Editor’s Work


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  1. Phil Lane


    The more I drink
    the more I enjoy these
    orbital hangovers,
    A dangerous proposition,
    to be sure

    the same thing happened with
    opium and women
    I once believed myself
    a shaman,
    swimming in the river
    behind the river

    but it’s not the drug
    that makes the man,
    awake in pools of lithium
    with my tangible demise
    Fun, Fun, Fun
    ‘til morning takes my T-Bird away
    and the lizard is sick
    in some hospital ward
    wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper

    gotta get something strong
    before it all comes to life
    and the adding machine cuts me
    with her steel erection—

    Don’t care
    if you wait for me on Hope Rd.
    I will meet you in the middle of I-99
    beyond interchanges of sterile desert
    the carnal crunch of wrecks
    on the highway

    Don’t care
    if you see me in the clouds
    young naked toeing the tightrope
    dancing on the storm
    above your seething garden party

    Don’t care
    if I never reach the mountain with you
    the peak obscured by my dancing
    love poisonous in this climate and
    my fear of heights suddenly returning

    Don’t care
    about the blood on the bathroom tile
    the rat inside the ceiling fan
    my convenient disease helps me
    forget to remember—

    the smell
    of cigarette smoke
    the inside
    of your legs—

    Autumn-tinged wind blows
    in mid-summer,
    suspended between
    old and young,
    manicured landscape
    stretches out
    green as youth,
    uneven sky
    numbers the years,
    caught in the midst
    of this unending decade,
    interchangeable seasons
    the immutable self,
    rain and sun encounter,
    try to determine
    which remains to keep
    and for how much longer—

    The second before the snow,
    gloom falls over our imitation of life,
    our prosaic prisons,
    each one smudged with siding,
    the small gods we call
    freedom and liberty.
    Within, we are pacing holes
    in carpets, loitering under
    doorframes, fingering the dust
    of accumulation, watching the snow
    fall like feeble minutes
    withering to the ground
    with graceful finality—

    Before the snow, the fear
    of being homebound
    with only my thoughts,
    my brain overfilled with time
    like too much fodder in the shock.

    After the snow, the fear
    is realized, the mind stutters,
    eyes scour the same walls
    for a change in landscape
    when out of the tundra
    comes the sound of nothing,
    the distant buzz
    behind the bunker of winter,
    the pang of pins dropping
    like long thoughts falling
    into snowy stillness—
    Phil Lane’s poems have appeared in various small magazines that no one reads over the past five years. He lives in Northern New Jersey and teaches English for a private tutoring company. He is currently the editor of Breadcrumb Sins.

    Comment by phillane09 | November 16, 2009 | Reply

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