Milky

CJ Cioc

I smell stars, loudly –

singing rings of chorus, orbits. Towards us, comets—

named them after us. Named them Halley,

Hale-bopp— tear drops

on fire.

 

I can lay

on my back on the hillside

by the road,

sniffing out Cadillacs and autoshow

Edsels, winesap taillights, tasting

speed, and cinnamon

 

blood, hot blood shining

in pale moonlight—

tar black engine oil blood.

 

A Jake brake pulses, echoes, and rolls

over hills. It fills the still air, the stale night

and bare trees with shuddering leaves.

 

In rings of purple my retinas lattice

tear detach. Afterimage burns which streak

in green neon

 

through my galaxy

of void I see all.


CJ Cioc is a Rosemont College graduate with his MFA in Creative Writing. His poetry collection “Capitulum” recently earned him Thesis of the Year and thesis with distinction. As an undergrad he served as a contributing editor for the campus magazine, Calliope, before graduating with his BA in English. He was awarded the Martha E. Martin Writing award for both Fiction and Poetry. CJ lives in the Pocono Mountains where he enjoys backpacking on the Appalachian Trail, sleeping in, and mending stone walls.

Girolamo Zini

Michelle Castleberry

Age: 20

Nationality/Place of Origin: Istria, Trieste

Description: rope-walker

Cause of Death: Died of atlanto-axial disclocation (broken neck)

 

The secret to balance

is to always fall up—

Even in training, I rarely

felt the net on my back.

I pointed my nose

away from the hills,

seeing what I needed to see

through the soles

of my bare feet.

The secret to my trade

is to only desire

the path the rope stretches

in front of you.

So I followed it every day,

the crowd’s roar

making tidal noise.

I never cared until I heard

Elena’s voice

in the throng below.

For one second,

my feet forgot their work.

My eyes found her face,

and took the rest of me falling


Although a resident of northeast Georgia, Michelle Castleberry enjoys visiting Philadelphia whenever possible. She is working on a series of poems based on the Hyrtl Skull Collection from the M?tter Museum. Her first book is Dissecting the Angel and Other Poems.

Adalbert Czaptieonesz

Michelle Castleberry

ge: 51

Nationality/Place of Origin: Poland

Description: Catholic

Cause of Death: Cut his throat because of extreme poverty

 

Sew me into the dirt in pieces

beside the potatoes and beets.

Pay the debtors with the next harvest.

 

Do not trouble my wife.

 

Do not trouble my sons.

 

They are blameless.

 

Strew me in the furrows at night

after the crows go to sleep.

 

This labor cannot be witnessed

by sun or any friend.

 

Tamp the dirt over my flesh

using my last pair of boots.

 

My people once owned the mountains.

Then we ran down with the thaw,

my forefathers drinking

more potatoes than they grew.

Now the few of us left

are folded under the valley’s skin.

The shadow of the mountain

always over us.

 

Feed me back to this valley.

 

I left my wife and sons,

pale as tubers in the cottage,

warmed by fire from branches

stolen from the orchard.

Their bones wash up under their skin

like saplings in a flood plain.

 

Their names are the last

words I speak

before I open my throat

a different way, offer

a poor man’s wine

to the rich man’s soil.

 


Although a resident of northeast Georgia, Michelle Castleberry enjoys visiting Philadelphia whenever possible. She is working on a series of poems based on the Hyrtl Skull Collection from the M?tter Museum. Her first book is Dissecting the Angel and Other Poems    

In the Trenches of the Cimarron Canyon

Kristian Macaron

When La Llorona met Billy the Kid in the trenches of the Cimarron canyon, the world was black with smokestacks, burning as buildings became tumbleweeds. The scars of the trees were brighter than the mountains, now rounded hills of charcoal and we were all mountain men, bleary-eyed and mad with thirst.

From the gorge, under great gray palisade cliffs we see the flames light the sky and it makes us wild like the men who first laid their hands on fire, who burned off their fingerprints so that we cannot find them beyond bones and needles and old spearheads stuck into the ground like pennies in a gutter.

Billy raises his six-shooter, left handed, crooked smile, unburied. His famous laugh breaks the wailing woman’s cry and she stops, and listens to his voice rattle like a baby snake.

            ‘We’re all made of wild things.

            We’re made of touch, of caress,

            And of the way your eyes flutter over me.’

She doesn’t know whether to rip him open with her desperation, or to meld hers with his somehow in the midst of the burning world.

How I want to be there, in that ocean when Noah’s ark rocked away in the darkness. The world underneath new–in that ancient tumbler of boulders—and I’d be as smooth and slick as a sugared strawberry.

Finally she says:

            ‘There’s no space here, in this air, in the remaking, for old, sharpness.

            The love here moves us. Makes us. Wild to understand.’

And I think here, in the gorge, under walls of these stone giants, I’ve found the kind of twister that slung Slue-foot Sue into oblivion. I wonder–I’ve forgotten–if she wore her wedding dress? Her veil twisted and gauzy with creek water. As she rode, wielded, conquered, crashed that mammoth catfish into the howling moon.

            I wonder if the twister made her–

            made her hot– like the desert sea of sand and rattlers.

            made her cool down in the night– like a bride uncovered.

            made her mad– like the catfish who could live out of water:

            alive like an inside out stallion. It’s inside a flurry of flesh and fur and a

    dazzling mane that set free would have colored the wind on the plains.

On the day when the giants froze into mountains, staring at each other across the Cimarron river, the moon wolves yelped and withered into coy-otes: howl-less and brown like dirt. And our legends met our ghosts with pistolas and lagrimas.

On the days of our births we breath the dust of memories

And it scours our flesh, smooths our skin, fills up our lungs.

And God says at each beginning and beginning again that it is good.

He said we are perfect.

And so we breathe now. As we breathe again. And we continue our remaking.

But the earth is cracked like a battleground.

Like footsteps. Like a mine of years and stones:

Rough and brilliant.

Sharp and smooth.

Grim Story

Andrea Selch

For one whole decade I was a giant:
my tunic smelled of rotten milk and frying meat;
my knuckles cracked all on their own;
and I had enormous, tired, watery eyes.

Yet the children’s faces lit up at mine;
I was good—when I ate them,
I spit them up again, nom, nom, nom.
Le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.

Once upon a time I was a lover too,
cavorting among the fairies, queens,
all of us in rolled-up denims,
balling, in so many ways,  and illegal.

Now, I am shrinking—my son’s hair overtakes me,
standing up like a chariot horse’s mane—
and I am dragged behind him into battle,
my hands bleed and the wind singes my jowls.

In the Wellspring, a cop half my age
shoots the breeze with me, then leaves,
saying Have a nice day, ma’am.
What business have I, being a ma’am?

I very-almost parked in handicapped
but my hybrid wagon, blue fish that carries me

hither and yon, swam in the large spot,
and I thought better of it.

The scabrous odors of war are thick upon me,
I want a ticket out. But I’m so tiny now,

I slip through all the rails,
like jacks through my once-gigantic hands.

Nothing but Villas in Tuscany

Anne-Adele Wight

when he comes home
steer heavenward
like a movie about flying into the sun

 

airlift cattle to a terrace with orange trees
I’m the last thing he wants
nothing to see from here but villas in Tuscany

 

computer his raw pet
bone bad
spinning silk in his lap

 

sky stops giving out lilac trump cards
I retreat to the windowsill
enough small cows there to flatten a city

 

 

For R

Amy Small-McKinney

When I am dead, I will still be your lamb, still listening for your bleating.

In your bed, when you are jolted awake by the usual neighbors, police cars,

I will finally move toward you, undefended, I will be headlights in the dark.

By your bed, I will be the green light, always on, faxing from your faulty heart.

In the morning, I will be the car that drives you to the creek, the bench,

where you watch walkers, not lambs, move across a steel bridge, sturdy.

If you are holding a book, and you will be, it will be The Sparrow.

I will be the alien I refused to read about in life.  I couldn’t give you that.

Instead, I wanted to move back, into black and white, the pewter pitcher,

a pigeon  on the  bowler hat.

I promise you, I will be the other, the one you long to talk to.

Philosophy of Baking (Crimmins Poetry Prize Honorable Mention)

Autumn Konopka

In the oven there are secrets:
drippings,
crusts burned and flaked,
black bubbles that still smoke every time she fires up.

She says:

Give me bitter lemons; I will sweeten them.
Give me brown bananas, sour milk.
Give me the chocolate so dark it chokes you.

You train yourself to listen.
Give the oven what she wants,
and she gives you
coconut custard, marble pound,
red velvet cupcakes, cranberry scones.
You tune out the cacophony:
“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
the doorbell bringing women who want
to know if you’re saved,
men who want
to know if you’re saving enough on your gas bill.

Sometimes the oven says
eggs, bacon, gruyere, chives.
And you obey
without hesitation.

Other voices hurl pages
of unwritten poems, echos of your husband’s lover
singing “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh god, yes!”
And him: “There has never been another woman
so beautiful.”

You don’t listen to them.
You lean in closer to the oven.
Closer still.
Deep inside where it’s quietest.
Maybe today will be your day
to change, to puff and flake,
turn golden and rise
without sinking in the center.


Autumn Konopka’s poems have appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Literary Mama, Crab Orchard Review, Apiary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and others. In 2014, her chapbook, a chain of paper dolls, was published by the Head & the Hand Press. When not frantically tapping poems into her iPhone, Autumn runs, reads with her kiddos, rewards well-placed semicolons, and watches embarrassingly bad tv.
Find her online:autumnkonopka.com.

DOG, COME HERE INTO THE DARK HOUSE. COME HERE, BLACK DOG. (Crimmins Poetry Prize Honorable Mention)

Ken Pobo

       Etching by Leonora Carrington

At night when barred owls
ask who cooks for you, she sits
by the window.  No one

cooks for her.  She has a black dog
and coral night.  The moon
offers stepladders of gleam.  Preferring the dark,

she closes shutters at dawn.  Of course
people say she must be lonely.  They’re right.
She thinks loneliness is like a maple tree

she counts on to change colors.  Besides,
with a black dog who could feel too alone?
His tail made of butterflies and

zinnias.  He barks and a glass of red wine
appears.  Quite the dog about town
yet faithful as a hard crossword puzzle

in a Sunday paper.  Her windows open
and close but rarely break.  She knows
that cracking glass will announce

her own death.  She sees it faintly
through dusty panes, smiles
before turning away.


Kenneth Pobo has a new book forthcoming from Blue Light Press called Bend Of Quiet. His work has appeared in: Hawaii Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Indiana Review, and elsewhere. He teaches creative writing and English at Widener University in Chester.

Brotherly Love (Crimmins Poetry Prize Honorable Mention)

Warren Longmire

Philly all the emo with none of the moshpit.
Philly free jazz in a trashbag.

Philly’s a synthetic weave tumbleweed down 69th street.
Philly’s Schuylkill punch brown and meek mill’s cadence for an anti-depressant.

Philly’s a rust covered trolley rail used as a balance beam for cat sized rats.
Philly’s a mouse that stands in the middle your living-room wondering what you staring at.

Philly’s when the scent of urine feels comfortable.
Philly’s a crackhouse where someone pulls out an ipod touch.

Philly’s the seasoning left in potato chip bag, littered because fuck you.
Philly’s bulletproof glass protecting blunt wrappers and raisinets.

Philly’s a bed sheet ad for pet colonics.
Philly’s four empty barber shops in a two block radius.

Philly is abandoned midnight unsafe even if desert.
Philly looks at anything but you as intensely as it can.

Philly is dubstep basement row-home hot pagan light-show for nobody Philly.
Philly’s a cafe a bored new jersey dreamed into existence.

Philly bucktoothed street with caution tape floss.
Philly flosses through beirut in a hooptee.
Philly ain’t no white car.
Philly For Sale sign.

Philly loose dutch tobacco on the 23. Philly loose money. Philly is cheap.
Philly chirps. Philly speaks it’s first words. Philly lounges.

Philly is waiting.
Philly is waiting.
Philly is waiting and the teams choke.
The kids choke.

The fey smokers identical outside the whiskey bar chain smoke like it’s new orleans downtown.
The buses weeze.

The roads are cracked and the sidewalk’s grow flowerbeds beneath them.
Philly grows and shrinks. Screams “back door” but doesn’t tell you to step down.

Doesn’t speak. Gets cut. Names.
A paradox laughing at itself. The old friend with no money

            and a ugly mouth.


Warren Longmire is a web programmer, game developer, poet and part-time philosopher. He’s been published in Painted Bride Quarterly, Metropolary, Eleven Eleven and two chapbooks: Ripped Winters and Do.Until.True, but what he really wants to do is direct. He currently resides in Philly across from a former Mausoleum with one roommate, one bluetooth karaoke machine and a pet python named Fugee.
You can find his writings, essays, videos and sounds at dountiltrue.tumblr.com and soundcloud.com/wclongmire.