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Other notable work by Tiffany Tavella and Joe Gdowik.

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Tom Pescatore-

I am left wondering why

A curved space
between walls,

She has eyes
spiked at the edges
inky black
and running

powdered cheeks
showing no age.

“Step into the rift,”
curling voices,
warped by walls,
say.

She does this.

vanishes.

I am left wondering
why.

_______________

By the numbers

I am ever in the nirvana of your mind
a sick puppy feeling his way home.

I discovered my sleeping bag works
just as well as a comforter.

sometimes I lay with my feet hanging from my mattress
I let out a big sigh.

I am sometimes one with the diamond night
and wake to the same song every night.

Trying to remember my dreams
I embarrass myself tripping over details.

_______________

Past year

a backlog of memory
to sift through,

an open bottle, empty,
left out in the sun,

tinted shadow
green and long
thrown over
wood surface

faded imperceptibly,
like years, now gone.

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Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com.

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Tiffany Tavella-

Dreams 12/04/2014

He unbuttons his collar
to reveal a white spotted
plum growing just above
his left breast.

Suddenly, I’m holding a scalpel.
He says, “You’ve done this before”
and it isn’t a question.

I tuck the blade into
his new skin fruit.
Neither of us wince
as clear waters pour
over his chest and
knees.

I resist the urge to taste it.

_______________

Midnight Dinner at Lindy’s

For Rachel, New York City’s manic muse

We shared glances over slices
of world famous cheesecake.
You were wearing plaid,
your hair, unruly and uncombed,
yet kissed by rain
symbolically boyish.
I was wearing tie-dye,
and you were fascinated by my meager travels
and knowledge of the Beatles.
Maybe we’ll find ourselves in Perth,
sipping wine with the joeys.
Not Strawberry Fields,
but I’ll take you down
if you’ll let me.

_______________

American Holidays

Amber waves of telecommunication
in frosted glasses unobserved—

The commercial multiverse where Bob Dylan
drives a Chrysler and shoots pool
in a bankrupt American city
talkin’ American folk, American cool,
talkin’ heavy hitting change
while thumbing singed denim pockets
talkin’ assembly line reconstruction
of a union divided
by those willing to buy their revolution
and those who’ll die loyal
only to dissent—

and the air time cost six comfortable Christmases
Detroit would never see.

_______________

Trail Angel

From twilight she appeared
with walking stick and pack
no more filthy
than the perfumed foot
she held to my nose-
they called her ‘dirty peanut.’

Tall and all collar-bone
hair the color of red dawn warning.
These woods grew no such flower
and we buzzed about her offering
pie, I sang for her
and they cracked open her beer
as she spoke of Georgia world weary,
aching legs tucked beneath her.

Warm as August,
1,100 miles
’til Maine,
she thanked us and disappeared into the night
as I was called back to city lights
to dream in the glow around her

of pussyfootin’ along Katahdin,
she’s been waiting (O Seraph!)
and I weep to cleanse her dirty feet.

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Tiffany Tavella will trade a humble turn of phrase for a cup of coffee and an open ear. Her work can be found in journals both in print and online, but she hides her chapbooks in used book stores and free libraries. She lives and writes in Philadelphia.

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Joe Gdowik-

Remember That Long, Long Train Ride Home

on the way home, the train passed a petrified forest
dry trees, stained pale-bone white

one year later
we met again –
one last touch
lips to skin –
hearts dried up.

_______________

feelin Dand-e

dandelions gone to seed
half bald –
they’ll find the cracks
keep the city green.

gardeners –
we grow weeds
in empty lots

_______________

Rose Wine

rosemary, sage
honey –
heady rose wine

lying glutted before your banquet –
i pass into a sweet
delicate death

_______________

Thunder Creek Haiku

Dozing in whited rock
slow silent Red
grows grey

Thunder Creek rumbles
like last night’s firs –
soft, swaying song

Gentle feet –
gentle hands –
gentle snake slithers home

mountain fog hides full moon
either way –
a starless night

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Joe Gdowik enjoys laying his hands down and seeing what they come up with. He shares an apartment in Philadelphia with Walt Whitman the Cat and frequently loses himself amongst his hobbies.

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