Nous of the Kentuckian

Photographer - Tobi Brun

NOUS OF THE KENTUCKIAN

I. TRIAL VERSIONS

It became a bankrupt summer solstice, lost in
the cool mystical horticulture of
Antietam at night. He could no longer
remember the rush of the market climbing,
cash pouring in, or private equity firms
buying him beer. Caterpillars spilled from
his mouth. It was himself confirmed, just as
he’d always imagined; deodorant caked on,
hair needing cutting, badly injured and
bleeding from a return to physical activity.
He addressed the crowd with the
melancholy of a four-year-old. “All work is
subject to examination.”
This was a week after jury duty.

II. A STATUE TO CALAMINE LOTION ON A NIGHT STAND

A furlong, four rods, and an oxgang
away from a sports bar,
there, outside the walmart was
a statue to the great day traders of
our century
There was grissom, van fleef, and
Mcgillicuddy (ferlinger and podanski were
left out, and for good reason), high above
the dashboard ephemera of a chevy cruze.
Nautical in nature, the honorees careened
Towards the cart return in
high waisted trousers,
a brochure on the teapot dome scandal in their
back pockets.
Two boys were picking pockets when The Real
nightmare began. it was ugly tennis for the
unordained. there were cheesesteaks for
sale nearby. Detached retinas flapped

In the wind.
Van fleef was supposed to be an important
part of the ceremony but came down
with shingles the week before. Grissom
appeared in affordable menswear, that
particularly gut punching aphrodisiac of
the 1980s american middle class.

III. THE ALOYSIUS STATE FORESTRY COMPETITION

For the Aloysius State Forestry Competition
we raised beards, and
drank beer from cans
with fish on the label
in a, sort of,
way to honor our fathers
and brothers and
grandfathers.
I signed my name at the registration table
and it looked like the stitching
on the back of jeans.
Everything seemed possible with the acquisition of
a better chainsaw.
A boy from our lodge with shotgun brass hair stood,
and announced that his family
never owned a brand new car
or took a vacation.
I dabbed engine oil from the corners of my lips
and jangled the change in my pocket.
By the time our competition began
we were all wearing nu-skin and
huffing Christian rock from a canister
on a splintered bench.
Our chainsaw was tuned in to the hum
Of girls with fake I.D.s
and older brothers with drug paraphernalia.
We were victors in our leisure.
A governor gave a speech.

“Congratulations to the new district champions.
May the cheers of this moment help overcome
the noise of rattling plastic in the decade old
Ford Rangers of your future!”
My skin was still wet
while we shook hands
and took photographs with
rich men
who promised a bright future
in the concentration industry.

IV. SPIKES INSTEAD OF CLEATS

Picture this:
1998 is coming to a close
and we are all planning
vacations to Myrtle beach.
NAFTA is still in its honeymoon
phase. The country has fully
transitioned to using the word
spikes instead of cleats
Most of the boys have Chipper Jones
haircuts. The branding for the McDonalds
Arch Deluxe looks like the cover of an
Ayn Rand novel. Several post office dialects
develop under the dayglo eternity of a 7-11
at midnight. All I can pick up is a debate about
the Jeep YJ being the end of civilization.
There are specters yet to come.
Up on the bluff, baseball stadium floodlights
shine like diamonds in a divorce settlement.
Junk mail sweats in the dishwasher steam.
The grocery store is a museum of the food
we ate. Congress lets out soon.
Anyway, Myrtle Beach won’t book itself. It’s
winter and the fake palm trees are wrapped
in plastic. I call my travel agent from a pay phone
used in a regional bank heist. I ask her if there are
any specials. She says only if I’m a member of Triple-A.
Then she cries.

This isn’t unusual for her.
She’s a swimmer with trophies.

J. Peter Progar is a Central Pennsylvania bureaucrat. His work has been accepted to the Bare Hill Review and published in the Journal of Digital Landscape Architecture and Hyphen Architecture Journal.

The Rosary

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Rosary

The holiness lies
On the repetition
On stating
I am willing to do what it takes
On daring, grounding yourself

A sacred ritual,
The purest of liturgies;
Our sacrifice on the altar

The blood flows deep on the knees
The arms dance for the cross
The mouth sings with the angels

Mary, allow me to do it justice.
Even if that means
Sacrificing myself on your presence

Creating a splash,
A banquet for the Saints
May the Grace of God shine on me.

Anna Correa is a Brazilian immigrant and a computer science student based in Orlando, FL. Anna is an editor for her local school literary magazine called Phoenix, in which she has been featured with the poem ‘The Snake’. She enjoys matcha lemonade late at night.

‘Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?’, ‘Crisis in the Lighthouse’, & ‘Jack-O'-Lantern’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?

I feel as if I am always in camouflage;
Last of my species? Damned to this, fakery collage.

Another time, or place...a cruel fantasy.
Unique—a blessing tainted with insanity.

Retrained? On the verge of extinction? Already
Gone like the fabled dodo—or mass dignity?

I tend to glide above, while most seem to slither.
Ostriches is as close as I have gotten hither.

Seem to be birds of the feather—of flight at first glance;
Do elect not to fly, given the delusive chance.

Some seem to be rats of sorts; I rear to fly—soon
The ones who tramp, drag me to the gallows at noon.

Crisis in the Lighthouse

Reach my hand outside the lighthouse window. The haze,
Thick. An albatross lands on my finger—so vague.

All I seem to receive is omens as of late;
I feel like a mackerel; no relent—teased with bait.

Always riddled viz. "You will wake and be deemed blind."
I'm left to wonder; blind of the eyes—or of the mind?

Lighthouse keeper; beloved, nurturer of the flame;
Has no light to guide him; his black horizon to tame.

The blind leading the blind; or the delusional,
Who forgo the cane. His peerless sight—fictional.

Are the other keepers up the shore just as lost;
Finding sole solace in the verse of Robert Frost?

"I have been one acquainted with the night." What it
Is to be a keeper? Light the way—mind, dimly lit.

Save poor souls, from a fate you crave in seclusion.

Tame the wild ocean—or at least give the illusion.

My weapon against the sea—a lowly, lone match;

I should be on the other end of the "help!" dispatch.

Jack- O’-Lantern

I see my sanity roll off my fingertips;
Do they know how slippery it is? It seems that
They never risk it. A Mental apocalypse—

The mind endures; flames ravage its crevices; My
Cerebral disaster. Soon enough those who prey—
Pillage will arrive; gutting the pumpkin—bone dry.

They leave my face perverted; eyes jagged; mouth hacked.
Set fire to my core; Soul arsonists—no remorse.
Outlet for emotional pyromaniacs.

Used for one chilly night; then violently tossed

Down, the juxtaposing, peaceful dell; I roll—squash!
Left to rot, in a state of decay. Will I frost—

Or will I have decomposed by winter? From now
Till next autumn, my kind will be seen as passé.
No longer useful for laughs—scares. Death under boughs.

They wash their hands of my seeded blood; wipe the knife.
"This stuff never comes off." Longer to dwell—regret.
Throw the remains in the oven; burn off the life.

William Olson is a young aspiring artist in multiple fields; such as writing, music, film, and poetry. He also most likely enjoys John Keats too much for his own good, in this poetic landscape. He currently resides in Birmingham, Alabama.

“Lucky Cargo”, “Exit Point”, & “My Girl, Athena.”

Photographer - Tobi Brun

lucky cargo

Bury me at sea in the mouth of a lion.
There I will squander the cargo for anchor.
Make me a list of their sisters and mothers,
and watch me return to the warm South to thank her.

Bless me with sand at the feet of Elijah.
Here I will make good the boundless prairie.
Build me a tall ship to sail California,
or carve me your phone number under the blue tree.

Break into a car where the flowers are burning.
There I will paint you a cold Dionysus.
Write me a Pope at your earliest convenience,
but make no apologies over the wireless.

Bring me the white whale who started creation.
Here I will peel you a red pomegranate.
Spell me your favourite hour in the waters,
as proof that it’s not such a dubious planet.

Book me a table for Boot Hill at sundown.
There I will make lunar landings a habit.
Pour me the Rolling Stones into fine china,
if ever you find a bar lucky to have it.

exit point

A brown spider crawled out of my dream,
full of hard threaded heart-strings.
Sleepy with Satie’s Gymnopedies.

Could have
sailed again.
that world
I travelled
from.

How
time slipped
every
screen
and,

taught dead
fish
to
jump
an empty

reel as my dream
reclined
in the arms
of some

lonely, adult
actress.

Or St. Cecelia in ecstasy, (is that the place?)
I never looked to find. All over
the city, blue flies ferry fever.

Takes time to cross, two years of traffic lights,
dealt underneath the bridge.

At the exit point
of memory, there is always,
this expectancy.

Like driftwood, Holy days
when I still wait for you.

My girl, Athena.

The Gods have abandoned you.
She’s not there, (but vengeance is)
some spray-paint joker cracks.

You are no Goddess
on a good day.
Not my girl, you say.

How your eyes
stay quiet like a house,
that will grow

into a garden.

Let us speak to each other,
a simple list of words
in no particular order.

Though my language be small as a wager.

Our first day in the park as the jet planes
roared above your dark, gold hair.

and you spoke
to me, slowly.

distant with conviction.

Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches English and American literature at John Cabot University.

Stuck

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Stuck

If I am impaled on the side,
Will the crows come and pluck out my eyes?
I am frozen and stuck in place,
Bites were taken out of my unmoving face.
My blood boils,
The thick putrid liquid in my chest,
It roils.
People are passing,
My eyes follow them, unblinking.
Time is flashing,
I keep sinking.

How long must I remain this way?
Will the passers-by stop?
They will not stay.
Gawking maybe, asking a question or two,
They lose interest quickly,
It is not enough that it is just you.

“Where is the tribe?”
“They are about.”
“Have you even tried?”
“A lot,” I try to shout.
They only smile in pity, and glee maybe?
Floating away, content, lazy.

Watching the blood pool beside my pole,
It freezes quickly, out of control.
Still looking on, my unmoving face,
Tight, stiff, and stuck in bitter space.

I look to my left, there is another.
Her eyes are astray.
With speaking I do not bother,
she cannot hear me anyway.
The blood has dried.
Given up, she has died.

My eyes begin to bulge,
In panic, I try to shift.
Sorrow too long indulged,
Where is the will needed to persist?
Remove the spike long sat in my chest,
Cannot get upright,
Only pain left to ingest.
Tired, more tired every day,
Waiting to be discovered and taken away.

Strikes like a storm,
The crooked lines of my shoulders,
When fresh dripping blood is keeping you warm.
The small stones feel like bullets,
A raindrop like hail,
A pinch like a punch,
On life's path impaled.

Iram Nisa Hussain is of British-Pakistani descent. Hussain is a passionate newcomer, who has always indulged in poetry. Born and raised in the Northwest of England, Hussain has always used words to capture the essence of life's moments.