by Peycho Kanev

Great Lakes Steel. Detroit, 1942. Arthur Siegel, Office of War Information. Courtesy of Shorpy.

Going home after a 10–hour job…riding the bus
with the blacks and the poor…watching through
the window…the setting sun…the uselessness of
the trees…the stream of the cars…the concrete
of the sidewalk…the skiddish cops…the blocks
with the streets of houses and their windows
and the faces behind…with all their blankness…
and the guy sitting next to me – a large man
with hands like tree-trunks – tries to start a stupid
conversation…but I am not here…riding the bus
with all these dead souls…I am out there…some
where…and then I got out…on the empty street
…leading to my place…with the burning walls…
empty chair…and I am here…I open the door…
and then close it… I open the fridge…get the beer
bottle…and then close it…I sit in the empty chair
…and turn on the radio…luck with Brahms…I put
the green glass in my mouth…and the foamy liquid
goes into my throat…and I just sit there…thinking…
what life is all about.
–

Expectation

The end of my sleep is sneaking
between the light of the bulb and
the alcohol:

I saw you on the street, how you
watched the painters working at the faces
of the passing people and the unbearable
buildings, how they suck their pipes and
listen to the intolerable waltzes from their
little radios.

Now, it is midnight,
and I am kissing your breasts.
I taste your soul, as my hands reach out
searching for love in this room sodden
with stink of bread, wine and death.

We are walking on the steps of others
before us,
and we live within our small summer.

Now, we are shaking and awaiting the winter,
and you look me in the eyes;
(what a feeling), somewhere outside,
the dogs are barking, and cats are sleeping
by fireplaces:
you want to tell me something,
I light a cigarette and look into your
eyes.

I wait for the oldest curses
of all.
–

Peycho Kanev is the Editor In Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 500 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, The Monongahela Review, The Coachella Review, Midwest Literary Review, Third Wednesday, The Cleveland Review, Loch Raven Review, In Posse Review, Mascara Literary Review and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net and lives in Chicago. In 2009 his short story collection Walking Through Walls and in April 2010 his poetry collection American Notebooks both were published in Bulgaria. His poetry collection Bone Silence was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by Desperanto in 2012.

by Ben Dudley

–
Ball Bearings

Every Tuesday and Thursday since he began school, Tommy had walked the half-block from the bus-stop to his dad’s South Side factory hand-in-hand with his dad. The last couple of weeks, however, he had made the walk on his own. He agreed with his dad that, yes, he was in Second Grade now, and that, no, he wouldn’t tell his mom, so he would be fine by himself. He’d been getting Cokes for him and his dad at the machine in the back alley for a year and that was even further away than the bus-stop.

It was initially frightening to him and he felt untethered and small the first few times, running until he reached the factory door and then nonchalantly walking in. His dad never made a big deal that Tommy had made it there in one piece and Tommy took comfort in his confidence.

Tommy no longer needed to run from the stop, but he chose to on his first Tuesday back in the factory since returning from vacation with his mom and Jerry. He had resolved to explore more of the factory after he discovered his classmates were interested in the old building over which Tommy had free reign. He wanted to be able to answer more of their questions (“Any dead bodies?” was the one that intrigued him the most) and all he could think about as Jerry endeavored to teach him how to eat lobster for an entire week was the one door in the factory that he had never even tried to open. It was in the back office and he couldn’t fathom what was on the other side, apart from darkness, which seeped out from under the door.

Tommy forced himself into a nonchalant walk as he entered Tanlan Binderies, dropped his Evel Knievel lunchbox in the main office, said hi to his dad, and crossed the factory floor to the back office. He realized his dad had asked him a question thirty seconds ago and muttered “Maine was fine” to himself as he entered the seldom used room.

Tommy’s dad used to spend more time in the back office, but he stopped using it because it was on the other side of the building than all of the machines and he spent more time fixing the presses than he used to. Tommy himself hadn’t been in the back office since he was five, when he found a green ball-bearing on the black carpet and tried to eat it, even though he knew it wasn’t candy. He remained embarrassed that he had done something so stereotypically childish. Even if it had been candy, it had been on the floor. It was one of the only times he had been yelled at and he absolutely deserved it. There were still ball-bearings on the floor now, but they didn’t seem green or round anymore and Tommy was smugly disinterested in them. His attention was on the door, which was there on the far wall, as solid and dark as it had been in his memory.

As he approached the door, he passed a compartmentalized wooden desk, legless and completely empty except for dust and a photo of his father and a woman. The photo was tacked up inside one of the cubbyholes in the desk and the woman was in a bright pink bikini. Tommy’s dad had on jeans and a t-shirt and big dark sunglasses, even though it was night wherever he and the woman were (Tommy wasn’t sure: there was mud everywhere, a chain link fence out-of-focus in the background and a giant tire sticking into the picture from the right). Tommy’s dad was smiling, a can in one hand and his other hand around the woman’s midsection. The woman’s pubic hair was visible along the top of her bikini bottom. She was smiling slyly.

Tommy turned with his back to the door he had come through and bent down so the picture was near the cubbyhole where he had found it, in case he had to shove it back in quickly. He’d seen bikinis before and he knew what pubic hair was. His dad’s hand on the woman’s side was only a few inches away from her pubic hair. His fingers were spread out and pressed firmly against her skin. Why was she dressed like that at night, outside, with no water around? Did his dad know she was going to be there when he was going? What did his dad think when he saw her pubic hair? When he was walking up to her, did he look at it? Did he say anything to her about it?

Tommy hoped he hadn’t.

He thought about his dad’s poster of Chicago as seen from a helicopter and how his dad had shown him, way in the back of the picture, a grey swatch of color that was the South Side. He thought about how the giant industrial building was a speck in that swatch, and how he was in just one of the factories in the building, in a room in the factory, holding a picture that was in a cubbyhole in the room.

The house he had lived in with his parents when they were still together wasn’t on the poster. When Tommy asked where their house was, his dad had put the poster down on his workbench and pointed to a spot a few feet to the left, in the middle of a ring a beer can had left on the wooden surface days or years prior.

–

Ben Dudley is pursuing his Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati, where he teaches composition. He occasionally directs commercials for a down bedding company, often performs stand up comedy, and sometimes writes screenplays. His work has appeared in Foliate Oak Magazine and Zero Ducats.

by Angelica Bihary

Nona's House: After

What I remember is a small house with a large front and back yard. I remember playing with my brother in the backyard, where an old, light blue, rusting Cadillac sat. We would occasionally open the unlocked doors to pick at the peeling cartoon stickers that, for whatever reason, were stuck onto the dashboard. I remember the neighbor’s two little white dogs, yappy, matted-haired, smelly, and dirty, but fun to play with through the metal gate that divided the properties. I remember a small green plastic shed and a large garage with its four walls literally covered by various tools and odd parts of cars. But the front yard was different. I remember rose bushes and other flowers growing abundantly. I remember the signpost along a stone-covered path that spelled out our last name with the silhouette of a dog on top. I remember Chester, the dog my dad rescued but that he kept there because my parents did not want a dog at our house.

A few years later, Chester had already died and my Nona had a stroke and was bedridden. My brother and I had grown to the age where the weekly visits to the Bronx were something to complain about, which I regret now. We would not want to stay in the house because it was boring. My Nona stayed in her bed, my great Aunt Effie would usually be in the main room seated at a table, and often there would be a visiting nurse. My brother and I were restless, and thus the property surrounding the house was ours to explore. I remember feeling sad that my Nona was not able see her garden anymore. Weather permitting, my brother and I would pick the prettiest flowers and make a bouquet. That way, since she could not go outside to see her flowers, we could bring a piece of her garden in for her. She would get very emotional when we did this, probably because in our own way we were showing her how much we loved her, despite our absence in the house. My Nona spoke more fluently in Italian than English and it was hard for me to understand her well, especially after the stroke. Yet the one phrase that I can still hear echoing in my head is when she would say, very clearly, “I love you.”

My Nona died in 2002, and my great Aunt lived in the house until she died in 2005. After, the house remained empty. Throughout the years I have overheard my father and mother talking behind closed doors about how the house could not be sold due to the poor market, and how we were still paying utility bills there. Up until even today, the house seems to be a burden to my parents, which I find sad because of all the memories that we had there. A couple of years ago, my father was notified that the house was being vandalized. Not too long after, in October 2008, the house was set on fire. I know my father goes there sometimes to clean up the property, sometimes asking my brother for help. I have not been there since around the time my aunt died, six years ago.

Though I was fortunate enough to spend many years with my Nona when I was younger, the house in the Bronx is an embodiment of my relationship with my paternal family. My grandmother and grandfather, or Nona and Nono, were refugees after World War II, and were transported to various places. Originally from Italy, they lived in Brazil until my father was 12, when they immigrated to the United States. The rest of his family was dispersed, most staying in varying South American countries. His sister, brother, and aunt immigrated to the United States to join my father and grandparents at varying times. These few family members are the only ones that I would come to know. After living in Brooklyn for a few years, my father’s family bought their house in the Bronx in 1969. It is there that all of my memories of my paternal family are centered. This house remains to be my only connection to them, despite the ruin of it now.

Aside from my grandparents and great aunt Effie, my father’s sister also passed away. My father’s brother is still living in New York, though we very rarely have contact with him. From my father’s stories, the two were not very close early in life, as his brother stayed in Brazil for a while after my father came to America. Yet once he joined my father and his family here, the two became closer. I am not sure why they do not keep in contact, as he is the last relative that I know of in my dad’s family. The two only talk when necessary, currently the reason being if there is an issue with the Bronx house.

The last time I went to the house was when my aunt died. Coincidentally, she died six years ago in April, the same month I am writing this. My father and mother have warned me of the condition of the house. To even visit the property is not as easy as I thought – the city had my father erect a gate around the property, fitted with padlocks to keep it secure. My father has keys to enter, and therefore I have to go with him. His reaction to my asking to go there was rather negative. I wonder if it upsets him to see the house in this condition, and if going there brings back too many memories. My father is not outwardly emotional, and rarely do we talk about his family. To go back to see for myself what the place looks like is a way for me to remember my Nona, to allow memories to flood back upon seeing once-familiar things. I want to see if the yards still look anything like they used to, if the shed is still there, if flowers still grow, however unkempt.

Visiting

Six years later I find myself, though more grown up now, again in the passenger’s seat with my father driving, going to visit my Nona’s house. The twenty-minute or so drive used to seem so much longer when I was younger. The highways and bridge, once unfamiliar to me aside from being the route to the house, are commonplace, roads I drive on daily during my commute to school. It had been so long – perhaps not that many years literally, but in my mind – that I had forgotten how close the house was. Just after getting off the Throgs Neck Bridge, my dad took the exit for Lafayette Avenue. Before I knew it, he was pulling over to park and it took me a minute to get my bearings. We parked across the street from the house, and as I stepped out of the car and saw the property, memories started flooding back to me. Things that I had never appreciated suddenly were so clear, even before we entered the yard. The front yard of the house is so different from its surroundings. Between its neighbors, whose front yards reveal just the houses, my Nona’s property has a large front yard, with surprisingly lush, green grass. I was not expecting to see the garden look so full of life. The large magnolia tree, planted many years ago, is in full bloom, the light pink petals raining down and carpeting the grass and path below it.

My dad opens the padlocked chain link fence and I immediately notice how beautiful the garden is. To my left, the limbs of the magnolia hang down creating an incomplete arch of sorts over the path. To my right, a leafy oak tree completes the arch. All around the sides of the grass, flowers bloom. There is a circle of dirt formed by the remains of once whole bricks, where greenery and hyacinths are growing. Along the perimeter of the yard, red and yellow tulips grow in patches. As I take in the yard, I am reminded of when I used to pick flowers to bring inside for my Nona. Half with that in mind, half just wanting to bring a little piece of the house back home with me, I make a bouquet. I make my way up the stairs to the stone-paved patio. The house’s structure is intact, but the windows are boarded up and the white siding is mostly gone. Interestingly, the empty patches of the burned siding reveals dark red brick in good condition. I never realized how big the house actually was until I look at it now, forced to take it at face value, outside only.

My final stop on the property is the garage in the backyard, which is also padlocked. My father opens the door, and I begin to look around. As I remember from when I was younger, the rather spacious garage is home to tools, car parts, and machinery, most of which I would never be able to name. There are a row of tires perched up on a shelf on the wall, an air compressor, old stereos and phones. A few things my father points out to me, such as a car lift hook strung up on the ceiling, a large metal locker bearing his name on it that was once his from work. He tells me how he used to fix cars in here when he was younger, including racecars. I ask him why he does not take anything in here home with him, but he replies that “it’s just stuff.” He remarks, “the person who buys the house will get a garage full of tools.”

As we begin to walk back to the car, I replay that phrase in my head: “the person who buys the house…” After years of not thinking much of the house, aside from hearing my parents complain about it, the visit again instills in me the sense of sentimentality. This is my Nona’s house, a secret garden in its mostly urban Bronx neighborhood. It was my “second home” where I spent my so many days of my childhood until my teenage years. Those are my Nona’s flowers, that she spent years and years planting and tending. Unlike my father’s view of the material as “just stuff,” maybe I just get too attached to the tangible. Of course I would always have my memories if not the house, but I hate to think that one day this is going to be taken away from us.

As my dad pulls away from the house, he says that he wants to stop by the cemetery, which is just a few minutes away. We pull up to Saint Raymond’s Cemetery, and we read the sign that says “Gates Close at 4:30.” It is 4:27. Paying no mind, my dad speeds through the gates and we park near where he thinks the grave is located. We walk through rows and rows of stones and have no luck finding it. The cemetery is right on the water, the Throgs Neck Bridge clear in the distance, and the wind is intense. I carry with me a red tulip from the bouquet of flowers I took with me, in hopes of putting it on the grave that we cannot find. Disappointed, we go back to the car. However, on a whim, my dad decides to take one last look. We separate, pacing up and down different rows searching for a black stone amidst many white ones. It must have been fate because, to my surprise, I find it, just a few feet away from where we were originally looking. Buried there are my Nono, my Nona, and my great aunt. There is a small primrose bush planted, which my dad remarks must have been put there by his brother.

It has been nine years since my Nona died, nine years since I picked a bouquet of her own flowers for her to see. Before we leave, I place the bright red flower in front of the stone. Though she is no longer here I feel close to her once again, and my emotional ties to the house in the Bronx feel restored and strengthened.

–

Angelica Bihary is a recent graduate of Queens College with a Bachelors degree in English and Sociology. She enjoys writing, literary analysis, and photography, and hopes to pursue a graduate degree in Journalism or further her studies in English.

by Peycho Kanev

Proviso departure yard, Chicago. December 1942. Jack Delano. Courtesy of Shorpy.

–

Sad song

All is lost now.

The roots of the family three
suck hard
deep into the Creation.

Lifeblood into the next heart,
the veins of the offspring.

The chain is not broken.

Deep down our bones
sing.

–

Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, The Copperfield Review, Hell Gate Review, Ann Arbor Review, Midwest Literary Review, Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, Burnt Bridge, Istanbul Literary Review, 322 Review, In Posse Review, The Houston Literary Review, The 13th Warrior Review, Mascara Literary Review, The Mayo Review and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His collaborative collection “r”, containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II was published in the spring of 2009 by Please Press. Also in 2009 his short story collection “Walking Through Walls” (Ciela), and in April 2010 his poetry collection “American Notebooks” (Ciela) both were published in Bulgaria. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

by John Oliver Hodges

40th Road, Flushing, Queens, Chester Burger

–
A Pretty Cheap Shirt

I say “Hello” to women I pass, and
am on the lookout for accidents, like
today, how a woman tripped and fell
when leaving a pizza shop. “Hey, are
you OK?” I got to say.

I wanted to help, but she trotted off,
all strong and blushing. A few minutes
later, in downtown Flushing, a shirt
for sale caught my attention. I’d just
never seen anything like it before.

It was brown and across its front
were the words: I HAVE NOTHING.
The three Chinese guys sitting beside
the shirt were amused by my interest.

“I have nothing,” they said, and giggled,
and I guess they saw that the slogan
applied to me. “Two dallah,” one of
them said, and I looked away. That was
a pretty cheap shirt.
–

John Oliver Hodges is trying to learn Korean. His poetry has appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Chiron Review, Steam Ticket and other journals. His novella entitled War of the Crazies is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. Advance orders can be placed here: http://www.mainstreetrag.com/JHodges.html

a troped poem in terza rima by satnrose

Times Square, February 1943, John Vachon, Office of War Information

A Year of Laughing Dangerously

obtained by those inherit meek the earth
inhaled the laughing gas a single step
dissolved into a puddle full of mirth

the visible dropped into what was kept
my mother’s hat excessively unknown
my country tis of thee all locked in step

so knick and knack and paddy whack a bone
just give the dog the thing he needs the most
someday the kid will be out on his own

I wrestled to the ground my favorite ghost
the break of sunlight made him disappear
I went back in the house and made some toast

I thought at last for once I’d made it clear
but didn’t know the words would take a year
–

satnrose is a well-known antiquarian bookseller, and formerly a not-so-secret messenger in the innermost depths of Capitol Hill and K Street. He has been published in a number of literary magazines, but since his reincarnation as ‘satnrose’ last year, he has been published in EVERGREEN REVIEW, ICONOCLAST, DANSE MACABRE, COUNTEREXAMPLE POETICS, wtf.pwm, OYSTERS & CHOCOLATE, APPARATUS, GLOOM CUPBOARD, ESCAPE INTO LIFE, MAD SWIRL, METAZEN, THE NOVEMBER 3RD CLUB, STRAY BRANCH, THE CITRON REVIEW, THE COPPERFIELD REVIEW, THE HELL GATE REVIEW, THE BLUE JEW YORKER, MASTODON DENTIST, FULL OF CROW, ROSE & THORN JOURNAL, THE MAYNARD, NEFARIOUS BALLERINA, COUNTERPUNCH, deadpaper, theviewfromhere, MAVERICK, CALLIOPE NERVE, THE BATTERED SUITCASE, etc., etc.”