The Zingara Project

Tag: California Quarterly

  • Tear Down by John Sierpinski

    In this broad shouldered city, in this 50’s vintage motel
    we arrive to check in at the office, but the cigar chomping
    manager has given away our room. A pot of what looks
    like tea, but really a poor attempt at coffee sits on a single
    burner “hot plate.” Stale-looking donuts wait to be put
    out of their misery. Sorry about that, he says with a jerk.
    but I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do… I can’t wait for this,
    I think. For ten bucks more our honeymoon room just
    opened up. He winks at my girlfriend. His cigar is
    sopped. I grab the key, we are both tired from the road,
    tired of this guy. Walk down a few doors past a couple
    yelling behind their door. Key in the lock. This “special”
    room has mirrors on the ceiling that reflect the filth,
    shag carpeting up the walls, stained carpeting on the floor,
    a cigarette butt in an ashtray. The word kinky is too kind.
    On the floor, next to the bed, there’s a balled up washcloth
    Just a minute, I say and head off toward the office.
    The cigar-man is talking to a tired-looking older woman.
    They both look up. The room isn’t clean (an understatement)
    and there’s a used washcloth on the floor. There’s
    a moment of silence, then the woman says, They were
    only in the room an hour. I’m the one who cleaned the room
    after they left. Fatigue has bitten my lip. The woman
    hands me a clean washcloth. I turn around and stomp back
    to the room. This night is disintegrating into dust. No
    wonder the couple two doors down are still shouting, shouting.

    —

    John Sierpinski has published poetry in many literary journals such as California Quarterly, North Coast Review and Spectrum Literary Journal to name a few. His work is also in eight anthologies. He is a Pushcart nominee. His poetry collection, “Sucker Hole,” was published in 2018 by Cholla Needles Press.

     

  • At Nineteen by John Sierpinski

    On a Monday, July morning, Julian Whittaker
    (at nineteen) works high up on a ladder, cleaning
    fluorescent light fixtures in the English lecture
    hall. He can use the money for the start of the fall
    semester. He wipes dust, and then black soot off
    the white covers. Mike Kessler cleans, too. He

    tells Julian, “I’ve just been released from the county
    psych ward, but I’m okay now. I’m studying
    Mandarin.” To Julian, Mike appears unbalanced,
    the shaky ladder, his exophthalmic eyes, the tick
    of his right cheek. Another student, Richard
    Longwell, has come to dust. He carries a boom

    box the size of a small suitcase. At the sound
    of the manic beat, Julian notices that Mike and Richard
    dust faster. Then Richard declares, “It’s break time!”
    and turns the lights off and the volume up. Distorted
    guitars splay, plugged in to simple chords. To Julian,
    it is too much. He thinks about how he has lost his

    beloved Renee—she has walked away. He feels,
    in the words of Pink Floyd, “comfortably numb.”
    He drowns another soaped rag, wrings it out by touch
    in the dark, and lets the water drip down his pant leg.
    He listens to Mike tell Richard, “Turn that damn box
    down.” Then Mike says, “You know, I had sex with

    one of the other patients.” Richard says, “When I
    dropped acid, last night, my entire body glowed. Just
    think about it, my veins pumped light.” “Look man,
    I don’t want to think about your drug-fueled shit,”
    Mike says. And Julian, he doesn’t say anything at all.

    —

    John Sierpinski studies poetry at the Vest Conservatory for Writers in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He has recently published in California Quarterly, Curbside Splendor, North Coast Review, and Indiana Voice Journal. He has been nominated for a 2013 Pushcart Prize. He has currently completed a collection.

     

     

  • Of Things Past by Lenny Lianne

    A long time, too long, since we have done — this,
    he said and plopped a fat bottle of Mateus
    and two small paper cups from the bathroom
    onto the table. He took out a maimed box
    of Jolly Time Blast O Butter popcorn
    from a grocery bag, and grinned at her.

    She could tell that this was a campaign
    to coax her to laugh, to forget
    about the future. The distant past
    would be the tactic tonight, the way
    they used to take turns telling
    each other about what had come before

    — about those freakish Christmas gifts
    from screwball aunts, sibling pranks,
    his teen summer by a cirque-cupped pond.
    And after a third refill of new wine,
    they spilled out stories of lapsed romances
    as though, by sharing their own secrets,

    they’d earned whatever alighted afterwards.
    Shag carpets, concrete block with wood
    plank bookcases and black beanbag
    chairs, each had departed by now,
    passing away for better or worse,
    like something familiar that’s lost its way.

         after a line by Lucia Perillo
    —
    Lenny Lianne is the author of four full-length books of poetry. She holds a MFA from George Mason University. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, California Quarterly, Third Wednesday, The Dead Mule of Southern Literature, and others.

  • Fault by Kit Zak

    FaultSummer 2013 398

    each other

    like plankton on the tides
    conversations mundane
              leftovers sound fine
    I paid the mortgage bill

    feelings trenched inward
    no gulf stream warming
    vast plains of deserts
    (no path through)

    unspoken … hidden
    in our crusts

    until Jan phoned: it’s Jim
    we fold together outside intensive care

    between petitions and sobs
    we draw a cross on each other’s forehead
    mutual pardon

    —

    Kit Zak, formerly a teacher, considers writing poetry a political act. Her main topics include corporate exploitation of workers and the environment. She publishes in the few protest journals like Newversenews, The Blue Collar Review, as well as Avocet, California Quarterly, The Lyric, The Broadkill Review and numerous anthologies.