the INLAID EAR

One summer three kids drowned under Jotunheim Falls. They warned, “Don’t horse around. The stream might look small, but the force can shove you down.” In the spray, we always watched where the water hit. Sean, most coltish of all, would swim up and tease it. He made us be grown-ups. One steaming day, Sean went higher than our jump spot— then higher—holy shit! He fetched the Bunyan top— then leapt. The wide world stalled. Our earthbound hearts stopped. Stopped. He was lost. Mist. Then—                       pop! By Rachell Sumpter

When we joked as kids about improbable fates we chose meteor strikes. This was before the Web. Our sense of distance suited analog date stamps. We clicked our tongues each day for the hostages kept four hundred. Americans had someone to hate. This morning, maybe the jogger’s curvy rear end shook the workaday rhythm of the crossing guard, and timing failed. I jumped on the brake. Momentum spun my briefcase to the floor—but another car arrowed through, interlocking like a gear’s tooth straight into the gap between clockwork tick and murder. And today in Iran, Nigeria, Boston, and yesterday in Somalia, Syria… Meteors really did fall on Russia. Newtown… What was I saying? Let me check the Internet. It’s dizzying to fall wide open and listen and human to forget that we’re falling humans. By Allan Peterson

I dance to keep my body limber so I can be opened like a treasure box. My body moves its musts through staccato shakes and strikes, shedding my stiff stuff, old rocks of muscle to meet the practice gung ho— then all this jammed, blocked up sadness unlocks to waterfall on any loving shore. The manmade lake refuses the dam’s locks— surprised fish flop on a wetslick dancefloor. It’s all because my two friends let me know: I’m home here. Their hands make front and back doors blowing catharsis through me—sluicing storm— unpent torrent of the self-made monster roaring through canyons, erasing all forms, weeping to reconstruct from the wreckage— because my child forces me to transform, because this dancing life’s lost every norm. Ah, Carol Aust ! Extra thoughts: first, I so love that Carol makes her living making art.   Mudita: joy at another's joy. Thinking of Carol and her family, poet/photographer Ed Aust , and their amazingly talented and creative kids Noa

Carlton gave his grandson a BB gun— a real rifle. It had a caliber. “After breakfast I’ll show you how it’s done.” “Oh, boy!” Dad was blasé. Mom got angry. “I thought we had an agreement, Carlton.” “It comes with safety lessons, don’t worry,” he winked at the boy, “taught by the master.” “He’s too young.” “You’re too protective, mother.” “Ralph?” Mom turned, but dad was in another room, a vote in absentia. “Not funny!” Carlton barked at the boy who’d said “Pweee!” with the sight to his eye, aiming at Buck, the old retriever drowsing on the hearth. “You’re responsible now for protecting your family and yourself.” But his daughter, when he glanced at her, looked livid. “Go back to L.A.,” she thought. “Have a heart attack.” By Michael Fleischmann

Click for larger image The front page is front. Legend foam breaks there in wet lines. Enraged shoppers and murdered heroes. Font grains change, but every leader pulls capital weight. Lohan, Syria in alarming states and inking prestige. Round world on a plate. Internet even. Revealed and flattened. Facetted eyes see by size, gauge a threat. Ice caps. Refugees. Drunk celebrities. *** See more by Regina Gilligan: reginagilligan.com