Skip to main content

Brooke Nicole Plummer

The Cold Is On Its Way; I'm Sorry I've Missed Your Calls

I was under a bridge, feeling nostalgic, but the stars reminded me
that the lowest form of conversation is, “remember when”.
Leaves were applauding themselves in the fog.
An indomitably vermilion showcase of the fleeting.
If your revelations are only second best, the heavens will call you out.
I thought it was a busy night, but everyone seemed to have gone away,
everyone except the barley harvester from Milwaukee,
whose mouth had not gone dry. We spoke of what had been done too well;
the absence of disorder in what we say, in what we think,
proves a shallow grave to leave behind. A damn mute of character.
He told me that his blue shed was covered with withering grapevines,
then mouth-missled Grizzly into the gravel. I noticed that his
saliva was webbed with blood, but I didn’t point it out.
It was a sign of shadow-teeth, grazing around an indeterminate health.
As fickley spread as we are on these frosted grounds, we are not dull.
But he knows he is not needed. I know I am not needed.

Brooke Nicole Plummer worked at a haunted house and got to use a prop that was from the Saw movies. Personally, those movies aren’t to her liking, albeit a fun stunt was utilized while performing with loosely injected, blood-seeping IV’s. However, she implores you to watch “Victor Victoria”, starring Julie Andrews, if you haven’t seen it. Or, watch it again, if you have. Her first chapbook, “Flyover, Compiled Nothings”, was self-published in November of 2018. Her second chapbook, “Shaggy Frog”, was released through Alien Buddha Press in January of 2021.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Amy Holman

My mother made herself the deer with a broken leg  We saw a deer through the pane into someone else’s yard. The leg moved like a tube sock pinned to the hip  and half filled with sticks. I did not like to see it suffer, either. She was upset —my mother —that no one helped  the doe. Was it a mother, too? As if we were the first to observe the scene. We weren’t. All had been told to let her be. My mother had suffered a destruction  of the self, a divorce, and no one cared. That wasn’t true.  We were grown, on our own. I agree it was hard. Yet  in those moments of a cold November day, we watched  a doe, disabled and enduring, walk across a yard and eat  a hedge. I wish she could have seen it like that. Amy Holman is the author of the collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait for Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been in or accepted by Blueline,

Beneath the Chickenshit Mormon Sun by Bruce Embree

I've posted this before, on a depressing day probably just like this one. This poem makes me feel better. That's all I have to say on that. It turned out worse than I thought The champion defended his title then Eldridge Cleaver came on to talk about his reasons for becoming a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints Grandma and I damn near fell out of our chairs Went to town and got crazy drunk Came back home, called you long-distance after cruising and drooling Mainstreet again This is my last wish and love poem It is as follows Want to hold the wake at noon with plenty of acid and rum No friends and relatives Ghost music by Hendrix and the Byrds drowning all sound as you fuck me to dust beneath the chickenshit Mormon sun. Links:  http://www.limberlostpress.com/authors/161embree1.html

Maureen O'Leary

Grief (for J’uan) Maybe we turn into clouds of reefer Particulates coating the lungs of the people thinking about us First and secondhand smoke Clinging to the frizzing gray locs of the women mourning us Or maybe we are in the splashes of Hennessey Swirling in the bottoms of Styrofoam cups A bad burn in the throats of our brothers Something to remember us by On the way back up. Maybe we are still here. In the way the candles keep going out In the way they call out to God. If they only looked up they could see our eyes Shining through the branches and glittering through the haze Below the stars. Maureen O'Leary lives in Sacramento, California. Her work appears in Coffin Bell Journal, Bandit Fiction, The Horror Zine, Ariadne Magazine, and Sycamore Review. She is a graduate of Ashland MFA.