Author: Admin

Tony Magistrale/Poetry

A Short Treatise on Time “There are days when the fear of death illuminates everything.”           —Ted Kooser I’m weary of bemoaning so many lost hours,   as if we ever had any choice other than a one-way ticket with a time-stamp securely in place,   like those issued for certain train journeys in Europe: use it by Sunday afternoon   or forfeit the ride.  Or when you buy a quart of milk and it sours sitting on its ass in your refrigerator because you forgot all about it, off doing other things   instead of eating breakfast.  Of course it’s an unfair deal and you would have hired a high-priced lawyer to negotiate the fine print,   but the gods never consulted you before forwarding your contractual obligations.   Now that death has switched positions from the distant dot at the horizon creeping up in the rear-view mirror   to hovering around the face you shave every morning, you find yourself often stranded on the autobahn of memory,   drunk on nostalgia’s exit ramp, which is not a good place to be; it’s a dangerous drug   that ironically promotes forgetfulness paving over potholes from the past.   Try remembering this instead: you didn’t understand much less appreciate   half of what you did with your youth; and you certainly wouldn’t have bothered   to watch rain fill...

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Stephen Kaplan/Poetry

    THE TROLLEY CAR     All the windows broken snow drifted into the interior. Some demon had left it on six feet of track some seventy years ago. Demons function efficiently during the winter.   It was seen and not seen. When eyes walked past those six feet, space became blank, time went elsewhere. What demon would devote demonic time to so useless a task?   It must be that demons are quite as stupid as those of us who are not demons. It must have taken some considerable amount of energy to blank out six feet of trolley track from the world, not to mention the windowless trolley itself.   In  warm weather I sit inside the unchanged car and go as unnoticed as the old vehicle itself. While I sit, old ghosts come to visit. We read the daily Mirror, and sometimes, if its warm enough, we take a little snooze.       Stephen Kaplan has published poetry in the following publications: “Onthebus”, “Midstream”, “Tribeca Poetry Review”, “Iodine Poetry Review”, “Taproot Literary Review”, “Mobius”, “Ciron”, “Poetica”, “Sounding East”, “Slab” and two New York City themed anthologies, “Tokens” and “Bridges”, among others....

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Tim Suermondt/Poetry

  RAY   It’s absurd to say we’ll live forever but just as absurd to say we won’t— the angels sitting on the treetops have a purpose, whether they be real or not. The Irish bar has been closed down but if a man or woman were to look inside they’d see us both with our friends, drinking away and issuing proclamations certain to save the world if only our leaders were bold and had them enacted. A portrait of President Kennedy stills hangs on the wall— the beautiful barmaids still carry trays of beer and starlings in the blue light rest in their hair. Perhaps here everlasting is a condition as well as a word— let’s engage in another round. Let’s keep giving it a chance.     NOT TOO CLOSE   On some Sundays it seemed           that God was close. – Adam Zagajewski     I believe God doesn’t want to get too close. There are billions of people on earth—how does one even begin to play favorites among so many? A man asks for enough money to buy a yacht, and he snags both. Another man asks for a little extra “please” and doesn’t receive a penny. Who wins, who loses is a mystery, especially to God who must throw up His hands more than we’d like to imagine. I admit...

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N. David Pastor/Poetry

      “Dotage”   Aging gracefully, With an eye for dementia   I recognize celestial impotence Floating in my soup.   The architecture to scale, Yet somehow out of proportion.   My creator, a diminutive man Spilling forth in an over-sized suit,   Does not fit into his body. Though I have burst into mine.       “Manqué”   Inspired by the part of You,   That does not belong to Me,   (nor you)   To settle inside Of a brushfire –   I don’t want to   Make small offerings In your name   To the love I keep From myself   Smoldering.       “Winter Parodies”   It happens like cold air Filtering the warmth That clings to my insides. This is winter. Nature dictates That everything must be moving slower. There is an attention to detail That presents itself to Each individual block of matter. I see snowflakes Floating precariously unaware Of all these circumstances. This is winter: A set Moment of deliverance In relief of itself.   Néstor David Pastor is a writer and musician from Queens, NY. He is a graduate of Binghamton University with degrees in English: Creative Writing and Spanish Language & Literature. He is currently pursuing a Masters degree in Spanish at Queens College. His writing has been published by The Rumpus, Newtown Literary, and Handsy Lit....

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Gina Larkin/Poetry

    AT THE SALON     Magazine pages filled with products to volumize, customize, hydrolosize, defrizz. Almost as any pages as are devoted to organizing the closet that stores the bottles and pumps and tubes of promise. The stylist runs her fingers through my shampooed hair and sighs. She sprays, scrunches and plasters strands to cover balding spots, brushes tint along roots. The salon is an old barbershop, chairs and mirrors rearranged to accommodate either sex. The stylist’s hair is a long stream of sienna red sunset, naturally curly, a calm cascade of light and shimmer. I sit under the dryer and stare at boxes filled with siren calls to men who respond to “rowdy red”, “audacious auburn” and many variations of golden sun. When dryer clicks to off and the last of the holding sprays fogs the air, the mirror reflects the me that walked in, no shimmer, no volume, no siren call. I put the magazine back and go home to organize my medicine chest.       THE COOKIE     It was just a cookie, a careless, erose glob, harmlessly stuck to a rusty car hood.   I wanted the cookie, like an achy itch left by a swarm of unending desire.   I wanted the cookie, its uneasy roundness melting the taste of last night’s lemon peels, toasting it into chocolate ice cubes....

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