#cavmag

[cavitymagazine]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬

Because it was made in the USA my shirt weeps with pride. Maybe the last of its species. It would like to find another shirt with which to mate and produce more shirts, but that’s impractical. No one in this country knows how to birth shirts. Because it has been weeping it’s wet, so I take it off and wring it. It whimpers but accepts the rebuke. Anyway, supper is simpering on the stove, and I’m too busy to attend to my shirt. Supper applies to all present, whether their shirts were made in the USA or in some up and coming nation. Let’s eat. I look around at my guests, who represent every corner of the world. They attack my pork chops with vigor, even the self-proclaimed vegans, who’ve primed themselves with my best Argentinian wine. The mashed potatoes loft like thunderheads. The green beans look dainty as elfin flutes and will surely be as musical. Everyone’s eating with gusto and verve. All are cheerfully dressed in bold summer colors, but none of their shirts look American. They probably came from Thailand, Cambodia, China, Vietnam: the newest shirteries of the world. I’d like to return to that slice of the globe and visit Bangkok and Singapore. I’d like to wear my American shirt to the great shirt-shops and watch the sewers sew. One must reap what one sews, of course, but those workers are struggling to survive in deadly conditions, their families cringing with hunger. My shirt would like to improve the pay and working environment for all the shirt-makers of the world; but one shirt, possibly the last American-made, can’t solve all the planet’s problems. Supper is almost done. Perhaps over dessert and brandy my friends will advise me and my shirt how to proceed.

[Bio: William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music and Train to Providence.  williamdoreski.blogspot.com]

[cavitymagazine]

09.06.2020

I feel the corners of my mouth rise,

but watch as my mirrored image lays flat.

Signing in to see the familiar 2-D smiles on screen. A cellophane like wall removes us.

Days have passed.

I’ve witnessed the tree in the garden blossom into something that’s good enough to eat.

Yet I am stuck,

awaiting the day I can reach out and squeeze you so tightly

time begins again.

[Author Bio]

Lucy Thompson works and lives in London and enjoys painting and writing poetry in her spare time. You can find her on Instagram @lucyjanethompson_art

[cavitymagazine]

𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎

Crouching near stream Hand reaches into water Fingers find pebble take Pebble smooth and gleams Sunlight clouds blue sky Birds sing Wind shifts tall blades of grass Stand. Pebble small in hand Quivers sprouts tendrils begins to swell Glitch crack splits vision Scattering rainbow particulate deterioration Head jerks back Transmitter pricks dull ache in attachment holes Tear stream over red flaky skin Unblinking eyes bloodshot Screen bright Eyes close sunken skin puddles Hand wipes away scum And a bit of crust from mouth Metallic taste on tongue Takes good long nicot puff Lemon pomegranate blueberry cloud Ass crack burns with shit rash Stinks Lumpy busted couch Room no windows No light but white dead screen Eyes bloodshot Tear rolls down eczema face Transmitters twist along head Dull ache tightens glitch crack patches Stitches and rainbow bleeds whole Sunlight blue sky clouds and wind Shifts tall grasses Birds sing Dragonflies hover A mosquito lands–pierces— Suckles naked skin

//

[David Sprehe is the author of the poem ‘Here’. Peripherals: Expat, Rune Bear, Pyre, Nauseated Drive, Grody Mag, Beatnik Cowboy, HorrorSleazeTrash, Terror House Magazine. Wishes to promote: L by Theresa Smith, With Light & Dust by Xi Nan and Fish Lu, HEADCODE by Kenji Siratori].

[cavitymagazine]

𝐛𝐮𝐤𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬

bukowski spoke of the gods

inner crescent outlines metastasize according to the grandeur of the reverberating gods' 

empty angelic clarity

with the soft haze of 

outpouring bones they

smother landscapes with high flammable dreams and 

interwoven wave apparatus

deep dark fusion tones

spiral unconscious 

as every conjuncture of chance acts as a conduit 

for the force of circumstance

[Poem by Jonathan Hine. Hine's work has recently appeared in Expat Press, Nauseated Drive, Trashworld and Sludge Lit. He has forthcoming poetry in Down in the Dirt. Find him on twitter @ChatterBluebird]