ARGYRANTHEMUM MADERENSE by Jarrett Bywaters
FEEDING CYCLE OF THE CLOCK:
by Martin Elwell
at 3:00am on sunday
i woke with the blissful un-obligated whim of a labrador
released by old age and the end of hunting season
no longer burdened by sunrise
at 3:00am on monday
i woke with the weight of predatory cats on my chest
in the crystalline blue light of the alarm clock's blinking colon
and various growling punctuation marks
at 3:00am on tuesday
i woke to the sound of enamel rubbing hungry enamel
like the un-oiled hinge of our back door swinging
in fall's predawn frost
at 3:00am on wednesday
i was torn open by scavengers
who nosed through the rotting leftovers of my repose
and left limping into the trees
at 3:00am on thursday
i cowered under the circling flight of bats
and ingesting the bloody morsels of my dreams
at 3:00am on friday
i searched blindly for nourishment
grubbing in the grassy darkness
and spreading the dirt with my boney fingers
with the brush of her freckled hand
domesticated and shadowed
in the muted silver haze of moon
without looking at the clock
by Martin Elwell
I’ve abandoned moon gazing, beach sitting, napping, meditating, and bird watching.
I’ve given up on sitting still long enough to watch a candle burn, a camp fire
consume itself, snow fall, wind blow, clouds pass, veins pulse, or one foot tap.
waking, dressing, running, showering, re-dressing, driving,
passing everyone to gain a few seconds, tailgating, speeding, lane switching…
hand gesturing, radio singing, cell phone talking, text messaging, parking…
saying good morning, key striking, word scanning, ink scribbling,
and symmetrically organizing.
scribble notes in meetings to keep my hands moving, take the stairs, answer questions,
respond to e-mails (hundreds of them).
I assign work, manage performance, monitor behavior, host conference calls, argue,
piss, laugh, leave.
I run errands:
food shopping, picking up dry cleaning, complaining, scheming, worrying about this
in order to avoid worrying about that.
I clean dishes, swallow Advil, yawn, fake a smile, my metabolism slows, my motivation declining.
I download porn, sit on the couch, watch a sitcom, channel surf…my head nods,
my eye lids close,
the moon unlooked at, the beach in darkness, one lark singing somewhere else.
ONCE UPON A TIME: REGULAR by Robert Sanders
by Alan Britt
When language and experience
the image is deemed
to be old,
tattered along its gilded leather
all too given
to the moral rhetoric of its age.
When language refuses
from the sagging orange trumpet
of the squash flower
it has found a sentimental salve
to protect its upper thighs
against our most carnivorous caresses.
Then this language
fanning an acoustic guitar
in Grand Central Station
must surely invent other joyous moments
to make us believe
in intolerable situations?
If you think that language should behave differently
than wild cheetahs
shouldering the long grasses
of our solitary discontent,
then I offer you this farewell toast,
my poor, exhausted friend.