Let me tell you about beautiful things.
This morning, when that eighteen wheeler
was changing lanes, it almost ran over your minuscule car.
That icy patch on the sidewalk, you slipped on
and fell, blushing, embarrassed, yet unhurt and amused.
You bent in for a kiss goodnight except
there was a collision of noses, ending the evening like a knife.
A reassuring smile ends up looking more
suited to a homicide than for support.
You didn’t notice the truck.
You survived the fall.
You met “the one” the next morning.
That little bit of encouragement helped.
Live your life,
the beauty will fall from the sky.
Untitled by; Hillarree Hamblin, Oil and acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Excuse Me, Miss by: Jewel King
“I think he followed my husband and me out of the movie. He must have seen my ring before he even approached me. I don’t even remember what he said; he just pulled out a knife and kept getting closer. I offered him my purse because I thought he would just leave me alone but he threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him my jewelry. I just really want my wedding ring back; his mom didn’t want him to give it to me in the first place. I just know she’ll find a way to blame this on me.” Officer Randall jotted down everything she said, even though it wasn’t much.
“Well what did he look like? Any identifying marks or tattoos? Hair color? Length?” he prodded.
“Umm, I think he had freckles, long hair, I mean long for a guy. It hit his ears. Dirty blondish. And he did have tattoos, a few. He had one of the sailor star things on his neck, the side. Also, a big tat around his arm, it was kind of like tribal designs, I guess.”
“His arm? Where on his arm, I thought he had on a jacket?” officer Randall interrupted.
“Oh, he did. I could see it, when he opened his jacket to show me the knife.” She said very unsurely. “Look, I’m very tired; I’ve had a long, hard day. This was supposed to be the perfect night, our anniversary. We got a babysitter and everything. We were supposed to be cuddling at home with a bottle of wine and strawberries by now, but instead I’m sitting on the curb getting questioned about being robbed. And those red and blue lights are even more annoying than the siren you used when you pulled up, by the way. Can I just go home and we’ll call if I remember anything else?”
“Yes, ma’am, that should be just fine. And once again, I’m sorry this happened, but we’ll do everything we can to find this guy.”
Later that night she thought about how much she had screwed things up this time. It was her anniversary, their anniversary. Well, it’s partially his fault, for leaving her to go get more butter on the popcorn. He always had to have more; he was never satisfied with what he got. If he would never have left and got in that long line, she would have never had time to wink at someone else. She wouldn’t even have had the mind to look around. But that’s what people do when they’re left alone in crowded theaters; they look around to see who else is there. He looked like an ok guy, he had a sweet smile. Not the kind of smile that could be used in conjunction with a knife to rob someone. She wondered if she should call the police back and tell him the real story. About how the guy waited around for her husband to go get the car so he could get her number. And about how she gave it to him but flashed her ring and said to only call in the early afternoons because they were married and not just dating. The thing she wondered most about that night, though, was whether he would call.
Snow Storm by: Hillarree Hamblin, Mixed media on canvas, 2010.
This City Is a Symphony by: Anton Balane
This city is a symphony.
Listen. Can you hear it?
Amidst the howling wind and the
Bustling streets filled
With cars and people,
This city is breathing.
It is pulsating with the lives of people
Falling in love or
Getting their hearts broken,
Screaming, laughing, and humming
Catchy tunes as they stroll
Along these streets.
Their frustration, joy, envy,
Love, loss, anger, and loneliness
Coalesce into a cacophonous wave
That is this city’s heartbeat.
This city is a symphony and
We are its speakers.[/reponsivevoice]
Stress Part 2 by: Hillarree Hamblin, Acrylic on canvas, 2010.
A Completely Rational Response by: Robert Crosby
Like a trout flung skyward toward the stars
my platypus bludgeons the salesman heaven-bound.
The serenity the marsupial shows, the taste of stale coke on my lips,
the sound of bystanders wailing meat-noises, the feel of the harsh sun,
and the scent of the salesman soiling himself in fear.
His expression whines deafening pleas for sanity and mercy,
but the salesman named Bob finds neither today in Houston.
Caffeine, sugar, bubbles give me zen clarity as the man’s blood
and excrement rain down in profane precipitation.
I will require medication afterwards to forget all of this.
The bludgeoning now induces crimson cranial expulsions,
but the salesman brazenly ignored my warnings and then my refusals,
so he must die by platypus. It is the natural order of things, nothing more.
The duck-billed mammal roars. “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds!”
The local hard-boiled detective tries to begin hostage negotiations.
My platypus flings at him a crucifix surgically removed from his tear duct.
Swat members move in, the platypus draws his glass katana, and in 4.2 seconds,
no one is wearing functional pants, no, not even the dogs.
I cannot be seen pantsless. The children and nuns would be forever scarred. Retreat!
Soon the media, the National Guard, the pizza deliveries,
the party clowns, and strippers will arrive, hopefully all at once.
It is a well lubricated day.
When the people of the world see the trespasser’s colon cut into a floral arrangement
they will know to stay off of my lawn. Que sera, sera, bitches.
The coke bottle in my hand coos “It’s time to trigger the explosives.”
A flick, a click and we — me, salesman, platypus, bystanders, cops, pizza deliverers,
clowns, strippers and coke bottle —
fly up in so many pieces
like trout flung skyward at the stars.
Was it really because of me?
That’s what the lawyers said –
That’s how they got you Life –
instead of the Death Penalty.
Did I really fail you that badly?
You – you were so different –
So needy – so angry – so obstinate.
So hard to love.
But I tried –
I thought I tried.
That’s not what the lawyers said.
They said –
I was gone too long –
Worked too hard,
Partied too much.
Left you alone with your brother –
who beat you.
I didn’t know.
(Anyway, isn’t that what big brothers do?)
Only once –
Did I know,
and watch –
Because you deserved it.
You – and your angry little mouth.
What could I have done?
How could I have saved you
– from you?
So many things to be sorry for
– even before I knew what you’d done.
When you came back from the war.
I thought you were healed –
Exorcised of the demons
That plagued you – US –
All your life.
I was wrong.
The FBI said
It wasn’t my fault.
The Defense team befriended me
-betrayed me –
You were the one who told me
They weren’t my friends,
in one of many expensive, collect calls.
How could I have known?
I didn’t understand why
they asked so many questions
– about me.
I wasn’t there.
I’ve never even been –
in a physical fight.
You’re the only person I’ve ever lashed out at
– violently.
I told you not to do it
Long before -it- was an option.
I told you in a war
You die before you knowingly
Do something wrong –
Even if your commanding officer tells you to.
You didn’t listen.
You never listened.
And a jury of your peers
found you guilty,
then found me guilty.
So they spared you
and condemned you
To a life that’s no life at all,
If you ask me.
Alone – for your own safety –
Because the other convicts would kill you.
the atrocity of your crime that unthinkable.
You disgraced the United States,
So the United States abandoned you –
Forbid the Defense from mentioning
the army’s shortcomings.
And since Uncle Sam paid
The lawyers obeyed.
And now you sit – alone.
The world is safe.
You are safe.
You can’t hurt each other anymore.
But you know what, Son?
The dark thought,
that haunts,
and hurts me,
Survivor’s guilt, I guess.
I thought I’d be the first one –
you’d kill.
Lonely Elephant Part 3 by: Hillarree Hamblin, Acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Cheesy by: Bax
Sonny holds the shoe at the top;
one flip and it slides in for a ringer.
Leroy grabs his at a point;
a flying saucer raises dust.
Ernie grips it on the side;
a flip and a spin and it opens.
Joe puts his large hand under the shoe;
his high toss plops with a thud.
Last round’s losers buy the beers
and suffer through the winners’ jeers.
Alfred hides behind a counter
in Mattingly’s little grocery store.
Ida shows her nice tomatoes to a customer.
Alfred grabs a box of Velveeta,
slides it behind his back to his other hand,
and sneaks toward the front door.
Ida yells, “Alfred, you get back here!”
Halfway out the door, Alfred sneers,
“You can’t catch me. You’re too old!”
He trots two blocks down Main Street,
into the alley and behind Fleig’s tavern,
where he runs into the horseshoe game.
It has nothing to do with his theft,
but, holding high the Velveeta, he squeals,
“I’ve got the cheese! I’ve got the cheese!”
Sweat drips down your face
Back and neck ache from leaning over
Oil and grease on your hands
Skin missing from your knuckles
CRAFTSMAN stamped in your skin
Blood pooling from an ignored cut
Ghostly knuckles on a blistering ratchet
Praying the bolts don’t strip
Rewarding resistance when the bolts are tight
Every part in its correct place
Margin of error less than a strand of hair
Perfection a requirement
Everything works
Never any mistakes
Ecstasy for your right unleashed by your left
Exhaust and rubber mark your departure
Sit on black vinyl behind smoked windows
One key to unleash an unstoppable beast
Ultimate release from silence and darkness
Perverse pleasure beneath your foot
A devilish smile says try and stop me
If you want me come and get me
Stampeding horses silence cries of conservation
Earth chokes on your exhaust
Red Sea by: Hillarree Hamblin, Mixed media on canvas, 2010.
Weeds by: Melissa Parker
Ben knew how distraught I was over our neighbors Karina and Jacob moving, so when the Fields family moved in, he suggested we invite them over for dinner. Of all the people who could have moved into that house, I was appalled to hear that a family of those nasty Mormons had moved in.
As our dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Fields moved on at a glacial pace, I fretted over what my friends and family would think of the house next door, looking like it had been turned into an orphanage. Would my property values go down because their lawn would be cluttered with toys? I shuddered to think of how they might ruin my garden that I worked so diligently on ever since we had moved into our house twenty years ago. It was about this point that Ben nudged me and I started listening to them talk about and explain their freak religion.
After they left, Ben and I had an argument over them. My husband seemed to think there was nothing wrong with the way those people acted. Well, he might not understand, but I did. Those people were living and breathing a lie, and they were raising their children to do the same. At dinner they had told us with pride that their son was in Guyana on his mission to convert people to their cult. When Ben suggested that I try to have an open mind, I handed him his pillow and gave him his walking orders to the couch.
Several days after the dinner incident, I decided it would be relaxing to go and work in my garden. Since Karina had moved away, I had gotten into the habit of taking a glass of wine out with me while I weeded, trimmed, and watered my little slice of peaceful oblivion. Now that the new neighbors had moved in, it was almost imperative that I have this glass of wine with me while I worked. It felt good to have on my old, dirty, gardening jeans and to feel the dirt between my fingers. Just as I was reaching for a particularly nasty weed, a small voice piped up from behind the white picket fence just to my right.
“My mommy and daddy say that Heavenly Father doesn’t want people to drink. It’s bad.” The little boy stood there wearing a pair of red and blue rain boots that were scuffed, faded and just a size too big for him. What irked me the most wasn’t the dirtiness of these shoes (although it did bother me), but how out of place they were. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and wearing rain boots seemed preposterous and cheap. The ratty hand-me-down shorts he wore in no way matched the heavily stained green shirt he had on. Worst of all, this little boy, from his buzzed to the scalp haircut down to the scabby knees, was coated in a thin layer of flaky, dried dirt.
“Well, that’s their opinion, isn’t it?” I grunted as I yanked up the dirty weed that was trying to strangle my beautiful garden.
“No! It’s the truth. Daddy said!” His muddy brown eyes were suddenly wide and bright with shock that I didn’t believe him. A lanky hound appeared at the boy’s side and nudged its nose under the kid’s grim crusted hand. There was nothing special about the dog other than its height. Its coat was wiry, tough, and looked as though it had been rolling in whatever puddle of mud the little boy had been playing in.
Standing with a huff, I swigged the rest of the deep red liquid down in one gulp, and stomped away biting back a great many insults that I desperately wanted to yell at the toddler.
Things got better when school started up, and it was easier to garden in peace, but there was still always at least three whelps making noise in the next yard. Everyday I had to deal with balls being thrown into my yard or Frisbees flying into my rose bushes.
One day, I walked out to hear nothing except for the twittering of birds, and the soft hum of cars whispering along the highway just two miles away. My ears buzzed with tinnitus, and I smiled wide at the thought of a quiet afternoon in my garden. I walked down the steps victoriously and was about to sit down, until I noticed the grey lanky mutt standing by my mailbox sniffing vigorously.
These damn people could never keep their house or yard together. There were always bikes, basketballs, skateboards, blown up swimming pools, and dolls lying around, and now their damn mutt was out roaming the streets. I walked over to my front fence with a shovel still grasped in my hand that I had been planning on using to spread new mulch around my flowerbeds. By the time I had reached my mailbox, the dog had loped off down the street to the next streetlamp. I was very tempted to just allow the dog to continue on its way. There was always the possibility that it would be hit by a car.
My gloved hand grasped the handle of the shovel, and I decided instead to call to the mangy animal. Clearing my throat, I smiled and called out in my sweetest voice. “Puppy! Dirty polygamous hound, come here! Come here puppy!”
The dog’s ears perked, its eyes twinkled, and it trotted gracefully over. My fingers twitched on the wooden handle, and I called out once more to the mutt. “That’s right. Come to me, you dirty beast.” The dog looked as if it was grinning by the time it came close enough for me to hit it in the head with the shovel. I hadn’t even thought about doing such a thing, but a vicious joy filled the pit of my stomach and coursed through my veins like a hot poison. I looked down at the hound and watched it convulse and whimper as red tinted foam seeped out of its maw.
I stooped forward and gently caressed the dog’s face, and scratched lightly just behind its ear. The dog looked up at me, and its tail wagged weakly against the cracked pavement. Standing with a grin of victory, I raised the shovel and swung it down with all of my might. Again and again I swung the shovel, knowing that it was just the dog and I, and no one would see. Besides, I was just doing some harmless weeding. There was nothing wrong with keeping the neighborhood looking its best.
