Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Silke Feltz

One Elbi

Not many know of Elbi, hidden in a Franconian fairytale forest
some hundred souls, almost all Catholic from birth to deathbed,
one bar; a joint for tough men who drink their breakfast.

One beergarden and one soccer team that circles around village patriotism,
one church with unique voices and one sheriff who speaks Greek and
keeps his herd of sheep together, making sure noone goes astray.

Elbi is the home of one vegetarian who carves signs that say, “Kein Wanderweg”
and rides his bike to work every day, refusing a raise because he doesn't need more money.

Elbi shelters one farmer with the biggest, most scary-looking dog in a gritty courtyard,
guarding an old house and an even older family. And one baker drives through Elbi once
a week and honks, one time, to invite the Elben to buy warm bread.

One village beauty is dating a smart looking fellow from Munich who already has one ex-wife,
and one bachelor built a mansion for himself, maybe to not end up alone in the end.

One rooster wakes the southside of Elbi every morning, and some Vokuhila* lads gather
in one house to watch soccer, and sometimes also porn, on a big screen in the basement.

Elbi's graveyard has one grave I visit every time I am there, kissing you hello and goodbye.

One's home is one's castle is one's shelter is one's room.

Everyone has only one.

There is only one Elbi for me.

*mullet


These Grounds

These grounds offered opportunity;
they swallowed my demon fears and
opened the window to a view that
seemed limitless, no horizon in sight.
They listened to my ambition— crazy dreams
and endured me stumbling along
from time to time, not sure
where to turn and who to become—
Chekov’s Darling maybe?
These grounds chased off my pride
and they secretly smiled as I fell
flat on my face; throbbing knees.
On these grounds I looped pound after
pound and gained a heart so full
I sometimes feared it might flow over
without warning me.

These grounds witnessed me laugh, gossip, plot,
hope, complain, snicker, giggle and sigh—

happiness and disillusion are silently
carved into them as I follow these fairy paths
until I quietly have to kiss them goodbye.

I Wish You Well

I wish you well. This time, no tears stand like soldiers between us
and it’s liberating, really, to be here without you.
You only talk to me when you want cash and call me a DINK.
The line turns mute when I wreck my car or when I lose my husband
to a job. You quietly never had my back and we are just another coin
accidentally dropped into a wishing well. But today, I wish you well.

I wish you luck! Everybody needs it and you have had your share
but I hope luck will continue to be your ally because I can’t.
Your shooting stars will keep falling, but please make sure
to close your eyes quickly and hope before the moment drowns.
You don’t believe in stars. Yet, they sparkle in your beautiful
daughters’ eyes. I wish you luck. Trust me, you’ll need it.

I wish you success. You always have been the smarter one,
giving me a hard time about failing the driver’s license test,
about math, physics, chemistry. All I was good at was reading
silly books. Literature is not a major, it’s a hobby,
you used to say, smirking. I was the little sister only hiding
behind words, dreaming my life away. I wish you success.

I wish you well, Brother. We never really walked together and
we never will cross paths in our two different worlds.
You’re in yours and I’m in mine. There’s no overlap and I’m
at peace with you being this one person who could’ve known
me better than anybody else in the world.

I wish you well.

Bio:
Silke Feltz is a PhD Candidate of Rhetoric, Theory & Culture at Michigan Technological University. While her research focuses on the rhetoric of veganism, she enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Her poems have been published in Drunk Monkeys and Drift.

Monday, October 23, 2017

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

As She Silently Poses
From a photo by Vladimir Bazan, at La Louvre, 2011

Excuse me stranger,
as I ask with the most statuesque
of whispers, but will you
touch me? I know the sign
says do not… but I promise,
I won’t tell. Let your finger
fingers trace my marbled
body, I long to remember
how hands would feel.
Your palms electricity
so gently shocks me,
even though my face
is still frozen, you should
see how my sculptured
insides desperately want
to reveal. As your fingerprints
on my skin, tattoo shivers
the most pulsating sensations
like once when I posed
for Michelangelo—before
coating me eternally, but
your fingertips have reawakened
me. More than just a touch,
it’s been so long, even though
I stand her posing motionless
as this hand on my blushing
white chest reflects everything
private, I could never conceal.


Even Before the Bell Rings
From Pierre Dubreuil's 1932 photograph The First Round

He can feel the first punch
on his already bruising face.
Just like in the playground,
during recess and even in
his bedroom, after Pop came
home with Jack Daniels all
over his breath, ready for one
last shot, this boxer had his
gloves up ready, trying
to protect from his white
knuckle fist heavy-weighted
beating. This boxer can still
imagine that aroma of whiskey,
with an aftertaste that always
reminds him of the Tennessee
two story he is always trying
to outrun but someone keeps swinging
back. He can’t escape the uppercuts
his Pop gave him, so, he fights
back in the ring, trying to withstand
the one thing that keeps him
swinging at night, the one fight
that left him defeated, wanting
to knockout his past, no matter
the opponent, there is only one.


Showering salvation
From a painting by Jah X-El

I hear our slippery
skins slipping.
As my soapy
fingers, reach
finding an opening
moaning closer, I am
already falling, I feel her
lips, once clean, now
dripping, her mouth,
my tongue continues
glowing with her
aftertaste, she rains
on my knees— she can see
through our steam, her lips
whispering, shower me
salvation, watching each drop
drenching in blues
immerse my pruning
body, she leaves
me wanting, I rise
like steam and feel
myself falling,
already, evaporating
closeness, before
she drains me again.



Zelda says, in letters…
reaching with each cursive
sound so forward, connects
from the page, as if her lips
dripping ink, mouthing her
sentence always floors me—
air mailing desires across
so many states, she says,
in between lick stamped
breaths, her letters addressing
my longing, stanzas rhyming,
speak to me alone her words
engage. always claiming
she trembles for my touch,
but I am the one
who’s always trembling.


Wishing she would… Parle Moi, instead
From a 1950 Jacques Verroust photograph of La Vénus de Milo - Louvre Muséum Paris

But all she does is stand there
all statuesque trying to ignore
me so sculptural, as I reach
out in the middle of minuit
all I get back is stone cold
silence. I miss those days
when I would sip vin
and we would laugh
and converse, she
flirting for me for hueres
and hours. Now that I am
dry, all she does is tease
me with silence. I long
to toast her again, I miss
her denude giggles,
and the way she would
always shake her limbs,
and the way she would tease
and wink and cligner,
my Venus was the only one
in here, whoever spoke
back, our le bavardage
would always transcend
I would clutch le bouteille
sipping declarations till
la vieillesse called sunset,
our time together would
go on éternel. I know
what you’re thinking
there were no affaires
drôles, we never kissed,
embrassé or our anything
like that, I miss those hours,
when I wasn’t unseen
alone with my footsteps
looking up beneath her
always treating this copain,
with the most chiseled words,
I miss my invisible friend
grinning with her marble
sourire smile, wishing
she would reawaken,
wishing she would  

parle moi— instead.

BIO
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an LA Poet who is a recent graduate of MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. His poetry has been featured in The Yellow Chair Review, Frontier Poetry, The Wild WordLunch Ticket and one of his poems was named the winner of Subterranean Blue Poetry’s 2016 "The Children of Orpheus" Anthology/Contest. You can connect with Adrian on his website: http://www.adrianernestocepeda.com/

Friday, October 13, 2017

Before TV

Before TV
by Ryan Hansen
(Originally Published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, October 2014)                                                                                                                

Before TV we just masturbated
The radio jingles danced to the sounds of our hands   
                                                                                                                                
Before TV we watched real life reality television
Our parent's voices echoing from the living
dishes breaking the fourth wall                                                                                                                                                                                    
In those days I slept a lot
escaping an all too real reality
I didn’t need to watch other dysfunctional families
to know what was wrong



Silke Feltz

One Elbi Not many know of Elbi, hidden in a Franconian fairytale forest some hundred souls, almost all Catholic from birth to deathbed...