"among ancients"

"among ancients"

flight plan

keep it. keep the gift I tried to give. it’s almost free.
dance alone if you must. remember the steps. they lead home.

very few are aware of the outside. they are lucky to see pure blue skies.
we pray for rain and blankets and time that seems to be running out.

maybe it’s taken fractions of other people to show holes remaining.
you fill my blank pages. I love your stories. you are my genre.

when writing sleeps, doom is spelled awkwardly and with no form.
desiring a flight plan to avoid interference with other aviators.

inside another testament

the brush has swept back again

painting it’s way
following veins
stuttering where scars are raised

know we are children of excess
proclaiming nothing
but tastes and touches
too overwhelmingly rich
for linen or parchment

place a tongue there
doubter
inside wounds

lap up spillage
before sweet decay

blooming sacred stories
emblazoned on our hides
love unwritten

fatigue and fakery
holy men in disguise
trading fists for stones
separating skin from sin
betraying hope of truth

hold still
portraiture may shed light
soulful oiled eyes

blending light bending meaning

I like my skin and my daydreams and the way they fit.

"atop a waterfall"

"atop a waterfall"

choices ripe for plucking

don’t tempt me
beyond the next leap
through falling water
and rocks below

haze of summer days
colors the view

you’re so beautiful
in a poisonous way
I breathe you ever deeply
to my end

shall I wither on the vine
or fall masticated

you gather in late day sun
and in morning reflect
any choice carves hearts
the harvest another beginning

elegant virtuosity

oh elegant stew

she took his word
right from the title
of his latest work
and spun it round
til it matched her mood

for tears to season
and lust to taste

she wove phrases
from exit wounds
poking through her mask

staring at parking lot patterns
divining weather
teasing love from rumble strips

lode-bearing walls
susceptible to venal smiles

she forgot his touch
after he faded
but her vision
remained fixed
on their fusion

ah what fortifying virtuosity

"they sat by the falls"

"they sat by the falls"

a haunting

so strong
the urge
leading to you
tried to drive away
need
but reminders
haunt

a song
some wine
flowers giving their petals
we were children
dancing
to twilight melody
even unsung

a plea
for your hands
on me
holding
your voice
in my ear
taking what’s yours

lament

listened -
wail carried on wind
it hurt my heart.
I heard every crack
every forced breath
a seasonal lament
haunted the valley
trees shuddered and swayed
- it was my own song

The Brasilia Review #8

ds-litjournal:

Hello, issue 8 here speaking. Between now and when I step down, at the emergence of issue 9, Brasil will have elected a new President. Now the candidates are campaigning hard. I myself need not campaign. I have been appointed. My term of office is two months. I have that long to fold my bird of paradise wings and hop around to seduce the literary world. The President of Brasil gets four years on the job.

Which of the three leading parties will win is not for me to know. Will it be the incumbent Workers’ Party? The business friendly Social Democrats? Or the one named like a programming variable, the Socialist Party? Trailing behind these three are three more socialist parties, one of which is the Green Party. Its candidate is being meme’d for having a personality. The Socialist Party candidate died when his private jet crashed by reason of mechanical failure or a bomb. Since the tragedy the party has moved in the polls from a distant third to a close second behind the incumbent.

You can tell Brasil has a parliamentary system. You may have heard Brasil has a lot of parties. It is of note that the six like-valued parties above take up more of a range on the political spectrum than the two parties in the United States. But one thing is the same: candidates’ signs are lining the roadways. Every candidate is assigned a number. This number is often displayed on the signs more prominently than the candidate’s name is. You use the number when you vote.  This is for the benefit of Mr. Analfabet. By law every citizen must vote.

May I present Daniel Lee, who knows himself in all his facets. Gregory Novak shines the glow of love in top prose. Patrick Pawlowski probably will make that mistake again.

Laura Hurwitz finds salvation in an unlikely place.

Andira Dodge grabs ahold of flitting childhood time. Christopher Schaeffer, in honor of sports talk, is a beast. He beastin. Who writes in beast mode? He do. And S.N.W. Tolstoy lives through an 8.0 on the parental Richter scale.

On our cover, designer Nayrb Wasylycia divides the continents like man.

The Brasilia Review #8 comes to you from where the air itself is kindling. Water is mercy and this air has none.

Fiction

Who Am I by Daniel Lee

     “I know the future in many cases. I am precognitive.”

She Sees Me by Gregory Novak

     “…in some grander fashion than our relative arrangement would allow (or warrant).”

A Youngish Man by Patrick Pawlowski

     “…from beyond her paper holding she held everything before her in her eyes.”

Non-Fiction

American Muffler by Laura Hurwitz

     “American Muffler is on a block in New Haven notorious for drug deals and drive-by shootings.”

Poetry

Dateless Snapshot by Andira Dodge

     “black mary janes, green dress, knobby knees / pushing an empty swing”

Donald Food Revists the Canons of Spiritual Law by Christopher Schaeffer

     “This bathroom has three antechambers / and the sinks don’t turn on.”

West Country Doughnut Disaster by S.N.W. Tolstoy

     “As our children, quite embarrassed, were forced to turned away”

very cool place to find myself - check it out

folded

saw the truth
of my willingness
at your feet