Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: dusty, heavier, households, neu., new, poet, poetry, the22magazine, york
please look through the boxes
in the basement and keep
searching through all your breast
pockets youd learned nothing
from digging nothing from
youd gone on
another long trip with
worthless cassettes and great
coffee flashlights rolling
on the floor untied shoes
heaviest in deepest
the ground getting up and
backyard you everything
you youd think so look at
multi me dancing so
toothless so youd say free
then coming home to a
bedroom that had just been
tossed through the air just one
room in your interesting
home had been tossed through the
air while youre breathing you
were away at a voice
lesson or digging deep
pits in your neighbors yard
and now you think my
health has even left my
skeleton you smile tight
Dusty Neu was born and raised in California’s rural San Joaquin Valley, but has spent the last few years in San Francisco. He has been a featured reader at the Velvet Revolution, Brainwash, and the Living Room reading series and his work has been published in Transfer, Pear Noir!, and VOLT. He now lives and works in Rome where he is a regular contributor to Revista Input.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 365, British, connecticut, Lucas, norwalk, Owen, poet, poetry, writing
The last days were difficult.
That central joist had been
Removed, and the big top
Fell, billowing, and he was
Not much further from us,
In truth, but transposed in
An uncertain way, become
A stranger. The words he
Spoke had an antic quality,
And his face moved beyond
Itself, as to the limit of its
Physical properties. The new
Medicine worked him down,
And he would cry bitterly,
As children do, without cause,
Unreasonable to himself,
And call to God and mother
Them perhaps to be one.
His brothers drank whiskey
And smoked and spat from
The porch and spoke softly,
Coming in to him and staring
For a few minutes twice a day.
The signal flame and its dark
Remnant. Fuel, and a caulk
Of wax petals, drooping out.
He wore a white nightshirt
Like a child’s, sweat it yellow.
An instant rose to him, one
Morning. He drew upright and
His mouth opened and he
Shuddered and smiled and
Fell back to his pillow—
“Es ist ein Traum,
Ich will ihn weiter träumen.”
Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut whose poems and translations have featured in journals and magazines on both sides of the Atlantic. His recent work can be read in Agave, Off the Coast, Burningword, Pacifica, Electric Windmill, Clarion, and RiverLit. In September, Mountain Tales Press will publish his first chapbook, “Afterworks”. For more, visit owenlucaspoems.com
Filed under: ART, COLLAGE | Tags: 22, art, artist, collage, Dalachinsky, magazine, poet, steve, the
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, Barnes, brooklyn, madeleine, magazine, new, office, poet, poetry, the, york
by Madeleine Barnes
Curled inside the body of a lamb is half the moon.
I see her kneel down beyond a splintering fence.
One friend has died, for now, at least—I’ve lost my whereabouts.
Inside the body of half the moon are seventeen eggs.
When the world comes to you this way, muffled though
irresolute flamelight, you must enter and refuse to leave.
Inside one egg, a parabola, a solitary winter morning.
Crouched in the stable one red colt wavers on thin legs.
What does he see from within the orb of his eye?
The deep terrain of the unperceivable track revolving
as he runs, record time.
Scintillate. Keep warm. Inside the black fountain of a crow’s
back I see maps of fragile questions. One friend has gone
without leaving an address, training himself to paint outside of school.
Nested on the edge of a mountain he found a lateral vision
of what remains outside of time. Inside the bare armor of skin
the sun has burned me deep enough to reach him.
My friend is trapped inside the entire arrangement of this web,
his body wrapped into one thin point. When it trembles
it asks questions: Can you bear the indivisible light?
And then it answers for us: yes, we are connected by the gift
itself, the endless ability to see.
Madeleine Barnes is a graduate of Carnegie Mellon University in creative writing and fine arts. She was the recipient of West Virginia University’s Hungry Poets Prize (2012), an Academy of American Poets Prize from Carnegie Mellon University in 2011, the Borders Open Door Poetry Prize in 2009, and the Princeton Poetry Prize in 2008. Her poems have appeared in places like The Rattling Wall, Open Thread, Oakland Review, Weave Magazine, North Central Review, Three Rivers Review, Collision Magazine, Allegheny Review, Albion Review, 5AM, and Plain China.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, act, brooklyn, domenic, for, Hatter, lost, mad, magazine, maltempi, new, not, poet, poetry, raffle, the, to, york
By Domenic Maltempi
Sometimes our hatter acted as our doctor. Hats were not in fashion, for fortuity’s sake or otherwise.
Contra-attests hardly provoked a smile. Local prognosticators did not see this trend ending. International Endings petitioned Universal Truths for at least a comment. The latter would only accept text messages, claiming it was busy with way more than what International Endings had on its plate.
We were all at the end of our tether deciding on a song for our town—not a town-song necessarily. We wanted folks to slow down, enjoy browsing through Yogurt Trap or Visual Eyes in our proudest strip.
Better! We would prefer it if they chose to sequester themselves where our illuminated founder’s favorite plant thrived. This living thing of beauty was a 145 year old Mexican ‘Sedum morganianum’ sitting in a key maker’s window for many of those years.
( )Its own uplifting dragdown polished in enough light
( )Its own whistle why you work book deal worth
( )a thousand friends in theory and not theory
( )its own blown election victory for the glory of the people for a few days
( ( )Its own Mexican dressing room to pace through goldenly
( ) till ‘Hair’ knocked or things were canceled
( ( )its own canceled screen-door sweepstakes announced too late
( ( )Its own gray fingered nail wedding party on the waves
( )Pulled from that well combed hat
( )By the youngest with the
( )sweetest tilt of head
( )A title scrawled neatly on premium acid free paper
( )Read: Catching up to what I Know
( )But what kind of song would this be
( )to come back for?
( )Return against?
Domenic Maltempi is a musician and writer living a little too close to his home town in New York. His poetry and prose have appeared in “The Scroll,’ ‘Incredible Melting Object,’ and ‘Perfect Sound Forever.’ He is a member of the bands The Whispering Olympians and El Alto (http://www.myspace.com/elalto) (http://whisperingolympians.bandcamp.com/) He is currently working on a collection of short stories about loaner cars and, cocky watercolorists, and a collection of poetry called “Catching up to what I know.”
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, akron, and, brooklyn, JW, magazine, mark, new, ohio, poet, poetry, save, scrimp, the, york
All in static black we scrimp and save
Despotic in our malcontent
For what could be, (but never is) the end
Of hunger, dread and doubt.
Feigning sleep to wake at mid-day
when the sunshine spent (now lost)
We leave in hopes to find a cloudy indecision
black sheet focus/ rain swept fortune
All in torment of our purpose and our course
Wander pathways paved of horrors
Find a someplace white inside she screams
Disenchantment held inside her vowels, she says,
“I think I cry torrential downpours” and
Presumed escape from some entrapment
held inside her mind and treading in misfortune
All is scattered, lost and lazy
JW Mark is a poet living in Sagamore Hills, Ohio. Among the publications to include his work are The Ampersand Review, Eunoia Review, The Midwest Literary Magazine, flashquake, and The North Chicago Review. He is the author of a novel, entitled Artifice, as well as a book of poems entitled Patched Collective. He can be contacted at email@example.com
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, art, artist, artists, arts, baton, brooklyn, desert, Jane, macavay, magazine, new, ny, nyc, orleans, poem, poet, rouge, writing
by Jane Macavay
If this were the desert,
a separate sea,
what then of that drum we left sitting on the bench that day in Tyman park?
Do you think it decayed?
then the bells?
Did anyone try to save it?
Left over: a feather, slick and a little greasy,
rested on the edge of that sad instrument,
trembling in a hasty breeze.
Jane Macavay is an musician and writer born in Baton Rouge. She now lives in New Orleans with her sister and three parrot’s. She has been published in various small reviews and magazine’s and her forthcoming book of poetry “If it’s not for Breaking, Is it for Smashing?” comes out in the Summer of 2013.