Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 46, March 2021

PARACHUTE

by William Ogden Haynes

The Undead

With a tip of the hat to Sam Kinison.
I think about Frankenstein, the mummy, zombies, ghosts,
vampires, Nosferatu, poltergeists and revenants. All of them
died, but somehow became undead. They haunt our dreams
and waking hours because they challenge the natural order of
things. Death and taxes, they say, are permanent and inevitable.
So it is our instinct to fear something that was once dead, if it
becomes reanimated in this world. One notable exception is
Jesus Christ. Jesus is the only one I know of who came back
from the dead and didn’t scare the living hell out of everyone.
Of course, he made most of his post-crucifixion appearances
to his disciples and people who knew him. And those people
were glad to see him and not afraid. But I wonder how the
Roman soldiers would have felt had they met him strolling down
the road to Emmaus several days after nailing him to the cross.
I can certainly imagine their screams as they beat a fast path
back to the city, swords and armor clattering in hasty retreat.

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When I Taught Metaphors to My Son

We talked about similies and metaphors almost every night. Even at seven
years old, his appetite for figurative language was insatiable. We started
out with a blanket of snow, a lake like a mirror, the world as a stage and

crawling toddlers as rug rats. From there, things got more complex. When
we read books together, he or I would always point out the similes and metaphors.
In some ways, I had created an anomaly, the only boy his age on the block

who appreciated figurative language, while the other children still read books
literally, watched cartoons and played with their Super Soaker squirt guns.
One day, my son and his friend Andrew, had built an army tank out of some

empty moving boxes. Had they thought about it, the whole enterprise was an
exercise in figurative language. There were rectangular armored walls made
of cardboard with trash can lids tied on the sides for wheels. Sitting on top was

a gun turret with a broom handle sticking through for the barrel. They sat inside
and surveyed the neighborhood for enemies through narrow window openings.
When they rotated the turret and fired the gun they hit an old bass drum inside

the tank as if it was the report from an artillery piece. When the imaginary enemy
encroached near the tank, you could hear the rat-tat-tat of the onboard machine guns
from the mouths of the children. But, they were so focused on the war that they didn’t

notice the dark clouds moving in fast from the west, and as the heavy rain soaked
the cardboard, the turret began to bend and fold. The side walls buckled and the
broomstick fell out of its hole. Andrew tried to hold the tank together in the midst

of the deluge and asked my son for help in saving it. And it was then that my son
replied “It would be like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” Andrew, who
had not studied metaphors, just looked puzzled, as the tank collapsed around them.

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Parachute

When the U.S. Army created five Airborne divisions for World War II, the U.S. Army stopped
training paratroopers on how to pack their own chutes and started support organizations
for parachute packing and rigging. The first riggers received their training at Fort Benning,
Georgia. Wikipedia

My father told me a story of his time in the Army Air Forces, during the beginning
of World War II. Part of his training, involved attending a parachute jumping school
in the states, before being sent overseas. During class on the first day, all the men

listened to lectures about rigging, canopies, shroud lines and harnesses. They watched
demonstrations from the school staff. In the final hour of class, each student was given
a nylon parachute, that he had to fold and pack, according to written directions. Later

that evening, they had dinner and drinks at the officers club, and most got to bed by
ten o’clock. As the last few stragglers came in, they brought with them the rumor, that
the next morning, the men would make their first jump, using the parachute they had

packed in class. When everyone was in his bunk, there was a period of silence as they
lay in the dark barracks. Then, one by one, each man silently got dressed and snuck
out to the hangar, where they had stowed their chutes from class in lockers. My father

was one of the last to get up and walk to the hangar. When he got there, the hangar
deck was littered with men unpacking the parachutes they had previously folded in
class, and using the class handouts, carefully repacking their chutes for the next morning.

My father was a very self-confident man. He believed he had packed his chute correctly
in class, and was about to return to the barracks for a good nights sleep, when even he,
abruptly changed course toward the locker room. Suddenly, the parachute rigger

instructors appeared from a side door, doubling over with laughter, at a prank they
pulled on every class. It was a time when the generals said, all parachutes would
be packed by certified riggers, so no soldier would ever have to prepare his own

chute again. My father never appreciated the joke at the time, and developed
a dislike for parachute riggers. But, six months later, he was riding in a B-17 over
Europe taking reconnaissance photos, when two of the four engines were hit by

anti-aircraft fire. He did two things that day. He promised the navigator that he
would quit smoking if the plane ever made it back to the base. And then, patting
his parachute, he said he would never utter another unkind word about riggers.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Herbicide

I’ve never liked working in the yard, especially in hot, humid Alabama. I don’t even like
to be outside grilling a steak, and I certainly wouldn’t eat a meal at our patio table in the summer
heat. I like air conditioned spaces, free of insects and sweat. On the other hand, my wife loved

working outside with plants. She created a beautiful yard from scratch, covered in pine straw,
with bushes and plants she carefully selected. Don’t get me wrong, I always did my share in
taking care of the swimming pool, home repair, helping my wife by digging holes and hauling

rocks with the wheelbarrow. I even put in an irrigation system, digging trenches and gluing
PVC pipe throughout the property. But, once the yard was finished, she took care of all the
maintenance. She used to kneel reverently on a foam pad, pulling each weed, putting

it in a lawn bag for a final trip to the street. That was something I could never imagine doing,
unless I died, went to hell, and that was my assignment from Satan himself. Ever since my
wife passed on, I’ve neglected the weeds, and they’ve taken over the beautiful yard she

created from an unused field. I know, it’s my fault the yard has gone to seed, and now I’m
paying the price. So lately, I walk reluctantly into the yard, dressed with long sleeves in the
summer, old jeans, and sweat socks pulled up over my pant legs to prevent bug bites, ready to

commit serial herbicide. I spray myself with the acrid scent of Deep Woods Off, as if I was a
guerilla fighter in the jungles of South America. Awaiting me are all kinds of weeds, fleas, ticks,
gnats, chiggers, snakes, thorns, and poison ivy. I hate all of these things and what it takes to get

rid of them. My clothes are soaked after ten minutes of work and my glasses steam up with
sweat. So, I decided to rely on technology to make the job less daunting. I have a heavy duty
mower on wheels that takes down anything green, including some plantings I should keep. With

that mower there is no measuring twice and cutting once. I just carve a swath through the weeds
producing a cloud of dust, fleas and ticks, not wanting to stop and determine the genus and
species of everything in my path. I have an attachment for my electric drill, a long metal rod

with a claw on the end. I stick it into the weeds and it rapidly winds the vines into a tight bundle
I have to remove with a box cutter. I love to watch the vines winding around the claw, slipping
toward me through the foliage, like when a kid slurps a long strand of spaghetti. Now, I know

there are people who don’t believe in spraying herbicides, and to them I say, “Save the
environment on your own time! I’m ready to do whatever it takes.” I found a spray called
Crossbow, allegedly used in making Agent Orange during the Vietnam Era. I mix it in a sprayer

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Revista Literária Adelaide
on wheels, with a battery powered pump, to rain death from the sky on every weed.
Unfortunately, I inadvertently strafed three hostas, and some ferns that fell victim to friendly
fire. The only thing I have against Crossbow is that I can’t see the weeds die immediately.
I have to wait for several days to see them gradually wilt and turn brown. I want to be like
Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison Blues, experiencing the instant joy of shooting a man in Reno, just
to watch him die. Last week, I bought a flame thrower, with a cart to carry a twenty pound
propane tank, a ten foot hose and a long-handled flamer. I like to think of myself as a character
in a Tarantino movie killing Nazis. The power is intoxicating. The flame thrower immediately
withers any weed, and kills it to the root. I relish the instant shriveling of these green interlopers,
destroying their leaves, interrupting their photosynthesis. Unfortunately, I lit my yard on fire
several times, once in an area with no hose nearby. So I had to dance around on the burning
pine straw stamping out the fire, which unfortunately consumed two azalea bushes and a
hydrangea. Sometimes, as I kick the ashes from my Nikes, or sit sweating on a garden bench,
regretting the death of a legitimate plant, I sense my wife is watching and laughing at me. And
that doesn’t bother me, I know I’m doing the best I can, and I always did enjoy her laughter.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Sonnet for a Divorcé

At the end, he was an angel too far
from heaven, bones frail as a hummingbird,
weakened as the glow of a single star
receding through the darkness
of space, blurred,
growing ever dimmer as miles are crossed.
He greets his death as a farmer welcomes
sunset, his work is done, and he has lost
the will to continue. When the end comes,
he doubts if there really is a heaven
above, but if it’s true, there is the chance
it will frown on wives numbering seven,
and Saint Peter may look at him askance
and slam the gate, his lifetime disparaged.
Can hell be worse than seven marriages?

About the Author

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short
fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has
published seven collections of poetry (Points of Interest,
Uncommon Pursuits, Remnants, Stories in Stained Glass,
Carvings, Going South and Contemplations) and one book
of short stories (Youthful Indiscretions) all available on
Amazon.com. Approximately 200 of his poems and short
stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is
frequently anthologized. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.
com

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EVOLUTION 2.0

by Pablo Vascan

W Evolution 2.0

weher The serpents between temples
od forge ahead through iron plummets.
weocme The nerves, as mambas, coalesce,
f r o m, w h e r e d o branching death and life:
t h e y grow, the paradigm of consciousness.
the vines of reason, hieroglyphics, Tinged with oil, the earthly fever,
the artifacts of tongues? sick of plastic masochism,
when does wax threatens to destroy us,
of scarlet crayons melt away? who know little of death,
unstable bridge of islands – and, fretful, flee,
neighbors now to foes. encephalize the cortex —
honey saccharine pressure cracks the stone to hatch
and sour distortion a hooded cobra
without goal whose winged eyes and precise dance
may hypnotize, Awash replenish —
respawn birthed from a vortex.

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Past the Rolling April Road Adelaide Literary Magazine
Darknesia

Past the rolling April road, I stayed inside, where there was less light,
the ring-like river twines around the glade. and the doctor said I was suffering
To source its flowing: both clouds from Darknesia, which made me forget
blue and bulbous overhead hurling, hurt, what photons felt and looked like,
then absorbing all again. even as rays graced the pastures outside,
I’ve seen the rain befall in more scorched lands – even as cattle grazed on, teaching of life.
the sunshine state’s dry season
pouring deluge on the nous: gold wheat paths – Symptoms dilated
my visions sprouting from inertia’s lens. wells of gravity
The last of winters lingers angry without end. begging to become their coiling color,
the shrouding shine,
and always failing.

Perhaps, I realized, if man could near
the profundity without crashing
they would abstain their guzzling.

As the aperture widened,
they saw so much,
and all came to naught,
for between bodies was nothing but none,
and inside and outside my
body was barely but one.

Distorting the stars’ vernacular
expanding the space
between (and within) words
between us, between worlds.

In the darkest, the pitfall,
the crippling
night always comes.

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Tommaso’s Last Walk Revista Literária Adelaide

The rosefinches, three, to rest over zhe,
awoke me, their beaks. who howled to the sky
I blinked once for each: of nursing from men:
wild ruby-stones perched. precursors and cursers of them.
The tac against glass “Help it!” they sang.
wrung cobalt inside: But I, made of stone
my third, precious eye – like kingdoms, perforce,
two others shut locked. and murals around,
“They’re dying!” one voiced I, still, fallen, stood,
of hir, lain outside, and fell back to sleep –
who, bare, seemed my twin oppressive the hours,
with breasts of rose quartz. when light, like a rive!
Sweet syrup, salt, sweat, hardened its curves.
welled-berries in lids, The David so put.
her cherry-bombed lips, Tommaso’s last walk
and raisin dukes dry.
The noisome rind rot on wet cobble streets.
called vultures and flies. The firmament Light
Wings: velvet-torn rags here strikes only once –
crusading the clouds, his paragon dreams.

About the Author

Pablo Vascan is a 20-year-old student at the University
of Central Florida. Born in Houston TX, he was raised in
Guatemala, and moved to Florida four years ago where he
now lives. He studies film, but does not confine himself
to one creative area; he is an artist who exerts his talents
where ideas lead him, showcasing them when he thinks
they are ripe enough to.

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SPIRALS OF SOUND

by Lisa Molina

Spirals of Sound I say gratefully–and guilty.
She’s now makes music out of her grief.
I Holy Alchemy.
If One of us must die
I hope it is I. III
When I thought my son with leukemia My son, locked in a chamber two hours a day.
was dead, I screamed at God, A chamber of oxygen with a tv he can play.
“Take me instead!” Thirty days of this;
The wish still stands inside my head. Just so his jaw joint won’t break,
The signs and clues around abound. When the oral surgeon decides
Reunions, forgivings, his wisdom teeth to take.
Spirals of Sound. A chamber of memories also
Auspicious occurrings trapped in his mind:
Feel flashed and hot. The IV machines pumping
The soul, it knows constantly with might;
It is taught, “Chuka-chuka-whoosh!”
(It is taut.) “Chuka-chuka-whoosh!”
A life-giving mechanical heart.
II Until a kink in the artery tube cries,
Reflecting that Leukemia “Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!”
has horribly harmed so many is key; Startling, awakening us in the night.
Like my choir teacher’s son at 23, (the age Tubes, needles, blood, mouth sores, radiation,
of my son presently) she stoically tells me, chemo, vomit, pain. Fear, fight to survive.
over French onion soup, quiche, and tea. Then, the Aftermath..
Asking me Diseases of bones, hormones, heart.-
about my son, The poison that saved him will forever
“But you can see him? And hear leave its mark..And Bittersweet
him? And talk to him?” memories of a loyal dog’s “Bark!”
‘Yes.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Yes.’ I pray, in his mind, body, soul, and heart

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A spark. Can it be?
Please, I beg And the doctor wonders aloud, “Where are
A searing, strong, survival spark. your agonizing cries?” How do I tell her
I now feel free?

IV VI
The graveyard. Jackson, Sexton, Plath, and Woolf -
The church. Witches, all, of Darkness and Light.
My Swedish immigrant ancestors Whispering always to me in the night:
Whose photos grace the church’s entrance wall. “Live.”
My son with me. “Live.”
Our family tree looking straight at me. “Give”.
How much taller will it grow to be? “Give.”
Reaching for the light it yearns see?

V VII
I slide. I slip. I fall. I yelp. Patiently, passionately, purely,
“Swish!” “Bang!” “Crunch!” “Help!” Have I loved and been loved.
My bones are crushed. So. Therefore.
My daughter sobs. I, too, will refuse to leave.
My mind is hushed. I, in fact,
No blood is gushed. will Breathe....
Watching;
I’m stricken by pain, the ice, the shock; Waiting;
The shock of Never;
The love. Abating.
The need Now my heart
For me, from she. Solemnly, soulfully, singing the
For me, from he. rhythmic song of life-
For “Chuka-chuka-whoosh!”
Me? “Chuka-chuka-whoosh!”

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Prognosis Percentage Adelaide Literary Magazine
Septic Shock

The boy, age 13 Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed,
battling leukemia 3 times since he was 3, your trembling hand in mine.
asks the transplant doctor, Your pounding heart is quickening.
Blood pressure dropping.
“What are my chances of surviving, Dr. Lee?”
Septic shock.
Dr. Lee locks eyes with boy, intentionally, Again.
and says,
“40%.” I gently stroke your 13 years-old cheek,
that nestled in my breast
Furiously, insistently, before becoming sick.
boy pounds fist on table. Body weak.
“I’ll take nothing less than 50!”
Negotiating for his life, desperately. The chemo that destroyed the cancer
in your blood,
There is a whiff of silence. Has also, petulantly, poisoned any protection
Air is hot. Of bacteria flood.
The agonizing wait.
Blood pressure still dropping.
Doctor Lee’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, More people entering.
offering out his hand, the boy’s to grasp. Nurse clogs tapping.

“You’ve got it!” he says. Units of blood hung from a second pole.
Swaying, dripping, feeding.
The deal is done.
The bidding won. The doctor arrives,
All parties agree. orders the staff,
Heartily. “Speed the infusions to…”
(What? I don’t hear.)
And that boy, although I sense the urgency.
fighter of unrelenting hope,
is given 10 percent more, Not quite able to look at me,
so that he may cope. she in the white coat says softly,

And he, “This is the critical point.”
in time,
survived, Tensions rife;
the odds. Twists the knife:
I know this doctor-speak;
Prognosis percentage? It’s Death or Life.
It’s just a number to hear.

For no quantification can suffice,
The value of my boy’s saved life.

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Blood pressure 60 over 30. my mouth opens slightly
Heart racing bpm over 150. and feel my lips smile,
send my breath quietly.
I am struck silent
gazing on your lips Blood pressure beginning to arise.
And now-lashless closed eyes. 70 over 40
No audible cries. BPM slowing to 140…

Suffering incessantly since you were 3. Watching your chest rising, falling-
Now bald and moon-faced again, Flashbacks.
Your spirit clings to me. Tiptoeing in your room
as the sun would begin rising,
We’re silently breathing in tandem to see your belly breath-
On the slippery life-ledge. Waves undulating;
Reaching the shore.
IV pumps whirring fast and louder-
Wet.
Jackhammers jumping. Warm.
Accelerate and Scream. Saltwater.
Runaway train descending, Drops.
Dark tunnel, terrifying dream.
Are you really mine?
“Chuka Chuka
CHUka CHUKA Desperately watching the monitors, I see,
CHUKA! CHUKAA!!” blood pressure now 80 over 50.
BPM 130.
Then
a calm. Waiting for the next numbers
to flash on the screen…
I’m seeing coal black hair 90 over 60
blow wildly in the wind, BPM 120.
Not bare-headed in a cold, dark tomb.
Hair, full and thick Thank you,
As when you emerged from my womb. thank you
numbers of rebirth!
Spirits exhaling their baby breaths grace, I begin again to feel
Whispering to me - The solid, living Earth.
“Memorize his pale, placid face.
And be thankful he can’t hear Turning to the doctor and nurses;
the raging pumps’ pace.” Signs of belief?
In them, I see
My vision still upon you, visible relief.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

The IV pumps slowing, See these demon gargoyles protecting
gradually. Vincent’s Cathedral Visions.
Am I mad?
Shoulders and jaws How do they not comprehend
begin to let down; This secret language
I gaze back on you He speaks to me?
thinking, strangely, Or is it
“You need a new gown.” I also yearn to
Escape the rooms, walls,
Because you will, indeed, Relentless voices,
survive again this time. That cry out to me
Breath waves rolling onto the shore In shrieking silence
Causing painful pounding beats,
as the sun begins to rise. Wailing winds of
And shine. Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling
Shine. Spinning, spinning, spinning
Out of control
Garden of the Asylum Whirling dervishes dancing
Inside my head?
After swirling in the starry night
I stand gazing at the garden His final primal scream.
Created of paint
And madness. I can only stand silently
Finally permitted to exit the walls Steadying my feet
Of the room in which he was On the museum floor
Forcefully kept, Seeing what I alone can see
Shut in with his own Hearing the garden monsters’
Mind, thoughts, nightmares, Death hums echoing.
He is offered paints, a brush, a canvas, And close my eyes,
A voice. My mind searching for the
Room of Walls
My mind’s eye begins to focus in In which to safely be.
On faces forming The humming gradually
In the plants, trees, paths. Quiets, quiets, quiets
Faces contorted in agony And I hear my husband’s voice,
Begging to be released. “Let’s head to the gift shop.”
I comment with astonishment.
Yet- Yes.
No one else around me can Goodbye to Vincent’s
Menacing garden faces.
Their hauntingly horrid humming
Calls to me still.

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Lioness

The lioness leaps through the pen. Organs, bone, tissue, heart,
No longer caged. And skin-
No longer habitually fed by strangers. The hide-
That covers everything.
She hungers more each day,
hour, minute, second An open, bloody wound
To mine the depths of her own electric, Healed only by
pulsating, constant spinning den of Ink stains
Ecstacies, burials, secrets, ghosts, Stitching the letters
Sins, births, deaths. Into single, salient, subservient,
strong sentences.
The pen scratches,claws, digs, The pangs of hunger
and growls. She so desperately endured
Then Roars. Finally-

Satiated.
Only then, can the lioness
Tear and rip through the

About the Author

Lisa Molina holds a BFA from the University of Texas at
Austin. She has taught high school Theatre Arts and English
in the Austin area, and was awarded the Lake Travis ISD
Education Foundation Teacher of the Year in 1992. She later
served as Associate Publisher of Austin Family Magazine.
Her life has been forever impacted by her son’s 3 battles
with leukemia as a child. Since 2000, Lisa has worked with
students with special needs. Her poetry can be seen in
Trouvaille Review, Indolent Books, Sad Girls Club Literary
Magazine, and Eris & Eros Review.

263

SOLACE

by Mark Burke

Solace Vows

Two appear out of the early morning fog When the days wore thin,
coming up from the beach under the pier, I came to accept I would live alone,
a night spent curled against the cold. made peace with winter’s dark Sundays.
Gone down into the forest of wharf-pylons, It was a station where
they laid on the sand with their blanket, I’d gotten off the train of moonlight prowls
guessed the reach of the tides. and would stay,
In the land of hide so many places are taken. work the trails in the mornings,
Up early, walking to shed the dreams, accept this as my abbey.
I go down to the ocean,
my head flooded with But a new moon called
what I should’ve have done. and staring across a dance-hall of strangers,
They climb up onto the boardwalk you were sitting along the wall of chairs.
past the fruit-stand, the arcades I joked if I was in time,
as the rising sun cleaves would you dance with me
the world into light and shade. and we began the ballet of eyes,
I lean in the calliope’s shadow, words that led through the night
watch them stop along the pier railing, and all the way to these mornings.
choose a place and begin to sing
the way I wish I could fly, My old people would’ve liked you,
their fifth above harmony how your girl’s soul sweetens the days;
lacing the air like wood-smoke, your voice that charges the air like a song.
slowing the spin of the world. The camellias are blooming,
A swath of sunlight creeps up the wall, each red orb casts
peels off the shroud the night leaves a halo of petals on the ground
and I breathe their voices, and I see the chances that remain,
a moody vagrant lifted above my beggar’s heart tied to yours
the gray hallways of my journey, for whatever the fates may bring.
the losses and separations.
How did they know?

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Reunion Revista Literária Adelaide
Shoulda

We all begin tied to another heart, We could only cross with permission,
beats braiding for months what the priests called the barricade of leaves,
as the new one flutters and blooms the row of wind-shook poplars
in the hollows of the slower pulse. that separated ours from the girls’ school.
Three seasons and a tremor comes, Rules said we could only touch hands
the cord swirls with the small body once a month at school dances.
until the rumor spreads. If I could go just once more,
Each readies for the passage know then what the journey would teach
through the gate of ischial spines, how pointless the pain is.
the parting that begins the search Like penguins on hidden wheels,
for a semblance of the first union. the nuns patrolled the gym dance-floor,
You scan the days for a match, wiggled yard-sticks between our bodies,
comb the dance-halls, whispered ‘make room for the Holy Ghost’.
eyes that flicker along the subway seats, But that spirit long ago
count as one of the lucky drifted away from me.
if the old syncopation laces the air I remember how the girls
between you and another. stunned me like the sun,
Some search like Magellan, the way their thighs bloomed,
go out for milk school uniforms hiked-up on the bus home
and are gone for eleven years. how their eyes caught me staring,
Some cannot be apart for more than a day, teased as if they knew
aching for the four in the two-four beat. what I said at confession.
For some the lacing comes undone, It took years to burn the stick of shame
the harmony morphs the priests swung to beat
in the alchemy of time. the demon out of us.
But always the first scar I shouldn’t have been scared,
aches to be soothed. should’ve begun the lessons then,
In the end, when the torn music plays, played with our breath-clouds
one pastes a cobbled vision at the frozen bus-stop
onto the inevitable oblivion when she asked
and all the water goes back to the sea. in the warm song of her voice,
learned then to open the cage of stars.

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Small Histories

Along the way you find someone A cloud of skin smoke
who hears the voice inside your head, draped that island of touch,
who sees your eyes in the dark that short time bundled
and all the forest there. in whispered ribbons.
She’d wait until night, I hold that handful of autumn days,
when the sky would open and hope they are in your history book,
and we’d slide down hushed streets the times we walked the beach at Kits,
to a howling ocean of voices, your charging soldier’s stride,
a kissing sky. your shocking lips.
I can still hear the creaking nights In these thinning times,
on that single frame bed, I look to rub my cheeks
the rain splashing the window in all your soft places
to the steady rhythm of breaths. and dull the ache of the old tyrannies.

About the Author

Mark Burke’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in the
North American Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Sugar House
Review, Nimrod International Journal and others. His work
has recently been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Please
see: markanthonyburkesongsandpoems.com

266

SYNTHETIC PLANES
OF HOPE

by Jennifer Silvey

Simultaneous Perception Synthetic Planes of Hope

Pixels in 24 bit Auto-tuned reality speaking
I stand by the ocean shore, through the intercom,
and I went screaming in black and white suggesting a lullaby, a trance, a
while glitches danced on my skin. vacation on a tropical island.
JPEG animations flooding out my knees
the fluttering of those chats It’s my best friend with plastic carved cheeks.
those 1997 Internet aesthetics Synthetic food unready to digest:
linger on some dead webpage. we copy and paste until we undo,
we click and we click,
Pixies in 24 hours but we never feel reassurance
like savage horses racing in the wind. from all these clickity-clacks.
They fly in multi color illusions,
while the goosebumps on my skin bundle We’ve become a catastrophe
and my knees catch the ocean shore: of reanimated zombies
the fairy fluttering of Dead Sea Scrolls. in perfect, clandestine Photoshop.

Mom with the gardening tools in hand –
she has a beautiful white teeth smile
maybe she’ll be in an ad for
constipation or adult diapers,
the dad with the barreled chest
and his perfected golf swing – probably
something about retirement.
Oh, and a boy with his feet in the mud

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with lovely sunbeams in his hair We Live inside Satan’s Body
definitely going to be used for a vaccine ad.
A girl with neon purple hair Broken body, we live inside
laser beams shoot out her eyes – faux devonshire cream:
she summons an undead army. we live inside the sin we adorn
Lazarus greets her in the stock photo. with tiaras and lattes,
He stirs from the tomb the beast our universe creeping
as the girl slurps on its belly, expanding
down spaghetti in another picture with cheetah momentum till
while holding hands with the Kraken. it bursts into confetti.
The little necromancer girl on Shutterstock.
Her followers all chant on Twitter: It’s an anti gravity dream.
Long live, Medusa, Medusa, Medusa! The flow of this sluice will snag, for we drift
in the body of faux supreme.
About the Author
We embellish what we cannot redeem;
Jennifer Silvey lives in the St. Louis area with the parasitic body floating in space
two cats, a dog, and her husband. She has it’s a giant helium bubble
a master’s degree in creative writing and coming at a price tag
a bachelor’s degree in mass media: digital that the walls cannot afford
film production. Her poetry book Midnight for the Prince of Darkness’s body
Galleries is getting published through LCk breaks down in light.
Publishing.
This congested, clogged, and
convoluted rune of shaving cream
rapidly dissolves in one time lag’s swipe –
adamantly regarding itself as
God, this dying particle beam
malfunctioning from wave to wave.

We drift in the universe’s slipshod regime.
And in its choking, finite esophagus snag
these planes fold into each
other, the ante meridiem,
and its sister, the post meridiem dissolve
into a graviton.

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MENACING
HEAVEN

by Mark J. Mitchell

Menacing Heaven A Blind Focus Puller

The sky has swallowed time’s poison. The sky The blind focus puller
is pressing on empty, mis-colored streets hears every distance:
In this city, one—just one—baby cries
When the sky swallows her An actor’s perfect, still stance,
time. Poisoned skies the tap of a toe.
weigh heavy, silent—in flames, but light dies
and breath can’t escape. Lost souls retreat Each cough in a script
while their sky swallows time. Poisoned skies read to him, is plotted.
press down malice on cold, discolored streets.
He could see once, and each
slant of light he’s seen

stays firm as a follow spot
when someone shouts “Rolling!”.

He moves perfectly—a thief
of space and sound. Never fooled

until they shot that biopic
about a ventriloquist.

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Parable of the Raft Adelaide Literary Magazine
A Fable of the Silk Road

Standing in tall grass, He manned a crossroad where
surrounded by a salt marsh small sorrows passed
I saw what might rushing joys. He danced his dangerous dance,
have been an island.
crushing them. Endangered
It glowed, like the moon on grass, pilgrims might chance
but the channel stayed rough tossing coins under his swift feet. The last
as coarse earth and tides
pulled in all directions. coins were lost under dust. His feet entranced
some sillier gods, who waved flashing swords.
With a dull knife, I cut grass
and bound it, shaped it. slicing silky air, weaving weapons. Words
This was slow, difficult forgot their names too soon.
and as long as grass. Their thousand cuts—

Finally, I climbed on grass— forgotten wounds, unnamed
that night had no moon— airs. Thousands cut
and floated to where tides through crowds to watch this
chose to carry me. dance. Invading hordes

I landed on a grassy shore swerved past crowds, dancing
that morning. I was home with evasive hoards
and hungry. I carried my raft on tipsy saddles, dropping coins to the lost
then ate its salted grass.
girl, who tips water like coins to that last
crossroad guard, easing his sorrowful past.

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The Helen Portrait

Dies nächt sinf nicht für die menge gemacht on an unshaved face. She
(Nights are not made for the masses) looked out and sighed
the sigh of one who knew. He
—Rainier Maria Rilke sketched. At noon,
The Book of Pictures he left. The board was bare.
She’s seen his hand
Night. She hopes she looks moving. Heard it draw. She
east. One husband liked breathed, but kept still.
early sun on her impossible face. Night Next dawn, he tried again. Again. Again.
makes her sing of touch. He asked a picture No pictures exists and no picture will.
be made. She’d lean on a terrace, east wall
ahead of her—for the light. She knew his fall—
that death—waited there. He meant to see her

at his end. Small man came with a smooth
board, pumiced. He arranged
paint wells, burnt sticks.
Then he looked at her for days. He didn’t move.
She stood, silent as a laurel. She knew
what was and what was coming. Her eyes fixed
the distance. On the third day he tried
a stroke of charcoal, sounding like a wound

About the Author

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry
collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu
Fu was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December
from Cherry Grove.

He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis,
Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the
activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made
his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like ev-
eryone else, he’s unemployed.

He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two
full length collections so far. Titles on request. A meager
online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.
com/MarkJMitchellwriter/A primitive web site now exists:
https://mark-j-mitchell.square.site/

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STORM
CINEMATOGRAPHY

by Emalise Rose

while we’re away in your thunderstorm

lights on the bay rain on the marquise of Monday
flicker twice, then recede the bewildering blues
to the crawl space of Summer birthing the mood set of morning
winds resonating
the deep chilled wisconsin I twirled twice in your thunderstorm
tossing my polka-dot parasol
And winter will whip planting my feet
while we’re away on the pipedream of spring

yet waves rarely sleep wrapped in the mist and the mantra
opting instead to replenish robins rejoicing on roof tops.
the sea and her sands
with the gifting of shells
that we’ve pledged to come back to
and hand pick for each other.

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in the eye of Revista Literária Adelaide

feather like quills redeeming that spring wish
top off their scraggly
long stems, hugging along with the last
the interstate on the trace of the dandelion
drive up to montauk months past the first
blooms of April
i deem them as flowers rising over
the morningtime skyline
poeming their poses breaking my fugue
you insist they are weeds of familiar
in your need to correct me
i’d almost forgotten
i almost believed what i wished
they were ugly. on the lips
of that flower wisp.

*
Thank you for reading the poetry
of Emalisa Rose.

storm cinematography About the Author

we tiptoe the morning When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose
post-storm in the opulence enjoys crafting, dollmaking and macrame art.
with haloes of happenstance She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a
in the sunlight’s sombrero beach town provides much of the inspiration
for her art.
you rummage through wildflowers 273
assuring that calm will eclipse
the catastrophe. Two of us teeter
on tightropes.

and the willows are wilding.

TIME

by Megan Harrison

“time”

The hands of the clock move too quickly When the button was pressed
As everything continues to change. To pause the world
Changing from the ideas of simpler times My mother could no longer claim
And the constant dream to grow up an hour was too long
Grow old To sit at the computer.
And do all that one couldn’t before.
As my hair grows to my shoulders once more I never thought I would wish
And I rip another calendar page clean to look out the window
I hold onto the idea that there Rather than at the blue light
will always be more time That makes my eyes weary.
even if there isn’t. The world continues to spin, and
the scenes change
“screen time” But the button has yet to be pressed again
My fingers have molded to the keys over time So the world remains on pause
Because it’s all I have. And I continue to stare at infinite screen time.

About the Author

Megan Harrison is a new writer based in Ohio. She is
currently on track to graduate from college in the coming
years, and this would be her first publication.

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SUNDAY

by Ashley Tippit

Science Class Sunday

Mud deluging between my -View of the Upper Hudson
toes, up my legs, splattering - John William Casilear
into my hair, lifted
not an inch above murky Clumps of bulletins
clamped between my arm and side,
water, tangled with cordgrass, trays of shredded bread in one hand,
reaching alongside my invasive the cup of Welch’s pinched
limbs, all of me excavating between my elbow and chest,
this Dauphin Island playground one hand free
to tuck hymnals back into their slots,
for annelid worms, marsh I display a rehearsed smile
periwinkles, or even a hermit as I slip past congregants,
crab if I’m lucky, like my mom, dodge a hug with a handshake,
hollering for her dad pass the bin where I dump the bulletins,
outside to ditch the sacraments.
to pull an eel off her trot line I pivot—a breeze,
just to find that eel was a free us for joyful obedience.
bass as big as she was, which But on the Hudson,
she wrestled onto the pier, as my face would lift to sloping branches,
my hands reaching,
her dad held the net, insisting mouth forming the Apostles Creed,
she unhook it herself, so, and also be with you,
she severed the meat from the noon bell chiming from a distant city.
the bass’s cheek, gill plate dangling,
275
then she hightailed it to her
uncle’s, who helped her spoon
off scales and send one split
up its center, the guts ballooning out.

Adelaide Literary Magazine
Her frozen chicken thighs remain

in a double-seal bag, wedged between out of gas and someone stole her phone.
a five-dollar, four-cheese, stuffed-crust Sifting through the remnants
frozen pizza for a cancelled party and
three two-dollar thin crusts for the weekend. in the fridge, I hope
I don’t know how to cook for a secret stash of our favorite
pad thai in a Styrofoam box
a chicken thigh, or the half-bag of towards the back, but find instead
brussel sprouts, or the Ziploc of corn and peas. one apple in the crisper drawer.
She would have whipped up some sort
of lemon-garlic cream sauce or a I toss Ramen in the microwave
one-pot stew. Her crumpled buttermilk and put the dishes up the way
she taught me, the cups facing down.
pancake recipe hangs to the door I load the dishwasher how she
by the magnet we got in a souvenir shop showed me, the forks facing up.
in North Carolina that time we ran

About the Author

Ashley Tippit is an English Graduate Assistant at the
University of Alabama at Birmingham. She received her
Bachelor of Arts in English from Birmingham-Southern
College. She is currently most passionate about developing
and publishing her writing, especially in the genres of
creative non-fiction, children’s/Y.A. literature, and poetry.
Her research interests include gender and sexuality studies,
mental health, Marxist literary theory, ethnic studies, and
environmentalism. She ultimately hopes to sustain a career
as a writer and become a children’s/Y. A. editor or teach at
a college level while overseeing a writing center.

276

PEGASUS

by Januário Esteves

Pegasus

When spring comes and the winged wind brings it
the seeds of life and the boldness of the harbinger of creation
the wonderful sublimation of matrices that heal
in a cosmic dance provided in the attraction of opposites
flashed by the source of Pirene, when in the drought
offered honey cakes to the diviners of transactions
bold that reverberate in spiritualizing the day
from the destabilizing metaphors of ignorance to half
like the absurdity of cutting off the head of an earthworm
and it will grow a new one, regenerating itself
or rubbing the surfers’ rectum to create antibiotics ~
with seawater creating superbugs that eliminate
degenerative diseases by neuro formic engineering
by the brain enhanced by the rays of the head-eye.

Cygnus

Leda was dressed when in disguise Swan captivated her
and in the silky fragrance of his wing he let himself be carried away
experiencing periodic explosions of an unknown nature
in the vertigo of the dark cloud, birthplace
of young ambiguities that seek to be the sum
relative to the northern cross when the seasons begin
to the brightest star goes the rising glory

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

look for the most resolute way that there can be
in the celestial domain that enthroned the speech of birds
whose algorithm generated the dichotomy of depression in Gemini
between the uproar and the exuberance installed in the hypothalamus
of generations traumatized by the bad government that makes them unhappy
carry amino acid memories of star filaments
in a diaspora brought in long ago, at the moment of the Universe.

Gemini

They were children of different parents but they had the same shape
sometimes indolent and capricious, sometimes versatile and vigorous
lived in a kind of congenital limbo since childhood
when they were surprised by lights that came from the sky
and started to fight like they were in a terrible battle
getting the body marked, visibly electrocuted
and the lights came and went quiet now, then static
digging over the house wheezing noises of spectral gravitation
the brothers staying in a stately suspension running on themselves
in a fugitive escarpment of gravity acceleration, naked
in the way they recognized themselves as dysfunctional and violent
licked by a strange excrescence that emitted
when separated from their binary brotherhood they coagulated
in a kind of unique fabric that kept them safe
so they are carried by a cloudy light on a journey
with no return, they left for Pollux for the bluish mornings of Thestias.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Aries

Thirsty for blood roared continuously over passers-by
such a vampire wandering through the night with a bronze leg and a
donkey’s feet seducing them to sleep paralysis in a numb dullness
of doubtful wisdom, hiding the problem in an eschatological dimension
of wars and arbitrarians launched by the desire for gold on a mission
suicide that calmed the nerves of a sociopath, transforming him into
psychopath and had for himself the immortal bedspread, the fleece shining with skeins
solstice fawns in an endless travel transhumance
by the conscience of morals saw fate as a desire for blood
in chaotic escape from the love that afflicted him hurting others
for pure pleasure he delights in the gold of his commiseration, moreover
foreseeing the sacrifice of your well being in the immeasurable night
that your feminine soul has descended on your body
with a zeal of enthusiasm that made him reborn to the world.

About the Author
Januário Esteves was born in Coruche (1960) and was
raised near Costa da Caparica, Portugal. He graduated
in electromechanical installations, uses the pseudonym
Januanto and writes poetry since the age of 16. In 1987 he
published poems in the Jornal de Letras, and participated
over the years in some collective publications.

279

THAT LEAP

by Charlie Madden

That Leap Shout ! Shreik ! Yell ! Theres A Sun In My Head…

Munching away in the sun, I’m lifting, flying
what could be more pleasant? my soul separated from my body..
Fellow Roos scattered as far as the eye can see -
My lovely Mary there, mother What a sight,
of 2 and one in the pouch, that fine body sprawled on its side,
seems quietly content…
lifeless limbs at odd angles.

And there’s the biped with his sun pump -
what miserable creatures they are,

fancy having to climb up onto a quadruped
or hunch into one of those

evil smelling washing machines on wheels
- to get some speed

We Roos are built for it naturally,
a muscled quinped

built for thrust and endurance…

Look at that tail -
raw muscle,
pure thrust,

while horses have that fashion accessory
to twitch the flies away from
the unmentionable
and show the nag behind
which way to follow…

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Revista Literária Adelaide
- higher now,
hope the kids are ok.
This must be the last leap the
oldies banged on about.

I wonder…
I wonder - wonder – wonder…

- Wonderful !

About the Author
Engineer, now pensioner but still working on a tide
powered desalination unit - TideWater. 8th Cello in the
Unley Symphony orchestra.

281

STINGER

by Vyara Kozareva

Stinger Wandering Sambacus Savour

The autumn encroaches my delineation In my memory
Radiant You smiling in a floral apron
Mighty But not keeping apples in its pocket
Renaissance-styled Because
In its zibellino accessory That year the apple tree withered
Muddles my repose And mother was worried
Pigments my memory About the winter preserves.
Jams snouts and tails However,
At the bottom of dusty brush washers The bunch of elderberry
Brutality demyelinates my axons Held on the flat of your perfect hand
I am groping for the point Was enough for us
I’d lost myself To purport purple line.
In the smother of your dry water colors
Which moisture now
Is only a word
A domino mask
I hide my folds behind
Together with your transfusing talent
Cleared long ago with the ether.

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Flashback Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author

There is something elusive Vyara Kozareva lives in Bulgaria.
Beyond the window frame
Where the languishing moon is dangling.
Like a pita bread, you said,
Coated with honey
But nibbled
Because too perfect bodes no good.
Before glimmering here
It has been somewhere else
There my callow fingers
Were milking the stars to harmonize
hunger´s cacophony.
Honey and milk- how classical,
An elixir for eternal beauty
Though an ideal snack in case
of sleep’s abdication.
But for whom?
Crumbs transformed to shadows
Leaping behind my back
Cordoning you off.
Hope is outflowing from my strained guts
Leaving them swindled
After your image dispersion.
Tempus edax rerum.

283

SISTERS

by Marilyn Mox

sisters liminal times

could i just make a candle of you drunk
to burn your essence downtown memphis
around me walking home
sheaths of fire marigold red
heels in hands
to bask in the spiral twirl
of your silken smoke rings I fell
on an unhoused neighbor
burning mail and twigs sleeping
and memories on torn paper under cardboard
tequila wine skinny dippin time and the peabody hotel dryer vents
in the shelter of fallen zinnias
startling him awake of course
waning moon whispers So
a song we’re sure our mother sang I held his face in my hands
cloaked in lantana buzz the unlikely and kissed him
harbor of night square on the mouth

I said “sorry I ruined
your R.E.M”,
and he said “baby
you are the dream”

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walking in nyc ~ 2014

530 park avenue little italy construction
friendly doorman says site, sunflower
“how you?” has survived,
a forgotten morsel
subway man serenades tell me, what
me is
“when the night it
like?
has come….”
and i sing back to bloom...
“and the land is dark...” to be the one

west 59th not
tiny clandestine park swallowed
“my friend left me an envelope”...
she tells the listener
on the only bench

About the Author

Marilyn is a storyteller in the southeast, employing many
mediums, mostly poetry. she can be found with her nose
to lichen or drawing down the moon.

285

WAKING UP

by Jennifer Novotney

Waking Up One morning I will wake up
and things will be different,
The sun peeks over the mountain’s ridge maybe the same, but probably different.
as it does every morning I will be different.
unless there are clouds to hide behind.
The bright orange, yellow familiar glow This moment like a little speck of dust
fills the house through drawn curtains. suspended in mid-air, yet falling,
falling faster than I can see,
Our winding road is glistening, disappears into the universe,
fresh with last night’s rain. impossible to locate or replicate,
I am blinded by the shiny spots replaced by other miniscule specimens
where the sunlight hits it that float through time,
as I look out the kitchen window already created and waiting
at the sad trees who have lost their leaves for their cue to arrive.
and the stray clouds, gray white
shadows in the blue sky.

I make my coffee and listen for the
sweet voices to fill the house,
the cats’ morning song as they cry for food,
footsteps upstairs and the
rumbling of the heater
kicking out breaths of warm air.
It is hard to imagine that every
morning will be like this,
smooth and comfortable like
an old pair of shoes.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Twelve Years Old

Snow sticks to the trees,
falls from the sky like diamonds,
little crystalline specks hit her hair and shoulders,
her golden butterfly barrettes clipped in her curls.
She yanks up her fuzzy, fur-lined hood from her puffy, black jacket
with the zig zag pattern that reaches down past her knees,
too big for the kid’s section, too small for the women’s,
too innocent for the juniors. She’s somewhere in between,
like an awkward puppy with gangly limbs that betray her.
She looks to the right and then to the left
for cars and trucks that barrel down the quiet country road.
The inches-deep snow comes steady,
stark white against the blackness of her one size too large boots,
a hand me down with scuffs and scrapes from wearer’s past.
When she reaches the tall metal gates of the school,
she looks over her shoulder at the footprints in the road
quickly disappearing under a blanket of snow.
She grabs a handful, throws it in the air,
lets the cold wetness envelop her
as if what falls from the sky
was not enough.

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The Phoenix Adelaide Literary Magazine
Snowstorm

The outside world is still. Waiting for the snow
A truck lumbers down the lonely, is like waiting for a dream
snow covered road, before I even fall asleep.
the engine roaring and laboring I know it is coming,
as it climbs the hill around the bend. but maybe not.
Maybe the weather station
The trees are immobile got it wrong
having been tousled from last night’s storm, and we stayed home for nothing,
their branches bare of leaves and snow, hoping and wishing on a promise
recovering from the Nor’easter. that won’t be fulfilled.

He is still asleep. The air grows cold.
She hums down the hall, We migrate inside like
gets dressed for school, bears hibernating in their caves
bookbag thumping down the stairs, with big furry paws honey sticky,
little footfalls faster than mine. our stomachs full from
a successful hunting season.
I turn on the shower,
let the water run a little too long, Or maybe we are the deer
hoping the hot steam will cleanse me left out in the cold,
as if going to worship some distant God, unpoached by hunters,
making promises of redemption unhit by cars,
that I know I will not keep. our herd members missing.
They weren’t so lucky.
I come out a different being,
the steam morphing on my skin, When the snow falls on us,
a Phoenix rising from nothing, we consider it a blessing.
born again out of misty heat. The cold doesn’t bother us
I am that body of water, under our thick winter coat.
my limbs a fluid element We huddle together,
exposed to the morning air wait for the storm to end.
that nips at my surface with cool bird beaks Or maybe we kick up our heels,
ripping and tearing at my flesh run as if no one else exists,
until I am no longer recognizable, our little white tails disappear
a faint reminder of the previous self, against the white canvas of the storm.
neither man nor woman
but whatever lies under the flesh.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Roses in Winter

One spindly, winding branch
reaches higher than the others,
its soft green leaves accented
with deceptively sharp thorns.
The thin branch reaches skyward
seeking the sun like a desperate stranger,
bending with the weight
of the eminent being at its apex
like tight lips preparing to open and sing a song.
The deep red mouth will yield wider and wider
exposing its delicate yellow pollen tongue.
The intricately layered petals,
firm at first, will soften as the days go by.
A starlet’s fleeting life on stage,
her petals will wither and fall to the windowsill,
faded of their vibrant glory,
wafting sweetness from their blackening edges.

About the Author

A native of Los Angeles, California, Jennifer Novotney earned
a B.A. in Journalism from California State University and an
M.A. in English from Northern Arizona University. Her poet-
ry is featured in several literary magazines, and most recent-
ly appears in Poetry Quarterly, Unbroken Journal, and The
Vignette Review.

289



INTERVIEWS



EDITH TARBESCU

Author of
ONE WILL, THREE WIVES

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

I was born in Brooklyn, an only child, and spent a lot of time on my fire-escape as a kid
day-dreaming about becoming a famous actress (actor is the word used these days.) i pic-
tured myself returning from Hollywood to the tenement where I lived in a chauffeur-driven
limousine and the neighbors saying to each other, “Remember her?”

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

My first essay was published in The Christian Science Monitor. It was about a summer camp
I attended. It was a Commie camp. I only discovered that years later. My father said it was
a Socialist camp, but when I went to a camp reunion years later with my husband, a history
major, he pointed out to me that there was a statue of Lenin in the middle of the camp. I was
too young as a camper to know who Lenin was.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
“ONE WILL: THREE WIVES.” I wanted to write a mystery and decided that the death of a
hedge fund manager on Wall Street would be fun. I also wanted to have a female detective.

4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

It varies. I don’t count the number of words I write in a day. I wrote and revised “ONE WILL:
THREE WIVES” for several years until I was told by a few professionals that I needed to stay
in one person’s head. I had too many points of view, so I chose the female detective and we
see everything through her point of view.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?
No, except I am sometimes obsessive and keep writing even when I am tired.

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6. I s writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I enjoy photography, especially when I’m traveling. When I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn as
a young adult, I studied painting at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. A few years ago, I studied
pottery. I loved working with clay, then painting the finished product.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?
I love Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway. I also love Russian authors such as
Dostoevsky and Chekhov. A playwright favorite was/is Tennessee Williams.

8.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I’m working on a memoir titled BEYOND BROOKLYN.

9.  Did you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Anybody who likes being challenged and enjoys a “who done-it.” Also, readers with a sense
of humor.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Keep your butt on the chair and persevere.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
Read a lot and never give up.

12. H ow many books you read annually and what are you reading now?
What is your favorite literary genre?

I read fiction and non-fiction. I read a wonderful book this year about the Arrow People, a
hidden tribe in the Amazon. Right now I’m reading non-fiction again–”In My Own Words,”
about Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

That I write from my heart and wrote with passion. Also, I revised and revised until I felt satisfied.

14.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?

I think writers should write about what they know and what interests them, not think about
trends.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
295

DAVID LANDI

Author of
THE NOBLE HOUSE OF THE LANDI

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

I grew up in a Little Italy in Providence Rhode Island USA. My father was a union truck
driver, my grandfather had an Italian bakery from the 1915s or so. So, I would have two
choices graduate high school and join the union or drop out of school and join the union.
Both were acceptable to him. It was the time of the Vietnam war and the draft was on. I
was 16 and about to start 10th grade when I got into trouble in school. Something I was
particularly good at for a few years at that point, and my father literally pulled me out of
school, “To principle. “David will not be returning,” the motivation, since he was about to
lose his job from all the time he had to take off to get me out of one problem or another,
and back in school after multiple expulsions and suspensions, Nothing serious but I was
a nuisance who had authority issues. Considering that I stopped doing my schoolwork by
6th grade, that was about the last grade I completed of public school, by social promotion,
back then they pushed you through the system no matter what. I was 16 did not have a
job and figured maybe I could join the Air Force; my older cousin was in and a lifer and
loved it. I went to the recruiters and was told you must have a high school diploma or GED
and be 17 and have your parents sign off on it. Well 17 was coming soon and I registered
to take the GED exams, four of them, usually taken on different days. I showed up to take
the first test and asked if I could take them all that day. The receptionist thought it was
funny but said if you can finish and pass all four, I could, but she had not seen anyone
finish in a day. Well I took all four, passed all four easily which don’t say much for high
school. I was an avid reader and was reading Nietzsche when I was in sixth grade. Brain
exercise I used to think. Well that left my father’s signature, which was given happily, and
I had to wait three weeks to turn 17. I was on my way to boot camp in Texas three weeks
after I turned 17. Dec. 1st, 1972. I completed boot camp went on to law enforcement train-
ing, spent 3 years in and the week I got out I went to RI College to find out if and or how
I could get in. They like Harvard University have a performance matriculation program.
Maintain a B+ every class and you were in, and could graduate. I majored in Psychology
and was a premed minor and wanted to be a Pediatrician. Made it all the way to my senior

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year and needed to drop out for financial reasons. That was 1979. Got married opened
several successful restaurants and Auto Dealerships, had 2 children, boys, and was living
in California when my then wife didn’t return from work one night. My life was about to
take a dramatic change. I was a single parent with a 9-month-old and two year old. Had
to move back to the east coast where family was for some help. She was fine with a new
boy friend in California and out of their lives except for a couple of times they spent a few
months in Florida with them. By 1993 I decided that I wanted a better life for the kids and
didn’t want them growing up where I came from, so I went back to school. I was working
for Compaq computers as a Senior Systems Engineer and they paid for me to get my BSIT
from the University of Phoenix, finished in two years and before I finished I enrolled at
Harvard University Graduate School again through Performance Matriculation. That was
one of the most memorable educational experiences of my life, and a bit of a shock when
I seen their expectations. So for one semester I was finishing my BSIT and starting my
Masters in Computer Science at Harvard running back and forth from work to Cambridge
for lectures never too a class and kept an A- average. Needless to say my employment
opportunities expanded and ended up working for all the top companies from IBM to
Compaq to Hitachi Data Systems and EMC as an Certified Principle Data Storage Architect,
which I still do today.

This book was a serendipitous surprise. I was reading a site online from Antiogianni
Landi NYC talking about the Noble Landi family. I knew a little about it, from my grandfather,
and knew none of that money followed my great grandfather to the US in 1900. I became
completely fascinated with the subject started doing a little research of my own only to find
out things that were hard to believe, some incredible stories and the history in Italy full of
holes inaccuracies, and just shady history, done by historians who put little effort into finding
the official facts. That is why there are over 1200 references in the book. I knew I would
be attacked otherwise. The one thing that finally launched this book was a book written by
an Cardinal Antonio Samori he was in charge of the Secret Vatican Archives, He was from
northern Italy and was very aware of the twisted Italian history told in encyclopedia and
other historical works. So, he did his own research in the Secret Vatican Library and wrote
his own book. He was unable to release it until he was on his death bed not knowing what
the repercussions of the Pope would be. So, it was released the day he died in 1983. There
were other honest historians some of Italian histories only partial starting late in this fami-
ly’s journey, not many but some had great materials. All of the history until then started in
the 11th century during the Dark Ages and I started to find scrolls and incunabula some in
my own library, that had references for the Landi all the way back to 300BC Germania. (The
Tribe Landi) It is a 2300 year story with twists and turns that I have found amazing. Touching
just about every royal family in Europe. I have spent just short of 9 years of research, trans-
lations, visits to Italy and other European countries and with my expertise in Data Storage
I had access and ways of gathering data that no one before me had. That has been of great
help. Have I included all the references no, have I translated all the scrolls or had access to
the Vatican’s Secret Library? No, hopefully a day will come when the Vatican helps fill in the
Age of Obscurity the Dark Ages. I thought have woven together a fascinating story about a
family that had significant effects on the history of Europe going back a more than a couple
of millennia.

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2.  Do you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

It was actually on this very subject. I started out on Wikipedia the worst writing experience
of my life. It was a constant fight with volunteers who were not editors and refusal of me be-
ing able to include translated Latin scrolls since they could not read them. I spent 8 months
punishing myself with this task before I decided on writing the book.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
Lo Stato Landi (The State Landi) 1983 by Cardinal Antonio Samori of the Vatican’s Secret Library.

4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

This book took more than 8 years. It ballooned to over 1200 pages, I had to cut it back. Some
days it was no more than a few sentences or many hours of research. Much of this informa-
tion you will not find in Italian history books today. My goal was to remedy that. If you search
the Library of Congress for the last name Landi, nothing used to come up. You will find this
book now.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?
Unfortunately I write every day if I don’t write something I feel guilty, but the strangest thing
is sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night with an answer to a question I had for
months get out of bed and start writing. I paint in oil and do the same thing with that pulling
paintings off the wall at 3am to fix some little imperfection I was obsessed with.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I write but my passion is Painting and sculpture. If I had to choose between them all, I really
don’t know. I also restore ancient books pre 1500 Incunabula rebuilding and then restoring
the artwork. Also.

7.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I am thinking about doing an autobiography. I have been traveling around the world for over
25 years haver seen things, done things been places many people could not dream of. The
only thing holding me back is a couple of the important characters in my life are still alive
in their 80d and 90s but out of respect I feel uncomfortable telling some incredible stories.
Many people have told me to do my biography, but I always say even fiction needs to be
somewhat believable. I have many stories that are flat out unbelievable. I will get around to
it. Painting Rembrandts self-portrait right now. Want my own copy..:-)

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