The Vicissitudes of Breast-Stroke Larry and Other Poems by Sheila Murphy
Poems by Simon Perchik
...and the lime green tile with white grout that was in our kitchen at the old house on Crossglade Avenue. even though it was porous it had a smooth texture. it matched so well with dark green semi-shag carpet in living and dining room.
i let my mind take me where it wanted. the memories that i had long forgotten, brought back to me now. i tried not to linger on any one for a long time, for fear that it would stop the rotation.
it was like a viewmaster; all these images in my head...
6th grade graduation trip to disneyland. april conroy and i got caught spitting off of the
aerial tram onto the people down below. we thought it was so funny. until the ride operator
threatened to kick us out of the park, then...we were sweatin' it. thankfully our scrunched up red faces and tears did the trick...
tricker treating on halloween, missy and i got into a fight and she slapped me across the face, what for i don't remember...but i do remember her biting the dust downhill on her bike a few days later and thinking it was funny.
i can smell my grandmas house. her faux fireplace just beside the living room. it had a red light inside of it and 3 plastic logs with a switch on the side. the red light made the metallic
flames look like real fire. and when you turned it on something inside of it rotated and made a crackling sound as if the logs were actually burning.
i let them overcome me. washing away me sitting on my couch in 2002. i let my thoughts drown me where i sit.
itchy bombs. spiked little balls that fell out of the trees in mass numbers in my neighborhood. we called them "itchy bombs" because when one was thrown at you it forever itched later. we would have itchy bomb fights into the long hours of the night. until the street lights came on, then we all had to go inside.
duke's trans am was parked at the curb of his house. he didn't drive it hardly much anymore
since his wife dotty died. he had always been an alcholic but it's serious now. and he stayed
inside for the most part. there was an itchy bomb tree in his front yard and the itchy bombs
would collect in the gutter by the tires of his car. if you could safely get there, you were
set for the rest of the game.
something caught my attention. i had completely forgotten about the book i was reading. suddenly i felt that my leg was alseep and those sharp little pains were all over it.
i looked around the living room...how long had i been in this trance? david was in the next room playing freecell. i could hear the mouse as he clicked on the cards...
Bring It Up Underneath
scorning the tempest inside this devil void
water squeezes penetrating the mantra
the dark stain inside the forest
raise morning touch dawn
drunk on the crimson blood
it throbs dark red during it's holy meditation
gracing the sacrament
chanting laughs seduce the breeze
bringing it up, underneath the skin
sliding the fever through
as a prisoner slides prayers
smearing themselves in it
whispers to a God
of salvation and visions
a black moon incubates in the sky
holy thunder spills acid rain
through the window this fever comes
burning its hunger
the once sacred flesh becomes meat
all ritual is lost
to the almighty hungry fever
i can hear the slit of cutting paper
slicing my arms up the side
shedding skin to renew
this spirit alive within the pews
organ notes fall heavy upon
the wooden beams holding up
the heart still beating
after all this time
Jolee Moffett was raised in an artistic family just outside L.A.. She currently resides in a small town in Indiana with her husband David.
Her work has recently be featured in Anthology Magazine has recently published a chapbook entitled 1352 Leopold Street ..