PARTY TIME Everybody’s laughing at you because you’re swinging a stick like a fool at nothing and because it’s June Fest but moms made them come h e r e. Even Bobby Ferrell, your classroom “book buddy” jeers. The cake your mother served was lemon coconut for your sister who missed out on her own party in April when sick. You trip on your own feet. This makes the pitch of laughter rise – and then ka-SHAB! – the stick makes contact, the string snaps, and the piñata tumbles to the ground. Nobody understands, least of all you, why you keep whacking and whacking that jackass flat even after it spills the goods. CHOOSING THE BEST TIME TO STAGE YOUR OWN ABDUCTION Not while your dorm mate is in Connecticut and won’t notice how you aren’t there but your purse and cell phone are. Not the day…
“T.S. Eliot Homage,” Poetry by Timothy Resau
T.S. Eliot Homage (a love poem) Looking, now, at myself, do you think of me, later? When the tropical sun and high waves wash across my thin ankles? White-haired and crazy with spider-like legs, stumbling over small sand dunes— dunes I shall call memories. Should I be calling: — More champagne? Hashish? Incense? Should I be laughing: — Why have you forsaken me O Lord? Looking, then, at myself, and you, seeing you over my Paper-Mache shoulders— brittle, like old bird bones, these once worldly shoulders. Do you think of me? — And the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary that she was to be the Mother of God . . . White-haired and crazed, red bandana and erotic music. Original, native paintings upon my clay walls, so modest— The Mother of…
“Drawing Mannequin,” Poetry by Julia Franklin
Drawing Mannequin Mischief in monochrome. Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. No life out of reach. The Pasta Hour Late walk, home again. Dark sky above, weak legs beneath. Fifteen-minute era of Waiting, Watching, and Stirring . . . To be rewarded with chewy-salty Victory, butter-cheese-fork Relief, calorie-laden Defiance, primal-unconditional Devotion. The Fire I come not from one house, but three. House Number One was festive, dependable, full of sweet dreams and hypotheticals that I shrugged off. House Number Two was empty, frigid and aloof, stripped to its skeleton, and infected with smoke. House Number Three was recuperating in the balm of springtime and accepting, sheepishly, the cardboard boxes that held its Number One face. …
“Finding Progressions in Mere Lists,” by M. A. Istvan
finding progressions in mere lists when none of the facts so integral to who you are can be reached absenting oneself from a situation by fainting sitting on a wood fence for hours in hope that a new face will show itself to talk failures loom larger in places where little else is around pinching the tongue of one seizuring the flood displacement would have been a glorified camping vacation had he not learned of her betrayal feigning knowledge of facts mentioned in an offhand tone as if you knew them already thoughts of suicide to stay in the game when mere to-do lists fail making the position clear threatens to make it vulnerable even the sexual organs of family are open for dinner conversation once…
“Incompletist,” Poetry by Tom Pennacchini
Incompletist It’s all a bit sketchy don’t you know what with the RMS and all. Formal education and I didn’t work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar and particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi – conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude. (Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes. After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air. I rushed outside after a constricted couple of…
“Meeting in the Middle” — Poetry by Alison Jennings
Meeting in the Middle, Lebanon, KS The center of these United States lies in this heartland space, where love does battle with our hates, where politicians court their base; yet there should be some room for peace: our modern civil war must cease. Lies in this heartland space proliferate, become more lies. It’s something that we need to face or else this fragile union dies. How can we mend the social quilt? Can democracy be rebuilt, where love does battle with our hates? Let’s hope it has the upper hand. The intervention of the Fates may be required for us to stand on principles, but not take sides, to have a chance to heal divides. Where politicians court their base, there’s no chance for compromise. “Dog whistles” emphasizing race – or victimizing Anglo guys –…
“Tatiana’s Tango,” The Poetry of J.P. Christiansen
Tatiana’s Tango Her sex is a tango, sung in any language, please, in a black and white picture, mono chrome, with shadows of that desire, please. She stands under the lamp-post dividing day and lust, the music of a moon having come out to guide you, Tatiana. The small orchestra plays the seductive tones, the singer caresses words and refrain, here in the bar in Warsaw, 1938, where two bodies meet in a dance to celebrate life. A tango may last three minutes. I listen to the scratched vinyl surface of the 78. A memory arises with each turning of the needle in its grooves. Haunting notes and voice of a song which used to be. Now, 1939, and the gramophone is silent. The vinyl is broken. Did the walls fall on you, too, Tatiana…
Juneteenth: A Day of Remembrance and Celebration
Editor’s Note: Black lives matter. Creative lives matter. We’re very fortunate to see both embodied in The Fictional Café’s Residency program. In both instances, these are word-artists who had already discovered The Fictional Café and been published here. Mbizo Chirasha was asked to become our Poet-in-Residence because of the powerful messages of freedom from oppression and tyranny in his poetry. We are saddened to learn that he remains in exile, now for four long years, in large part because of his book of poetry, A Letter to the President, which drew the ire of the dictatorship in Mbizo’s native country. Against powerfully thwarting odds, we’re trying to help. Derrick R. Lafayette is, with pun intended, our Black Knight of fiction. His fierce, compelling stories captivated us from his first submission. His strong advocacy for our…
“Sonnet to Morrow,” Poems by Yuan Changming
Sonnet to Morrow Since yester twilight Along the borderline of tonight With fits of thirst & hunger Among storms of pain Under attacks of viruses Between interludes of insomnia Beyond both hope & expectation At the depth of darkness Amidst the nightmare Through one tiny antlike moment After another . . . Against deadly despair Until awakening To the first ray of dawn Holistic Relationship (for Qi Hong) 99% from me plus 1% from you Makes Our love Just happily perfect Though, alas Not exactly ideal As anyone might wish Tips for Becoming a Great World Citizen in the e.Age 1. Don’t argue with any numbers, but just follow the google algorithm; 2. Abide by American interest rather than international law; 3. Whatever game Uncle Sam is up to play, join the team led by him; 4. Always shore…
Rebecca Hosking — Multitalented Creative
Photo above: Elephant Camp, Chang Mai, Thailand Editor’s Note: This month’s featured artist is also a very talented musician and poet. Check out Rebecca Hosking’s diverse creative endeavors below. Not All Witches Belong to a Coven Not all witches belong to a coven. Put aside the stereotypes. Expand your mind and think outside of the box. Mother nature lives inside all of us. She is the mother of the earth. Her medicine lives in the plants that feed off the dirt. Get your feet wet, dabble, and expand your mind. Not all witches wear black clothing or dance naked in the garden just before dawn. This woman lives alone. She lives among her dreams, works hard like a graceful wave carrying life to the shore. She warms her skin with the sun and finds energy…