The Dream of the Dishwasher

The scraps of food that he scrapes off the plates
are weapons of biological warfare
that only he can dispose of properly
The perfectly rounded plates and saucers are perfect models
for flying saucers in the science fiction novel he’s writing
The steam when he opens the dish machine
is reminiscent of the planet Venus
After eight hours a day of doing this
he is happy to return to the reality
of his imagination.

– michael ceraolo

Remembering

dreams get lost in waking
sometimes it becomes unclear
which is which
I remember meeting but I wonder
if we have

a vision
of melting ice
reminds me of
thick glass swirled smoothly over
caramel covered liquid sugar
the scalloped edges of
discarded bottle tops
hidden in the sand
among dead fish and petoskey stones

I drag my toes in circles
and start to dig a moat
I build my castle without buckets
sand sticks to my thighs

your face is familiar but
it seems like there is something
I am not remembering
I never knew

now I need the bucket
to fill the moat
fresh gray water
splashes my calves
Michigan sun between two clouds

I thought time might bring it more in focus
I still have a bottle cap
but somewhere the fossilized stones were left
behind
with other treasures I collected

Your name is lost underneath last nights late night shows
and the waters of lake Superior
I forget more-the more I remember
I remember more-the more I forget

Kimberley Diamond Bones

These are from Issue 1 of the City, August 2002.
http://www.thecitypoetry.com

Pray Bones – Smith

FIRE & SHADOW

i have a buddha candle holder
he is sitting in the lotus position
the tea light goes in a slot
in front of his folded wing-like legs
when it’s lit it looks like
his crotch is on fire
& he casts the shadow
of his profile on the wall
he teaches me w/o scriptures
that though from the fiery loins
we may arrive
we are still merely shades cast
on the walls of the world

Rob Plath

BUDDHISTIC CRACK

There are eyes left to
Peal out walls old scuffs
But meaning sumthing in
The following (more) open
Hrs of dusk dawn morning twilight night
The eyes are in most rooms
The types who steal away
Rent
& All rooms the kind to
Stay inside buy.

Bree

IN THE WAY

a door handle might squeak when it has its moment to turn
or in the way the first quick release of kool-aid powder joins an afternoon kitchen.

or how the earth envelops every pet any child has ever buried and
your eyelids protect your eyes without requesting recognition or

pull your vision into an unquestioned prayer of arrival. like this –
the way your mouth opens like a curtain to the lights of an unexpected visitor and

closes like a barn door in the coldest month of winter while
your cows call to their calves and your hay awaits a season – you believe.

you believe. the way love can be a box or a paint can or
a counter and an evening breeze embraces a shutter or a chimney. you believe.

you believe without promises. without lacquer. and i believe.
i believe in the way of glaciers and ice cubes. the way i once had an agenda

then left it in a public restroom – loose pages on the floor scattered in the way
of humanoids and glyphs. i believe.

i believe in the way your evening rustles the paint chips of my side door
into the giggling lap of our fortune. in the way

one body might recycle the solitude of another. or how
greenery might wilt if left inside in the summer and my windows

are closed and my pot uncared for – roots exposed. maybe i believe
in the way of light bulbs or tablecloths. maybe

i believe in the way of dish soap or cardinals. maybe
i don’t know. but i believe in the way you believe -

how our feet are common verses sung in rounds and around any fire
sparked from the breath of nothing into warmth

or forgiveness. there’s something in all of this believing.
this belief. that stands at the height of the fierce eyes of godzilla or

the raised fist of a statue lost in reference. that stands
in the way of exchanges and fractions

rates and decimal points. that offers a talk over tea as redemption. in the way
each mile between kalamazoo and chicago has been named by an audience of

grasshoppers and squirrels (or has named them). or how love too
lives in the hands of each child who has held a wrench at eye-level

to examine its connection with monkeys. how love too
resides in a mechanic’s toolbox in the shape of a photograph

marked by age and gasket rings. how love too
is found in the hands of every carpenter or waitress every cashier or

academic who believes in the way you do – without folding. without mirrors.
in the way of moss on the north side of bark or an invincible army of laughter.

courtney campbell

Full issue available online at http://www.thecitypoetry.com/issue23/index.htm