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CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Two Poems
by Gregory Lawless


Pantheon

One god wears a cape and nothing
else, embarrassing
all the other gods. One god dressed up
as a toaster for Halloween; his wife, a human,
dressed up as a fork. It didn't last
but their kids are white sparrows
that nest in orange trees, and everyone
mentions them and looks away. One god shines
his chariot with gravegrass…Up north, in their fort, they don't talk
much. But they race Palominos, donkeys, and bury
their slaves up to their ears in mulch, jeering, trying
to cheer. They bet the house on who can spit
into the golden ewer
from another continent
and so on. They go into the city
and shrink down
to the size of subway tokens, riding rats
into scraps of newspaper,
therein, shooting princes, canceling snow…
About humans, they can't imagine.
All they can paint are ramparts, lashes.
When they kick a soccer ball, they leave trails
of black sparks on the roasted field.
You say the word "fog" and they tear out
your meniscus, furious, gunning their teeth. Their tears
are cinder blocks. When one god feels the world
with his left hand
you come to the end of love, your prayers
creaking like a screen door. Just to prove something,
they press a hot iron to your palm
but you don't notice it for twenty years.
If they knew your name once, they have forgotten
it by now. And they keep on forgetting
it, to let you know
that they're there.

Trying to Build a Man in My Basement

Poor Man, leaking gear grease
and sparks all over
the concrete floor. His wings
are dented and the hanging saws swing
and twang
when he sighs;—I remember,
he says, but remembers
nothing—. Night after night
I hammer thick nails
into his smile, I plant
small bunches of sod
on his crown, and burn
his fingers to test
his nerves. I take him everywhere
I go, locked away
in a black cello
case that I open
now and then
to feed him
those sad scraps
of the world.
For the most part
this keeps him quiet.