine, complete with lips across
A huge canker in the wood where a man could bury his whole face inside.

- Andrew McCall


The undertaker’s son

We were both half-breeds,
Off-white and tanned
So no one could tell
Which brown race bore us.
I found him on the same
Second-string line in football:
He kicked. I tried to tackle
Husky kids who ate chaw.
We lost every single game:
Left on the field, heaving.

To fortify ourselves
We tried tobacco and weed,
Even hot white lightning.
But our bodies were too thin:
We vomited under the stands
Leaning like burning logs.
In exhaustion he yearned:
Pressing harder against me,
But I turned in retreat
To a college in the far north.

He never left Missouri,
Found work with his father
As an embalmer in the city,
Slapping dead flesh
And wax to each other:
So near to the rigid vessels,
Receiving them in a basement,
Opening their thoraces
With a saw in the night,
sewing them shut with gut.

I never became a doctor
Like I boasted to everyone:
Running between classes
I tore my knee open on a wire,
And retched twice as the fat
Melted a river onto the cap.
After that, it was hard
To imagine this repeated act:
Slipping my hand into
Someone like myself.

- Andrew McCall


I stand with lean, bearded men, silent men,
cold-eyed, in camo caps. They stare ahead

at nothing. I read about them in books
about the Civil War, Arkansas troops,

blue-eyed, walking into Union bullets.
They could be brothers. They could be wounded.

The unemployment office carries us
forward, pulled over clean tiles toward

a desk where a tired woman resists 
our tide.

Poets can’t be stoic. Silent people
seldom flower. Alone, we mumble lines

about the pain we did not seek but
finds us anyway. In company we

declare our mental illness like
an asset on a tax form, even if

we’re sane as paper. Even if we
don’t use paper anymore.

- Mark Burgh



Burning fuel sheds smoke into the sky,
turning the starfield into an even darker

view of the time/space continuum.
Inside the metal door heats, sometimes

to cherry red, emitting its own waves
like a private negative sea.

A shovel reclines on a bed of coals,
wooden handle stained by grime,

sweat, coal dust light as a bruise,
softer than a whisper in the late night,

when the pipes sound as a choir,
moaning through their courses,

hidden between the surety promised by
walls. The sun is also a furnace,

boiling gases that charm over damp grasses,
make the tulip fold open,

dries the t-shirt hung on a rope.
We burn alike all the others heat up,

Between us, a single flame dices on
Our lives, gambling for an enduring spark.

- Mark Burgh

Abandoned Things

The memory of you is scum that clings
To what you left behind, abandoned things:
Your schmaltzy records of singers I abhor
Are piled like overdue bills by my door;
Your lotions clutter up my cabinet;
Your ‘favorites’ greet me on the internet;
And when I go out must I always see
A friend of yours who recognizes me
From some party you invited me to?
And, really, must they always ask about you?
Your name is like a bruise left on my arm
That always goes with me, a luckless charm.
These walls still hold the echo of your laugh
As if that shrill thing were our epitaph,
But it’s so faint I have to strain to hear it—
I have to strain so very hard to hear it.

- Luke Stromberg