On a bright and cloudless Tuesday with the sun shining in the May sky, Conrad H. Moss knelt in his front yard, his fingers brushing the yellow heads of the dandelions the way you touch something you intend to keep. He stayed there longer than was necessary. Then he went inside and found the warning from the town’s city council instructing him to remove the weeds from his lawn or be issued a citation. The ticket would cost him two hundred and fifty dollars, after which the town’s Department of Public Works would eradicate them anyhow. He read the notice calmly, though with frustration and anger working quietly inside him. It was marked WARNING—INITIAL NOTICE at the top, rubber-stamped in red ink. The dandelions growing in his yard were the primary objection; unloved by most but superstars of the weed world, tough, resilient, opportunistic, and very successful
Issue I
The River Acheron
The River Acheron is one of the rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology, also known as the River of Woe.
Here I am again—pen to paper, at last.
Ask me not of the darkness in my heart,
nor of the grime that cakes these soles of glass—
a broken porcelain doll with missing parts.
The Ripped Soul
In memory of our greatest regret
Knelt on the ground that encases—
neglected, yet not forgotten—
the bigger chunk of my remnants:
a severed soul of fallen graces.
My City, My City
For Karachi, my beloved
You can hate my city—my city with its murky seawaters
and unsafe, ill-lit streets.
You can leech off the money
and pour it all into the Province of Five Streams.
Koans
My son gave me a book
of koans,
as if parenting a son isn’t
confusing enough,
San Francisco Sestina
Moods shift when the fog
building by the gate to the bay
decides enough, it’s time to begin
the slow seep through hilly streets
at dusk and even the steady hum
of cable under California changes.
Turns
Two routes out of Nikko take forty-eight
hairpin turns to reach
its lake-in-the-mountains destination.
The bus will be full.
Pokhara
he sun commands the lake to dance.
Blue, green, and rubber-ducky yellow
columns shoot up through pinprick stars.
Sándor Márai, Portraits of a Marriage
Nothing much, really…
no witness (angel or otherwise)
No spanking the maid under cover of clover, Mr. Coover
It’ll all be just na’kid teamwork couple of
marvel Euro’s on tricky spellings
Javier Marías, Poison, Shadow and Farewell (Vol 3 of Your Face Tomorrow)
YES, what was left of the fat chance corporeal slug was rolled flat
Rolled out on kenophobic parade
Spooks’ ghost dance, collegial mischance
Bomb da bards, we say, wrong side d’grass
Listen to your Angel Number, hon… Run!