Dane Langsjoenshe and i

we used to play chess thereclean headstones with old keysand promise to remember their namesnames people forgot and lichen took

black and white

she and i

Dane LangsjoenBiplane

The pilot of the biplane was a man of some repute, an aging veteran of the skies who gave seemingly romantic deaths to husbands so that their widows might

smile inwardly as the dirt was shoveled, because they had loved a brave brave man even into death and daisies. There was a sort of telepathy beneath his wings when he flew that seemed to make him infallible. He was a predator, to be sure, and like all great killers he was not foolhardy enough to look his opponent in the eye while the gauntlets were thrown. Dogfights are for heroes, and heroes have a knack for dying.

Smartly dressed in broken leather and red scarves, he bled the brilliance of the sun and nestled his guns in belly of the nimbus until the roar of their engines smelled more red than blue. The world, being the infinitely patient place that it is, never minded standing still to watch him squeeze the trigger and admire elegance to rival its own. It was the same every time, though never wanting. Thud Thud Thud, a panicked face turning in its seat, a futile attempt, a silent resignation, the flutter of his scarf between the propeller blades, and straight into the belly of the earth.

Eventually, the patience of the world got the better of him, and the pilot of the bi-plane grew curious. The air began to dangle more and more laconically, and his business of killing no longer satisfied him. Death is, understandably, an exhausting and lonely business. Neither love of country nor love of the sky could sway him any longer, and with one glance to the sea far below, he knew that he would go. To the city of glass that he had sent so many before him into. He was still wearing his scarf when the blades hit the water, and for the first time since he realized his talents, he smiled.

Estlin Thomasi lay (sleepless)

i lay (sleepless) re-membering yourgentle (smile) touch.

Estlin Thomasthere he was (looking

there he was (lookingfor traces of you), watching the faces of strangers (watching for your eyes among them), looking for the shade of your hair or the way you pulled it back behind your ear,looking for the colors of the clothes you wore(he could see thesecolors everywhere),in the worn paint on houses, in street signs, in leaves, in the sunset, in the night.

even now (months later),he remembers (everything).

he walks the streets.he walks in the park.he walks by the church(all places he walked with you).he traces the steps he took.

and, when he returnsto the (empty) hours of his room,he reads the letters you wrote.(he reads them again).he looks over every word, and triesto hear your voice writing them.

in this way, he remembers you.(the touch of your hand).this is his ceremony. this is howhe holds your vanished love.

Estlin Thomassometimes,

sometimes,in the deepest hoursof the night(when the moonis most pale),he sees,in the shattered glassof his love(in the pieces of it),a new reflectionof light(diamond-like)at the edgeswhere it is cut,which could nothave been madewithout it firstbeing broken.

in these moments,his torn lovemeans morethan it didwhen it was whole(and he isalmost thankful).

Estlin Thomasyour love (perhaps

your love (perhapsno love can) couldnot last through(cold mornings)the winter (fall).the last gestureof your love(after all)was a fallen leaf,which you found lying(dead) on the groundand placed inmy heart (your eyesdark) with atrembling hand.

love (softly) so easilygiven can (fading)so easily turn away.

Estlin Thomasnothing that dies

nothing that diesin the winterreturns in the spring.flowers return (yes),but they are notthe same flowers(they are notyour flowers).they are strangeflowers (carryingonly enough colorto remind meof the fallen onesthat came before).

your flowers (theflowers i loved),the ones you worein your hair,(the ones sunlightilluminated) havelong turned to dust(lost) beneaththe winter ground.

Lazarus Jenkins

You too were alonewhen I despaired in silencedeep in the cavernous night.You too felt this deeply,and lost as much,and hurt as muchas I.But my tears were my own.Forgive this vanity.

Lazarus Jenkins

Remembering.

The water ripples.Circles expanding.Sadness is the stone in their center.And circles meet circles.As stones pile underneath.

Lazarus Jenkins

This night I knew of Spring’s returning when I caught that scent upon the wind.

The pulse quickens as the blossoms unfold.

Child, give to me this new life with which you burn.

For the withered and the weathered and the skin of yesteryear must fall away

must fall away.

Beneath it all, we are raw and pink and delicate.

We must feel again.

Lazarus Jenkins

we are the old gods, not quite deadblood and soilstrange and ancient

we are beard and hairwild, untamedstone and yellowed wolf skins

we are wisdom unwrittenbark and leafthe permanence of change

this earth is usthis black dirtand we smell it and it remembers

this is the nightmysterious, full of strange imaginingsthe silence of the sun

the fallen leaf decays and feeds the new lifewe are thatwe cycle

bone and timeblood and soilthe old gods

Lazarus Jenkins

I feel the bones insidecreakingThe dry of the eyesThe muscles’ ache

I feel the skingrowing rough and callusedClumsy handsDisorganized mind

I am this frail flesh.

And it is me.

And that is all.

michael young

i left my house tonight,and went out walking,across the highway,and past the baseball fields.the sky was lit with moths,and the stands were almost full.they were students, for the most part, who had come to support their friends.they filled the air with sound as the teams took the field.it was uplifting, drony, a little out of tune,like an orchestra tuning to 440 before the symphony begins.

the energy of youth filled the air.i felt as though a storm was approaching.and because my hair crackled and twitched as it did,and because i could feel myself getting high from the noise and the lights,i doubled back across the avenuethat separates the college from the hospital.

but across the street,through the bent back flowers,i was shown glimpses of a different world,of old men and tightly clenched families,of sleepy doctors smoking reverently on the loading dock.there was one fellow off by himself, a large man,hunched quietly in the shadows, completely lost to the baseball fields.he didn’t know what was wrong,but he had brought flowers anyway,and he waited patiently near the front doors,holding fast to thoughts of good medicine for his beloved one.

i didn’t have the heart to tell him though,that the damage was too extensive,and that these were her last months on earth, with him.nor could i tell him about the cancer, waiting patiently in his own lungs.i just couldn’t say a word.

i walked on, caught between two worlds,angry at the happiness i was walking toward.the focused crowd which was so unaware of the pain across the street,which only the lights and noise held at bay.

i looked back, across the avenue,and i stared at the windows on the hospital’s top floors.some of the lights flickered in unison,suggesting the same channel on different TVs.dozens of strangers in separate rooms, trying to fall asleep,not knowing that they were going off to dream about the same things.the news, sports, commercials, the weather.

my eyes became heavy.i let them fill with tears,but i refused to let them fall.not for the losing team,not for the cars on the highway,not for the sick man falling asleep in his flowers.i just kept walking, feeling a dark cloud around my heart.

Claire PayneAfter BBC News...

What can I do but write?What can I do but let my heart cry,Knowing that I can change nothing,That we are just enough separateThat some can be viciousAnd I can but cry?Where do I abide?Some lay in the gutter,Naked in a farmer’s field,Dragged and mutilated on the desert sand.Children with holes, not just in their hands,Bleeding and ravaged.Women hiding behind colorful scarves with anguish in their eyes,Men falling down with sorrow.They do not flee into the desert with hope of finding god in solitude.They are not the desert fathers.They are the desert victims.They are lined up in the desert and shot.Satan drives them to the desert.Is this god?

O god what does this mean?Why would you need us to give you love,To choose to love you?Isn’t that absurd?

All I know is that I want to create,Not as an ode to you necessarily,But because finishing a piece of artwork brings me peace.I have tried to find some meaning to my life beyond that simple pleasure,But I always come back to that one desire.To sculpt.To paint.To see colors emerge before me.To see someone appear.A smiling face, my youthful spirit.My hands.My hands.They are the instruments of your peace.They heal.Behind them is power and I don’t know from where it comes,But I know it is there and that must be enough.If I wonder too much about the source,I lose time to create.I must just trust.Trust.

Suncerae SmithI:

Dried bloodunderneath fingernailsoften lookslike dirt.

---------------

Barbed wireAnd spider websAre knownTo bendAround fence postsIf they needA home.

---------------

If I could vanish into thin air, I would.I’d like to be light enough to float byso you couldn’t hear my footsteps.

Instead the air is heavy,and my lungs are sinking,collapsing upon my heart.

Maybe if my lungs stopped breathing.Maybe if my heart stopped beating.Maybe if my mouth stopped eating.

I would float.

---------------

I’ve neverseen a skullwho wasn’tsmiling.

Suncerae SmithII:

I often rememberLaying in the grass andLooking into the skyWith my dog.

Howling at the moonAnd wishing upon a starAre really the same thing.

We both hopedSomeone could hear us.

---------------

a pile of small rockscan be quite heavy.

sometimes a little faith,a few deep breaths,and a sweet melodycan make the time go bya little smoother.

---------------

Old woman,why do you weepfor the dead?The young are lost.They need yourwisdom andyour guidance.

---------------

He is coming to bring us a new lifeI am not sure who he isor when he will comeor what he will look likebut I know.I know because a new songI have never heard beforecreeps its way into my lonely mind.I am becoming hopeful, and am losing interest in my lifeI make excuses to leaveso I can look into the skyfor hours at a time.The song is growing louder all the time.

Andrew DurhamSuburban Skies

We were raisedwhere concrete fallowscreate an sky orange.With the bouncing lightof lamp postsnot illuminating anybody’s path The Suburb does its bestto keep out the night. They shining to assure sleepers,“We have made our own world”.Here it is a sin to doubta good thing.Yet one can find forgivenessthe moment they partakeand go to the super mart.Out beyond the light your absolution is the sinbut your doubts will yield no redemption.

michael youngplanting a tree

“Hey, what’s up! Happy birthday!”

The backyard was heavy with noise and people, and there were red plastic cups everywhere. It was my friend’s 21st birthday party, but she and I weren’t all that close, meaning that I knew almost none of the people coming in and out of the house. I had been sitting by the window most of the night, keeping my hands busy with an old typewriter that I had found in the grass. It was smashed up, but it gave me something to talk about, or at least mess around with. I wanted someone to lean on, but the conversations around me were mostly inside jobs. Heavy metal blared inside the house, muffled a bit by the walls. The kids on the back porch fluttered about each other, sometimes disappearing into the dark grass and reappear-ing later with smiles on their faces. Eventually this guy shows up, with a unicycle under his arm. He was pretty lanky, and wearing an old army jacket. I went up to him, asked if I could bum a cig, and we got to talking. His face was emaciated and kinda pockmarked, but he was happy to gab. I asked about the unicycle, and he offered to teach me how to ride it. “It’s re-ally easy, I’ll show you.” He had me dangle from the aluminum awning that covered the back porch, while he propped the wheel up beneath me. Step one was just learning how to balance on the thing, but it seemed to me like mastery of step one involved simultaneous mastery of step two - moving forward - also known as “riding a unicycle.” I clung to the sky in a cold sweat. This was definitely not a good idea.

My instructor abruptly abandoned me for some commotion at the back door, and, feeling naked and absurd up there alone, I dropped down to see what was going on. A new wave of people had crashed upon our party, bringing with them fresh life and beer. The birthday girl had come outside, and I fought my way into her company again, relieved to have someone I could actually talk to. She and I fell into a triangle with one of the new arrivals, a tall fellow named Patrick. He seemed un-cannily awake, given the hour. We learned that he was an electrician, and that he was leaving tomorrow for Arizona. He was friendly, and spoke of everything in heavy detail. Like how many feet tall the ladders were, or how much the pair of work gloves cost. We mostly listened to him, not the other way around.

The night passed uneventfully for a while. I felt myself drowning in words, felt myself getting sad. Patrick wouldn’t stop

michael youngplanting a tree

“Hey, what’s up! Happy birthday!”

The backyard was heavy with noise and people, and there were red plastic cups everywhere. It was my friend’s 21st birthday party, but she and I weren’t all that close, meaning that I knew almost none of the people coming in and out of the house. I had been sitting by the window most of the night, keeping my hands busy with an old typewriter that I had found in the grass. It was smashed up, but it gave me something to talk about, or at least mess around with. I wanted someone to lean on, but the conversations around me were mostly inside jobs. Heavy metal blared inside the house, muffled a bit by the walls. The kids on the back porch fluttered about each other, sometimes disappearing into the dark grass and reappear-ing later with smiles on their faces. Eventually this guy shows up, with a unicycle under his arm. He was pretty lanky, and wearing an old army jacket. I went up to him, asked if I could bum a cig, and we got to talking. His face was emaciated and kinda pockmarked, but he was happy to gab. I asked about the unicycle, and he offered to teach me how to ride it. “It’s re-ally easy, I’ll show you.” He had me dangle from the aluminum awning that covered the back porch, while he propped the wheel up beneath me. Step one was just learning how to balance on the thing, but it seemed to me like mastery of step one involved simultaneous mastery of step two - moving forward - also known as “riding a unicycle.” I clung to the sky in a cold sweat. This was definitely not a good idea.

My instructor abruptly abandoned me for some commotion at the back door, and, feeling naked and absurd up there alone, I dropped down to see what was going on. A new wave of people had crashed upon our party, bringing with them fresh life and beer. The birthday girl had come outside, and I fought my way into her company again, relieved to have someone I could actually talk to. She and I fell into a triangle with one of the new arrivals, a tall fellow named Patrick. He seemed un-cannily awake, given the hour. We learned that he was an electrician, and that he was leaving tomorrow for Arizona. He was friendly, and spoke of everything in heavy detail. Like how many feet tall the ladders were, or how much the pair of work gloves cost. We mostly listened to him, not the other way around.

The night passed uneventfully for a while. I felt myself drowning in words, felt myself getting sad. Patrick wouldn’t stop

talking.

“So, do you wanna go plant a tree?”

My thoughts poked back above the water. “What?”

“I picked out this spot, over in the park by 29th St. There’s a creek there, and the soil along the bank is perfect - kind of a sandy loam, nice and moist. I know where we could get a sapling from. Right now. You wanna come?”

I had no idea what kind of dirt sandy loam was. I still don’t. But late night desperation had wormed its way into my head, and as I looked past him at that dead bunch of party crashers and nowhere kids, there was only one thing to say.

My friend and I walked out with him to his pickup truck. Michael Jackson and Metallica blared from different corners of the house, covering up the fact that we were essentially kidnapping the birthday girl and taking the party with us. She seemed open to the plan, if maybe a little indifferent. I for one was excited. I had been promoted from a no-name in the backyard to first lieutenant of the birthday. I opened the door of the cab for her, and the three of us took off into the night.

Patrick kept on brainstorming as he guided us on to the highway. There was something kind of insane about him, I thought, looking sideways at his dim-bright face. His good cheer, his focus, the way he never shutup:

“...we’ll hit up my friend’s house downtown, if he’s awake. I think he’s got a red dogwood sapling bound up in burlap in his backyard...”

I figured he used to be a stoner, the way he carried on, but I kept my thoughts quiet. The birthday girl took over the listen-ing for a few minutes, and I let myself drift away a little. The campus beneath us flew by, and suddenly I was a kid visiting the city for the first time. There were all these lights in the sky.

I realized then that there was lightning flashing behind us, toward the north, which I brought to Patrick’s attention. He didn’t seem to think it was a problem. We had exited the highway by then and were flying down 12th street. We traced it to a quiet neighborhood just off of downtown where the houses were all two stories tall and set up on old stone hills. He parked the truck in front of one of them, jumped out of the cab, and went up the stairs to the front door. Me and birthday

girl stayed in the truck, not knowing what to do.

I could make out Patrick tapping on the screen door, and then again on the front windows. All the lights in the house were off. He then disappeared around the side of the house for a few minutes. This forced birthday girl and me to wake up to each other. She lit two smokes and we rolled the windows down. We hadn’t been talking very long before a soft thump hushed us up.

Patrick reappeared behind the pickup, grinning like a madman and brandishing a shovel. A baby tree with its roots bound up lay flat on the front lawn, and he motioned for us to come outside. I was suddenly a little scared.

“Ricky was asleep. And no sign of the dogwood either. But there was a bald cypress back there, which is just as good. We’ll need to get a few buckets of water.”

The buzz of adrenaline went away, but I was on guard now - something about the way he held that shovel in the moonlight really creeped me out. Patrick had found a spigot on the side of the stairs, and he had us fill up two five-gallon buckets while he scrawled a note on his friend’s door. Minutes later, we were back on the dark streets. Patrick continued his train of thought, this time telling us all about how dogwood trees were different from cypress trees. Birthday girl and I didn’t say a word.

Resentment. Frustration. There’s only so much a guy can talk at you before you start feeling bruised and rotten. It was like two in the morning at that point, and I was starting to feel a little unholy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But we were almost there, and I clung helplessly to the idea that something good might happen.

Patrick pulled the truck onto a winding street just off of 29th St. The creek was off to our right, and he jumped the truck over the curb, aiming for a pale clearing in the overgrowth. There was a bar just up the street, and people were shuffling out of the doors in small groups. They were pretty far away though, and we had the clearing to ourselves. Patrick killed the engine.

The rest of what happened that night was just... I don’t know. A giant dreamy blur. The three of us took the tree toward the center of the clearing. Patrick looked up, predicting where the autumnal sun would fly overhead tomorrow. He silently determined the precise coordinates of our tree according to some bizarre midnight geometry, and then he handed birthday

girl a shovel. It was her birthday, after all, she should be the one to break ground. Which she did.

The whole plan went without a hitch. No cops interfered. No storm drowned us out. No drunks jumped out of the bushes. The tree stood proud and thin in the misty air. It was as perfect a moment as I am capable of, and this man, this Patrick, he deserved all the credit.

“See how the tree is facing? That’s good. The leaves are a little thicker on this side, and that’ll protect it from winds coming in from the northwest. Most of your storms are gonna come in from that direction.”

I wanted to smash his face in with a bottle. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Fuck it. Not that that would help anything. It’s just the way that he stood there, breathing in the mist and grinning, like he was listening to music that we couldn’t hear, it really got under my skin. It’s like in the book Heart of Darkness. All that people usually remember is the line “the horror, the horror,” but what I remember was the way that Mr. Kurtz crept up on you, long before Marlow actually found him. You spend the whole novel hearing stories about him, all these whispered rumours of how great and godstruck a man he is. His personality, his charisma. His ability to bring ivory back from the jungle. And now, looking at Patrick (who is now suggesting we head toward the bar, to make friends with the people still hanging around), I see a shadow of Kurtz in him. Not that Patrick had lost himself to the darkness, or anything at all like that. I don’t know why I brought it up. I just made the association in my head somehow.

Anyway, he was insistant that we try our luck with the crowd outside the bar, but I just felt too hollow. I made up some-thing about living a few blocks away, about being tired, and thanks for a great night. Patrick took it in stride and bid me a beautiful life. I felt relieved that he was taking his spotlight elsewhere. But what I remember most of those last few minutes wasn’t him, really, it was her. We were both looking at the little sapling, shivering in the cool air, and she turned and looked at me, just before following Patrick toward the bar. Her eyes were like sad full moons. We looked at each other for a few moments, and then she turned and quickly walked away with him.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, struck dumb. Her and me, we were like patients in hospital beds, sneaking pills when the doctors weren’t looking. I watched the two of them disappear into the night, and then I turned around. There were a few cars blowing menacingly over on Guadalupe. my heart ached for them.