December 9, 2017

Joel Chace

CALCULUS

impossible to have sat
through class after class
to have scrawled a reams
worth of lined paper with
homework that would look
like Arabic now to have
taken an actual goddamn
final exam jesus and not
just pass it but end
up with a flying mothercolor
grade 35 years ago 35
years all burned
away like valley fog
to remember nothing except
that Mrs. Barnhart the teacher
already near the end
of her long road over
the math mountains and had
cranked around far too
many switchbacks would
say at miraculously random
moments the words “value” or
“and yet” it’s absolutely
true and it was like a
whacky gift she kept on
giving for instance
she’d say turning away
from the rune-crammed
blackboard chalk dust misting
off her fingertips and cheeks she’d
say “that’s the
way we lick that
problem … value” or
“just remember this
formula you’ll
be all right … and
yet” 23 “values”
and 21 “and yets” the
record for one forty-minute
period Mary Pat Doyle with
the jet black hair kept
track her face still floats
up in dreams still
that young and stunning and so
does Mrs. Barnhart’s still hard
and thick like granite like
marble which she’s definitely
mouldering under by now what would
it be like to find both
of them again Mrs. Barnhart and say
“there was something of
value after all” and Mary
Pat Doyle and say “look
we can’t undo a thing we
followed certain signs
and countersigns and we are
where we are and yet
if we’d ended
up together that might
have been a perfect solution
too”

from Rattle #11, Summer 1999
Tribute to Editors

__________

Joel Chace: “My maternal grandparents were farmers and staunch Upstate New York Republicans. Across town, however, lived my paternal grandparents, who I would visit regularly. This grandfather was a brakeman on the Delaware & Hudson Railroad, and he voted for Eugene V. Debs every time Debs ran for president. My grandmother was a painter. My mother worked for a time on Wall Street. My father was a jazz trombonist and vocalist, who was on the road for a dozen years until his marriage in 1942. I write in order to come closer to understanding my own origin and being, out of the vortex of these lives.”

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November 16, 2017

Mike Catalano

LONNI LITTLE RIVER

He could fish before he walked;
and he was more attuned to the speech
of Sockeye salmon than any human.
It surprised no Athabaskan
that his fish were hooked
before bait spanked the white rapids.
When he became one with the water
without ripple or bubble,
he petrified himself like a totem
and speared the most unruly Cohoe.
But the legend of Lonni Little River,
long after his death,
came when he snagged fish
with one hand. Some say he trained
his hand hours a day playing a game
akin to jacks. Some say he plucked a bee
from a grizzly’s paw, becoming the bear
with all its instincts.
I say he kissed the land, the water,
and all therein, never wasting his spirit,
long drained by settlers.
So the river rewarded him
as one of their own with more
than Houdini’s hands,
with a love none dare equal.

from Rattle #11, Summer 1999
Tribute to Editors

__________

Mike Catalano: “I killed my first deer this past winter—going 65 mph in a driving rainstorm. I’m thankful to the Iowan people who helped scrape the remains from my totaled Toyota. I’ve been on a two-year sabbatical writing and researching my family’s biography. I’m happy to be writing history instead of being history, after hitting that deer.”

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August 15, 2017

J.J. Blickstein

GEOLOGIST MADE OF FOG IN THE CONGO

we are so young between the portrait of the heart and the warm sea
we are gradual
impatient
cambrian snagged in the soft fetish
red spleen in the native
his sandals become blue dogs hunting the enemy
and why shouldn’t the wound be supernatural?
the whole sky a lung
drinker of blood
there are ropes dangling from the stars
carbon and the secret squeezed from the wood
we re-imagine and destroy ourselves between breath
counting
orgy and drum
hunger and new emotions slice the throat of the goat
nothing dies
we bleed it from its restlessness

he cuts a knife from the world to reshape a world
and we become beautiful

where there are things the world becomes round
the eyes of the fetish are mirrors and teeth—
pound the body with nails and disciples to sweat the soul to the skin
to vomit the sun and amazing images of laughing or killing
fossils of light and we are the future looking back back
wanting to believe like genes that there is strength in numbers
and it takes courage to love the dirty and broken bones
that are villages
we name the stars like our ancestors
who seem to be running away from us
who’s catching up to who weightless and in love?

from Rattle #11, Summer 1999
Tribute to Editors

__________

J.J. Blickstein: “My mother was an African-American mystic and civil rights activist. My father is a Jewish geochemist from Brooklyn. Both of these extremes signed a peace treaty, realizing that they must live and work together in the geography of the self.” (webpage)

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July 11, 2017

David Hernandez

THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS

Myths are made for the imagination
to breathe life into them.
—Albert Camus

As if pushing a boulder up a mountain
wasn’t punishment enough,
a malicious llama tormented him further
with its incessant spitting.

It was futile labor which included
working overtime, even holidays,
with no benefits. His heart grew heavy
with the absurdity of his fate,

but as the years passed, the great stone
eroded a fraction each time it tumbled
down the mountain. By the time his hair
reached his waist, and his muscles

were bigger than Zeus’, the rock
was small enough to kick up the alp.
At the summit, he watched the stone fall
until he lost sight of it, whistled a tune

as he descended, then searched the base
of the mountain for the once mighty rock
like a man who had lost
a contact lens.

from Rattle #11, Summer 1999
Tribute to Editors

__________

David Hernandez: “I am a lifelong subscriber to Simic’s belief that ‘comedy says as much about the world as tragedy does.’”

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