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The Hunter-Fiction by Sebnem Sanders
Back in the Day-Fiction by A. F. Knott
Red Velvet, White Lies-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Headhunters-Fiction by Gary Lovisi
Holiday Season-Fiction by Don Stoll
Milky Way Galaxy. Solar System. Earth.-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Angel-Fiction by Gary Clifton
Backpage Baby-Fiction by Robb White
Elegant on the Outside-Fiction by Bruce Costello
A Life Examined-Fiction by Doug Hawley
Run, Baby, Run-Fiction by J. Brooke
The Pursuit of Presley Penguin-Fiction by Michael D. Davis
Neighbors-Fiction by M. A. De Neve
Strange Attractors-Fiction by Jeff Houlahan
The Ghost of Christmas Never-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Best Enemies Forever-Flash Fiction by Walter Giersbach
Glitter in the Dark-Flash Fiction by Dini Armstrong
Spirit Intoxicating Babe in the Woods-Flash Fiction by Monique Saier
My Only Christmas Story-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Ode to Old Brooklyn-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
Bacardi Taillights Machine Gun Farewell-Poem by John Short
Pearl Diver-Poem by Wayne F. Burke
Abandoned Sofas-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Kafka Museum-Poem by Henry Bladon
Elegy for Frank-Poem by David Spicer
Schmoozy-Woozy-Poem by David Spicer
Dangerous-Poem by Marc Carver
Eternal-Poem by Marc Carver
The Race has Just Begun-Poem by J.J.Campbell
The Endless Nightmare-Poem by J. J. Campbell
The Last Word-Poem by Meg Baird
Vision of Steel-Poem by Meg Baird
Zen-Poem by Meg Baird
Estrangement-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
First World Herd-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
Christmas Morning in an East Hollywood Hovel-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
A Season of Bailing Wire and Duct Tape-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
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Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

77_ym_elegyforfrank_amr.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2019

ELEGY FOR FRANK

 

by David Spicer

 

                             F.R., 1951-2008

 

I’m not surprised the way you split.                                         

Your friends’ souls now weigh less.

 

You’re the latest in the pantheon of gone lunatics, Frank.                   

You gave too much.

You didn’t care.

 

A month after we met, you brought loot from alleged illegal activities:

          a crocodile belt, a 24-karat gold flask, a bootlegged Tarantula,           

          a new sport coat in cellophane wrap.                              

That was the beginning.

Over the years you sent 400 albums, 50 movies,

a box of art books you wanted returned,

and your book of poems,

Dinner with Dr. Rocksteady.              

 

Your abandon louder than your laugh,

          you recalled the wild woman who warned

your girlfriend to keep her attack dog on a leash.

 

Who were you, Frank?

My craziest brother?

Keith Richards’ cousin, Neal Cassady’s idol?

No. The Master of More.

 

You revealed few secrets and machinated

your mysterious male ego.                                              

You told me you were a runaway,

          your father’s shotgun more than a myth.

 

A week after your brother broke your leg

 you swore you’d kill him,

          kick his ass into next week’s rainbow.

I knew then you’d fuck a pumpkin on a dare

or scale the Mississippi Bridge on a foggy dawn.

 

You’d rail against the White House thugs,

          threaten to move to an island, a city,

          a country with no name if those bastards won again.

You didn’t.

 

I couldn’t get rid of you, Frank.

You wore out my patience like blue jeans:

             when holes appeared, you’d patch them                                    

              with your brand of needle and thread.

I guess I’m glad you did.

 

One car wreck too many, Frank.

Why not the seat belt, compadre?                                  

I know:

You’re not telling, you mad fucker.                      

 

I want to deny your corpse—

          the proof of life,

          hurled through the windshield,

forever asleep beside the midnight cedar.

 

Where did you hide the catharsis?

You took it with you, I’m sure.

Things are unfinished between you and me.

 

I’m waiting for you to reappear, Frank.                          

Another phone call.

Your lug nut laugh.

A broken Cuban in your big maw.

 

You won’t, though.                                    

But keep laughing, my craziest brother.

I’m on my way and can hear you.

 

 

 

David Spicer has poems in Tipton Poetry Journal, Santa Clara Review, Reed Magazine, The Literary Nest, Synaeresis, Yellow Mama, Hamilton Stone Review, Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks; his latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press).

Ann Marie Rhiel is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama Webzine. She was born and raised in Bronx, New York, presently living in New Jersey. She reconnected with her passion for art in 2016 and has had her work exhibited in art galleries around northern New Jersey ever since. She is a commissioned painting artist, who also enjoys photography. Her work has also appeared in Black Petals and Megazine Official.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2019