ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

 
THREE POEMS
by Jeffrey Salane

The Pure Art

Inevitably in my childhood
were hundreds of die cast metal Hotwheels cars.
I could go to my parent's house,
to my grandparent's house, to my old friend's
who moved up north and then out west house
and recover lunch tins full of little cars.
And if not Hotwheels,
then Star Wars or G.I. Joe,
faces faded and thumbs broken off,
light sabers that slipped down and up their arms.
My grandfather gave me a carrying case
in the shape of the Millennium Falcon,
but I couldn't open it, and he tried,
and his hand cut open,
and there was no light saber,
just blood that fell and stained the back porch
of the house my parents sold
three years ago.
I remember his scar, still there,
with his hands folded on his chest
during the open casket viewing,
and I recall smashing those cars,
and taking the figures apart,
scratching down Wonder Woman
until she was nude,
having her fall in boundless love
with everyone,
the heroes, the boys, and the soldiers.



The Announcement of the Plot

A human, if ever we saw one.

No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel,
how life imitates, "imitation of life." We were of two minds.
Thank you, unicorn,
and those at home who swear he is not dead.

Be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
by the road to the contagious hospital.

The skies fill with unread volumes,
the museums of false starts.

His solo-a cold trance in stainless steel,
the wheel, little silver coffin of a car thrumming
only the arteries quivering in his neck.
Dusted for fingerprints. He was saving
two summers? Epochs, then, of ice.

Say paradise! No dice, no dice.

The stove is cold and so is the bed.
The morning is a phantom hum of glories.

You have bewitched me, my darling.



Pantone Black 3 U

In the perfect home you
unleash the trees at night
to play with their distant friends,
roam the forest and lose themselves.
The lawn is bright orange.
Birds fold scarves around the mailbox
which, catching a slight cough,
looks sick in the face.
Cars float by. Sound like a film projector
three rooms away.
Milk on the steps at eight.
Newspaper in the bushes. Newspaper reads,
Aloha All, and little yellow Post-Its
mark every piece of furniture:
salad fork, mantle, bedroom mirror, den lamp, steps.
The phone rings and it's your parents,
there is a problem, they love you too much
and want you to move back.
The towels are a color just right.
Dogs use the doorknob and tell secrets to the neighbors:

The real key to great peanut butter cookies
is a dash of chocolate syrup.

When it snows, the roads close and musicals
set to the streets, the players

in layers open their mouths as bright black half notes
bubble out and drift up the sky,

noiseless chimney smoke without any smell.
Whoever is home is home.

There is a swing on the porch built for two.
You can fall asleep on it.