Larissa Shmailo, Sheila E. Murphy, Grant Grays, Peter Ganick, Felino A. Soriano, Terry Folz

Aging (Fibonacci Sequence: 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89)

by Larissa Shmailo

none

1(one)

1(ego)

two (I)

I 2 threeeeeeeeee

5 school, ruled 2 three

hate math 8/5 parents split divisor 3 & me

bad teen luck black eight-in-hole no triskaidekaphobe call five ringtones call.

now lucky legal drink I’m old-gold-rolled ready-to-hold I stick on 13 so play vingt-et-un tonight with me.

still 13 in the soul getting old with a balding working luck. 34 is dirty floor & still behind, & the legal drink now a double, hit me hit me & no! not prime.

Fivefive, now fivefive, finally loving the mother/other/the 21-still-angry child & forgiving the serious careerist, so knowing, so sure, so 34. Take our bald inner luck as it comes, let’s leave the dirty floor alone (why are these aches okay ,why are these losses, these losses, so possible to endure?) Five years plus ½ century, decoding while eroding, ofivefive.

89 am I 8 or 9? The young ones are 34, my children 55. There are 13 pills in the morning, 13 pills at night. But what, exactly what might happen next? A working soul and another season’s turn, what else did I ever have? This word is greater than my numbers, the poésie of my self. I take the garbage out and set it on the street with joy. Tell me your secrets: I am the one who truly wants to know. Lemniscate, I move toward ∞ today.

from Syllabix

by Sheila E. Murphy

1/

Suppose my name were Phyllida.

I might endure a sleight of hand-

some, norm for norm.

Pronunciation trimmed

by fact check.

Optimist that I am,

few condone

my long shot view:

American exceptionalism

functioning as headrest

on the snow.

2/

Remorse amid the fluency, all petals gracing factual mistakes.

The litmus is not gravy.

Any-old said the furtive guard.

Arrest, said the canary.

Approach, said Mother.

Then the variegated community offered up its suffering,

that we might live with gloves.

As any venture corresponds to what we numb.

With firelight at our feet.

Recovering from a stroll, a walkway, stones.

3/

Tantamount recurs. Now your job is

to find source code. Teach, easily

pronounced incomplete,

one of the tight ends in the game.

Her somewhat oval helmet,

and the houselights up to nothing.

A playwright has dissolved into

a housefly, labeled in relation to wingspan.

Tentatively obvious disclosure when the captioned

in an exercise, turns up spry deceit.

Probably about ten minutes, maybe eight,

remaining in the quarter.

Sleep is a testament to feeling good apart from

acts of will.

4/

Sugar's effete, yes? Planted moments vibrate

into pleasure (happy placement). Gem

stones, white tones, optimistic free zones.

How is weather anyone's wild posse?

The franking privilege goes to everyone

but Frank. Why not pause and calculate

a formula for funding fairly?

Every day is laden with thick prose

designed to be informative.

Nobody knows "nuttin'," on account

of discipline's being (sorely) zilch.

It's time for names to surface,

that they might be held harmless

by those of us who still believe

in memory.

stash/substrate

by Grant Grays

Ten years ago

I would hide

What I can't show today

"Canadian Tuxedo" or Chekhov Meets Iggy Pop in a Bar

Even after a few whiskeys ICould see the mixture of anger, desperation

And libido in his eyes.

"Why can't you be nice to me?" he

Demanded, putting his hand on

My shoulder, in a flirtatious

Attempt to curtail his aggression.

He was rude to my wife,

And I almost clocked him,

But the karaoke announcer called my name.

(Besides, he wasn't worth spending the night in jail over.)

Never mind that I was there to

Sing and drink cheap booze—

Even were I remotely interested,

His acid-washed denim

On acid-washed denim

Was not a flattering look.

combustion—

by Peter Ganick

not word-lion—

another canoe

on short vivace—

such penance of genetic alliance—

as the left-winged elitist simplicity

reacts to a vassel

the cordilleras call

“multiplexed coinciding middles”—

the nth collector faces a midas effect—

such networks are enablers

are the earliest cipher—

a enrichment peeve is

incertitude is a melody

canoes to whose siphon is a caisson—

shows peerage for nuance

while stories are exchanged—

as going the stint for the everlasting mode—

a snare arpeggiates delay

so the referral

to each threnody is haptic—

elsewise to evening whereins

now eternal crosshairs have gone overboard—

such interests are ever vainglory

that jingoism canes into glacial portions

recoiled inner—

the reasons for the real forum is

lucidity of preeminence—

salutations wield one’s protection—

the natural inclemency otherwise

preens to cleanse a hovering

to initialize networks—

or else as values

dent gondolas past the palazzo

a small utensil of

reflectivity spawns an igloo psalmody—

modifications were inactivity

presumes are still warded are

politesse is the seized gram

a placebo calls it inertia—

some glen [often happiness] waits

while intentions the [least formal]

are contrastive melees rendered zones

of cluster inversely paradise—

each somatic reaction reaches the

settee notifies huddling aprille

strands nit oases & oreilles

notebooking surfaces else

premonitions act radiance elsewise

& locutions within—

satraps inversely of the signature

some motto for intentions helas—

of hold this moving body

by Felino A. Soriano

Tremble

Hair

in the

widened rima oris (perished leaves-amalgamation, wind)

an opening cultivates acts of subliminal absences:

the mother eloped example two-tone apposition of

mischief | deceit

bargain life existential roaming

when of the child’s pluralized asking becomes a hoping fathom wrapped within

mouthed

resounding whispers,

distant though near the forehead of realized

dissatisfaction.

Ruminative

in the growth sans—

of—

genetic warmth the burden

realized, explored

whitened as to compliment

shadow of hoarding

angles’ hankered rise

the corporeal expansion now

vertical expedition

talkative

experience

gathering upon an age’s numerical disorder

surround the font of inward prose:

memory you’ve begun to articulate and

console

pivot of yes then ornamental physiognomy

Supposition

Fortune delinquent this

rhetorical

cultivation leaving

hand, multiplying unheard hardened

spatial interiors the

home of visualized inexistence

multiplies future’s composed knowledge of flashes encompasses

moment’s momentum of mine this

ambulatory nonfiction.

The Lightness That Is Nat King Cole

by Terry Folz

I ride on white light

The shine that is Nat King

Cole.

Atop the crest, it goes with

a bounce.

A wide bright air that

swings.

Brimming cool, yet fraught

with depth.

Full, richly sad.

Touched with hint, and dark

at the corners.

At the edge of bop.

Easy but true.

Fully true.

Without answer or apology.

A phrasing that is so. Just so.

And without equal.

For the moment,nothing

else will do.

Sinatra can take a walk.

The Beatles?

No.

Not today.

In answer I will say,give

me Nat King Cole.

Fully true. Without answer.

Nat Cole.

Essence of cool.

Image of being, and all

it entails.

Mustache White. Sideburns Whiter

by Terry Folz

My mustache is whiter

than my teeth,

jagged and yellow.

Sideburns whiter than

the mustache.

It's fifty degrees the

day after Thanksgiving.

Makes the winter shorter.

Long nights remain.

Two burners on my stove

are out.

Gas reeks throughout the

apartment.

Gravied potatoes and cranberries

day old clump in the stomach.

Acid converts to sugar.

Superstar predator coaches

hunt their prize.

Tyrant gods of Egypt

push ahead slaughter.

Heavy black boots pressed

on rebel necks.

World soccer.

Skyrocket price of bacon.

Flabby-dumb movie poster models.

Radio engine throb-chatters.

Bob and weave electric words.

Blue tired eyes.

Thick tired phlegm chokes green, stuck

in the neck.

Long nights remain.

Heavy sleep blankets.

Books.

And thimbles of brandy.

I crowd heavy close to

words in the basement brain.

Blue gas reeks.

Rent paid overdue three weeks.

Breakfast news.

Pancakes fed.

Poets dead in bed.

Riddle Kings led

to slaughter.

Images behind the wall.

I brush the holes in my teeth.

Tylenol back brittle churns.

Ice wire spasms.

Winter weeks remain.

Long nights, dark memories grow.

Gas bleeds blue flames.

Brown cake residue surface.

Mustache white.

Sideburns whiter.