Poetry of Issue # 63                        Page 1
About Us Subscribe FAQ Guidelines Links Contact Us page 2 page 3 page 4 Page 5	BLACK PETALS time flowers fast in irises time flowers slower in zinnias in night-blooming cereus, time doesn't even stop                         to fold her wings time blooms quick as blood in changes of moon time blooms a golden shadow beyond sun-cycles time blooms genesis in galactic black holes time opens black petals behind my eyes in my face, time wakes first my mother, then my                          father in my tongue, time curves an invisible rainbow                         with flavors that keep discovering                         me to myself time walks these streets with ill-fitting shoes no rest for time in market doorways time cannot sleep off pain behind bars of fear time hugs me all night without asking time's kisses leave bruises on my lips and neck time arouses me a little, then laughs when I can't time opens the petals of her song and is filled                           with night stars suck her red honey and leave her husks sun dances with her till both fall, exhausted fire ants blister my ankles with time i stand inside clock's cruel circle, listening for                        god now eternity ravages me with passionate teeth, i                          shout!                                Will Inman _________________________ PORCELAIN DOLL                For Carmen Vascones School bells clang infernal and I stagger about between life and death. Meanwhile, the red sand hourglass appears and disappears and my horrible arachnophobia reclaims me, they both believe that I am broken, for I am; like this porcelain doll whose eyes I've pulled out.            Carolina Patino Translated by Alexis Levitin	WHEN I THINK OF RUDOLPH VALENTINO of the train zig zagging across the country, the long lines waiting and Pola Negri sobbing, women throwing themselves from high rises to concrete. For years the mystery of white roses on his grave. James Dean died in his beauty, Richard Farina and Marilyn Monroe, more beloved dead. Jean Harlow, dead young beauties, a sting. Even the gorgeous aren't protected, they can die suddenly. If they swallow pills it's untimely, so startling. But they are beautiful dead. A glow, mourned, a reminder that fame isn't everything like Heath Ledger, a young man lying in bed it seems at peace, a man who is supposed to wake up but never does, almost comforting                       Lyn Lifshin _________________________ FUTURE PAST TENSE I sometimes think about what it will be like to close my eyes on all this, knowing that we all must and that we all do eventually. By the hand of man or God- is there any difference, us being in His image?- we will bid farewell to what we know and go towards that which we do not. Will I accept the verdict or appeal, go graciously to my fate or fight? I do not know how I will behave but I do know it will be hard to be brave, as what I am leaving is dear and here while all that follows remains unclear and out there somewhere; out beyond my last look at all this.                       Brian C. Felder	WATCHING THE TWO CRAWL TOWARDS ONE ANOTHER the ancestors of this spider may have crawled across the floor of a Spanish mission, crawled towards the outstretched hand of a dying penitent, attracted to the sound of fingernails tapping feebly against cold stone.   the ancestors of this fly may have befuddled men like Bacon appearing as if by magic from a clump of rotting meat. This fly could be the direct descendant of a lifetime of scientific theory. the ancestors of these insects may have coexisted before under the same sort of scrutiny I have them under now theory and poetry building around each remaining completely oblivious to anything but one another.                       Holly Day ______________________________________________________________ MATE This morning, through the slosh and quag of muck, the rain torrents, through squish and splash of step, I heard the croak, a mud-mirrored bull twang from glossy green owner of windstrewn pond. Protest against weather's denial of lust, perhaps, but then again the joy of boom has resonated since late trilobite. His answer was just to himself, another low dark moan. Nothing like a rainy day to feel so quite alone.                       Lee Slonimsky