A Magazine of Many Arts

Paige Smith

1 
when it rains
    it pours
when it rains
    we hide
    inside
water unwinds
    our space-time
water drips 
    down the bark
and buildings
    streams
from the gutter
    forms puddles
on the sidewalk, in parking lots
on country paths, in backyards
we lock the doors, keep the kids in
pray for the sun 

2
hands appear
    from those puddles
heave themselves
    from the rim of those
little innocent lakes
    onto sturdy land
up climb those heavy
    beasts
from elsewhere
    smelling of
ancient agony
    dripping in decay
heavy-footed, 
    slither-hairy
their insatiable weapons
    scraping our streets
the places we reserve
    for the sick
the places in front of 
    our mailboxes
the places where
    children draw in chalk
in these stolen drenched days
they walk amongst us, sniffing for meat
shaking off their radiation
in the showers of this world

3
and from the puddles
    we glance
their netherworld
    green-glowing
    alien aurora borealis
vomit-colored sky
    over stricken slums
where surely
    some apocalypse 
has already occurred
    surely their rains
descend in acid-flavor
    and they see
in their streets
the greenery, the lushness, 
mysterious portals where we
fat-covered folk, so juicy, live
they decide
to step through.

4
sometimes they seize
someone 
    a prisoner
    a dinner
shoving them
    into gutterless space
someone
    makes no splash
    they tumble down
    into the horrored space
    across what we know as space

5
we were blessed
    by drought
for a long time
    until
invariable and threatening
    the clouds
rolled in
faster than the future
    and opened 
themselves up
    like jaws
eager to feed
    the dry earth
eager to feed
    us to the beasts

6
in the vast
    cracked 
asphalt sea
    the grocery store
parking lot
    my wife
had no chance
    snatched before
she could reach
    the handle of the door
pulled down
    by the non-faces
and digitless hands
   from the nightmare planet
the hands of hell.

7
the rain
now down
to a drizzle,
the worst 
passed,
the formless 
aliens
retreating 
to their disturbing corner
of the universe
perhaps
our brutal future
perhaps
our savage past
I walk
down my secure 
street
the neighbors
dare not look
through their windows
I bring myself
to the park
so dug-up
by dogs,
find a me-size hole
fearful puddle
I peer into
that improbable 
mirror
dust-stormed
hazardous 
wasteland
their world
might have been
like ours, once
might have been
friendly, green.

Some of them
might be merciful
still.

Only one way
to know.
I step into 
the rain
water which is not wet
I step into 
the doorway
and disappear
from this earth.

Davian Aw

she grows used to murdering doppelgängers
quick jolts to the heart, slipping poison into drink
fatal injections while lost in the helplessness of dream
whispering denials to herself as she hides the bodies
in secret rooms in other worlds.

she walks down rows of her faces blank in death
and tells herself: they are asleep.

she slides into clothes, identities, laughter
of all the people she could have been
welcoming kisses from smiling strangers
unaware they’ve been bereaved.

at novelty’s end, she leaves no trace
but grieving, and nights wearing hope to the bone
searching the rivers and roads of their world

hoping to bring a body home.

Marcie Lynn Tentchoff

I was his first,
that means a lot to certain men,
and, for a scientist,
Paul has a love
of all that’s old –
done right, he says –
traditional.

He’s kept me well.
My cubicle’s luxurious and plush,
and properly maintained —
the maids all vie
to keep the polished
luster of my walls
gem clear.

And though I’m forced
to watch the newer models traipse about,
bedecked in jewels, and chrome,
and circuitry,
en route to dinners
or to plays
to suit his whim…

I know I was his first,
and that, while he keeps their upgrades fresh,
there’s so much to be said
for antique amber,
vintage verdigris,
unadorned, and classic
in the box.

W.C. Roberts

his chin thrust out like a ledge over the chasm 
between them, their child 
a tiny figure cut out of stone and blackened in a fire
that burned their house boat
to the water line 
he glares at her, eyes like flint and steel 
but the sparks do not so much and singe her hair 
the woman takes up their child 
and cradles him in arms 
not yet turned to stone, but thunder in a confining space
shakes the soot from his brow 
-- the child stirs

there was a time when the men on the banks of the river
would have died for them, and their stories told 
to frighten children who hadn’t the good sense to turn to stone 
when the fire comes and their thatched huts burn down
to the ground

from these ashes we are enjoined, and one of the ravens
he watches over us 
and we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live under the water
that comes to bury us alive
we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live 
in the crook of his elbow like a firearm
we look away, and he looks for us, as the storm’s fury 
shards of a white porcelain heaven breaking 
and they come down on the water, without hardly a splash 
knowing the bottom well, and the chasm between them
who’d take a drink from this well? and know

     what’s left of the sky

father, father, says the child, in the child’s lisping way  
why have they turned against us? are we not good 
for them?



he swallows, as if thinking of his answer;
he steps into the chasm
and is gone

I will be at Arisia next weekend. Sunday at 4 I will be on the Genre Poetry panel. I’d love to meet anyone who is around. I won’t be able to stick around too long after the panel but there should be plenty of time during the weekend for conversations so please look me up. There won’t be a post next week because I will be too busy having fun.

Hello folks,

I will be at Arisia next week, so please look me up to say hello if you are around.

If you are in the Boston area, Arisia is an amazing SF convention with representation from all of the arts. http://www.arisia.org

Today is the last day at Arisia. I’ll be doing some crafts with the little kids (one of my favorite times of the con!) and wrapping up the weekend.

Orpheus by Forest Rogers

Understand, I would not
have followed her through those cold gates,
the horn twisted with the gold,
would have clung to the chill of winter,
the hint of frost.
But her ghost cried to me, called to me,
wrapping herself around my chest.
Not there.

Yet I saw her, I saw her
everywhere:
the cry of a bird,
the snatch of song,
a colorful rag,
her favorite figs —
Her. Her.
No. Not there.

I saw her. I saw her everywhere,
heard her, heard her everywhere.
Lingered over her every word, her every move,
lingered, lingered over every thought,
squeezing my memories like grapes,
until only the driest, darkest ones remained.
Each shadow —

Her.
Not her.

Caught, my breath, caught.
I slipped singing through those cold cold gates,
past the slow slow river, the endless shades,
the slow boat to the cold grey halls.
I sang, I sang, and fetched her ghost,
watched it merge with the shadows I clutched,
slowly spinning from my mind.

You ask why I turned, why I did not wait
for another glimpse of the cold blue skies,
to hold her beneath the trees’ sharp shadows,
beneath the living wind. Why I turned
at the very gates, the far sun shining
on my hands. I turned.
I had to know.
Her ghost, or the shadow
of my weaving,
a shadow of
my memory and song?

Bound, she and I, to earth and dust,
I, a little longer, until I slip past those gates a second time,
and grasp her shadow, not our mingled own.

I’ve got a batch of poems ready to go up over the next few weeks that I’m very happy about.

And more happy news — Mary Alexander Agner was nominated for a Rhysling for “Worlds Apart”, published here last Spring.

I haven’t forgotten you, I am just having a hellaciously busy summer. I will be back as soon as I can.