Birds

Even though oil

Is said to be black gold

It still spreads death

Brilliantly, efficiently 

Over, through, and across

The waves

Defying the wind

Defying mother birds’ 

Begging.

We 17 people,

With very little in common

Set up our 3 cleaning stations 

Exactly as we did yesterday 

Hoping to save,

A few.

---

Sleepless 

Frederick is dead,

You already knew this.

The daughter that

Frederick and Catherine

Never had

Is long dead

Because of a power outage 

at the fertilization clinic storing the eggs.

Catherine visits the grave of her husband Frederick. It was a foolish thing he fell at work 75 stories from the skeleton of what would become a sparkling new building.

A new building with no memory of the color of his hair, the length of his smile or his guttural laugh.  Catherine resting on her bed. 

Frederick’s death, according to their insurance policy, paid off the house. Catherine’s employer said: “You will always have a job with us, just come back when you can.”

Catherine, a sponge, soaking up the prominent curtains, the funeral attire strewn;`she is speechless, motionless, sleepless, endless.

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Marc Isaac Potter  (they/them) …  is a differently-abled writer living in the SF Bay Area.  Marc’s interests include blogging by email and Zen. They have been published in Fiery Scribe Review,  Feral A Journal of Poetry and Art,  Poetic Sun Poetry, and Provenance Journal.   Their Twitter is @marcisaacpotter. 

An Israeli pawnbroker on the Sunset Strip recalls you.

Begging for three dollars to buy a slice of pizza.

You made him so sad.

Says he almost started crying.

Remember when you were selling clumps of your hair on eBay?

An extracted molar of yours reached one hundred fifty dollars.

That tooth was pulled from the listings.

eBay restricts the sale of body parts.

And how did it feel?

When they spat you out?

When they spat on you?

I mean, just so suddenly, and you were nothing.

Nothing but a dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead star.

They didn’t care about you anymore, my friend.

Bankruptcy and muscle relaxants and I could’ve really helped you.

But I wasn’t even alive.

I dove deep beneath the creek
To get the pollen off my cheeks.
I got caught up in the current
Let the river take my feet;
She dumped me in the ocean
Then left me there to flounder.
In an attempt to ditch the bees
I went swimming with the sharks.
I dove deep beneath the swells
In an attempt to find a shell –
I broke through the billows
With a clam caught in my palm.

Treat dreams like reality, 

so they say, so they say 

So, I have these dreams, 

So, I have visions, wants, 

wanton needs to do it all right, 

flush apparitions of a better way, 

a better world – to heal, 

to bleed out all 

that sticky, hot lava swishing inside 

a rope master’s chalice 

I glance around for someone to heal me, 

for someone to come along and help me 

-penetrate the crust

We’d let it pour out into the Galaxy Drain 

Have you seen it? It’s enormous, 

lit by the bellies of a billion worms 

glowing, glowing, growing 

Only – no one’s eyes have to adjust 

to the darkness to see them 

I say I think I have lost my mind 

I laugh, I stifle nervous laughter 

with my sweating palms placed over my lips 

Don’t worry about helping me now 

I’m beautiful but mad with laughter 

like howls 

I can take on all the evils and throw the badness 

all the bad, 

bad rotten things contained in energy and form 

across the universe into the Galaxy Drain 

Treat dreams like reality 

so they say 

So they say 

---

from City of Loss

[10]

This is how you sew a button:

First, put a bullet in the chamber,

dumb-dumb it afore

for better effect;

second, scream into a February

wind as if your mother were

dead and that somehow mattered

to you;

third,

from City of Loss

[14]

When it’s cold, you build a fire,

bundle up, wait for spring.

Actions, movement follow

a slower pulse,

the morning birdsong a little less thick,

but just as welcome.

from City of Loss

[14]

Detritus, wreckage obsequiated plumage,

here and about

where no infant is heard

crying.

Stack one, then another

fault upon your shoulders,

and walk through this thresh,

as others before.

Let dusk come early,

if it has a mind to.

Let what’s been done be done,

heaped upon the pile

that is the mountain

we’ve climbed thus far.

_Azimuth

Sundials, moon dials,

with these at least I feel

at ease, calibrated as I am

to east of one, west of the other.

My parents and false sisters

unseen since my wanderings 

began, I take bearings only

from the arc of horizon. 

In slavery, I suffer the scourges 

wielded by Worry and Sorrow,

the goddess’s handmaidens, I am 

tasked to sort seed from grain.

Ants and wool-whispering reeds aid

me in Aphrodite’s trials. From Hades 

I’ll fetch water, a golden box. They say 

I am that from which all thought arises.

No immortal dares to champion me

in my questing. I carry honeycakes 

for the dog’s three heads, coins in my mouth for the ferryman.

_Vehicle

My sleep life is murky, I wake new

every day banded with light, blink myself

into shape & pour a cup of that poison

I infuse with hope it will put things right.

My path is obscure, I walk in air

brittle as crystal, snow underfoot. Faces 

are blanked with windshield glare. I don’t

know how to ask for help on my route.

My liftoff deferred, I navigate curves

with a strong sense of winging, corolla whorl

weightless in sky. Yet, grip tight on wheel, 

all I observe are my futile efforts to soar.

My memory muddled, I will never arrive

at a highway’s end without wondering where

it comes from. The spark that ignites makes

the past come alive—a smile, a valiant blue.

The world is still strange, but I tiptoe round 

ledges in sweet wash of freedom, wild mind 

defined, gather up sea-glass & pebbles as pledges,

sure that learning to steer isn’t learning to drive. 

Frances Boyle is a Canadian writer, living in Ottawa. Her books include This White Nest, poetry (2019), Seeking Shade, short stories (2020) and Tower, a novella (2018). Her third poetry collection, Openwork and Limestone, is forthcoming in fall 2022. Frances’s writing has appeared throughout North America and internationally, with recent and forthcoming work in Blackbird, Paris Lit Up, EX/POST Magazine, Daily Drunk’s Marvelous Verses Anthology and elsewhere. Visit www.francesboyle.com and follow @francesboyle19 on Twitter and Instagram.

This artwork is one of my latest works. The work explores the interaction between the painterly watercolor medium and collage. The collaged photos are my own photography taken from walks in parks and within the woods. The work in a series titled “Green Daze” intersects the connectivity of art and the environment emphasizing the importance of green living and its benefits on humans. The artwork is delivered through the artist’s abstracted vision and aesthetics.

Vian Borchert is a noted award winning expressionist artist who has exhibited in group and solo exhibitions within the US and internationally. Vian is a Notable Alumni from the Corcoran George Washington University, Washington, DC. Borchert exhibits in major world cities such as NYC, LA, DC, London and Berlin. Borchert’s art has been featured in press such as The Washington Post, The Flux Review, Art Reveal magazine, ARTPIL, Vie magazine and others. V. Borchert has extensive knowledge of art history and she has worked in major museums such as the National Gallery of Art and the Phillips Collection museum, both in Washington DC. Borchert is an educator teaching fine art classes in the Washington DC area.

Website: www.vianborchert.com

Twitter: ViansArtCorner

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