Another Night Poem
I like the moonrise of things,
The soft embrace of glowing darkness.
The whispered caress of warm wind
And cicadas sighing in the still night sound.
I breathe your heavy stilted smell,
Weighted with dreams and mincing heartache,
Stormy twilight breath, charged with loving lust, playful apathy.
Where the air isn’t fresh enough,
My windows cannot open wide enough
To engulf the entire city,
To wrap it ’round me and feel the shifting flicker of each denizen’s eyelash,
Mid-blink, mid-breath, mid-scream.
Where am I ever, but here?
A solitary, singular soul,
Plotting permanence in prose and poetry
In the quiet buzzing darkness.
Often I revel
In the solitary security of being me;
The liberating loneliness of my own body,
Sitting still in a dark room
And feeling the pulse drum through my veins,
Silent sizzle of thought through my often addled brain,
The confident syncopation of my measured breath,
The visceral feel of my whole dappled flesh.
Note @ New York 2
I love the hollow sound of the night.
I rattle around in it,
She leans in towards my ear overwhelmed, awash shock of perfume
zoo stench, sniff an old Easter lily no, I really do admire the cut of her
hemline, zebra skin bangs on the brow oh commando Ms. Orlando
information I don’t need a cheat, she’s the only one smoking, cocktailed touching my arm.
A Moment Going Nowhere
“Just don’t miss life, that’s all,” she told him
Resting against the hood of his black Jaguar
As he finished a soliloquy on the political value
Of art, of the aesthetic – that it does matter, that,
In fact, it is one of the ways to make sure one does
Not miss life; because a true aesthetic Wakes one up
And if everyone is not missing Life because everyone is Awake
There would just be less bad in the world. How that would be real
Social change i.e, politically.
She just wanted to kiss him, slowly
And sincerely under the glow of the lamp beneath the glow
Of the moon – she just wanted to take him and utterly extinguish
The fire in his belly, his silly aesthetic, and most of all
His annoying impulse to feel politically relevant somehow.
“I know,” she said, staring up into the dark
L.A. sky, as a warm breeze blew back her long, black, thin hair,
“but just don’t miss life – you know what I mean?”
He thought for a moment he was at the crossroads between
Understanding and emancipation, a place where his perception always
Froze up like a tv on the fritz only as if deliberately; the truth being
Just too horrible to endure even if only to endure it imaginatively.
That’s when she knew, after following intrinsically the energy of his
Most essential movements in that moment that this was easy, going nowhere.
“Let’s beat it,” she said, rising up
From the car and into the
Night. “Let’s go.”
The Haunted House – October 2014
I squeeze my husband’s hand as I follow his black coat around dark corners. Cobwebs stick to my hair, middle-schoolers push my back, hurry, hurry, the floor slants up and we stumble, catch ourselves against plastic axes, skeletons, giant wire spiders. Hallways lead to rooms—one, with a grown woman in pigtails cradling a decapitated baby doll, dozens of doll heads hang from the ceiling. Another room, a butcher in a blood-spattered apron cuts the air with a cleaver, rubber intestines ooze on the counter. Down the hall, carnival music squeals as a demented clown chases us to the stairs that lead to another scene. The man in an orange jump suit chained to the wall, his white hair and beard covered in dirt, moans. I thought of you. An actor dressed in black approaches the prisoner, screams in his face, wielding a chainsaw. The white beard hangs his head in mock despair. I had to look away. I thought of you and wanted out. We had paid to enter this place.
Postcards from the Knife Thrower
May 24 – Aberdeen, WA
It’s voodoo. It’s nasty. You will be famous. I’ll be forgotten,
a mumbled name dropped; irretrievable but real. What God
doesn’t know won’t hurt us. We’re north moving north, river
to the sea and back again. Outside of us is a different creation
man-made from angles. It’s my true name dancing atop the tip
of your tongue. It’s a blade-point on my palm. We’re complete,
we’re blood-red and eternalized.
Janine Serioux was born in Trinidad and Tobago in 1988 and immigrated to Brooklyn, New York when she was five years old. She graduated from Brooklyn College where she majored in English in 2012. She’s been writing poetry since she was a child and loves the brevity of the medium. Her poetry dwells on the physical and emotional. She’d like to be a poet in earnest but until then she’ll continue to write.
Beau Boudreaux teaches English in Continuing Studies at Tulane University in New Orleans. His first book-length collection Running Red, Running Redder was published in the spring of 2012 by Cherry Grove Collections. He has published his poetry in journals including Antioch Review and Louisiana Literature, and in anthologies including The Southern Poetry Anthology.
David Klugman is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Program. He has been a practicing psychoanalyst in Nyack, New York for the past 25 years, where he also lives with his wife and daughter. His work has recently appeared in this journal, as well as, Empty Sink, Postcard Poems and Prose, Crack the Spine, Black Fox, First Literary Review-East, Foliate Oak & Duende.
Cat Dixon is the author of Our End Has Brought the Spring (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2014). She is the managing editor of The Backwaters Press, a nonprofit press in Omaha. She teaches creative writing part-time at the University of Nebraska, Omaha and works full-time as a church administrator. Her poetry and reviews have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Sugar House Review, Midwest Quarterly Review, Coe Review, Eclectica, and Mid-American Review. Her website is www.catdix.com.
Alex lives in Minneapolis.