Gears: A Collection - Alex Pruteanu

bong is taking a break from the normal bard to suggest a book well worth reading, not only for the gorgeous stories told therein but for a meaningful glimpse into just how short fiction is done and done proper.



gears is 372 pages without a word wasted. concise and brilliantly effective, piece after piece.


check out the gears give away on goodreads and the gears: a collection page to purchase.

All-centuries struggle - Jeremy Marino

The mien of man

is a starving alleyway hound,

the underdog below the moon's false caress,

its tongue lapping for gritty action,

maw quaking with each deafening roar,

ready to pounce from the shadowed concrete pass

and cleave open the full content stomach,

and tear away the warm ropy throat

of the aberrant alpha male,

and lead the pack

himself.

"When I'm not thinking about the world at large and the small people forging it, I spend my time tinkering with old electronics. Old electronics for an old soul. Unfortunately, the pulling of other hobbies, such as writing (surprise), thinking about writing a piece and never writing it, learning languages, 3D design, and martial arts spread me out too thin. I hate being a college student, but love learning regardless. I draw inspiration from everything I possibly can, and suggest you do the same, reader. I'm all for making new contacts, acquaintances, and friends. Shoot me an email at j.marino3714@gmail.com. I'll talk about anything, really."

ZOOM ZAUM/IS WHAT YOU DID/DIGGING AT THE ORE OF LUST/ACROSS SEAS - Peter Grieco

ZOOM ZAUM

This commuting to work
in
private motor vehicles
is a
de-humanizing procedure
where
to humanize is to attune persons
in
greater sympathetic contact
with
other persons & the living environment.
Iso-
lation, insulated, self-aggrandizement
the lonely
man on foot has more of the universe
going
on with him than all these acclimatized
passengers.




IS WHAT YOU DID
for Bob

You stitched
& pressed
& packed
& drove    
a knife
through cheese.

You stopped
swayed backwards in a chair
laid down your clawish hand
put words away in a drawer.

You held up an electric torch
to someone’s face
to see what was there.

As long as things you see
don’t go pass you in a blur,
you’re okay.  Everything
pans out.  One line
brings up another.

You heard
a woodpecker
tapping in the dark
as wind
blew
through tall
bamboo.



DIGGING AT THE ORE OF LUST
for Anne Carson

Time goes whirling
through landscapes bent
on its agenda, endlessly making
an end of things

a passing shadow we follow like a needle
stitching together moments
of a blank nostalgia
a too soon afternoon of thunder

a brain chemistry of naked
injury & chronic despair.
Seduced into thinking we’re immortal,
suddenly the affair is over.





ACROSS SEAS

I love her as I love the unknown
pure & secret, without fault
the way our mothers used to wrestle
over the fence.  I love her the way
cabbages love kings on a sunny morn.

I love her as the beginning & end
of me, so troubled & alone—
I love her as down upon the ocean
& time across seas.  But what
of that, if we no more connect

than fast upon heat
or blue among gulls’ reckless passion?


The author is a former university writing instructor who has published around 100 poems over the past five years. He is currently studying mathematics in Buffalo, NY, his native city. He enjoys studying French and composing songs for the guitar. You can find some of his music at: http://www.youtube.com/user/pjgrieco and can contact him there as well

go to bed.the door is locked/my will - b.j. jones

go to bed. the door is locked

the front door
it’s locked
it’s locked
I tell myself
myself I tell
myself I tell
next the gas stove
sniff it up close
no gas smell
sniff it again
real close
no smell no
back to bed
is the door locked?
?
up again
and I am up
it’s locked


my will

and when I die
I don’t care what you do
sell the house
find someone else
give the clothes away
box up the pictures
bury me or burn me
all I ask
have everyone
at the funeral
sing We
Three Kings
do this one thing
and I promise to
not haunt you or
the children I
hope it’s in
September

B.J. Jones writes about rogue pharmacists, phantom limbed windmills, quidnuncs, Luciferian calories, amorous bowling shoes, Funkhousers, martyred coupons, Nietzschian wire hangers, invisible tomatoes, and pen clicking adversaries while living in Dubuque, IA with his wife. Some of it even gets published.

shoes/eric/vitae/unencumbered - holly day

Shoes

if it hadn’t been for the new shopping mall

they never would have found the bodies.

six skeletons, strung with dried skin

tied to trees in the heart of the forest.

after the bodies were identified

as coming from good, upscale families

that still lived in town, naming

some of the new roads leading to the shopping mall

after the dead girls

seemed like a good idea.

after further consideration, though

they decided to just give the girls

a really nice funeral.

Eric

my nephew comes home

from the war

cocky, proud, boasting

of how stupid the people “over there” are

how backward their way of life is

it breaks my heart remembering

the baby in my arms

the little boy with the wide brown eyes

who dreamed of driving his own tractor

someday

who is this man

telling stories of military exercises

of kicking down doors to rescue children

from their “ignorant” mothers

drinking beer and showing off his scars

what have they done to

my sweet little friend

Vitae

he was already dead as a doorknob when they found him

his head cradled in his arms, phone cradled in his hand

he could have been sleeping, dreaming of Saturday

except for all the blood.

it must have taken unflinching persistence, patience, fear

of the timeclock tick-ticking in the corridor

to complete crunching the day’s sales receipts

with a hole as big as a ledger in his chest. 

Unencumbered

oh, the whirr of wheels and wire and endless

scraping of skin on silvery track, my sleep, the scrape of skin on

splintered wood and wondering what they’ll say when they find me,

the rush, the roar, racing toward the light

the fading, floating echo of speed

oh, the imagined eyes of an imaginary crowd as the train

pull into the station, the concrete landing,

the eyes of the crowd opening wide

as the train pulls in and the hands reach out

trying to catch me, stop me,

much, much too late

oh, I love a train

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published book is “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch,” while her novel, “The Trouble With Clare,” is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.