INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano
Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
I am the table and chairs, coming up short
of slaves and slave-masters--I myself am not
good fortune or fortune at all, I carry the burden
of self-aggrandized independence and everything I want to say
has already been said. How important can I be? Liberating a peach
from its paper bag and turning it under the cool stream
of water from the tap. I am flowing through an afternoon
without hesitation. I contain multitudes, he said, quoting Whitman.
Moreover the exposition of time and matter--
the keys which are the coffee which is the reddish beard
of the undergraduate posing as a graduate
and the graduate wanting nothing more than to be under-
stood as flecks of poppy seed muffin, the peach
still wet from the sink, the table, these magnificent chairs.
We sing the song of what cannot be collected
with a snowplow in the college parking lot, where what you thought
it was, stacked and textured like a mountain of itself, simply isn't
exactly what you were after--only itself, which is
the blacktop, the white rusted van of the Fellowship Revival
snowed into a corner, and the snow, and the plow, and the boy
who fell from a bridge. His fake replacement hips made it difficult
to ski. Burbury scarves. Frames without lenses. What you see
is unobstructed. What you see is a beautiful girl with a neck tattoo.
All said, I have always looked better in reflection: stoic, steady, alone.
SEMIOTICS: EARLY AUGUST, DUSK
Ferdinand spears a red rosemary potato, brown and slightly blistered
with a fork, not the bifurcation of passageways, but the three-prong
silver variety. A notion's infinity spiriting in through the window
as he plucks and chews and swallows. Eschewing wine--he has to
think tonight, work to do--he is already lost in the signals of signs,
the signaled and the signified, the building blocks of everything
if there is to be anything at all. He daubs the corners of his mouth
with an embroidered napkin, sets the fork gently, tines down
on the bone white china, ghosts through late afternoon as a prisoner
of systems, of rational progression, of bluebirds twittering at the window
and the window's infinity spiraling within itself. He neglects the effect
of a nod, curious glance, an off-beat smile to tip the ivory pieces,
topple and skew the signal's effect, the signal thusly, consequently
the signified. Posture, in standard conversation, snaps the sepia filter
into the camera lens, of the red suggestion of light, skewing again the manner
of digestion and the now underwhelming birds have burdened a branch to sag.
A line of birds. Limits of vision. Songs of layer and convolution, desperate
attempts of a young strong man fighting tides, fathoms deep, struggling
for breath in a fury of seafoam and threads of sense--struggle and privilege--
what Ferdinand might refer to as the great and righteous meander, or the great
what-have-you, or the great partridge salt-shaker, were that not already
claimed.
He walks into the field, blue with night, and through it to the property line
where he sets soft shoes on the bank and wades into the river.
Beneath his feet, sand or mud, shards of rock and shell and bone, sediment
that is the same, interpreted through the soles of his feet, though deep
within his torture, altered, always changing--tongues of what it is and what it was
now rivers away, oceans away--what's worked between his toes, he decides,
what's packed beneath his feet, in the steady flow and gentle glow, the blue
night's
pallor and forgiveness, the touch of moon: subtle tide, sleeping bird, bowing
limb.
Jim Davis, Norfield, Illinois