3 poems

by corinne delmonico

illustrations by palomine studios

you know you know i guess whatever like and she goes and i go and she’s like right all right i’ll do it time passes well well what are you going to do it do what you know what no what you know and she goes and i’m like i said i’d do it stop confusing me i’m not confusing you how do you know i’m me not you you’re not me are you going to do it i said i would this is getting ridiculous then leave just leave all right i’m leaving time passes well well what what

a dream last night i had the strangest dream actually it wasn’t very strange i was walking down a road i had to get somewhere to take a test there were rivers and mountains and a seashore had to take the test i had been studying for all my life - to miss the test would be shameful and make my whole life meaningless but what could i do? the test must be starting and i didn’t even know where i was or how to get anywhere it was not a very interesting dream but i am not a very interesting person i just kept walking

autobiography i never climbed a mountain or swum across a sea i always wanted to be someone else but i’m still only me

a visit

by emily de villaincourt

illustrations by danny delacroix

the doorbell rang. “that must be semiramis and her mother,” said ms barker. she got up and went through the drawing room to the front hall and opened the door. “good afternoon,” the woman at the door said, “you must be ms barker.” “indeed, i am. and you must be ms waters-lee. and this must be semiramis.” semiramis was a naturally polite child, besides being well brought up, and she stepped right up and smiled and made eye contact with mrs rogers. “i am indeed semiramis and i am pleased to meet you.” “come in, come in,” ms barker said. “before it starts to rain.” the sky behind the two visitors was cloudy, and a few leaves and even a piece of paper were blowing down the street. “this is hecate,” ms barker announced as she ushered the guests into the drawing room. hecate, who was as well brought up as semiramis, was already standing up and smiled and offered her hand to the visitors. “i know you two will get along wonderfully together,” ms barker told the two girls. ms barker and ms waters-lee went off together, to the seminar on cultural cross-pollination that they were co-chairpersons of. semiramis and hecate stared at each other. semiramis had taken a seat on an old-fashioned divan colored a deep royal blue. when she had leaned back she had almost been swallowed up by the soft cushions, so she quickly sat up straight. hecate, meanwhile, had reseated herself on a gold-embroidered high-backed armchair. a glass coffee table lay between them, on which sat a small laptop computer and a few old-fashioned school composition books and some pencils. “are we alone?” semiramis asked. “oh no!” hecate exclaimed. “my old governess is up in her room, watching documentaries, which is something of a ritual with her at this time of day. and my physician is here of course, and so is my personal trainer, who has chosen to stay in tonight even though it is one of her nights off. and there are security personnel in the basement and on the top floor.” “of course,” semiramis replied. “i do not know why i asked. it must be that - i felt a strange silence. something - oh, i don’t what i felt.” “that is quite all right - i often feel that way myself in this curious old building, which is many centuries old. “ “is it haunted?” semiramis asked. “ha, ha!” hecate responded. “it is funny that you should ask, because the building does in fact have a reputation for unexplained phenomena.” she pointed to the laptop and the composition books. “in fact, i have been using it as one of the starting points for a book i am writing about the fractal exposition of the human brain since the time of aristotle.” “that sounds very interesting,” semiramis replied. “i, too, am writing a couple of books. one of them is of such a deeply personal nature that i would prefer not to go into detail. the other is a novel about a shamaness in the six dynasties period of chinese history, and the poet tao yuanming.” “i would love to read it,” hecate said. “but, here i am being a bad hostess. would you like some lemonade? or some cookies?” “thank you, that would be very nice. do you mind if i ask you a sort of personal question?” “um - go ahead.” “the security personnel here - do you get along well with them?” “why, of course! we have equality hall here, we are all great chums.” semiramis hesitated. “the reason i ask, i heard of a rather unpleasant incident in a building on the west side, involving security people.” “but that is terrible. you must tell me all about it, if you would care to.” “i think i would rather talk about something more pleasant, if it is all the same to you.” “certainly, if that is your wish. but here, let me get those cookies and that lemonade.” hecate returned with the refreshments, and the evening passed pleasantly. they both described their literary and other projects, and had a lively discussion of the world political situation, seen mostly in inverse-aesthetic terms. nothing more was said about the unpleasant incident on the west side. eventually ms barker and ms waters-lee returned. “good-bye, semiramis," said hecate. "i had a lovely and most informative time, and i do hope we can renew our acquaintance before too much time passes.” “and i feel the same, hecate, and very much look forward to our meeting again.” “well, girls,” ms barker interjected, “i know you both have very busy schedules, but i am sure something can be arranged.” ms waters-lee smiled and nodded her assent. “yes, that sounds like a good plan.” and so the two girls parted - not for the last time.

the city

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

illustration by konrad kraus and roy dismas

different folks have different ideas of how life ought to be some want to do their duty others just want to be free some folks want to live forever in peace and love they trust others want to conquer the world and rub its face in the dust some live inside the great city others on the outskirts bleak a few still live in the country but they will be here next week once some folks lived in castles others in hovels bare now they gather at mcdonalds and wendy’s and smoothies and fries they share once some lived in mansions and walked down marble halls with pictures of their ancestors staring from the walls they slept on sheets of satin and in the morning rode to hounds but in the new world such behavior is strictly out of bounds others stayed below the stairs and made the cakes and tea but now they too are swept along by the tide of history the city walls are towering blotting out the sun over those who dreamt of glory and those who just wanted to have fun those who wanted to save the world from patriarchy and from sin those who wanted to invent the games that only they could win those who shouted at meetings with whatever they had to say and others who were happy to watch television all day now all are gathered together in one happy amalgamation there is a bit of pushing and shoving but the train never leaves the station the city gates are closing closing in the wind and snow a few sad stragglers talk to themselves but they have no place to go

2 poems

illustrations by palomine studios

start over by chuck leary i wish i could live my life over i wish i could start anew i would be a much better person my heart would be faithful and true i would appreciate mama and papa i’d treat bud and sis like folks i would stay away from temptation and never gamble or tell bad jokes oh you may call me insincere but whatever you might think there is one thing i truly abominate and that is the curse of drink you may take all the world’s other vices and roll them up in a ball but all of them together will not equal alcohol you can build up your civilization you can write your high-sounding laws it will all dissolve in the morning mist and drink will be the cause i wish i could live another life although it too would pass i would scorn all evil companions and never raise a glass

pals and booze: a fragment by horace p sternwall the original concept of the pal is lost in the mists of time but i summon it, o muse to invigorate my rhyme let women, priests, and bureaucrats judges, jailers, and fat cats look down their long and pointed noses true pals will always come up roses the only thing better, i confess is pure delirious drunkenness but what are pals, in song or story but those who share in liquor’s glory? oceans ebb and flow empires come and go some win, some lose, but only booze will light life’s brightest fuse and when bright dawn comes pitiless to sneer at night’s now lost excess consider that the coming end may be your best and final friend

a cautionary tale

by chuck leary

illuatrtions by eddie el greco

raymond was not a person who inspired much interest in other people. he was not much to look at, or to talk to or listen to. he was the kind of human male your grandparents would call a wimp, and your niece or nephew a douche. he was inclined to let his fellow humans get the best of him, and take advantage of his wishy-washy nature. he had an old phone in his apartment. although he was paying the phone company a few cents a month for caller i d just like the rest of the human race, the phone was so old it did not have a screen for that purpose. he would often answer the telemarketing or unsolicited calls he got , and find himself giving ten or twenty dollars here or there - “just to get rid of them” - for veterans or breast cancer or children’s this or that, or refugees from isis or whatever. finally the old phone died and he had to buy a new one. he belatedly realized the wonders of caller i d. now he could see the names of his solicitors - and he quickly realized that “person unknown” or “unknown number” were always solicitors too. he was no longer “obliged” to donate the small sums as before. he started having a little more money in his pocket. what raymond did not realize was this: the small amounts of generosity he had been displaying had been just enough to put him in the top fifty percent of the human race who qualified as good people and would go to heaven, and ceasing them dropped him down into the bottom fifty percent who were bad people and would go to hell. less than a year after getting caller i d, raymond had a heart attack and dropped dead. a couple of demons came and took his soul and put it on the download train to hell. as the train pulled out, raymond looked out the window and wondered where he had gone wrong. but no one ever explained it to him, and he never figured it out himself.

not that

by horace p sternwall

illustration by konrad kraus

morrison happened to be at the f—— — — club when the unfortunate dustup occurred between caldwell and burnaby, and after a few meaningful glances from the other members who were present, he attempted to negotiate a truce between them. caldwell assumed his usual air of slightly self-satisfied indifference, as if to say, “come now, is this really worth arguing about?” - his habitual pose after deliberately provoking someone in his sly way. but what, really, could good old morrison do? after listening to both sides, he cleared his throat snd addressed burnaby - “well, old fellow, i agree that caldwell here could have been a little more tactful - i might even venture to say, a bit more gentlemanly in the way he expressed himself - but after all, we are not children here, to cry about hurt feelings, eh? i suppose one member of the f———— club can express himself in a forthright fashion to another member, can he not? and on any subject he pleases, eh?” “but not about that!” burnaby cried wrathfully. “not that!” and despite’s morrison’s effort to restrain him, he rushed out the door, down the stairs and into the street, where a steady rain was falling. poor jeffsworth had to be despatched after him, to give him his hat and umbrella. although the incident was never spoken of, the feeling of good fellowship at the f—— — — club had been irretrievably punctured, and the club began its slow decline. sometimes, on rainy afternoons, i can still hear burnaby crying - “not that! not that!”

out of the woods

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by danny delacroix

people are bad, they should be good once they lived in an enchanted wood and listened to the voices of witches and elves but now they just want to be themselves and so they burnt the forest down and packed their bags and came to town and sit in rooms and watch television and never know what they are missing but what they are missing who can say? as i was saying just the other day if only i was a movie star and had a rolls royce with a built in bar and everyone in the world was my friend and the good times would never end what would i have to look forward to? i would still be sad and blue wouldn’t you? and yet it’s true i would get no sympathy just because i was me and not people who were not myself how i wish i could be an elf or a witch in a forest dark or a dog being walked in a park by a human who wants to get back to cut himself some slack and just stare at the ceiling because the world has lost all feeling i am sorry if i lost my train of thought sinking in civilization’s rot my soul has been sold and bought and all is what it once was not