Poetry by Bob Bradley
  Music 'Strange Attractors' by Ben Tyree
  Art by Svetlana Bakushina

'GOLL'  2006 Svetlana Bakushina



Remember it well.
If not, what will be left

Cons the wormwood bucket
From the wishing well.

Breaks the shotgun open,
Both barrels spined to

Take the one shot that hits
Or misses everything

You ever dreamed you loved.
Torch song. Slow dance.

Remember it well. And forget
The rest when the ceiling and

The roof open before your disbelieving
Eyes, and in the grainy look of

Insomnia-flavored paranoia,
You see the stars, the thorny millions

Of stars tick-tacking their burning
Business that has nothing to do

With you or whatever infinity
Loneliness breeds now

Inside the ruins of your heart.

This Side of Why

This side survives all death,
All hope. This side breaks

The dream doors open. Inside
Sonic boom, chthonic wonder.

This side cracks the frost
Forgotten. Outside broil.

Spinal bracken. This side turns
The games around: give back

Shopping carts, kicked in tvs,
Screens shattered, bastard coffins.

This side breathes. Gut-shot,
Fever-teeth. This side

Finds the dawn and buries
Time. White wave, this side,

Blue inferno. Deep within
This side, the wild seeds click.

'999_1' © 2006 Svetlana Bakushina


'The Wall' © 2006 Svetlana Bakushina


Outside the world was chattering
And I could hear it all.

What a colloquoy of wit and indiscretion.
I thought of ping pong balls breaking

Full length mirrors, rhapsode
Of the quivering descant, gut-busted

Trouble-making husbands late for work.
Hung over with stinkbreath and feral

Ooze. Showing up but late. Almost
But never quite. I got the same in me

And don’t like it. Better be a friend
To it. The same in me. Not sure how.

But maybe someday, the sad inevitable
Won’t impoverish so. The way

Of all flesh turning out to be our friend.
Our only hope in time of need. Our blanket

For the misbegotten of each who never
Quite understood the reason

Why the days go on and on,
Pregnant with the mystery

That kept us o so very happy and chatty
With the play of it all, squeezing every

Moment of its fruitful joy
Before the bad news came home from work.