) Unmoveable Feast *(
Issue Two: With new fiction by Monica Merenda, Kass Fleisher and Meg Pokrass, essay and fiction by Jane Stubbs poetry by Chris Tusa, Gail Peck, John Hoppenthaler, Chris Shipman, Elaine Briney, and Benjamin Lowenkron. Reviews by Tyler Smith and Jennifer Whitaker.
Issue 1 for fiction by Kathy Fish, Alison Barker and Jenna Dietzer; essay by Caroline Clough; poetry by Rhett Iseman Trull, Mel Coyle, Chris Martin, Nanette Rayman Rivera, Andrew Demcaak, Ray Succre, Dave Brinks, Megan Burns, Donald Illich and Theft by Andrei Codrescu's poetry class
by Mel Coyle
The constant he’s so she’s so
He the cinnabon
She the fruit cup
On the outside
the serious ears of poesy
He the translation
She the mother tongue...
Cats and Dogs
by Chris Shipman
Before she decided to move in
her Siberian Husky moved through
my apartment with cautious paws
backing slowly out of every room ...
Boomerang by Chris Tusa
Someone stole Satan’s hipbone
and flung it against the sky.
Now you ride the orange horizon,
a stunned, wingless bird
flying in circles, a broken halo....
Writing in Post-Katrina New Orleans
by Jane Stubbs
On the night of August 28, 2005, I was celebrating my then-boyfriend's birthday according to the tradition established by our group of friends several years earlier: we were drinking ourselves into oblivion at a French Quarter bar. At the time we didn’t own a television, and were in the process of severing our relationship, and so we hadn’t been paying attention to much outside our own home. On that night, however, we were happy and experiencing an alcohol-induced resurrection of our original feelings for each other. Everything was hilarious and grand. We’d heard something about a hurricane, but like many native New Orleanians our age, had come to regard such warnings as false alarms. After all, the year before, we’d wasted seventeen hours stuck on the I-10 to Houston when we evacuated for Ivan and absolutely nothing happened...
The Interpellated Man by Monica Merenda
One step follows another all the way to a crossroads, where a road that connects silence to madness crosses a road from hope to despair. A road and a road and a man stands there but he doesn’t know it yet. He is drawn by the sound of a voice that comes to him from a distance, a slow train. He listens. Looks for something to attach to the sound and perceives emptiness, but for the sound which grows as he grows, into the space. At first the sound is reedy, unstable. He discovers he has fingers and sticks them into his ears, shakes them around to try and clear his vision. He looks down, locates his feet, and finds them unsteady. He sees that he can see where he stands deep ruts gouged into the ground that is red clay, hard as granite. His feet move around searching for balance on the uneven tread where wheels—must have been here before—turned circle after circle. So, others have traveled this way too. Before when? He wonders, but his mind is not formed enough for the thought to take hold.....
photograph by Betsy Blake