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Poetry Fall 2013    fiction    all issues


Chris Joyner
Wrestlemania III
& other poems

Carey Russell
Visiting Hours
& other poems

Marc Pietrzykowski
Cabinet of Wonders
& other poems

Jonathan Travelstead
Prayer of the K-12
& other poems

Jennifer Lowers Warren
Our Daughter's Skin
& other poems

Jeff Burt
The Mapmaker's Legend
& other poems

Patricia Percival
Giving in to What If
& other poems

Toni Hanner
& other poems

Christopher Dulaney
& other poems

Suzanne Burns
Window Shopping
& other poems

Katherine Smith
Mountain Lion
& other poems

Peter Kent
Surliness in the Green Mountains
& other poems

William Doreski
Gathering Sea Lavender
& other poems

Huso Liszt
Fresco, The Forlorn Virgin...
& other poems

Clifford Hill
How natural you are
& other poems

R. G. Evans
& other poems

David Kann
Dead Reckoning
& other poems

Ricky Ray
The Music of As Is
& other poems

Tori Jane Quante
Creatio ex Materia
& other poems

G. L. Morrison
Baba Yaga
& other poems

Joe Freeman
In a Wood
& other poems

George Longenecker
Bear Lake
& other poems

Benjamin Dombroski
South of Paris
& other poems

Ryan Kerr
& other poems

Josh Flaccavento
Glen Canyon Dam
& other poems
& other poems

Christine Stroud
& other poems

Abraham Moore
Inadvertent Landscape
& other poems

Chris Haug
Cow with Parasol
& other poems

Mariah Blankenship
Fiberglass Madonna
& other poems

Emily Hyland
The Hit
& other poems

Sam Pittman
Growth Memory
& other poems

Alex Linden
The Blues of In-Between
& other poems

Bobby Lynn Taylor
& other poems

D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems

Alia Neaton
Cosmogony I
& other poems

Elisa Albo
Each Day More
& other poems

Noah B. Salamon
& other poems

Writer's Site

Bobby Lynn Taylor


The component of the total aerodynamic force acting on an airfoil or on an entire aircraft or winged missile perpendicular to the relative wind and normally exerted in an upward direction, opposing the pull of gravity: lift. (

When the air above moves faster than the air below: lift.

I’m shaping my wings, now that spring is here, I don’t fear the cold as much: lift.

And when those voices say that I am trapped in some yesterday, when they crowd in on me while dancing in their Easter clothes: lift.

Drive me down into the ground? No. I’ve grown there before; I’ve torn out my roots running from that hammer on my head. The faces, the tiny me in retreat, No, that will not work: lift.

Whether it be Jesus or Buddha or Ginsberg or Hank Williams or Van Gogh; or coffee or masturbation or calculations or predestination: lift.

With big metal forks that move under two ton palates wanting them placed somewhere else; the hydraulics working, the battery sending out its power to the point of transference: lift.

And these anti-humans, with their bloat and their blame, blasting past the gospels in their chariots of gold leaf—trying to impress the crowd—they notice if you’re loud: lift.

Lift me out

    by my own power

        in these last hours

            of bondage to, through, and true—

                Lift me, Sift me, Riff me like a jazz break on a Saturday night

                with nothin’ left to lose

                nothin’ but the blues

    and a whole lot of chains around my neck and back and ears and nose and mouth





twenty-five gallons of vanilla ice-cream

                40,000 freckles

                six ounces of orange hair

                I stood out

so clean, so white, so perfect

                straight A’s in math and science

                but not p.e., or english, or history

                don’t ask me to remember correctly

                or to live in my body

                                and you won’t be disappointed

                the things I remember clearly

                are private


the deacons’s daughter

                maybe thirteen

                I wanted in a wholesome way


the deacon’s son

                told me how

                he had sex with his sister

                when they were alone

                I believed him

                                I did not think of it

                as incest

                or rape


I wanted her more

                when I learned that

                she was dirty

                like me

I did not have to pretend to be righteous


                I wanted to see her holy naked sin

                that’s all I could think about

                for years

                                I was ashamed

                I had been



she chose my best friend

                sat by him

                during church

                I still wanted her

when I was pumping

                the girl

                who gave me



                                she wasn’t bad

                she just wasn’t



I fed the lust


                liquor, lies, dope, and smoke

                sunday morning spirit

saturday night binges

                with guitar



                olympic drinking

                                I pressed my brain

                into a vice

                of throbbing


a light, at long lost love last

                sin into zen

                I graduated my body

                through the bedrooms

                I needed

to qualify me

                if I ever

                found myself


                with the deacon’s daughter again

                                she sent me a friend request

                last night

                lit up in cyber



Jammer-slammed and welded

              into the air

              fire sand invisible to the human eye

Watch the velmen hide

              and sleep ’til the storm passes

I cared too much

I tried to give you my arm

              for a pillow

              for a shelter

We both were lost

              breathing in the red

              exhaling our ghosts into the sidewalk

it doesn’t mean

it shouldn’t mean

it has to mean

This is the end of our

              carbon date

The particles are infusing now

              adhering to the helix

              changing our DNA

                            blisters of gold are rising up on the inside of our veins

This is the curse of the high country

              when the air is tripped

              on a wire

              -set for measuring fools

Fools who are only ignorant

of the symnobolic rattle of synotics

rebute the robaakan

rhindal the wrecautious

We have regumed our lungs with Red

It is Opening

Out in the streets


                          into vacant cracks of midnight

                                       dust and garbage

                                                    piled up in a scab

                                       gray scaly skin

                                                    breaking apart

                                       the ground up

                                                    the living veins

                                       sleeping beast wakes

                                                    we thought dead

It is opening

             all those who know the power

                          are praising the day


                                       putting off

                                       letting go

             the corporate kings go without

                          for         a          while

                                    Let                      them             wait

It will be a while

             before they realize we are missing              anyway

                          the managers will notice

                          try and make everyone stop rushing

                                                                                    to the portal


                          when that fails

                                       they fear for their jobs

                                                    run to tell their bosses


             sleeping off

                          last night’s feast of fools

They get rich when it is closed

             but it is opening

It is opening

             a vagina stretching out

                          making ready to deliver

                                       bread                     meat                  wine

                                                    to people


                                       on         corporate cans

                                                    of potted meat

                                                    left over from butcher parties

Bobby Taylor is an MFA candidate in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied poetics at Naropa University. An award-winning and Grammy-nominated songwriter, he has had songs recorded by Don Williams, Montgomery/Gentry, Billy Ray Cyrus, and many other Nashville recording artists. As an actor he has performed on many stages throughout the country including The Lamb’s Theater in NYC, the Ryman Auditorium, the Grand Ole Opry, and his hometown theater: The Cumberland County Playhouse in Crossville, Tennessee.

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