poetry from Lyn Lifshin

SOFT TISSUES


Eyeballs burst,
a spleen ruptured
by flying rubber.
Part of a skull
broken away by
something falling,
exposing a brain.
Limbs fractured
by falling walls, a
jugular vein slivered
by glass. Thousands
of grains of plaster
driven thru skin
reveal themselves
as a tell tale haze
on x ray





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

ONE FATHER HEARS HIS SON CALLING FOR A NEW TRUCK


his older one
happy about the
dollar from the
tooth fairy. ‘I
always hated to
leave her to go
to work.” Now
I hear them in the
ashes, they are
ashes. When I
think of flooring
the gas, my body
won’t m move





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

2 DAYS AFTER MOTHER’S DAY FIVE YEARS AGO

Maybe there could be
her soul floating over
the duck pond, laughing
at the geese as she does
still in the 8 millimeter
video, my sister’s hoarded,
kept as ransom for what
ever wasn’t in our lives.
Her smoke hair, licorice
and curly, astonished and
by ferreting out how much
this town house doesn’t.
She watches the dragon flies,
turquoise and sapphire,
but it’s the geese she floats
over waiting for me to come
back from ballet. Not having
a body is a relief she sighs
in my dream, no need to worry
about gaining or losing 50
lbs and if I wanted to smoke
she whispers I haven’t got
a mouth for that or for bad
mouthing any relative.
Better just be air, tho I can’t
hold my daughter who
never thought enough of
herself





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Andy Christ

My Toenails

Battle-hardened soldiers, I cut you.
Your heads I throw in the trash.
Like a lizard, you grow back what you lost.
I know you. I will cut you again.










Andy Christ

poetry from Andy Christ

Philip and the Poet

Remember Sheherezade, the character
who had to tell stories or die? Well I’m not
Sheherezade. My loquaciousness
is not due to a horror story, although
my sister is a Stephen King fan.
This is my play time, and you, dear Reader,
are my imaginary friend. Where shall we go?
To my childhood? My teen years?
The Oval Office? Grocery store shelves?
I want to tell you about Philip. I saw
him almost every day when I worked
as a lifeguard. In the suburb of Cleveland
where we grew up, lots of kids would go
swimming at the public pools. Like anything else
that needs organization, the pools were fenced in.
Philip would run with his little nine-year-old legs,
bare feet over rough concrete, from the fence
to the deep end of the pool. I guess it was about
twelve feet. There goes Philip in my memory,
trotting toward the water, calling out
“To the Netherlands!” or maybe “To China!”
and, diligently holding his nose, he dives
into the nine feet of water. He stays close
to the pool’s edge, and he always tries
to touch the line at the bottom. Each time
he succeeds, he pauses at the surface
to attend to the pressure in his head.
Then he’s back out again, walking to the fence,
dripping unconsciously. Now and then
he says something to his imaginary friend.
How simple it is to be nine years old. All
those people around, all that sunshine, and
Philip prefers his imaginary friend and
imaginary trips around the world. And if he
got too far out, someone would jump in after
him. Now I’m a poet and we have
imaginary friends too (they’re called readers), and
we dive into our unconscious and come up
with something beautiful. Our imaginary friends
will go anywhere with us.



Andy Christ

poetry from Andy Christ

Open Invitation

Philippe Soupault, where are you now?
We need your humor. Are you still walking
the streets of Paris after the Great War,
the War to End All Wars, asking strangers
if they know where Philippe Soupault lives?
Is your friend Jacques Rigaut with you still,
and do you still go together to
dinner parties to which neither of you
were invited? I hope you will
bring your flowers and chocolates here, and
have supper with us.
Teach us how to smile when the door opens
and we are welcomed to a little feast
of strangers.




Andy Christ

more of Elliptical Shores

I have decided to post more of my story, Elliptical Shores, partly because I haven’t posted anything in awhile. I intend to make additional postings when I have additional material on the story.



Elliptical Shores



Opening


Yes, he thought he knew a Rebekah once. But was that years ago, or minutes ago? One thing he did know, here time did nothing but go by. Not fast, not slow, it just went by, with nothing to show that it was inherently meaningful, or anything out of the ordinary. But, She had her forever dream. The phrase haunted, and in this haunting he could take solace.


Section 2


The art of listening is not lost among any of the fine people living here. Indeed, to listen is to live in this place. Ah, but what, and in some cases who, do they listen to? For me, it is the night that speaks, and it is the night that awaits my answers. I try to give it justice, what it and I deserve. You see, it’s part of the game I play, the game that I’ve learned to play so well.

What amuses me is there are those who think I belong here. I am, of course, quite willing to let them believe that. I take my victories when I can, and I’ll tell you it is a pleasure to fool my captors. It is a consequence of my musings that I feel at home in this place – and quite interesting, really.


High Tides and Low Seas


It is now your turn to listen, for I do not wish to waste these words on those who would trivialize my intent, which is only to offer evidence of my frailties. In telling this, I hope to give you justification for your mission, and to give myself a few smiles. The irrelevancy of what you may think of me no doubt is upsetting to you, because you see your mission as a great one, but you see I don’t want you to suffer from any delusions. I get so tried of you wanting to understand me, to figure me out. Why do you persist so? If you will allow me, I might help you to find an answer. But you have to listen, and listen with care. That’s all that’s left for you.