..:: CONTENTS ::..

..:: POETRY ::..
Adam Fieled
  Sarah Israel
Johannes Finke
  Documents etc. do not balance out
  Hardcore angel
  Recording, Melancholy
Dan Fisher
  from Fugue Report
Jenny Gillespie
  Personal Forest
Thomas Hibbard
Claudia Keelan
  Little Elegies (Vietnam) 
  Little Elegies (cummingsworth)
  Little Elegies (Self and Other)
David Krump
  The Nine Day Ricochet
  Backsling in the Hickories
Tom Leonard
  suite On the Page
Christopher Mulrooney
  Continental System
Rochelle Ratner
  Jealous Lover Program Creator Is Indicted
  California Inmate Seeks Release of Stuffed Dog
  Piggy Banks
Dennis Somera
  Earl Lee s. alvation jane=Paterson's curse s.v. Paterson;
  sweet ana lack to es
Stephanie Young

..:: PROSE ::..
Douglas Cole
Laura Davis
Mandy Kalish
  On the Fourth Pull
William Moor
  Four Robot Recognitions

..:: REVIEWS ::..
Jeremy James Thompson
  Joan Retallack, Memnoir
Sarah Trott
  Stephanie Young, Telling the Future Off
Sara Wintz
  Various, lunapark 0,10

..:: ETC ::..
  Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
  Volume I, Issue I
  Volume I, Issue II
  Volume II, Issue I


The Nine Day Ricochet
David Krump


-for Sr. Laurian Pieterek


The elms catch fire and color in the cold, which is almost
caught.   The elms arenít in love
but almost sing Lau, Lau, Lau in the wake of wind
that is not killing them again, though almost.

Followed a leaf down the street
with fat bag of grain in hands.
Itís like the sky was never a halo
and then the familiar stain of dream.


We speak so little now between the slightly trees:
us in this stature of skin and sin, you
in a spiritís informal vestments.

For the gone days and fullness is. 
Hello, gone, how young song the ask you now.


(skies at the cathedral gates creak
            and snap back in push and song
we walk the least places in this new dream

thin thinking and in moonlight             silver
power lines cross the good earthscape
like Godís stray hairs)             Can you supposeó

Iím thinking of a color.  Fewer.  Nevermind.
Not completely, but fully. 
                  Find a flower and keep it
down.                            Find a flower give it
a world to raise,
                                                               a darkness
this bright dancing cannot store. 

A yesterday thick to remark stray hen kept bobbing
its brown and red head down to the green ground
clucking once for each lost chick.
Poor bird, clearly mad, counting its absences, mad. 
Dogwood east of river hungry.
The small world clucks its losses.


Your squirrels wake daily and ricochet
from tree to tree with their sorrow. 
Yes, everything is fine and dying and blessed
be this plunder song of live and take.

Birds we could never own fly again against
an otherwise almost sky.  Little hopes, Little hopes.

Itís like standing in the sand and crying out.
Our slingshots full of empty sunlight, the giant
back on his feet again.  Then song.


The surge complicated wind is back
to wondering where is your skin to chill
and asks if I have the time O to come and play
like you would know how
                                                            but I donít. 
Iím still moving, harvesting the last leafís worry.
I press wild yellow between wax paper and Hopkins
and the winter world hushes for months.

No more hawk-weather water beating frozen
on stones, so bonesí home the earth continues.
In the cold we sing Hallelujah! We found a find!ó
Then, find a flower, prop it up.
                                    Find a sky and press the presence
            this world cannot store.


(magistrate wind admits desire
for our little bloods and brittle bones
like spilling scared sparrows, nesting

in our knuckles, but some wind digs
for years to stir white guano on cave floors
and becomes the wind of batsí wings:

the dark wind)  When an infantís mucus clears
in impressive scream itís not the first wind. 
Itís only wind, arriving as sound.
Last night, dream of need, I put my mouth to a breast

of wind, until it filled me, and I fled.


Laurian, in your death, little songs emerged out of time
like lilies, white lilies, in January.  How you left
your earth and other questions
: a sequence rebels
like melodic children in a book
God wonít stop writing in funny flesh.

Friday frost arrived on your grave, a white touch.

I waited down on your porch steps, believing
the spirit continues its quiet routine a life suggests.

(a wonderful woods to inhabit dream you are
                                    the bodiless parts the valley fog you leave behind
                                                only seasons and many songs)


I read again your notes on old almost poems
I had forgotten                   I attempted   
introducing you in new ones           seeing
your soft purple coat still hangs        from a strong cedar
peg in your closet                         like an empty song.

There is a brisk grief in the trees, juggling
squirrels, that is not magic, but almost itís wind.


In a dream this night I hide behind an elm
by your grave, expecting for you
to spring forth.  Quite a flower youíd make this winter
gone taut petals flinging wet light.

A deep face the color of the sky.
Every night is capsized like this:
the city sky pillared by chimney steam,
and this broken rosary of stars that surrounds you.


//   Advance   //