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Poetry Summer 2014    fiction    all issues


Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems

Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems

Tee Iseminger
& other poems

Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems

Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems

Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems

Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems

Daniel Stewart
& other poems

John Glowney
& other poems

Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems

Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems

Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems

David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems

Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems

Rande Mack
& other poems

J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems

Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems

Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems

James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems

Kelsey Charles
& other poems

Therese L. Broderick
& other poems

Lane Falcon
& other poems

Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems

Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems

David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems

Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems

Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems

Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems

David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems

Helen R. Peterson
& other poems

Writer's Site

David Livingstone Fore

Eternity is a very long time or a very short time

Perched between

a stone bear

& bull on

    this common winter lunchtime


me men

& women swim up

    Sutter Street

These ones will die

so their spawn had better take

Lather rinse repeat

I am joined here by six

or seven others . . . cormorants drying our wings before

setting out over

the sea stretching before

us each

A short-cropped gray-haired citizen bends over

the Sporting Green like a pathologist deducing what led to

the swoon this June that killed the Giant’s chances

Below me is a man

or the facsimile of

one lying athwart

a step whose feet long ago forgot the inside of

a pair of

but whose mad mats of

hair offer a pillow for

his head

& so on


this moment I would like to believe in

many things including how well the cold sun shines off

my white shirt

& my tightly tied shoes

& my clean-shaven face

Q: Who am I kidding?

A: ________________.

Two years back now

& I still wonder which country is overseas

Nothing is as it should be

I can hardly breathe

because of too much oxygen in

the air

or nitrogen

or something else

Nothing feels right nothing looks right nothing sounds right

It’s all been switched around

Mirrors hang backwards forcing me read my face right to


Clean sheets are sandpaper against

my skin

so I sleep


Those 2:00 am vigils stretch ’til


as I listen for

movements of

any soul enemy

or friend

But then the man looks up from

his newspaper

& swivels his head

    as do all the other guys

& so on even the drifter

    which could only mean one thing

    so I monkey the men

& my eyes fill

    w/a billowy blue skirt

& olive-skin legs

& a fury of

    red hair

A woman walking westward   t  r  a  v  e  l  l  i  n  g    s  l  o  w    m  o  t  i  o  n

though not like on


but deliberate motion instead

Fluid graceful

& strong all shoulders

& hips propelling her body                                                         forward

     even as she sustains herself in

     place in

     time in

     mind each movement telegraphing her intent to

     the earth

     so the planet may shift

& so benefit from

     the blessings of






There is also this blond @

her side a woman

w/the kind of

looks that were she to walk into

a bar alone she’d just cold-stop all talk on

the spot

but today hers is a mere rivulet of

prettiness swept away by

the flood of

beauty flowing from

the woman in


I start moving from

my position

& when I reach street level

     her eyes lock onto


 & mine to


It’s this instantaneous thing electric + mutual + raw

Then the blond says something that makes her laugh

She laughs

& laughs

 & laughs

& as she laughs she folds @

     the waist then upright like a fountain of

     water then she folds again

     as the mirthful hem of

     her skirt bounces @

     her knees

   & her breasts sway under

     the fall of

     the fabric of

     her blouse

She laughs like today is the only day

She passes on by

as I watch her backside retreat like a beacon inviting

& denying me an ember growing small

   & cold.


What a popsicle-sucking fan-waving shade-hogging hog-hauling arse-ogling tongue-parching donkey-stopping feet-perspirating cheese-racing Sata/n-sitting fig-gnawing grape-seed-sucking cigar-chomping chad-hanging milk-carton-reading iceberg-melting answer-machining little-girl-fondling nail-biting carpet-bombing Hitler-longing cuck-olding Lord’s-name-in-vane-taking totally-tripping brown-nosing pencil-nibbling knee-jerking water-wasting loose-tooth-wiggling whore-whispering autoerotic-asphyxiating chain-smoking blister-peeling chin-chinning social-networking mother-stabbing father-fearing tumor-palpating granma-fleecing gas-lighting Berlin-lifting baby-dangling water-boarding Treasury-raiding pressure-cooking turkey-plucking love-handle-grabbing cleavage-leering hem-pulling leaf-blowing pig-sticking scrotum-scalding nipple-twisting beluga-bludgeoning harp seal-strumming level-heading nasal-excavating global-weirding needle-pointing nit-picking likker-slurping tea-partying craptastic-poetry-generating slow-dancing three-times-heel-tapping dog-snatching cat-scratching snatch-dogging hardly loafing time.

The sea is always the color of your last lost love’s eyes

I spot San Diego wedged into

the lower left-hand corner like a secret

as the remaining nation fans north

& east

I am told my main problem is never remembering clichés

& the sea is always the color of

    your last lost love’s eyes

That’s why I occupy these dunes above

the beach

as the sun above bakes my back each morning

& the crown of

    my head by

    noon before

    finally blinding me @

    the blue end of


I spend the final afternoon peeling layers away to nothing

but desire for

the astringent sea

I sprint across

the beach

& dive into

    the face of

    a towering wave

 & rise to

     the surface beyond

     the breakers where an otter bobs in

     a hidden kelp forest                    the

                                                       to        crest

I join in                                   up                       then

as each new swell draws us                                   down


After an hour                                                            other

it gets cold                                                                           side

so I ride the surf into

shore bathing in

forces beyond


& control

Sand up

my nose

Water in

my mouth


& alive

The final colors dribble down

the sky

covering for

the night

that steals light from

the undone day

A promise never made

I shake off the sea

& cross the beach to

    a pier where I pass a burly black man who wears snow gear in


 & plays space music on

     his synthesizer

     w/a sign that says Jesus Is A Fisher of 


 & there’s also this Vietnamese guy casting

& casting his bait upon

    the waters

 & a pair of

     lovers loving one another against

     the wooden railing

     w/half-empty soda cans dangling from

     their still-free hands

The further out I go the fewer people I meet

until it’s just me

& the slivered silver moon hanging

like an open palm just beyond                                    my reach

Jesus had it easy he wasn’t fishing for

the moon.

David Livingstone Fore is a designer and writer living in Oakland.

Dotted Line