Fulfillment

Last week we got together, us grown kids

fisting beers in a booth

harmonizing your praise to the key of

Joe Bag O’ Donuts, Drewbie, Boush and Abs.

None of us knowing the words

other than you let me

have your last bite of steak, explaining

(with patience) the curved swords of Narnia,

wakening me for our bike ride,

whole NJ bird book singing

“More than the greatest love the world has known.” 

Abby Tjaden

Confession

Averted, I stare at the gray-green of ocean

each new wave extracting color from my eyes

until all my latent secrets lay leeched,

their shadowy vignettes exposed.

Focused, you accept the palette of my cheek

deciphering fortunes in pink freckles

whose patterns dance hope, absolved

of the occipital connection.

The sun shifts its round orange shoulders

under the burden of descent,

curiously contented. Invariably

stand the statues of wisdom and virtue

traced in the white childhood of moon.

That night, I cast our net over the horizon

took your bones out of socket

and left you paralyzed on the beach

calling my name.

Abby Tjaden

Abby Tjaden, is an avid reader of poetry and is perusing a degree in English in order to become a professor. She is originally from Toms River, New Jersey, where the ocean has long served as an inspiration for her writing. 

Under The Heavy Moon

The telephone rang
  the other evening
and it was my father there,
asking
if everything was
all right, and I said
  yes,
the street outside is wet,
the sky is blue.
Not one word about
  the empty spoons
sitting naked on the table,
silver cups cradling damp
cotton puffs, pressed down
into disks, a strange
   pink.
Not one word about
the sore arm,
the stained song,
or the exploded mind.

Just me,
sitting on the porch,
in that orange street of light,
  under the heavy moon,
 inhaling the unfinished scream
  in the iron night,
watching these late black ants just run
in circles over my arm, up and down
  my arm.
  As if
all they had to do was run
and keep running,
and I could never catch them.

Christopher Celestina

The Look

     John’s face is tense, his eyes staring off at nothing.

     

     “I . . .”

     

     There’s a quiver to his voice as he shakes his head side to side and looks deeper into that nothing, staring downward.

     

     “I . . . I don’t know.”

     

     Smoke rises from the cigarette that he’s holding but not smoking anymore. The ash is growing and leaning. For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off this ash that sits there, teasing me, mocking me. Fall mother fucker. C’mon. C’mon!

    

      “I mean, I thought this . . . was our last resort,” John keeps on.

     

     His hand hasn’t moved but when it does, that fucking ash is coming down. I feel my anticipation growing. Blood pumps through my heart more viciously. C’mon!

     

     “It’s like plan A and plan B went out the fucking window.”

     

     He’s still talking on about whatever, but I all I can think is, move that hand, John. C’mon you mother. . .

     

     “And now we’re stuck, man. I . . . I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

     

     The ash falls and for some reason I feel a sense of relief, but really don’t understand why, and then get thrown back into reality and our situation at hand. I look up at John. His eyes are now dead-set on mine.

     

     “Dude, are you fucking here, man?!” His hand waves in front of my face.

     

     “Uh, yeah, man. I’m here.”

     

     “Good. You fucking better be. You are in on this, too.”

     

     Hearing the words, “In on this too” makes it hard to breathe for a second, before laughing.

     

     John stands up and starts pacing frantically back and forth, saying, or more like pleading with no one, “Ah man . . . I’ve got a fucking wife and family.”

    

      He covers his mouth and looks at me, then turns back around. I hear what sounds like tears in his voice.

     

     “I’ve got a little girl,” he says.

     

     He looks at me, his eyes like he’s seen a ghost, his lungs swelling, his head tilting back, chest out and in. I can now see those tears I thought I heard a second earlier beginning to run onto his face.

     

     I’ve only seen that look once before—that look of complete and utter fear and desperation-turned-despair. Actually, I remember seeing a program on Discovery a while back about these lions in Africa or wherever and they chase down this . . . I don’t know, wildebeest. The young wildebeest gets separated from his herd, and after a valiant effort, there are simply too many lions. The lions surround him and trip him down and start biting at his legs, as he is kicking and bucking and doing everything in his power to survive . . . really fighting desperately for his life. They finally get him down all the way. There’s three or four of them, and they claw into him and keep biting his legs, and the wildebeest is just tired and had expended all of its energy—every last ounce—and there’s just too many. It knows what’s coming next, and you can see the sadness in his wide open eyes—a look of total hopelessness, not desperation because it was beyond that already, but just . . . despair, as he gives in and falls over to the side. You can see the lions reflected in the helpless wildebeest’s wide open eyes as they bite into him and start to tear away at his flesh.

     

     That look, the same look John has now.

     

     So I guess I‘ve seen that same look, now . . . three times?

John sternly grips my arms and turns me to face him, his eyes flooded, his mouth sagging, his hands shaking, his nails penetrating my shirt and says, more intensely than anyone has ever said anything toward me, “You . . . are . . . fucking . . . in . . . this . . . too,” wrapping his mouth around each word to further enunciate what he’s trying to imply. His nails dig deeper into my skin.

     

     “Yeah, man, I fucking know! I know!” I laugh.

He releases his grip and stands up tall and straight to compose himself and slowly backs up from me, removing his eyes from mine after a few seconds. He looks off at nothing again and resumes pacing.

     

     He paces slowly for a few seconds more, pauses, then kicks the bound girl on the floor in the stomach as hard as he can. She’d cry out but her mouth is duck-taped. He kicks her again.

     

     “You fucking cunt!”

     

     Small whimpers protrude from behind her sealed mouth.

     

     “And you!” He points at me. “You wanted a fucking hostage. This was your fucking idea.                And for what? So you could fucking rape her? Well . . . you got what you wanted.”

     

     John paces frantically, again, stops and peers at me. I can’t keep from sniggering.

     

     “It was a simple robbery, and now,” He pauses to compose himself. “We have a witness to our little crime . . . Fuck!” He yells.

     

     “Calm . . . the fuck . . . down.” I tell him, leaning further back in my chair.

     

     He shakes his head in disgust and leaves the room.

     

     The girl’s eyes are fixated on mine, locked, and have that same look of hopelessness that John and that wildebeest had had from that show—that look of total despondency. And I think that this one certainly didn’t give up as easy as that wildebeest, or nearly as easy as John, and it was only till she had been tied up, gagged with tape, beaten relentlessly, then violated from behind over and over again, because what else are you going to do with her, now, did her eyes shift from a begging desperation . . . to despair.

     

     With John in the other room, I get out of my chair and lie down on the ground in front of the girl, staring into her eyes.

     

     She starts crying behind her taped up, muffled mouth. Her wide open eyes are pleading with me, trying to find any scrap of human compassion left inside. But there is none.

     

     “Shhh . . .” I tell her.

     

     I pet her head.

     

     “It’s all over. I’m gonna get you outta here.”

     

     Her eyes close and tears of relief flood out of her and down her cheek to the floor, as she cries and cries. I can only imagine how she feels, thinking that she is going to survive, that I am going to let her survive.

     

     “It’s ok. Everything’s gonna be ok.”

     

     I place my thumb and index finger on her nose, softly closing off her air passage. Her eyes open back and panicking, she tries to thrash about, but she is bound and exhausted. Her fight is short lived. I hold her head firmly in place with my other hand, grasped tightly onto her hair.

     

     I think to myself, this one had fire. She just took it and took it and took it.

     

     After what must have been thirty seconds or so, her begging eyes staring deep into me, pleading, her desperate look shifts again into a hopeless . . . despair. And then, after one last, final, unsuccessful attempt to breathe and a concluding kick, or spasm, or more like a jolt, pulsing from her abused, failing body, her look of desperation-turned-despair, transitions to . . . acceptance. Her body goes limp.

     

     “See? Good girl. It’s all over.”

     

     Her eyes—still locked on mine—are now emptier than they were before. All I can see is my smiling face reflected in them. I smile back.

Matt Micheli

Matt Micheli is a transgressive fiction writer out of Austin, TX, Author of MEMOIRS OF A VIOLENT SLEEPER: A BEDTIME STORY. His analytical, sometimes satirical, and often blunt views of love, loss, life, and beyond are expressed through his writing. For him, writing is an escape from the everyday confines of what the rest of us calls normal. 

Recent publications in Red Fez, Linguistic Erosion, and Slit Your Wrists eZine. 

Mattmicheliworld@gmail.com

www.violentsleeper.coom

  

The Addicts Excuse

I have walked you to your door and it is dark,
not dusk as in that brown drought summer
when you plucked a wood tick
from my hip and laughed,
rolling it like a swollen white bead
between your fingers before
snapping it with a quick red pop while
smiling with the left side of your mouth
under that needle embroidering new stars.

I never asked any questions then
and the oracle in your eyes spoke
in deep ocean tides that threw out golden
rings of foam, so the yellow dropping sun
would go down smooth
like a shot of liquor poured
between your lips first
then mine.
And it made death
easy.

But tonight I pull the blue throat of my coat tight
above the hard stone under my tongue.
I do not try to smile
as you pass into the warm light
of your living room
turning to me and the dark 

with that same grin
as if you
had just plucked me
from below the chestnut line
at the nape or your neck,
and were rolling my empty head
between your fingers,

giving it a playful squeeze
before you gently shut
the scratched
white door.

Christopher Celestina

Some Beach

Is there, deep in your mind/heart

the rhythm of the waves

so low and slow

its more felt

than heard.

Some Beech

Is there within you as well

It's leaves held tight

Through darkest, coldest winter's night

To shelter that one thrush

Who overwinters to be the first

Song to herald the spring.

Some bitch

Who licks and suckles her pups

Whose sweetmilk breath could soften

The most cold hearted warrior criminal

Lives in your breast as well

Unacknowledged.

As climate change

Covers the beach beneath the waves

And kills the trees with wild swings

Of rain ,heat and cold

That bitch will give voice to sounds

Would cow a Rebel or a Banshee

Before she rips your heart in two.

Peter Peteet

So.

Well then, 

spring.

Must be answer enough.
No address, or redress just
A thing of varied length
and tension.
Energy stored up and pushing, 
waiting without patience, without a clock or time.
Spring is and thinks not of what was or will,
could be,
but it is not me.

For I ,yes I -that is the not everything, the not you,
not blossoms or remembered love or half forgotten dreams,
not stories told or names come loose from bodies
burned and scattered in the wind.
This I, much like any eye
is moving while constricting or relaxing
seeking unless dead or drugged;
moving even in sleep, in dreams,
to drink in light
just enough
to engage the world, admit your gaze,
and not be consumed
yet

When death, that rhythmic lover of us all
comes
I will no virgin be.
Just as a spring is born in heat and has compressions and extensions numbered
but unknown.
So is the Iris of my eye,
sprung from a bulb within my chest,
A thing of springs.
And so perhaps even from that rhythmic lover
I will rise
again.

Peter Peteet

Peter Peteet is 54 years old and lives in Atlanta,Ga.His poetry has been published in Flycatcher.