Special Feature: Photography Series by John Sevigny

“One hundred years after Lewis W. Hine started work on his Ellis Island portraits, I wanted to document Latin American immigrants, hoping to give faces to the catch-all masses lambasted by Lou Dobbs, Pat Buchanan, and others who equate immigration with crime. This collection of portraits of Central American immigrants was taken at the Belen Posada del Migrante, a shelter in the northern Mexican city of Saltillo.A subplot of this project is immigrants’ desire to travel for the sake of traveling. Many immigrants—particularly the males—who get to Saltillo do not continue their journey to the United States, but return to their home countries. Many seem to have found what they were looking for on the road, or decide to interrupt their journeys for fear of crossing the dangerous US-Mexico border.” –  John Sevigny

John Sevigny is a photographer, teacher, writer, and curator, who lives in Mexico. www.gonecity.blogspot.com


Poetry by Chris Mansel

Movements of the Coast
by Chris Mansel

seawater, the difference between circling planes
wanderings and piano rolls of bleached white ink marks
interstate opal ring-like faucet openings, neurological spiral waves
places where an ocean can corridor itself into a beach head
watched of low frequencies reciting
the contours of nearby cliffs

Opaque missions read aloud, details, photographs
refrigerant, where image spirals breaks out of cultivation
detecting a horizon, seawater in the hands
ambient cylinders open mouths the internal rim clear

icicle in a curtain

america and the disgust
by Chris Mansel

of a hundred mouths
pouring over one angel
who had been
thrown from the clouds
into a debris of garbage
and filth
the severed wings
hiding a seeping of holy water
irritating out like blood
the body torn apart immediately
the next morning
having been blanched
was devoured

Rural Raining
by Chris Mansel

Milky white stained glass reflecting the river’s current
As I pound my head on the converted stairs
Piloting an empty room that contains
The fear of sobriety
(The illicit and illegible)
Bitten fingers
Hurrying into the photograph
Enzymes, the equivalent of a
composer’s savant
Emanation of purity lost in the
sacred song reverberating
from the limestone
An evaporation,
possessing shapes

“the junkie considers the way
an animal loses himself in nothing”

harness, the mystery of the delta
ammonia and other derivatives
(Johannesburg (a length of dwindling twine)
A stretching of life easily unmoved through
the graves of soot and lime
emitting up from the graves
that washed away
fibrous literature permeating
in the mirror turning cold
the stomach, thought closed to
material, tools of the autopsy
death translated from the French
opens as a toadstool to
elaborate a flower

psychologists turning litmus
paper over and over against
his skin
discrediting his birth,
suspending medical marijuana
seeds from a bath of
stone and wheat
while the rhythms of autism
percolate in his home
the voices of Treblinka stabbing
through the raised, uneven steps
attending a psychopaths
opening of sculpture, blood and clay
anomalous water
through mobiles
in a breezeless hallway

The useless embroidery
of collapsed veins
The dark earnings
of fragile eco-skeleton
the rural raining
of a crime scene misplaced
by the southern writers
guilty of the victim.

If Electricity doesn’t Crackle by Doctori Sadisco

by Doctori Sadisco

if electricity
doesn’t crackle from your voice
shut up
begin again

if the high mountain brook
your eyes full of blue sky
the living secret beneath
the icy rock
does not fly out
of each word
like a flock of quail
in a glade then
reach into your pocket
full of magic tricks
which a ten year old
would be proud of
and pull out a dream

show me your little doll
in her carriage full
of make-believe

i would love to hear
the music you play
inside your head
when i press my ear
to your cheek

Who Comes in that Hour of Darkness by Doctori Sadisco

by Doctori Sadisco

I am a worm in the Tequila of politics.
I am a spider in the wool of the sheep.
I am the hook which drags my species toward wakefulness.

I am the love of life inside every coward.
I am the phoenix inside the boiling egg of enlightenment.
I am the courier of the ancestors in spirit.

I am the thought which precedes action.
I am the calm center of all rage.
I am the empty space inside the box.

I am the artful face of the clown.
I am the healer of all agony.
I am the knife which cuts the anchor’s chain.

I am the infant in your womb.
I am the wise man laughed at as a fool.
I am the unabashed delight of a playful child.

I am in the beginning and in the end.
I am the smile of forgiveness lost in anger’s storm.
I am the open window you had closed.

I am the leaf blown by the currents of time.
I am the time to get up and get ready.
I am the wind which settles upon the still waters.

I am vanquished fear and love.
I am the thief who steals only sadness.
I am the eagle of the light of dawn.

I am a window into your own soul.
I am the electric spark igniting freedom.
I am the unmasked presence of the future.

I am who comes in that hour of darkness and terror.
I am the feared shadow inside the living shell.
I am who comes after the silence of oblivion.

And in Legal News, Playing Talk Show by John F. Buckley

And in Legal News…
by John F. Buckley

When? Now. Here I go, hitting my stride, no
longer skidding on the loading-dock diamond
plate, irascible magic beans in my sphinctered fist.

There’s an openness to meaning, a maybe
plum, the hole of a donut, the wind whistling
through a Cheerio, when you greet me on
the sidewalk, passing by on your way to
the courthouse, eyes sliding into the next step
already, tie knotted in neckfolds, wholly
benign sky-blue dress shirt only slightly
rumpled and kissed by beignets, khaki pants
at the ready, creased, ironed, heated to
trotting speed, shoes tapping signals.

I have to go, good to see you. After the rain, chased
by the smell of besotted kittenish keenness,
the edge, the cloud where mischief, moisture,
and cutting collaborate, we run as we must.

You don’t take the pardon from my hand but rush on to judgment.

Playing Talk Show
by John F. Buckley

“Heeeere’s _______!” someone gets to holler,
maybe the boy with the big voice and pinkeye,
who sticks kernels up his nose on the bus
riding home after popcorn-sale days.
Where did his dad go?
And who drives the Corvette in his driveway?
Announce it all, loud kid!

Let me pin this raisin to your lapel, my guest,
like a dead fat fly or a wireless mike.
You can talk into it, croon,
confess all your babyhood dreams that withered
before they bore fruit. If you cry,
I will say “Aw, shoot!” and cut to commercial,
probably one for that powder
the red-stater grandmas all use for their chafing.

(Who’s doing the commercial? We need someone to do the commercial.)

The protesters outside the studio,
which means the younger unpopular siblings
who cry on the edges of the basketball court,
forbidden to set foot on the blacktop
by the quick-pinching security team,
want to watch Barney, but Barney’s at home,
and we are all here, putting on a show of sorts.

Now let’s go behind the utility shed.
Pull down your shorts and say
that you’ll marry me someday,
when this world is different.
I’ll pull down mine too,
all the way down to the ground, if you want.
We’ll be each other’s production assistants forever.


 John F. Buckley lives in Orange County, California. His work has been published in a number of places, one of which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize in 2009. His chapbook Breach Birth was published on Propaganda Press in March 2011.


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