Archive
The Huancabamba Depression
Here in Peru, the Andes change direction
job markets transmute at home
rain-shadowed landscapes form
ubiquitous suspension
in dry forests where the cordillera fragments
as pleasures cloud
deciduous acacia rise in river valleys
nest eggs drain
sedges and scrophs spread at our feet
foreclosures germinate
the río Marañón rushes through narrow gorges
stress tests pressure banks
angel’s trumpet boast toxic flowers
while bonuses startle
the spatuletail and the tapir live endangered
homelessness surges
here in this tectonic barrier
depression of credit
outside the level ranges of mountain
and mood
by Judith Terzi
Bank Holiday
Easter has been cancelled,
now a bank holiday weekend.
There’s enough bad news.
No need to nail down the living.
No need to taunt the dead
with resurrection.
Underwood is no banker
but he takes time out
from everyday collapse.
He forks corn from a can.
The mob’s rage, he believes,
raised the crucified
three days later,
the resurrection required
a hammering fury.
The banks follow suit,
market exclusive threats
to likely customers,
who queue round the clock
for negative equity.
The banks’ hate mail
becomes a status symbol.
People offer their mouths
as personalised ATMs.
Underwood kicks a lamppost.
The mob has been cancelled.
His foot hurts.
Still, he must resist.
What Did the News Say About a Vacation?
Something blocks my brain: rain
stuck dewdrops: glisten: listen
impossible to hear: time of
inflated deprivation: waves of
credit: soft porn and fetid kisses:
ears clogged: wet floods force family
evictions: no one hears above
the rift: Daily News: ways to save
pennies: homation: linoleum installation:
stayacation: media invention: report:
birds sing on your deck: remodel,
for a home-vacation: television
trepidation
Pushing 1s and 0s
‘Pushing paper’ fades
into etymology;
now we push 1s and 0s
from laptops to networks
to internet portals, and
strangers decode our symbols
like Egyptian scribes, creating
stock quotes and photos of hurricanes
and marketing plans for the latest
cell phone.
A security guard glides
through the marble lobby
of a class A office building
in the financial district,
shouting encouragement
to Friday commuters:
“Great job this week,”
he smiles, as if
our tightly packed boulders
of 1s and 0s
would not be waiting for us
at the bottom
of that Monday morning hill.
Binary
In her devices
a straight line
and a yawning sphere
dance out and in
ad infinitum.
This simple coupling
of one with nothing
fills our void
generates a surge
of order and profusion
as vital as the bang
that brought us here.
Through the bipolar
gateways nano-born
computers stride,
bring see, hear,
taste, touch, smell
to new fruition.
Simple logic.
Only two ways
about it.
by Anne Connolly
Download the MP3
Problems with Value
I am not worthy
I breathe in
Approximately one eighth
Of the required amount
Of air to fill my lungs
I tell myself
Make do with that
You greedy
Useless
Stupid
Wasteful
Creature
Spread it thinly
It’ll last
I breathe out
Tense
Scared
And hurt
I am
Perhaps
A little hard on myself
by Rachel Fox
Summer’s Orders
swimming hole or should I say
concrete hexahedron of chlorine
water & washed-off sunblock
was never carefree
someone didn’t have a lunch
& deep-end pennies weren’t enough
for candy bars from QFC
girls layered shredding suits
swam a few laps & announced
you could lose more weight that way
fatter girls stayed wrapped in towels
until they plunged in hiding blue
& when diving board contests of daring
went too far, lifeguards stopped telling
us to walk & strapped the wounded to backboards
for transport we didn’t know
their parents couldn’t afford
Penny
A pip, a tip, once a minute
of parking, its worth snipped,
a coin less in diameter or value
than a nickel yet brighter, warm sun
to a five-cent moon — so how did it roll
down to ground level, flat
disc lying unretrieved on streets,
forlorn beside the parking meters
it can no longer feed?
I’m penny-wise and foolish
about artifacts, keep penny bowls
on bookshelves, as if the penny and I, now middle-
aged, had grown up in the same town,
walked the same streets, rolled to the beach
on Saturdays. The cent has diminished
though not dimmed, while I’ve dimmed
and enlarged my diameter.
It’s natural between old friends, the change
of places. We might be change
made from the same register,
sad breakdowns of a haughty dime
taxed to the minutest, rendered
and reckoned as beyond Caesar’s interest, left
to the heart’s differently hued
apportion and shine.
by Rachel Dacus
qarrtsiluni 