Dana Jerman (Poetry)

Dirty phone rings up the wrong sound -

This mouth keeps on with talk, I keep catching ideas
and despite my fascination, these are the times your eyes
are reaching, straining, toward the door.

When we leave the table after three or so hours
the trash includes love notes
and you walk fast, up ahead of me.

I've got my luck and this date
and the check of course, but you should know -
I'm searching for my little piece of the end of the world with you.



For Brandon-

She shows up at his doorstep at some eight-thirty when she expects his body to be home, hunched over one or another guitar. Beer in hand from a six pack of white cans with blue labels. She’s had one already in the car on the way over and she walks around his house to the backdoor. All long legs in tall socks and tennis shoes and short shorts on the stoop in the dead end of summer.

She is a big smile in a hoodie when he answers the fast knock and puts the beer just inside the door so he can pick her up at the waist and kiss her on the forehead. The greeting is simple and it fills up with all the things he won't say. He thinks she is beautiful, standing against the old pinkblue dusk light coming in from the door, framing her. “Surfs up.” – she hands him a cold one and cracks open her third, sipping and shaking the condensation from her hand.

This is the first time they have seen each other in a while, maybe since last year. This time they get to share the fall and the winter. Maybe walk where the leaves have fallen, then again in the crackling frozen snow. This year there is time to take time. The greeting is simple, the sticking-around is a bit harder.

The Theologists Humor-

He makes a note to be poignant.

To tell the truth and the truth about

knowing the truth.

He has great moments at stoplights.

The way home is littered with thinking

about dreams and a lover. An objective joy.

He wants existence. Finding Deity in the profane

isn't hard. But he cant do it forever.

God won't let him.

He thinks of all the breath men use to tell jokes.

The unhad laughter like licks of electricity

connecting faster than prayer.

His smile is a secret reflected in holy water.

Made of blood and bile, sexual in nature

and forgone as God's bonedry conclusions.

scratched tattoo-

trouble tiger dreams of machete

the night is a skin and sex

sells your fur

scratch paws claw gazelle tits

and legs meat crave no street

no body to carry

teeth in the horns

orange house or a tank
or thick fire

bruised ocean all that african

dust to hold and you with

your half black weight

kittens breathing already knows

giraffe taste uncollapsed so fresh

taste brain makes it thru
to tomorrow for hot zebra

red splash on local object

camouflage

snarl play takes it. baby tooth

bitten back that one tree there

was for miles

youth, tiger, youth. old nicks

in the blade were your friends

dead landscapes

flora cut fucking down

dream hides chop chop sounds

where stillness translates yesterday

and lack of water

horizon extension final when
heart beats scratchy tattoo..

now no more troubles, tiger.

Heather Palmer

9.22

He speaks to save souls funny thing Demeter understands won’t look—back to him table and coffee cold—hard listening leans in You are what your father see in you She been fishing that answer asked over cards smokes literature-smarts but this so simple Slips his words over tongue can’t hear damn diesel trucks drown No condemnation No condemnation the Lord’s righteousness that why Jesus say the Lord and I are one—Whoaf He sings Demeter risks look A lady stone-faced says I gotta go Say what’s your name? Marvel Marvel—my aunt’s name Marvel—God bless you sister that’s a beautiful name Thank you Lady leaves Demeter still hungry only half-reads reasons So much need—why not feed on him?