horror to history to heregraphic delete
embers of homer and all others horror to history to here who drank beneath the stars who birthed words who loved but what if earth is really a symbol a circle a 0
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Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet.
you gave me a blue, part IIit broke. i never know what to do with a broken thing like
when my vcr broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to some chump who needed a vcr and felt bad i chumped him but it turned out he wanted a broken vcr so who’s the chump after all it’s only natural we should try to unload our shit on whoever is willing to be unloaded on and the time my monkey broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to the cavalry who thought it was a weapon but how was i to know they needed a broken monkey or that monkeys can be fixed or that monkeys can be weaponized or that colonels could be promoted based on simian acquisition which reminds me of the other time when my thomas broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to a clock mechanic who said he could repurpose it and use it for the betterment of everyone concerned but how the hell could i have known his purpose was malignant or that thomases were radioactive when broken at the circus if i’d known that i’d never’ve taken my thomas to a circus and never would’ve thrown it at the guy who was whipping the lion (how was i to know it was his job to whip a lion? who the hell would take a job involving whipping a lion? in the interview did they ask him, hey—have you ever whipped a lion? or maybe it’s just a question on the application: how many years of experience do you have whipping lions? if i had known it was an actual job i might’ve chosen another profession; i think i could’ve had a meaningful career as the guy who whips the lions) or how about that time my actual broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to a dentist who said he would use it to fill his patients’ holes but i told him i didn’t want to know anything about his patients’ holes so he instead filled me in on all of his own holes and i told him i had had enough to think about my own holes and that’s when i realized i could’ve filled up my own holes with a monkey and vcr or maybe just a thomas—but no, my holes aren’t fillable is what the dentist told me so i went home and sank my teeth into the most recent yellow you gave me but when the blue you gave me broke i knew just what to do and i did it without hesitation—but now the yellow’s leaking TemperanceWhich card would you
rather pick in this boiling world, The one of harmony of elements of diaphanous wings, flying above the chaos moderating the hardness of land with softness of water, stepping into balance, Mating the acid in the chalice with alkali to form a salt. Taking the middle path like a Buddhist, calm like a monk. Tempering the war with peace Passions with a glass of monotony. Subduing the staggering wind into cool breeze, the furiously ticking mind into meditation, into lull. Edges for Disco Dancingblood as life
intrigues the loud-mouth. blink before the scope eyeing reel to reel cellular silence. Mama bird utilizes an organic crown for her nest. Perches an egg Against the King’s thorn. Winds filter through railings Styled to praise Art-deco fixtures. Waves as moments In time. In our time. A willingness to explore Takes the Robin’s egg To the sidewalk below. Baby blue to cataracts gray. Such anti-Faustian routines Demonstrate why Protoplasm Cracked under its own assurance. To explain how life fails In describing itself. Howie Good is the author most recently of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022. His previous poetry collections include Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press) and Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).
Read their work from the inaugural issue here, (Blue as an Orange Fall/Winter 2021) from within a baggy white shirt uniformfor Carly Horton she’d blow us kisses
just so we’d feel like lords rather than the paupers we actually were lambs on the vast concrete plains of a state school savannah she was our mate’s older cousin & that was more than enough & those little kisses that carried the weight of our crush are still out there somewhere swirling around the science block the scruffy fields & the back lanes surfing on her suntanned smile Afraid of the GhostI awoke to the same image
a barren world painted in a rush by strangers seeking a fleeting reward. Heaven covered in a man-made lacquer safe from rains and from snows yet so hostile in its sterility. The vision of tranquility ended in the warm embrace of a blessed night. A sacred fancy made real by the dream vanished in the dense air of dawn fear swallowed my peace. Too soon I was to encounter the ghost made heavy with statuesque flesh replica of such welcome apparition. We would pass lives with a mere glance a polite greeting perhaps a grin to fill the veins with icy crystals. Longing for bright darkness I continued to rush through frozen hours to be so reunited with the constancy of my infinite. SOME REQUESTSSpeak to me in images similar to that gold ring around
the old man's finger how it glints like the emerald-headed duck in sunshine a beautiful beryl use precious well-picked words to convey what you see because I'd do so for you I did make a dinner that upon my request is all of food the color blue people's brains do not register this color as belonging to most natural things and blue plates make people less hungry like a kind of stimulant like how after first meeting you I could not eat or sleep for weeks do it because this is how I want to make you feel listen to clandestine history the way I tell it story of the poet Baudelaire how his step-father sent him to India with hope of turning him the way flowers bloom holy and unfallen the Parisian writer returned home to streets where his heart instead beat just for the rot sweet acridine between legs splayed out for a secret sepal half-covered in crinoline ankle-exposed brought back from cabarets back-alleys to lace and linen-covered bed the exterior against lovers’ skin made to appear lovelier than any object or smashed ash of Gaulois opiate-imbibing law-breakers all crying out condemnation twisting amidst muffled moan a crowning or blessed curse which inside soft slip of pink seized bodies in a unison deeper than beauty or disease savage and evil coming to meet rarest blossoming stream of sighs listen listen and then love me like that |
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