Breadcrumb #443

ALICE RIDDELL

We are off,
Ta ra, ta ra
And cheerio,
Good riddance and tickateedoo.

But I feel no cheer
As we turn our backs
On the bakers dozen double
To become Isles of isolation

As we march away in proud defiance
We cause an electric blackout
From mass kettles frantically boiling
To pour tea,
Into self-inflicted wounds.

It’s even changed my tongue
Brexicon has come!
Invading minds and countries
The Empire lives on!

They said it could be hard or soft,
Red, white, blue,
A cherry picked cake to have and to eat   
There is so much texture and colour to how I feel
Granite grievances and alizarin anxieties.

All those gold stars
Dancing circles on a blue square
But we are without partners
In a waltz that has no union

England recedes into itself
As the Tudor rose wilts
I think about my broken country,
As I burn my fingers on blackened crumpets.

I look down and feel my toes slip
A whole country crumbles down some white cliffs
And into a channel that feels like an ocean.

• • •

Breadcrumb #442

DAVID KLASOVSKY

I didn't wanna live anymore but also didn't care much about the fuss and muss of putting an end to it all, like explaining my purchase of rat poison to the clerk in the Ace, nor could i bring myself to contemplate rolling around in pain for an hour or more until my heart gave out. You know. Taking the elevator to the roof, weathering the storm of distant past memories welling up inside you up there on the parapet. Sorting through regrets while your legs spasm and refuse to jump. Many's the romantic that assumes it's easy to just fling yourself off a parapet  or to pull the trigger on a gun pointed at your own head. it aint. If there was just a switch you could throw and be done, i'd have done it. But no. I just lingered on and on glumly, and totally disinterested in life. What a drag. Seeing Dr. Caldwiller's ad in the back of an old Aegis magazine i found (on a park bench outside the Tenement Museum on Broome St) gave me the least little glimmer of hope. I happened to be on my way to the post office, so i said what the heck, and sent in a money order for the requested $15.99. I had forgot all about it 10 business days later when the package arrived, tastefully wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address. Could have been a bomb for all i knew, but given the basically null state of my emotional life at that point the possibility frankly caused me no hesitation whatsoever. I ripped it open. Everybody likes a surprise packet don't they? Well curiousity killed the cat, as the saying goes. Though in this case that's imminently debatable. i liked that the instructions appeared to be handwritten, even though i knew it was just a handwriting font like you can get made of your handwriting for a few bucks on the internet. It lent a homey personal touch. And the graphic of the GREEN FIRE on the box itself once i'd uncovered it was inticing and kinda sexy. Plus i had all the materials on hand, wooden stick matches, a pinch of salt, some hairs of a cat, and by great good fortune i also had the requisite page ripped from the Bible handy. How likely is that? i don't put much store in co-incidences but sometimes there is just no other explanation. In no time at all the silent GREEN FIRE was ablaze in my humble bed/dining room area and surprise surprise it really was cool to the touch just like the ad says. So i walked right into it, with nary a backwards glance. And now here we are the two of us, not best friends by any means but neither of us depressed or suicidal (hallelujah). One thing they do not tell you about is the smell, which is god-awful and clings to everything. We will probably have to get new furniture which is okay cuz all we had was just basically trash taken in off the street and all, but for someone with nice furniture you should be aware of this, and maybe do it outside or cover your stuff with plastic.

• • •

Breadcrumb #441

JACK M. FREEDMAN

Will I be inscribed
My name bound within His list
Signature intricate with the loops of my initials

A few minutes ago
My feet were planted firm
Yet my spirit fell on its knees
As I read the Kaddish
Within a crimson log of transliterated prayers

As I still stand here
I think of all the people I've lost
And the people I wish not to lose

Those who wrote of interglactic conspiracies
Those who lived the rest of their years imbibing wine
Those who went missing and were never found

Subsequently,
I think of those I served
People granted freedom
Losing their lives
Losing their dignity
Losing their ability to keep their heads on straight

And then I think of the preventable fatalities
Ones who held nooses
Ones who boozed to death
Ones who constantly find cameo appearances in poems
As I mimic the stitchings of Mme. Defarge

Somber I remain
Wanting to scream for the mercy of God
Desiring the abdication of the throne
Where my rage bears the crown

I want to strip my sins and my ego
Lubricating my skin with support
Only to let it flake away
As air gets dryer
As cheeks get wetter
As vision gets more blurry
While letters do the dyslexic do-si-do

I need solace
I need a lifetime of solace
I need an economy-sized jar of solace
This year
And hopefully every year
I remain
Inscribed

• • •

Breadcrumb #440

MATTHEW D. ROWE

I am a slap bag of tears.
A couple of birds tear apart
a beef stick.
My eyes well up
with the pungent August air.

My grandfather sits up.
Partly pumps his own lungs again.
I crumble in pure joy.
The pummeling cosmos
a little less an anvil.

The infant takes his first steps
in the park,
smile-kisses the dewy grass.
No spoken language yet formed
for his parents’ explosion.

A familiar smile leaps
across the street.
Impeccably timed talk
of tethers and floating.
Whether or not the two collide.

I am a magenta-chested mess,
in the barber shop.

The magic camera is accurate.
A rhythmic buzzing.
A cluster of assurance.

• • •

Breadcrumb #439

MILTON ERLICH

My Uncle Bebe galloped out of Berlad between bullets and flames,
chased by dogs and Cossack whips.

In blood-swollen eyes he flew over the moon of the rugged Carpathian Mountains.
Gypsy music played In soulless mountains, he once called home.

He survived on stolen apples, raw sturgeon and cold mamaliga.
Unselfishness no longer existed.

When a Chamois mountain antelope spooked his horse,
he was flung to the ground and lay in perfect stillness.

Only his eyes moved.

A loser in the game of fate, he couldn’t win with a low score.

• • •