amphibi.us

tell the tale
without the presence of darkness or light
whose shadows and intrusions
mar the color of truth
gray-brown like the indignation
of one at odds with his self

take the tattered wordsmith from the podiums of religion
and sever the wagging tongue from the exclusive sect
that the sun might set
in the valley of the demon and rise
within the crest of the angel’s wind

sing of the beige that prevails
the muddy medley of the human soul
of the inclination to speak harm
and the instinct to heal
all one, neither colorful
nor colorless

Speak that basic brown dialect of self-knowing
the generous jive of ashes doomed to dust
I am the angel, I am the demon
all good and all evil
lies in me

© Dawn A. Green, 2010

[others]

My coffee tastes
Of hazelnut and almost paste
Caffeine (a hint of cyanide?)
A bit on the bitter side
My wife is nowhere to be found.

© Neil Ellman, 2010

He doesn’t speak
He sings the voice of angels
High ringing notes to the heavens
Low thunder to the earth
The quavering rise and fall notes the uncertainty of man

He doesn’t walk, but dances
On his tip toes and the balls of his feat
In rhythm to whatever music he can find
From the TV or the dishwasher or the dogs collar
It’s all the same, it all builds anticipation
And when it’s too much flies in a circle and lands on his belly,
Hands flapping, fingers waving
Over and over if that’s what it takes to feel it through

He doesn’t sleep
He’s got better things to do
And he must take his energy from the sun

People don’t know him
But if they did they’d love him
His eyes are the ocean
And if you catch them
He’ll send you floating away

And I’m not sure he knows what autism is
I’m not sure I know what autism is
But if I did?
I used to see it as the darkness in a cave
And he was walking to fast and every step took him further away
But I’m in the cave with him now
(I know that now)
And I don’t know what we’ll find
We’ll find it together

Don’t cry out
We’re doing it together
I’ll hold your hand
(I won’t let you hit yourself)
We are walking, two fine gentlemen,
Father and son
Out for an adventure
Seeing what we find

© Justin Roberti, 2010

Intrigued by the film noir flyer
sealed into the corner streetlamp.
Seduced by the scent
of sublime stogies
and murmuring macchiato.

The grizzly, lazy-eyed
sidewalk strummer
fingering linear chords
like a lost virtuoso
looked up to greet me,
as I eased inside past
the local university boys
(sporting the same haircut
displaying different shades of plaid)
to a worn, orange, recliner.

Narrow girls
with lifeless hair
crossed tapered denim legs
on wicker chairs
waiting for boyfriends
to belt out blasé songs
from their indie bands
with commercial names.
I sat, glad snapping is passé.
Sentiments stemming from my
Latino lineage—

Dad’s machismo explained:
his calloused thumbs,
my propensity for double entendres,
and Mom’s friend who visited
late-night while he was away.

Though I’m a jr.,
I didn’t inherit his ways.

I just wanted to sign the sheet.
Read my meager poems,
hoping one of the narrow girls
would notice and say,
“Damn. That was good…”

© Daniel Romo, 2010

[others]

after coffee had stained my t-shirt
and the memory of last night,
i called her asking questions
for answers i should have known
would stain her memory of me.

© Marion J. Darracott, 2010