Unshod Quills

On the theme of conspiracies

TRANS/LATE

The other fornicator with the Castilian lisp
poses for a photograph,
watches the silhouette of a seagull
balance a fruit basket upon its head.

Don’t struggle—you’ll sweat into the wound.
Manage slow plots of finely trimmed debris.
Strike a match. Make this a small place.
A drawer for forks and spoons and knives.

There is a warm baguette outside your front door.
There is a polished stone in my pocket.
A repeating pattern of obtuse angles
opens up like a hellmouth.

Marvel the gentle dentistry of the majestic,
because if you don’t, I will kill you.
I will wear your new shoes to the funeral.
I will see the moon in a piss puddle.

Author Biography

ALLISON DUNCAN is a mutant persona created by Robert Gray and Lindsay Ruoff. Based in Portland, Oregon, Allison is a writer and multimedia artist considering the collaborative creative process as a means of dissolving barriers of identification and expanding venues for communication. She is the author of TRANS-, a self-published chapbook and visual piece, which was exhibited in HELLO EARTH, a group art show at The Loom, in Brooklyn, NY.

On the theme of the last word

ERASED

The poets I know
are biting their cheeks.
Their tongues button down
in the slick bed between teeth,
their eyes are a fourth of an inch deep
and trying not to do anything.

Once,
we were blood everywhere,
the darkness at the end of the tunnel,
apocalypse coming down the aisle to read,
building a bonfire to heat the room.
Once sparks flew out of our mouths
and we didn’t call it spit.
Once we read like every human heart
spoke a language universal as neon.

The poets I meet
write poems about their dreams,
walks to the market, or over a bridge.
They don’t want to hear about Victoria’s cancer
making a chalkboard of her body,
or the stillborn baby softly slipping out
like a sausage from the casing,
or the birds and fish wearing slickers of oil
on the shuddering ocean,
or how the position of the sun
makes you sadder than anything.

My church has divided.

The terrible wits, brain-wigs, are trying to wash off
the kind of stain that comes out of me.
What we tried to build between the heart and the mic
is a song being forgotten, a palimpsest of feeling.

Here:
I have a recurring dream,
where my eyes won’t open
more than just a tiny slit.

Author Biography

Carrie Seitzinger is a poet living in Portland, Oregon.

On the themes of leftovers, the last word and cigarettes

no moment of truth is without its deluge

the sun
finally
broke through the tar in the sky
by
the middle of the afternoon
it
has
been
so
long
since we have seen anything other
than
the palest of light
-I heard
the shadows call out your name-
I am
walking
across
the court-yard
watching
people
encouraged by such a day
steadying their aim
and
setting
their
fires
deeper into the whim-

the constant revolution

we
tend
to say everyday
as
a
way
to describe
these beaten paths
on
these worn out maps
for
the way
a life elapsing
looks back
with
nothing else to ask
this happens
here
we
see it passing everyday on
easily mistaken
for
another
sacred instance
not
so
far
gone
a breath may conjure its resistance

the brave departed and the broken hearted
(the failure of a Lucky Strike)

on the fire-escape
off
from the balcony
used
to
be
lovers
are quarrelling
in
a
fluff
of
air duct steam
they
were
still
dreaming
but
the season had changed
the harsh
now
jes cold and rain that dampens the cigarettes
the same brand she found some other girls lipstick
burnt
into the filter on
the same brand she found in his pocket
of the same jeans he wears everyday
except that one day last week
the night after the party
when he came home late
(it was more like the next morning when he made his pre-dawn
entrance through the window off from the balcony)
and the same once he has carried around
ever since
he knew this was going to happen
which is why he made sure the apartment had a fire escape-

Author Biography

Mat Gould  lives western North Carolina. He recently published his fourth chap from Dog On A Chain Press.

On the theme of cigarettes

Quittin’ Time

I had hate sex with myself
Which turns out to be of the best kind.
These secret ceremonials
Where afterwards, furiously, Nicorette is stuck and sucked
Are way better than dates at the blood bank.

Sometimes I wake up covered in bruises.
But this time they’re my own, and from something beautiful.
My surfboard to the face, something sleepy on the shin, a foot drug topside
and beautiful in my big country.

Klonopin is the new Valium, whiskey the new gin, Norco the new Vicodin.
He used to slap the cigarette out of my mouth
Until at the last, the bottom and my tooth fell out.

Everything is Texas-big these days:
The fuck ups and fly-aways,
The guffaws and gaffes.

Getting sunburned with Johnny at the river,
How beautiful to begin drinking beer at thirty two.
How beautiful to quit in your own time.
How lovely to be able to breathe again
And sit up in the morning, sand caked and early,
And know the blood in your mouth is just an aftertaste from a life you almost lived,
To spit it out, swill, and stick the gum into the place
The ashes used to occupy.

Author Biography

Monica Storss is a poet, author, performer and literary organizer. She is principal at Storss Publicity. She lives in Portland, Oregon. More at www.monicastorss.org

www.unshodquills.com seeks support.

We are able to accept donations via paypal or  mail. To use paypal, click the link above, or please request a postal address from Wendy at unshodquills@gmail.com.

We hope to raise $500 to cover operational incurrences, and to apply the balance toward the publication of one limited release chapbook, by Seattle author Jenny Hayes, and one annual print edition of the journal. Our publishing needs will be met in-house  by our own Old Heavy Press.

We will make an announcement when we have met our goal.

Donors may remain anonymous or may email Wendy at unshodquills@gmail.com and request a listing including their name and a link to a website.

We are grateful to our readers.

The Editors
Unshod Quills

Update 6/26/12 –  In 36 hours, we exceeded our goal by $15. We appreciate your support. 

On the theme of Amelia Earhart 

photo – DRG-
“The most effective way to do it, is to do it.”
Amelia Earhart

Five Questions For Amelia Earhart

Q. What is style?

A routine encompassing a wide variety of maneuvers. 

Q. What happened?

I was declared legally dead on January 5, 1939.

Q. What is your favorite poem?

Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose and Poetry by Howard Nemerov.
“They clearly flew instead of fell.” 

Q. What is the most beautiful thing you ever saw?

The stars seemed near enough to touch and never before have I seen so many. I always believed the lure of flying is the lure of beauty, but I was sure of it that night.

Q. Have you been to heaven?

The angels look like flight instructors. 

photo: DRG –
“Women get more notoriety when they crash.”
Amelia Earhart

Dena Rash Guzman – Amelia Earhart –
“There are two kinds of stones, as everyone knows, one of which rolls..”

Author Biography

Dena is a poet and the editor of Unshod Quills. She works as managing director for Shanghai’s Hal Publishing. Her first book of poetry, “Chairman Mao Praises Me Good At Chat” is due from Dog On A Chain Press in 2012. www.denarashguzman.com

Happy Anniversary.

Born in June 2011, this is the fifth issue of Unshod Quills.

We are privileged to infect you with even more contagious art and literature. Don’t wash up after looking at this issue; touch everything you can and spread it like the filthy little contagion it is. Please see the front page for a list of contributors to this issue.

A year? A year.

Over the past year, we have published hundreds of poems, stories, essays and images. We took part in producing the Shanghai Tunnels Project and next year will branch out to words on paper. Print. Yes.

We are holding a modest fundraising effort toward the beginning of this end. Please follow this link for more information or to give. Donate. 

You’ll help us continue to do what we do, featuring such contributors as Maria Garcia Teutsch, Helen Vitoria, Donald Dunbar, Shanna Germain, Gregory Sherl, Tim Tomlinson, Ginger wRong Chen, Renee Reynolds, Meg Tuite, Kevin Sampsell, Sean H. Doyle, Jamie Iredell, Zachary Schomburg, Riley Michael Parker, Gregory Crosby, Naoko Fujimoto, Chloe Caldwell, Emily Kendall Frey, Dayvid Jann Figler, Mary Ann Sullivan, Frank Reardon, James H. Duncan, Eva Steil, John “Sugahtank” Roubanis, Bjorn Wahlstrom, A. Molotkov, Jamie Gusman, Raudiel Sanudo, Jeff Pike, Tammy Stoner,  Catherine Platt, Jason Mashak, Cooper Lee Bombadier and too many additional fine artists and authors to name. We pride ourselves in publishing both emerging and established artists and writers.

We are happy you are here with us.

Here’s to another year.

Yours in gratitude,

Dena, Wendy, Donald, Holly and Brian

Unshod Quills
Portland, Oregon
Intercourse, Pennsylvania
Las Vegas, Nevada

On the themes of  Amelia Earhart, slut, and conspiracies

Now There is the Circling

Now there is the circling.
The round edges of the rolling horizon
and the circling. The endless watch
until eyes see nothing and the ocean
becomes a featureless field.

Now there is the circling.
The instruments record nothing, not even
the circling. The radio calls go unanswered
until eyes see a white bird calling
and the wings are straightened to follow.

The windows are spun sugar. The wings gingerbread.
Amelia, the witch is blind and cannot guide your plane.

Now there is the circling.
Amelia removes a shoe and drops it into the sea.
Then she is all urgency, all hurry and flight.
Dropping her socks, her pants, her shirt. Her hat.
Her arm held a moment longer, she hesitates, looks over and down
and drops her goggles into the sea.

Circling, Amelia unfolds
and drops a sheet of newspaper into the sea.
And another. And more. Leaving an uncertain spiral
of flotsam, jetsam riding the waves until they sink, broken and lost.

Amelia wears a small gold ring, and when the paper is gone,
she drops it into the sea.
An unlikely pathway disappearing into the surf.
Her shoes, her dear hat.
Her ring. The papers. She follows them around
and down and into a final, perfect descent.
No photo finish. No joyful woodcutter waiting with open arms
for his lost children to return. No joyful cries.

Just a cry like a bird rising up
one long, clear call filling the cabin,
filling her mind like pressure.
Like remembered struggle against so much.

popular song

our bus stop was a miserable huddle
of teenagers who fucking knew
we had nothing in common
no solidarity, no rallying point
nothing

I stood  above the group
smoking, waiting to hear the
whine of the bus coming down the hill
made sure I got on last
exhaled smoke as I sat down

find your seat! the driver yelled
to be heard
the radio was louder
than my head and I made
a point of hating the song – whatever it was

I sat unmoved
even when the morning DJ played
the song I’d sung into
my hairbrush at the bathroom mirror
the night before

I let myself hate the girls who sat
three in a seat singing, bopping
and swinging their perfect hair to the beat
chewing gum and talking over their favorite song

I find I am Sitting

I sit in the front seat again to drive myself home.
fast lane

I hold your hand.
I’ve come a long way to be with you, to hold your hand.

I lower myself onto a cushion. I am as still as a fish eye.
I found a picture of you. Behind you, a mirror like a fish eye.

My feet are sore from standing.
My feet are so tired from standing.

Author Biography

Wendy G. Ellis lives in Lancaster County, PA. She is an editor at Unshod Quills. Her work has appeared in Fried Chicken And Coffee, Housefire, and The Montucky Review.

On the theme of leftovers

Fryday 16 June in the Year 1681

Wooden rafters consumed by fire, its greyed skin smolders in the shit-filled enclosure. Parliament Street, rich in history, in the wee hours, the silence snapped by the shouts of whiskeyed late-night revellers, “The elephant is on fire!” In flux they attempt to open the doors. Heat and smoke keeps them away.

Terrific bellows, short then long, the pained creature batters the walls in vain, as the fire brigade men on their engine wheel into sight. The entire building in flames, the men pump and spray, Wilkins, the owner curses them on to save his prize exhibit.

At a penny a view the elephant is too rich for the blood of most locals, who instead satisfy themselves with a glimpse of the corded trunk as it snakes out the barred window above the thick oak doors. “Bring us to see the effelant,” a young girl asks her father, and the poor man shakes his head and rubs her ringleted head.

In daylight, hungry canines run the street crazed with the smell of roast flesh. Wilkins runs a hand against the huge beast’s nap, dust rising in a cloud. He shakes his head, takes a drag from his cigarette, and wonders if a specialist could save the skeleton for display purposes. A scrap of hide flakes away in his hand and with it all pretense.

Author Biography

James Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in Carpinteria, CA. His work appears in many places including The New Orleans Review, Connotation Press, A-Minor Magazine, Literary Orphans, and Scissor & Spackle. His blog is at www.jamesclaffey.com.

On the themes of  cigarettes, conspiracy, slut, Amelia Earhart and the last word

please double click images for full view

Barbara Anderlic – Restless Mouths and Feet

Fags! Fags!

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/42414199]

Barbara Anderlic – Get Them Rats

Barbara Anderlic – Businessmen Don’t Come Cheap But They Like To

That’s Not My Name

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/42414201]

Barbara Anderlic – Amelia Earhart and the Wright Brothers Triptych

The Panic Room

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/42414200]

Artist Biography

Born in Slovenia, Barbara K. Anderlič now lives in Shanghai, China, where she works as Shanghai Repertory Theater’s Associate Producer. Her work with SRT has taken her all the way to Scotland, where she performed at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2011. Other previous acting credits include The Snow Queen, The Vagina Monologues, and The Translator, as well as Belbel’s ¡Ay, Hombres! and Ramón in Spanish. She recently presented her short-play Change at H.A.L.’s LIT event as part of [subtext] and her short-play Source was performed at SRT’s Creative Collaboratos Competition 2012. Her one-act LINE has been performed in both China and Austria. Her video poetry was featured as a final entry in the Shanghai Tunnels Project Video Poetry Contest in 2012.