amphibi.us

We weren’t tough,
Not like the Navaho kids who stood ten steps apart
And took turns pelting each other with stones,
Until the loser was knocked down;

Or the Mohawk kids
Who threw knives at each other’s feet,
Trying to get as close as they could without breaking the skin.
And the winner was always the one with bloody feet.

Our games were more civilized.
In the twilight, when it was too dark for baseball,
We would meet in the empty lot down by the river.
While the rest of us would close our eyes,

The oldest kid would throw a long stick as far as he could,
And then the rest would go looking for it.
The thrower, out of this round, would tell us whether we were getting
Hotter or colder as we searched the knee-high grass.

The first kid to find it would yell “Hot ass,”
And then have the right to whack on the behind any kid he could catch
As we raced back to touch a tree which was our haven.
Woe to the fat slow kid,

Whose only defense was yelling out “Hot ass,’
Even if he didn’t find the stick,
So that the other kids would start running away
And give him a few more moments to locate it himself.

And thus we learned the basic rules of life.
You win by inflicting pain.
You lose by receiving pain.
And only fraud gives you a chance.

© Ron Yazinksi, 2010

[others]

The book is weight too dead to hold

my eyelids delicate shrouds draped

over sight as I set syllables adrift

half awake in a room rolling down

to sleep breathing thick as night fog

gathered on a northern sea

I sink with elements of plot

submerged as reading flows

into sleep – I push my raft

from the dock of a phrase

my body floating down

as desire dies. I am my effigy.

© Kenneth Radu, 2010

I’m listening to the general chatter of people around me. Normal every day things, and hating them for it. My fingers are frighteningly white against the matte black plastic of the armchairs, flexing and unflexing as I listen.

“Did you bring a lunch?”

“No, I was thinking of going over to the Wendy’s. Wanna come?”

“I’ll pass, I brought a sandwich. But let me know when you take lunch, I’ll come smoke with you before you go.”

“Cool. I’ll let you know, I’ve gotta run upstairs real quick. Hand me that tube? Thanks.”

They’re rushing around, taking care of normal every day things. And I’m sitting here, flexing and unflexing my fingers, watching everyone pass around me. They don’t take any notice of me, almost trained not to settle their eyes on people like me, and there are many of us. Sitting in matte black plastic armchairs up and down the aisles. My hair is messy and I don’t give a shit.

“Did you see Lost last night?” I look up, but this girl isn’t speaking to me. She is smiling and barely containing her excitement as her friend nods. She explodes into various ‘oh my god’ and ‘I couldn’t believe it’ exclamations and the two laugh, walking down the hallway. They do not look at me. Slowly, I stand, check my hair in the reflection of an approximation of a painting, a piece of ‘art’ mass produced to hang in long hallways under fluorescent lighting that couldn’t be considered offensive to anyone. My hair is still messy.

Stepping into the room across from that chair, littered in old tissues, I look upon my lover. He doesn’t see me. No one in this entire building sees me. I kneel by his side and nod, once, slowly, at a person with a carefully trained expression on his face. He does not smile, or look unhappy. Just empty. Carefully empty as he bows his head towards me, and turns off the machines.

Outside the room, under the unpleasant fluorescent lights, a pair of twenty-somethings rummage through their purses for packs of cigarettes and complain about their bosses. Inside the room, the respirator turns off. My lover’s chest ceases to rise and fall with regular rhythm. The orderly keeps his eyes off of me, turns off a few dials, and pulls the sheets up over my husband’s face. He exits the room, careful not to make any contact with me, and begins to whistle as he jogs down the hallway.

“Hey guys, wait up – Can I bum one?”

© Shannon Peil, 2009

[others]

So my friend Phil is telling me how

he can’t get a date

how he loves women and how

they’re always giving him looks

so I ask him what kind of looks

so he winces at the beautiful

braless young woman passing by

at that particular propitious moment

giving her a look of such

longing and longevity

that she returns his look with a look

that kills his entire family tree

from the roots to the unimagined

blossoms of the great grandchildren shriveling

on his shriveling bough

and I think I’ve diagnosed his problem now

and I think of quoting some lines from Rilke

but on second thought I think

a sports metaphor might serve him better

so I steer the conversation round to basketball

and the three second rule

which says you can only stand inside

the key for three seconds

before they blow the whistle

they’re just blowing the whistle on you Phil

for breaking the three second rule

for standing there with your eyes

popping out like basketballs

it’s a game like any other I tell him

then I ask him if he wants to score

and now that I have his attention

I throw in those lines from Rilke

I tell him that beauty is nothing

but the beginning of terror

we’re still just able to bear

and the reason we adore it so

is that it serenely disdains to destroy us

and he winces again and this time

it’s at the beauty of those lines

or maybe their truth which hits him

like a three-pointer now

that Rilke hits all the way from Germany

at a distance of a hundred years

© Paul Hostovsky, 2010

[others]

bucking fukowski …
his goddamn publisher put out
an old manuscript as a new
book.

and i got it,
even if nobody else did

—but they probably received
review copies …  how

could he have written
such ridiculous shit—?

i mean more
shit—he’s
dead. yet,

the bastard keeps coming
up with it …

getting his
kicks

… pity, isn’t
him

that’s rich.

© Devin Wayne Davis, 2009

[others]