Silke Feltz

One Elbi

Not many know of Elbi, hidden in a Franconian fairytale forest

some hundred souls, almost all Catholic from birth to deathbed,

one bar; a joint for tough men who drink their breakfast.

One beergarden and one soccer team that circles around village patriotism,

one church with unique voices and one sheriff who speaks Greek and

keeps his herd of sheep together, making sure noone goes astray.

Elbi is the home of one vegetarian who carves signs that say, “Kein Wanderweg”

and rides his bike to work every day, refusing a raise because he doesn't need more money.

Elbi shelters one farmer with the biggest, most scary-looking dog in a gritty courtyard,

guarding an old house and an even older family. And one baker drives through Elbi once

a week and honks, one time, to invite the Elben to buy warm bread.

One village beauty is dating a smart looking fellow from Munich who already has one ex-wife,

and one bachelor built a mansion for himself, maybe to not end up alone in the end.

One rooster wakes the southside of Elbi every morning, and some Vokuhila* lads gather

in one house to watch soccer, and sometimes also porn, on a big screen in the basement.

Elbi's graveyard has one grave I visit every time I am there, kissing you hello and goodbye.

One's home is one's castle is one's shelter is one's room.

Everyone has only one.

There is only one Elbi for me.

*mullet

These Grounds

These grounds offered opportunity;

they swallowed my demon fears and

opened the window to a view that

seemed limitless, no horizon in sight.

They listened to my ambition— crazy dreams

and endured me stumbling along

from time to time, not sure

where to turn and who to become—

Chekov’s Darling maybe?

These grounds chased off my pride

and they secretly smiled as I fell

flat on my face; throbbing knees.

On these grounds I looped pound after

pound and gained a heart so full

I sometimes feared it might flow over

without warning me.

These grounds witnessed me laugh, gossip, plot,

hope, complain, snicker, giggle and sigh—

happiness and disillusion are silently

carved into them as I follow these fairy paths

until I quietly have to kiss them goodbye.

I Wish You Well

I wish you well. This time, no tears stand like soldiers between us

and it’s liberating, really, to be here without you.

You only talk to me when you want cash and call me a DINK.

The line turns mute when I wreck my car or when I lose my husband

to a job. You quietly never had my back and we are just another coin

accidentally dropped into a wishing well. But today, I wish you well.

I wish you luck! Everybody needs it and you have had your share

but I hope luck will continue to be your ally because I can’t.

Your shooting stars will keep falling, but please make sure

to close your eyes quickly and hope before the moment drowns.

You don’t believe in stars. Yet, they sparkle in your beautiful

daughters’ eyes. I wish you luck. Trust me, you’ll need it.

I wish you success. You always have been the smarter one,

giving me a hard time about failing the driver’s license test,

about math, physics, chemistry. All I was good at was reading

silly books. Literature is not a major, it’s a hobby,

you used to say, smirking. I was the little sister only hiding

behind words, dreaming my life away. I wish you success.

I wish you well, Brother. We never really walked together and

we never will cross paths in our two different worlds.

You’re in yours and I’m in mine. There’s no overlap and I’m

at peace with you being this one person who could’ve known

me better than anybody else in the world.

I wish you well.

Bio:

Silke Feltz is a PhD Candidate of Rhetoric, Theory & Culture at Michigan Technological University. While her research focuses on the rhetoric of veganism, she enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Her poems have been published in Drunk Monkeys and Drift.

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

As She Silently Poses

From a photo by Vladimir Bazan, at La Louvre, 2011

Excuse me stranger,

as I ask with the most statuesque

of whispers, but will you

touch me? I know the sign

says do not… but I promise,

I won’t tell. Let your finger

fingers trace my marbled

body, I long to remember

how hands would feel.

Your palms electricity

so gently shocks me,

even though my face

is still frozen, you should

see how my sculptured

insides desperately want

to reveal. As your fingerprints

on my skin, tattoo shivers

the most pulsating sensations

like once when I posed

for Michelangelo—before

coating me eternally, but

your fingertips have reawakened

me. More than just a touch,

it’s been so long, even though

I stand her posing motionless

as this hand on my blushing

white chest reflects everything

private, I could never conceal.

Even Before the Bell Rings

From Pierre Dubreuil's 1932 photograph The First Round

He can feel the first punch

on his already bruising face.

Just like in the playground,

during recess and even in

his bedroom, after Pop came

home with Jack Daniels all

over his breath, ready for one

last shot, this boxer had his

gloves up ready, trying

to protect from his white

knuckle fist heavy-weighted

beating. This boxer can still

imagine that aroma of whiskey,

with an aftertaste that always

reminds him of the Tennessee

two story he is always trying

to outrun but someone keeps swinging

back. He can’t escape the uppercuts

his Pop gave him, so, he fights

back in the ring, trying to withstand

the one thing that keeps him

swinging at night, the one fight

that left him defeated, wanting

to knockout his past, no matter

the opponent, there is only one.

Showering salvation

From a painting by Jah X-El

I hear our slippery

skins slipping.

As my soapy

fingers, reach

finding an opening

moaning closer, I am

already falling, I feel her

lips, once clean, now

dripping, her mouth,

my tongue continues

glowing with her

aftertaste, she rains

on my knees— she can see

through our steam, her lips

whispering, shower me

salvation, watching each drop

drenching in blues

immerse my pruning

body, she leaves

me wanting, I rise

like steam and feel

myself falling,

already, evaporating

closeness, before

she drains me again.

She trembles for my touch

Zelda says, in letters…

reaching with each cursive

sound so forward, connects

from the page, as if her lips

dripping ink, mouthing her

sentence always floors me—

air mailing desires across

so many states, she says,

in between lick stamped

breaths, her letters addressing

my longing, stanzas rhyming,

speak to me alone her words

engage. always claiming

she trembles for my touch,

but I am the one

who’s always trembling.

Wishing she would… Parle Moi, instead

From a 1950 Jacques Verroust photograph of La Vénus de Milo - Louvre Muséum Paris

But all she does is stand there

all statuesque trying to ignore

me so sculptural, as I reach

out in the middle of minuit

all I get back is stone cold

silence. I miss those days

when I would sip vin

and we would laugh

and converse, she

flirting for me for hueres

and hours. Now that I am

dry, all she does is tease

me with silence. I long

to toast her again, I miss

her denude giggles,

and the way she would

always shake her limbs,

and the way she would tease

and wink and cligner,

my Venus was the only one

in here, whoever spoke

back, our le bavardage

would always transcend

I would clutch le bouteille

sipping declarations till

la vieillesse called sunset,

our time together would

go on éternel. I know

what you’re thinking

there were no affaires

drôles, we never kissed,

embrassé or our anything

like that, I miss those hours,

when I wasn’t unseen

alone with my footsteps

looking up beneath her

always treating this copain,

with the most chiseled words,

I miss my invisible friend

grinning with her marble

sourire smile, wishing

she would reawaken,

wishing she would  

parle moi— instead.

BIO

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an LA Poet who is a recent graduate of MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. His poetry has been featured in The Yellow Chair Review, Frontier Poetry, The Wild Word, Lunch Ticket and one of his poems was named the winner of Subterranean Blue Poetry’s 2016 "The Children of Orpheus" Anthology/Contest. You can connect with Adrian on his website: http://www.adrianernestocepeda.com/

Before TV

Before TV

by Ryan Hansen

(Originally Published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, October 2014)                                                                                                                

Before TV we just masturbated

The radio jingles danced to the sounds of our hands   

                                                                                                                                

Before TV we watched real life reality television

Our parent's voices echoing from the living

dishes breaking the fourth wall                                                                                                                                                                                    

In those days I slept a lot

escaping an all too real reality

I didn’t need to watch other dysfunctional families

to know what was wrong