April is the exquisite month of poetry, longer days, budding memories and many bunnies, at least on Crazy Rabbit Road where I live. Maybe not for everyone, but I hope you see at least one hopping by. And I am always thankful for poetry, art and music! Here’s a beauty by Kate Braverman:Spring Monologue
“I want to tell you everything.
I drank poison.
I deserted my son.
I did it for love.
I tried to drink god.
I opened my heart
and found only the knife
and the cold communion
of the mystery in passage.
O, the myriad clutter
of my mistakes.
My contrived ruin
and greed for the ineffable,
as if that equilibrium
of crystal and flower petals
were bankable,
were a flame I could eat.
And this is a spell
to control madness.
Breathe deep.
Repeat this.
I will survive.
I must.
To hear voices
is not enough.
They must be orchestrated,
taught technique.
It was not men or women
I loved but the wild pulse
of insanity.
I trusted it,
thought it permanent
like a congenital defect
or a chemical reaction
of moonlight and a certain
type of skin.
But it betrayed me,
found someone younger
who died better
and with more style.
Hang on.
I am absolutely certain.
I lived to tell you this
and only this.
Let your womanhood emerge.
Feel it beating, breathing.
It could rise from your shoulders
like feathers or straw.
Trust it. Listen.
Save yourself.
The bruised dissolves
as it should, used up,
exposed as small and obsolete,
a subspecies, inarticulate.
You shed it easily.
This is the moment
of divinity and grace
of which you have always dreamed.
This is the cradle, intact
in corridors without fraudulence
or the deliberately deformed.
Not blood words
but something else,
more a flute than a drum
but equal in power,
still able to haunt, kill
and transform.
Surrender.
Merge with this white square
of April.
Make sacred what you touch.
Not history or events
but the details.
Yellow canna beside a lawn.
Dusk light across a redwood porch.
Your integrity is defined solely
by what you can hold,
can press with your lips.
There is more immortality
in one perfect kiss
than in the stones
of pyramids.
Defend no borders
but those of sensibility.
Be one woman truly, wholly
and you will be all women.
Tend one garden
and you will birth worlds.”
Van Gogh’s Fishing in Spring
Michelle Reale is the mid-April featured fiction writer. She knocks us out with her three poetic prose pieces, “And Thus Began the Cycle,” “The Italian Divorce Lawyer Tells You to be a Good Wife and Just Go Home,” and “Sour Fruit.” These three are all a part of her upcoming collection, “The Legacy of the Sidelong Glance,” to be published by Aldrich Press in November 2014. Cannot wait! And find out what she’s working on in our interview! Deep waters!
Michael Gillan Maxwell delivers his poignant, unforgettable story, “Bowling For Jesus.” I LOVE Flora and Floyd!“We’re bowling for dollars now, Baby!” Floyd exclaims as the old van trundles over one of Ottumwa’s eleven bridges that crisscross the foul-smelling Des Moines River on their way out into the world.”
CL Bledsoe gives us two hilarious and yet sadly authentic tales, “Joe,” and “Silver Alert.” “Carol was coming to the conclusion that free pizza wasn’t the best determiner of relationship compatibility when the guy who always hit on her at Luigi’s called to say he was on his way.”
Grant Faulkner rocks some of his 100-word stories, “Purposes,” “Souvenir,” “Sacrilege,” and “Departed,” all from his upcoming collection, “Fissures.” “Particles dissipating beyond sight.”
Mike Joyce mesmerizes with his three flash pieces, “Left Cross,” “Easter Baskets,” “Something About Car Lights & Stripping.” “When I close my eyes, her light goes away but the city's remain.”
Hope you enjoy these exceptional stories and catch sight of a baby bunny blasting by somewhere out there! Happy Spring!