November/December 2015 Issue

Nov-Dec cover

Dear Readers

Mornings in Town by Holly J. Zuiderveen

Magic Sleep Bugs by S.L. Wyman

Smoke by Kimberly Ann

Mercy by Kimberly Ann

The Pope’s Last Conversation with God– A Dialogue in Haiku by Jake Brower

Layers by Angela M. Havens

Sheol by Kimberly Ann

Postherds by Kimberly Ann

Milk and Brownies by Erika Murdey

Spotlight Piece: The Lark’s Ascension by John Urdiales

Cover Photo: Through Nature’s Eyes by Reilly Gordon

Artwork:

Blue Girl by Riley Gordon

Clean your Plate by Emily Allison

Photography:

Interdependence by Patrick Mallett

Winter Valhalla by Patrick Mallett

Summer Valhalla by Patrick Mallett

Lines & Curves by Patrick Mallett

Spotlight Piece: The Lark’s Ascension by John Urdiales

I am brought to the brink of boundless mountains, whispering songs of comfort and startling stories of mystic dread, a despair without hope incarnating itself into whispers of stillness, of those moments following moments of self-revelation, of earnest desire for personal truth, of immense proportions of intimacy, begging for the lyres which play at night, odes unto themselves and to all, to the always-already absence of your presence, or the presence of your absence—I don’t know which—and I look at myself with the wondering auspices of a non-believer, of the one who begs for the questions without answers and the answers to problems long unsolved—but why so unsolved when the moon still rises at night and that light which brings with it the supplicatory return of beggars at St. Bernard’s—and yet never possessing, never needing an answer to—anything, because the mystery of mystery is the magic that sparks in between your indolent thoughts and the next breath, the breath you take because your air is love and you love that always-already desire to be—being is being as being can only be itself, being—but without itself always-already present, again begging for more soup, more soup, more soul, ah, this soul—begging for itself the warmth of ceramic and broth and steam, steam rising and dissipating into everything—and yes, I remember, I remember this soul, sitting atop its perch of the silent bell-tower, echoing endless chimes of the icy melody of—yes, my soul—and I can’t bear to be apart from that lonely perch, that height of my soul because the perch is not a perch, is not a lonely exile, but is exile because it is so far away, so close to nothing and all that there is rests in my being and so much more, and the perch is stone, rests upon—is—and falls into the pitter-patter of the dust falling further from the skin of this prison, this prison atop a tall mountain, atop this perch upon which rests this apparent soul—You called me from the depths of my mother’s womb and beckoned me to the heights of the dwelling place of my soul, oh my soul—and who ticks as a tolling bell, a measuring clock, counting down the days, the hours, the seconds, the moments of my time until time stops—and begins—and no, I am not a man—I am not the man who comes to save or to be saved or to understand the reasons for these words gushing from the delta of my overactive-spirit, this spirit living unto a time without time, a time not-in-need-of-time because love will take its place—and O, this crescendo of icy winds begging my soul for more, more in place of less in place of nothing, and O, this reality, this condition of being presses against me like a wall without boundary, bounteous and glorious gourd of my soul, my soul atop a perch atop a bell-tower atop a mountain of grandiose proportion, and all of this becoming me and an avalanche of the understanding of the condition of being, this presently anxious habit of wonder, and the bells do not ring, ringing in silence, in the presently and absolutely pleasant screams of a soul, silently pondering the immensities of my intimate perch, my adobe haven in the whirlwind of this living being, this being of life, and I am not ready to begin to end because in ending, this light stops its breath, its life-forcing abundance of endless possibility, of infinite immensity, of the miniature scope gazing upon blades of grass, of molecular-sized pleasantries and courtesies owed to no one but you, you who wait for this all to end only to find yourself begging for the beginning to unearth, to find itself buried in the deep of the faith of your unconscious spirit, now dwelling in its exile because you have placed it there—rather intently or not-so—where the light may not shine, where the tonality of these bells of a soul cannot ring, will-not ring out of fear of beauty, of wonder-and-awe, and it is there where you hide your eye, your eye which pierces into the discovery of your musical unconscious because—why?—it is there where the bells will chime only if you believe—in what?—in yourself, in all, in the immense amount of possibility contained in the thread of your fabric of being, in the habit of your being, and it’s there where I, too, have discovered the great epiphanies of my soul, formed from time-before-time, in the constantly crashing and crushing waves of the oceans, of the air above the sea carrying me away to somewhere—somewhere I don’t know, I can’t see—and it’s perfectly alright, you know, to drift away, to begin to find yourself, waiting patiently, to find an infant lying in the pig-trough, where you see how beautiful you and me and we are together, separate, wherever the winds bring us, even unto the infinite seas of space, themselves containing the fueling love of our artistic prowess: the expressions of a soul waiting for itself in the perch of a distant dream, a dream-loving-dream of bells, ringing, hoping for the echo to remember the lighting of candles and the chanting of hymns we learned when we were children because, yes, that is where we will dwell, where we find our memory lit aflame, echoing and remembering miracles of epic heights, of the heights where we distantly remember that perch, that ode to the serendipitous dwelling place of the soul.

Dear Reader

Dear reader,

For the onset of winter, we bring you stories to curl up with by the fire, or the crackle of a digital fire on your laptop screen near a space heater, or maybe at least with a blanket somewhere in the room. May this offering of fictions with a small garnish of poems help keep you warm. We’re proud and excited to present several poems from Kimberly Priest’s I Will Not Fail to Speak of His Limbs.

Thank you always for reading.

See Spot Run. Free creativity.

SantinoDallaVecchia

Editor

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