#Cabildo Quarterly

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Angelina Martin

voyeur

you’ve gotten into the habit of slinking out of the room when anything happens if it’s something joyous, you float to the rafters and admire the scene like a refined work of art              look at the energy here! such elated emotion              on the faces of the subjects! there is no doubt              this is a beautiful moment. I would pay top dollar to have this moment hung in my home. if it’s something awful, you rise slow like morning and crawl to the corner to join the rest of the dust where you examine the agony or shame or whatever the air is thick with at the time and your heart breaks briefly in the same way as when you drive past an accident on your way to work             those poor, poor people,             whoever they are. I hope they’re okay             but they probably aren’t. I’m thankful             that’s not happening to me right now. but my dear, you are the poor, poor people! that’s your own wicked body strewn about the wreckage though if you didn’t recognize it when it was all in one piece then you surely wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a line up now at least that makes sense: you’re trying to protect yourself and witnessing pain is easier to swallow than experiencing it but you don’t understand why you must rush off when rare peace comes around when it’s one of those long awaited hours or minutes that you claim to stay alive for just once when you get what you want you wish you could be still enough to savor it

***

Angelina Martin is a poet, comedian, and waitress who lives in Austin, Texas. She has been published in literary magazines such as Sea Foam Mag, Corvus Review, and Okay Donkey Mag as well as in the book Anthology: The Ojai Playwrights Conference Youth Workshop 2006-2016. You can usually find her on Twitter and Instagram (@angelinajmartin) or on the basketball court, trying to become the oldest woman ever drafted by the WNBA.

[gravalicious]

This body of custom attached to the concept of divine kingship is very reminiscent of Egyptian thought and practice, thus indicating the length of the historical period during which Africans have credited their kings as spiritual leaders with divine authority, and not only that, have perceived them as avatars of Divinity itself. The deification of Haile Selassie therefore presents itself as a resurgence among  expatriate Africans of this concept of divine kingship. The psychologically and socially programmed urge to re-create the social structure in which they had functioned in their homelands resurfaced continually in slave and post-slave society. African Caribbean groups always elected kings and queens: cabildos de nación (national societies) in Cuba, convois (secret societies) in Trinidad, St. Lucian La Rose and la Marguerite dance affiliations, jonkunu bands and Brukins dance groups in Jamaica, tea-parties in Tobago, St. Vincent, and Jamaica, African and bele dances in the Eastern Caribbean, even modern Trinidad carnival masquerade bands - all of them - whether temporary or permanent sodalities, or whether wholly or partially secular - were/are headed by royal figures. Chevannes (1989:18) notes the reverence accorded the Rastafari founders and acknowledged leaders. The Rastafari choice of Haile Selassie, as is well documented, was influenced by the Biblical prophecy: "And Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hands unto God", as well as by the political and psychological cataclysm precipated by the Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1935.

Maureen Warner-Lewis - African Continuities in the Rastafari Belief System (1993) [Caribbean Quarterly Vol. 39, no 3/4]

[grandgrandgalop]

Daniel Nester, Mike Faloon, & Jasmine Dreame Wagner Reading @ The Spotty Dog Books & Ale 440 Warren Street, Hudson, NY Saturday, September 29, 2018 @ 7pm About the readers: Daniel Nester is an essayist, freelance writer, poet, writing professor, erstwhile literary journal editor, reading series curator, podcaster, and Queen superfan. He is the author most recently of the memoir Shader: 99 Notes on Car Washes, Making Out in Church, Grief, and Other Unlearnable Subjects. His other books include How to Be Inappropriate, a collection of humorous nonfiction; The Incredible Sestina Anthology, which he edited; The History of My World Tonight, a book of poems; and God Save My Queen: A Tribute and God Save My Queen II: The Show Must Go On, his first two books, which are collections on his obsession with the rock band Queen. As a journalist and essayist, his writing has appeared in a variety of places, such as American Poetry Review, Salon, New York Times, Buzzfeed, The Atlantic online, and the Poetry Foundation website. His work has been anthologized in Lost and Found, The Best American Poetry, The Best Creative Nonfiction, Third Rail: The Poetry of Rock and Roll, and Now Write! Nonfiction. https://danielnester.com/

Mike Faloon is a former DJ, dishwasher, and drummer. He is the author of The Hanging Gardens of Split Rock and co-editor of Fan Interference. Faloon co-founded the Go Metric and Zisk zines and has contributed to Cabildo Quarterly, Cashiers du Cinemart, Razorcake, Submerging Writers, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn. He has toured often in the past decade, with stops at the UCB Theatre and the Baseball Hall of Fame. Faloon lives in upstate New York. Faloon's The Other Night at Quinn's is a window into a community of creators surviving beyond the mainstream in an otherwise overlooked outpost of the cultural underground that cuts across distinctions of culture, gender, race, age, and genre, a circuitous anatomy of a scene where initially opaque and elliptical experiences are transformed into the rewards of deeper understanding and humanity. Mike Watt of the Minutemen exclaims, “Whoa, these spiel batches pack much punch and got their grip way into brain-frame! Faloon had me captured and I had to keep reading.” Wayne Kramer of the MC5 adds that it’s “…a deeply personal dive into the psyche of a hardcore music fanatic…utterly indispensable. A truly great read.” http://razorcake.org/tag/the-other-night-at-quinns/ Jasmine Dreame Wagner is an American writer, artist, and musician. She is the author of On a Clear Day (Ahsahta Press), a collection of lyric essays and poems deemed “a capacious book of traveller’s observations, cultural criticism, and quarter-life-crisis notes” by Stephanie Burt at The New Yorker and “a radical cultural anthropology of the wild time we’re living in” by Iris Cushing at Hyperallergic. She is also the author of Rings (Kelsey Street Press) and six chapbooks. Wagner's work appears in American Letters and Commentary, Beloit Poetry Journal, Colorado Review, Fence, and Guernica. Wagner will read from a novel in progress about a young musician touring solo across America. http://www.songsaboutghosts.com 

[michaeltfournier]

Cabildo Quarterly #11 out now!

The fifth anniversary issue of Cabildo Quarterly is available now! It features new writing by  by Gale Acuff, Brendan Kiernan, Natalie Crick, Sean Arenas, Changming Yuan, and Rex Thomas.  Available online at .pdfsr and issuu. Dig it! 

[radioactivemoat]

Michael T. Fournier writes, "Like spam selling us penis pills regardless of gender or notifications breaking conversation, the juxtaposition makes no sense – but becomes its own kind. And that, I think, is what Drew’s getting at here: a reflection of the times, funhouse though it is, which will rise from them, from categorization and context, to creep in and grow. That’s the plan: the way we’re haunted by all this, this lack and excess, can’t escape it, even as we’re buried alive by it. It’s spooky." [Click] to continue reading via Cabildo Quarterly

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Zebulon Huset

Image by Annaliese Jakimides

Skating Curbs All Night

Curbs were never cool, but for those of us without much to skate they were damn fun.

Down the road from where I grew up there was a supermarket- slash-strip mall with painted curbs

and wide sidewalks where we skated runs for hours and hours and hours, balancing one pose long as we could

then skating quick but not hard onto the next curb glinting with a fresh coating of paraffin.

Especially far after all but the 24-hour grocery store had locked up for the night

under the warm yellow eyes of the streetlights buzzing with mosquitos. No cars in the parking lot,

no cameras filming—just the sound of urethane wheels and plastic sliding on concrete

punctuated by claps or the percussion of frames slapping concrete following a solid grind or even a close attempt.

***

Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer living in San Diego. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Meridian, The Southern Review, Fence, Atlanta Review & Texas Review among others. He publishes the writing blog Notebooking Daily, edits the journals Coastal Shelf and Sparked, and recommends literary journals at TheSubmissionWizard.com.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Izabella Santana

from Where Do The Ghosts Reside

A home away from home. A family of five turned four in 2017. Morir. A brother. I can remember the sound of his voice carrying over breakfast, a family who treated me as their own. Twin sisters. Friends who could wrap themselves around me and I wouldn’t shake. A mother who cooked me Caldo de Verduras on summer days when I stayed. A father who ignored the language barrier and drove me home making jokes I did not always understand but loved to hear. And we used to climb the roof to drink lukewarm coffee and smoke a blunt passed between lips holding secrets. What do you dream of? Stayed up late talking to the moon and stars hoping one would fall into our lap. We needed hope. Drank our mugs until empty, stared into the bottom where coffee grinds stuck wondering what this divination might mean. Laughter spilling into our hands trying to stop us from waking up the parents. This is where we dreamed. A string tied around our fingers, we promised we would never let go. Mi amor por ti es infinito. Mis hermanas. Mis salvadoras.

***

Izabella Santana (She/Her) is a 23 year-old college grad with a Bachelor's in English-Creative Writing, now working on her last semester as an MFA candidate at SFSU. She currently resides in San Francisco, but is originally from Santa Ana, California. While working on her MFA, she’s interning for Omnidawn Publishing as a Marketing Assistant and Fiction Editor.  In her spare time, she enjoys reading, perfecting her coffee-making skills, and collaborating with friends on other art projects. You can follow Izabella on Twitter @izzy_raven_poe

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Alan Cohen

Eventually, Even the Ocean May Provide Us with a History

We all live treacherously imbedded in history Though our watches tell us the time, innocent of any mystery Though our wheat feeds us, and our keys open our doors Each is devoid of context until we trap it and heave it ashore Create for it a place upon our shelves Slide it between two other glistening, stiffening fragments Changing the bloody sense of symmetry

It takes an unwilling suspension of disbelief A long pause To see a real event come to life And it only comes to life for us at flash point Instantaneously Illuminates and annihilates all that has come before So if it weren't for our cherished history, it would make each of us a suicide or bore But our histories must be flexible, must continue to grow and change Because each event is a single work of art, the best By a unique and uncompromising artist Demanding its own milieu A new bedrock As if each wave were the true voice of the entire ocean Like us, building only to destroy

***

Alan Cohen is a Poet first/Then PCMD, teacher, manager/Living a full varied life. To optimize time and influence/Deferred publication, Cohen wrote/Average 3 poems a month/For 60 years/and is Beginning now to share some of these discoveries. Married to Anita 40 years/in Eugene, OR these past 10.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Roger Johnson

To the Ambiguity of Joy

Freude schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium.

Were I a multi-conscious thing and able To set my personalities to divers tasks, I would set one to weeping for the ills of this old world And separate another to celebrate and Contemplate the wonder and the joy that I have known. But I am not so talented or split, just one soul, And I, as alle Menschen, Must bring that joy and sorrow to one ineffable point.

As if of its own volition, my hand Reaches out to pull the refrigerator door. The inside light comes on, surely at its own volition, And I am filled with joy. I do not need to change the bulb and the Emmenthaler is fresh. But there is a synagogue attack at the Festival of Lights, And people are dead and hurt. Not of their own doing. The chocolate buds melt over My molars and seek the places on my tongue To work their magic. I am child-like happy. But refugee children from Guatemala have no chocolate. The roof shields me from rain and snow. My clothes are clean. Whirlpool be praised. Bolognese fills my belly. Brunello warms my heart and Evokes the best of memories. Love was there. Petro-chemicals now seep unchecked Into sacred lands and water, here and there Elysium. The brotherhood of oil, a gift less joyful now, an ambiguity, Providing magic luminosity inside that Kenmore. My pension check arrives on soft wings. The rent is fine. A modest scotch is not beyond my reach, Shipped here by diesels driving ugly freighter ships. The grocery roasted chicken is not bad. I chose it when my time is short. I trust that chicken. There is no stopping or trying to stop The perversion of elections never Perfect but better than what has happened and will again. That trust is gone, its absence now a modish separation. Millions could be embraced, But a sycophantic chorus separates and lies. My one-time joy of service descends to ambiguity. Was it for this I risked my life? U-S-A, U-S-A. A grandchild sends her carefully considered Sketch with me imagined beside a blue house with tilting chimney-- Sweet and satisfying. Cliched birds and a quarter of the yellow sun, Her take on Heaven’s gorgeous plan. A few more children and worshippers go down, Victims to our well-regulated militia. Ho hum. Beethoven’s Ninth resounds from public radio. A lump chokes me and brings on recollection of Vienna. Brackish tears of precious memories. I am happy with the salty residue. My grandson takes up martial arts. And children dwell in cages, at my doing, Because I seem impotent to change even My own mal-nominated democratic construction. U-S-A, U-S-A. Two Arab students greet me. “as-salaam ‘alaykum.” From the back of my brain I manage to respond, “wa ‘alaykum salaam,” knowing that there could be An issue of the plural I did not recollect. Go, brothers, on your way. The exchange brings joy and, yes, a joyful wish for peace, But with irony too hard to transcend the Ambiguity this old world imposes on that joy.

***

Roger Johnson studied mathematics, German, and comparative literature. The recipient of two Fulbright awards (Germany and Egypt), he has lectured also at Huaqiao University, Quanzhou, China. He co-edited and co-translated Elsa Respighi's memoir, Cinquant’anni di vita nella musica and translated Max Meyer’s novel, Jenseits dieser Zeit, published as The Other Side of Now (2016). Recently he authored The History of Ward (2019). His most recent essay, “Everything Changed in Egypt,” appeared in Gaudium Sciendi (2019). Since retirement from higher education, he has taught part-time at Penn State Altoona and Mount Aloysius College, and he has served as consultant at other universities.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Holly Day

Practical Tips for Newcomers to Winter

I don’t know how anyone survives winter in Minnesota without having at least one birdfeeder in the yard. I can always tell what sort of day it’s going to be by how many birds are clustered at the feeder outside my kitchen window, or by the tone and volume of their songs as I open the door for the dog to run out to her yard. It’s only on the really cold days that birds don’t congregate at the feeder, instead choosing to stay quiet and silent in tight groups in the snow-covered lilacs, as if they, too, have shut themselves off for the day.

Flowers in Shades

on a beach of blue and white ink, upright stalks unleash against a wall, sprout down-turned flowers on thin stems faces like tiny men. my garden makes me think of

suntanned boys resting after a hard surf, girls parading in swimsuits ancient monks experimenting with eugenics, octopi unfurling great purple tentacles in shallows flashing bits of oiled, fluttering flesh with each passing breeze.

***

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Steven M. Smith

Addiction Song

In the afterlife . . .

he’ll quit playing the crack pipe.

He’ll visit the pawn shop before he succumbs and repay the loan on his grandfather’s alto saxophone.  In the afterlife he’ll become a street musician cool as a corkscrew in a black pork pie fedora with dove feather trim, white V-neck T-shirt, red evening jacket, cuffed faded blue jeans, and black canvas slip-ons massaging his sockless feet. He’ll spend the rest of forever playing for forgiveness on a floating sidewalk stage at the euphoric intersection of 9th Cloud and 7th Heaven.

And he’ll quit playing the crack pipe . . .

in the afterlife.

***

Steven M. Smith’s poems have appeared in publications such as Rattle, Poem, Old Red Kimono, Plainsongs, Poetrybay, Ibbetson Street Press, Studio One, The River, and Mudfish. Smith resides in North Syracuse, New York.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Kevin Canfield

How to Know When You’ve Arrived at the End

They’ve flattened Small mountains Dammed the tributaries Pushed pianos off Ledges and cliffs Curled, torn pages Of sheet music Blow around On the breeze They grind the notes Into barren soil Under thick boot soles


Walk to the horizon And then keep going

***

Kevin Canfield is a writer in New York City. His work has appeared in the New York Times, Bookforum and other publications.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Michael Chang

godliness in 30 minutes or less (do not congratulate)

no shade but — if you have a buffalo in your logo — you probably don’t get my poetry — i like how when british boys sing — their accents disappear — i buy his favorite body wash so his smell can linger — it’s kiehl’s grapefruit bath and shower liquid — then i realize it is missing something coconutty — of course — the coconut oil in kiehl’s amino acid shampoo — so i buy that too — as one-third of an elite crimefighting team — backed by an anonymous billionaire — you would think i had better shit to do — women with baby carriages are usually spies — when you’re a hammer every problem looks like a nail — i think about his oral fixation — so good make his gum pop — i cook him swordfish for dinner — it looks kinda sinewy and all i can think about is his body — i have started to do that thing where — i scribble down great lines before they evaporate — this means i am a genius — what do you think taylor swift is doing right now? — don’t be afraid of my sadness — i accept the rosé and watermelon — served by the light-skin — polite like the 2020 olympics — beginner’s guide to japan — we hang out a lil — before he goes to work — i have my lil espresso (4 shots) — he is principal deputy assistant secretary of state — he advocates for things like — pink-collar job security —and nuclear nonproliferation— i picture short skirts and feather boas —glowing— as rupaul says — the rest is drag — he says things like — there is no solution because there is no problem — there is no problem because there is no solution — i remind him — omit needless words — self-care is a human right — like wifi —free refills—substitutions at restaurants— borderless nations — he tells me — top gun is homoerotic — i say — they sell rotisserie chicken in bags now — but what i really want to know is — am i a ghost with a predilection for pottery — also — when he talks about timber in my eye — is that an invitation

***

MICHAEL CHANG hopes to win the New Jersey Blueberry Princess pageant one day.  Michael strongly suspects that they were born in the wrong decade.  A recovering vegan, their favorite ice cream flavor was almost renamed due to scandal.

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: Jack C. Buck

Make Great Again

I’ve decided camping out here along the Green River that the president is not the president / instead it ought to be the collective moms of America / one giant hivemind of mothers watching over us / and that these mountains of red, black, yellow, and orange are us faithful sons and daughters / and all obvious things that make mountains so great is what makes us great / like seeing 15,000 stars in the night sky great / the small miracles of life great / not even going to try to figure it out it the head might explode from it great / all windows open I don’t want a roof great / in spaces where words are not needed great / I am alive and 400,000 acres of desert are surrounding me great / as good a time as any to pack up everything and move out here for good great / you’re halfway there great / your successful personal revolution great / getting answers to some of the questions you’ve always wanted to know great / going over a wall which you went over and are now on the other side great

***

Jack C. Buck is a writer and teacher from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is the author of three books: Deer Michigan (Truth Serum Press), Gathering View (Punch Drunk Press), will you let it send you out (Ghost City Press).

[cabildoquarterly]

Cabildo Quarterly #13 available now!

Cabildo Quarterly. Issue #13. Summer 2019. With new poetry, fiction and essays from Margarita Serafimova, Luke Kuzmish, Ama Birch, Ben Stein, Katherine Sinback, Bruce McRae and Jude Vachon. Available here. All right!

[cabildoquarterly]

New Poetry: James Croal Jackson

Local Bar’s Annual Water Balloon Battle

Yes I am drinking Oktoberfest beer is my raft But listen Local Bar celebrated birthday number four And held a water balloon war at Goodale Park My army heaved water balloons at the other’s soft music It ended sharply in a siren call of silence Because we ran out of inflatables Red blue green yellow scattered in the grass Parsing through the blades during cleanup Someone mentioned we’re grazing While picking up the latex shards I thought the animals we unintentionally kill! Deer need stomach surgery after eating sugary fragments And penguins in the arctic beg us Please unplug your computers you’ll run out of poetry Deep recess of eventual yearning We freeze in the act of self-entertainment Becoming self-immolators For the love of a lover or for love of ourselves We find ourselves stricken by wants we cannot control And they will come to control us

***

James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Pacifica, Reservoir, and Rattle. He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.com). Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. (jimjakk.com)