The Market

At the market
walking between the mounds
of produce

look down to see your palm
curled around
an oversized mango
swelled with ripeness
smooth and spotted

look across from you
where a woman in a faded red dress
picks over the table of
discounted fruit

while a child, peeking from behind
her swelled legs
rubs a tattered blanket to his cheek

And the smell of fish and dust
reaches up to your nose
as you watch single claw rise
from the fish tank
up and up
towards the sky

you press your thumbs against
the ends of avocados
until you find one that gives
just a little

and then imagine it cut into perfect
half moons
resting in circles
on a bed of greens

the centerpiece
for the faces around
the table tonight

And there is the mound of corn
still smelling of
of rain and soil and sun
hauled in at dawn by a man in
overalls
whose hands touched every ear
every single ear.

And the store clerk hands you change
taking his time
looking you in the eyes
saying Thanks
since its
the only word
he knows.

unclean

It’s been three months since he was there--
Since anyone was there,
And the smell of my own body still nauseates me.

The fingerprints
Fading from purple to yellow
Were gone after a few weeks,
But it’s still here:
Filth through my pores
Screams in my blood.

I’ve tried

Load after load, bed sheets and underwear

Scalding water

My skin.

The Coolness of the Moon

The moon is pissed. I know because he stopped me outside my house tonight. He hung there like a smile, slung back, low, relaxed and so cool. He wore dark rimmed spectacles, burly mutton chop sideburns, poured low rise, hip hugging black pleather pants, while balancing a cigarette with a tremble on his lips. The smoke swirled past his torn RANCID t-shirt and circled Orion’s belt.

“Yo, dude. ‘Sup?” he says to me.

Dude? He is cool, there’s no denying that. He is low in the eastern sky, a crescent on his way to a new moon. He would barely get up off the horizon tonight and he was just feeling like a raw scab. He stretches back, draws a few puffs on the cigarette and waits for me to answer.

Then he tells me why he’s pissed. He’s tired of the sun being so everything. It rises, it sets. It’s the sun, no changes, no “phases”. He verbally creates air quotes by emphasizing the word “phases”.

He’s sick of the sun being the center of everything. Maybe he would just spin off and start his own solar system. When I explain this is not possible, that there are laws of physics, there is inertia to consider, he just spits. He doesn’t care. He knows people. He has friends.

Take Saturn, for instance. Some traveling asteroid comes swinging along, knocks her up and before you know it, it’s wham-bam-thankee-maam there are a dozen moons. “She’s such a slut,” he says.
“Saturn?” I ask.
“Yeah, and she’s always has to show off the bling-bling.”
“The rings?” I ask.
“Yeah. Still those guys are my buddies. They would so totally follow me.”

I try to leave, but the moon will have none of that. He’s so pissed, his color even looks odd. More yellow than white tonight. He rants about the clouds, how they just cover for that slacker sun; how he’s often off chasing rainbows or things, and no one even knows. And all he does is give people cancer and start forest fires, destroy crops and create droughts. Still, everyone “ooohs” and “aahhhhs” whenever the sun enters or leaves the day.
If the moon had arms, I am certain he would be waving them about now.

He’s tired of depending on sunlight for his presence. On some days of the month, he hides to show up that big show off, but it’s hard to hide, so he has to show his face again.

“And look at this face!” the moon says exasperated. “Tell me if I don’t look like a thirteen year old in a chocolate factory!” It is the marks. It’s not easy getting dates with a face like this, he tells me. I know. I can relate. I tell him some things that I hate about the sun: how you can never really look at it. How it's always too bright and it always gets in the way when driving – especially east and west. The moon takes a deep breath and seems at ease.

He tells me to stay cool and have fun at the party. He is heading to a bodacious game of cranium with the Seven Sisters who really know how to party. He tells me about how when they drink too much they always try to start up a round of “strip-twister”. He tells me to get moving, I’ll be late. I thank him and leave.

The moon is coolness personified. The sun is a pretentious metrosexual always flaunting his knowledge of wines and the most gauche places to shop. But the moon drinks his beer with no glass and no twist off top either. The moon would never be caught drinking a Lite beer.

The sun gets all the press, but the moon is where everything happens; where the hidden comes out, only to be chased away again by the sun’s daylight brashness.

The moon is pissed tonight. Better stay clear if you see him. I’m off to my party, but man, is he ever cool.

M C Biegner 2004

Group Card

NEWLY IN LOVE

God has so carefully
washed the sky violet
tonight, the cut down
corn stalks still stick up
a sharp ochre, trees
a fine black, spindly
branches without their leaves.

My wheels on the road
are a high pitched hum
past fields and gas stations
with red, orange, blue
signs glowing against
the rubbed out moon.

I know that the scale
that measures loneliness
must be at one of those gas
stations where people keep
pulling in, filling tanks, moving
on, solitary, innocuous
and I drive past afraid that the heft
of my own cannot be lessened
by the helium of new love,
afraid that the sadness I woke up,
held, then cast back down deeper
than she was sleeping
would be grotesquely illuminated
under those soft neon lights,
their whiteness humiliatingly honest.

Driving keeps the plum clouds
tumbling over themselves,
racing from having to balance
the paper-light weight of being
newly in love against the responsibility
of having been loved before.

PLUM SLOPE

Fruit does not heal
once a dull bruise,
soft spot, fall from hand
has made its flesh mealy.

On bad days I would find
that my mother had packed
my yellow lunchbox full
of plums. On good days
there would also be
a thermos of juice.

I came home after one bad
day to find her in the kitchen,
told her I had learned about
cells, that I could see my own,
see them in the skins of the plums.
She looked at me terrified
and left me alone
so that in the thicket
of our backyard I found
our missing cat, dead
and knitted to the slope
of the hillside with no one
there to be her witness except me
and I had yet to learn
what grief was for.

dear josh

dear josh,

your absence has outlasted your presence in my life. what i remember now is only the space, the silence. love is a memory i re-enact because there's nothing else to say anymore, and i have to account somehow for the marks the love left behind.

i wonder where you are sometimes, even though i like to think i've stopped being interested in the answer, i guess because some long-silent part of me still expects the knowledge to rise up from somewhere secret. i wonder where you are even though i can't really imagine it--i only ever see you in the places that you've been before, even though it's been years since you've seen them.

i wonder what there is to miss anymore, since you faded so gradually that it took a while to notice you were leaving, since there was enough left to put my heart into--your writing on the back of a photo, that hat you used to wear, those letters that never told me anything but meant everything. i wonder when these things stopped being you.

i wonder what you'd be like if you'd stayed. i wonder what i'd be like if you'd never left, what i am like since you have. what i miss doesn't even exist anymore, probably couldn't, but the absence stays with me, like a scar my body grew into, like a line carved into a doorframe at the height i used to be.

i wonder what would happen if we started to say your name again, if we stood for a while in the absence instead of turning from it, a door no one meant to open, a feeling no one meant to have.

i wonder what would happen if i let go of the regret. i wonder if it's even possible, if it's even mine. i wonder if the regret is really yours, something you left behind for me to find and carry around in case you ever wanted it back.

i wonder if i will be faithful when there's no faith left. i wonder if the hope is for you or for me, if the grief is for what i might have been without this pain, rather than for its source.

i wonder if you miss me.
i wonder if you will.

i wonder if i love you,
i wonder if goodbye.

things i've done in churches

i.

inside it is nothing like new york in august. the sounds of traffic are turned away at the vestibule like false penitents, the heat and air and light made chaste with a sprinkling of holy water.

the pews are filled with people who want to be there and people who just walked by, people with nowhere else to go and somewhere else to be. without noticing they shed their skins when they walk through the door, letting the pain out to breathe. they will be healed here.

at the altar stand the supplicants, turned to face all the closed and open hearts, dwarfed by the room's ascent to ward heaven. the space is too vast, too vacant with god to be filled by their dreaming. the task is impossible, essential.

but soon the air begins to swell with the chord change, the heartbreak. it quickens and stirs like a tide just woken.

urgent, the strengthening cadence pushes against the limits of the vacancy it's filled, bursts through like a heart broken by too much joy, makes everything that's still come to life, wakens every pain from its secret home.

the brokenness and the humanness are what sanctify the sanctuary. when the music stops, so does the silence.

ii.

the church is open until ten o clock at night and so she goes there looking for an answer, moving alone through the darkness, anointed with cool night air.

the church is dark and probably empty, and she tests the knob before pulling the heavy outer door and slipping inside. the space seems still, and in it, her heart loosens, unfolds. she will pray in the darkness, where no one but god will see.

but inside the sanctuary, someone is already frozen in grief or in sorrow, kneeling in the godlight that falls on the altar. her face is unfamiliar, but her desperation is not.

the small sound of the door falling closed is enough to break the silence, and the girl on the altar wakes up then, turns from the light into the darkness, is gone before she can cover her eyes to keep from seeing her private pain, to apologize for interrupting.

she can't pray either, now that the solitude is gone, isn't sure she knew how in the first place. she leaves the demons at the altar and turns toward home.

iii.

what might also be sacred:

the knife
seaming the flesh of the mango,
its teeth drawing the sticky sweetness
toward the wound

the foam rising to the top
of the coffee brewed in silent early darkness

the tremor of the hand in the moment between striking the match
and lighting the flame

waking up to rest in the space
between sleep and consciousness

the space between each heartbeat
filled with blood and love

13 corners

13 corners

we live in a culture
where 13 is an unlucky number
but it's always been
my grandmother's lucky one
and i've always believed
more of her superstitions anyway

i may not call this luck
but i am fortunate
and blessed
here in this house brimming
with the prosperity of this fall harvest
with voices giving and receiving
with water and life in every room

i've rediscovered that 16-year-old poet
at home in that palo alto alley
watched over by saint michael
and all the old souls
who had heard and read so much more
but never what she brought
to that corner

there are many more corners
more alleys
more springs
more old and young souls
to give and receive

by teresa wong, 11.7.04

Downtown by Michael Biegner

Downtown



His hands were like broken concrete yet they wrapped the pole of the subway car tightly.



It was almost a year ago that the towers fell; when the plume shuttled uptown and the dust tossed itself willy-nilly over lower Manhattan. It was almost a year ago, when shards of paper representing lives flew like souls across the Hudson into Brooklyn, signifying all that was left.



McNab took the “F” train downtown every day to get to his job. He got on at Kew Gardens and he always wore his construction helmet backwards. After the collapse, they slapped one of those American flags on the backs of all the guys’ helmets. McNab wore his so the flag faced forward.



McNab was a rigger and had been for years. He’d been working downtown since the collapse. He was a slight man, but wore his work belt, heavy boots and thick gloves which gave him monstrous girth.



At Jackson Heights the crowds in the train pushed out against the bodies lined up waiting to board; there was a panicked effort to catch the number 7 train to Flushing. McNab pulled back in the car. He never sat. He always preferred to give up his seat.



At the Roosevelt Avenue station the train performed its purge and binge of riders. Marisol always stepped on here. Same spot on the platform. Same car. McNab always instinctively turned his head discreetly toward his outstretched arm, trying to catch his own body odor. Marisol was a slight pretty Puerto Rican woman with thick red lips who wore too much makeup. She rode until Rockefeller Center where she always smoothed her pants or skirt, gathered her things, just before she would rise and stand by the train door. As Marisol went by she always brushed against McNab’s gruff toil smeared body. He breathed in her perfume, and marveled at her rich black hair.



Marisol always read; her dark almond eyes peered over her newspaper appeared like question marks to McNab. If she ever suspected that McNab watched her, she never let on. These were two dancers among many on all the cars that hurtled through the tunnels under New York.



When the train descended under the East River, McNab felt his ears “pop”. The lights would go out momentarily and he could only see the shadow of Marisol’s head against the tunnel lights through the car window. Together they rocked and lurched, evident for that half hour that they were subject to the same laws of physics.



When Marisol’s stop arrived, McNab made a deal with himself to follow her out, to talk to her and strike up a conversation. He planned it from Roosevelt Island. When the door opened, he saw himself follow her. He felt his body want to move. As the doors closed, the chimes seemed to berate his lack of initiative. “Tomorrow”, he would mutter and then begin the negotiations all over again.



The doors closed, as the great beast dumped McNab off at West 4th Street where he would walk the rest of the way.



There was still rubble to clear.

Meredith's Lullabye for the Country

Come in, close the door tight behind you
I can't do much but it's a start
I can't promise there's not demons out there
But you're safe here inside my heart

Let your guard fall down around you
I'll give you open hands and dashboard light
We'll get up and fight again tomorrow
Rest here in my arms tonight

I've seen all that they've put up against you
But you're not doing this alone
Here between the end and the beginning
Is the place where I can call you home

Let your guard fall down arounnd you
I'll give you open hands and dashboard light
We'll get up and fight again tomorrow
Rest here in my arms tonight

I'll smooth your brow with my calloused fingers
Untangle all your stomach's knots
My arms are stronger than you'd give them credit
Let your bruises heal and I'll keep watch

Let your guard fall down around you
I'll give you open hands and dashboard light
We'll get up and fight again tomorrow
Rest here in my arms tonight.



Meredith Killough

Someday My Apartment

Okay, you have to picture a Disney character singing this...

SOMEDAY MY APARTMENT

Someday I'll have an apartment
in the shitty part of town
I'll see trash and broken bottles
whenever I look down
There will be lots of locks on the doors
Cracks in the floor for the mice
In that shitty apartment complex
Won't that be nice?

I'll eat Ramen
three times a day
Chef Boyardee
straight from the can
With a six-pack of generic beer
Won't it be grand?

Someday I'll have me a boyfriend
who I'll meet in a seedy bar
He'll make me pay for my own drinks
then grope me in his car
And maybe we'll have a baby
We can't afford to feed
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
Wouldn't it, indeed.

Life would never be boring
Even walking down the street
Knowing I could
see a drive-by shooting
I'd feel so complete

In that shitty apartment
In that crappy neighborhood
It hasn't happened yet
But I know inside my heart
Yes, I know inside my heart
it could.

Gwynne Watkins

The Sage

The Sage – Melissa Eva Miller

Was the sage left there
for me?
Tucked in a tight bundle
of pungent leaves
at the bottom of the basket
with the other odds and ends.

A little reminder
that all is not right
with my world;
maybe just not completely
balanced.
Like the way the tea packet
marked “joy”
refused to open until
I bit it hard and
forced it to rip.

But isn’t that what faith
is?
A bit of a struggle here and
there to help calm the
exuberance that threatens
to bubble over in the
blood and spill out
wastefully?

“So,” the sage tells me,
leaving a velvety residue
in the whorls of my fingertips,
“That’s the fun of it, baby.
And just think, you’ll do this
for the rest of your life … just
like I have in the hands of
the faithful all over the world.”

The sage sighs, letting off
a tiny plume of
omniscience.
“Faith is all about figuring
it all out and then
realizing you left one shoe
on a porch somewhere
along the way.”

“Well,” I tell the sage,
“I can take it. Next time
I see through something clearly,
I won’t be surprised
when I blink and the
pane is replaced with a wavering
piece of hand-made glass that
I can’t make heads or tails
of.”

The sage chuckles a puff of
fragrant smoke.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,
baby.
That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

The Desert

Desert – Melissa Eva Miller

That space lit
my desert’s light
tries to find a space
to sit
quietly, say its grace.

Dropped in from
without could one
find a trace that would
then overcome
the seeker; myself understood.

I have faith
one such traveler
would come back weary, burned
with lathe
to spin me learned.

One such man
would write pages
about what he discovered,
would plan
to reveal me uncovered.

Would they believe
or would they
lift fists with jealous fury
and conceive
these chronicles to bury?

Lest my dunes
be let out
to dust over their minds
and runes
once quiet suddenly shout.

For now dear
traveler take heed
I wish to keep my
desert here
within my heart’s seed.

My face will
hide it well
instead of reveal too much
or still
a brew to quell.

The Captain

The Captain





And the Captain and passengers are dressed to the nines,

Ignoring the bells and calls to pull in the lines.

With a smile and a nod the Captain waves off the commotion,

And we all sail onward through the turbulent ocean.



We put on our gowns, tuxedoes and shoes,

And stepped up the gangplank for this four year cruise.

Over half went willingly and wanted to go,

the rest ‘cause we had to and thus it is so.



The crew plays cards and passes a bottle of rum.

One eye on the helm and one eye on the fun.

They don’t notice gas gauges on low and the compass that’s broken,

Or the map room on fire, quietly smoking.



We fill up our glasses from the champagne fountain.

And iceburgs in the distance tower like mountains.

We could see the dockworkers if we gave it a chance,

But the band calls again to get out and dance.



Then another game of shuffleboard needs to be played,

And another trip taken to the all night buffet.

So there’s no time to stop and feel the ocean,

Rolling deep below with discontent motion.



And the Captain and passengers are dressed to the nines,

Ignoring the bells and calls to pull in the lines

With a smile and a nod the Captain waves off the commotion

And we all sail onward through the turbulent ocean.



Truth



my truth

my truth

don’t be silent now



I’m listening

finally

just for you



Before, I admit it

I let you hide

Knowing you were there

quiet, ready, poised to speak



And as long as we’re being honest

Sometimes I even kicked

you deep behind

those shapes of fear

And there I left you

crumpled

at the feet of jealosy, envy and my need to be liked

that just seemed larger at the time



And on my really bad days

I boxed you in.

The worst abuse really,

to have floor, ceiling and walls

of what-I-think-I-should-be

keeping you from daylight.



I don’t blame you for your silence

I would be silent too

after being treated like that



So this is my apology

for what it is worth



I’m hoping you’ll remember this

and rise up anyway

my truth

my truth

By Gayle Huntress

Birding in Babylon

Birding in Babylon








My salvation is beauty’s kiss --

It approaches me like a windy spiral

of foppish leaves' dancing denial.

It leaves me with wonkish truths

Which bolster me with deepened roots.



For Mesopotamia, now midnight soot,

Has acquiesced beneath the boot;

From humankind this snake has grown

Hoping to consume its own

body, from start to end and head to tail

Where human life first burst forth, now it flails.



As it was in the beginning,

Is now and ever shall be;



A world of endless suffering;

Saved from pagan idolatry;

Carved from empire’s ideology;

Inflated by ambition’s puffery.





I seek what is invisible

Like birding in Babylon, an indivisible

faith in delicate things:

Feathers and song, and iridescent wings;

perched on fetid branches rest these drops of color

sporting costumes that dress war’s dolor.



It scours me pure like sandstorm grit.



It seeps like ink into my vision,

I am shorn and weakened like noble Sampson;

by a willow warbler’s lyric face

Or the fecund insistence of a fruit fly’s grace,



These are things that make Peace known,

If Wisdom is my head, then beauty is my bone.





Michael Biegner 2004

a post-election prayer

Dear God,
Give us the words.

May ink spill beauty
onto notebooks and napkins everywhere,
as blood ceases to be shed.

Rather, let our blood reclaim its symbol of
Life
flowing with passionate fury.

Let delicate melodies
infiltrate the air
hung heavy and hopeless.

Let us write a Revolution.