Author Topic: The Cenacle | 99 | April 2017 | 22nd Anniversary Issue!  (Read 513 times)

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The Cenacle | 99 | April 2017 | 22nd Anniversary Issue!
« on: June 01, 2017, 10:18:46 AM »
The Cenacle | 99 | April 2017 | 22nd Anniversary Issue!
Reading link: https://issuu.com/scriptorpress/docs/c99_april_2017
Free Download link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/99_april_2017.pdf
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Hello everyone,

Here comes Cenacle | 99 | April 2017! 22nd Anniversary Issue! From its colorful, glorious, & mysterious cover, through its strange path of literary & visual wonders, to its colorful, glorious, & mysterious conclusion, it is a deep perusal & frequent celebration of life’s colors, glories, & mysteries.

Samples of the issue’s contents are below to entice you. The Cenacle is, of course, like always, free to read online or to download.

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
Welcome to the 22nd anniversary issue of The Cenacle, occurring at a time when climate scientists are terrified of the eventual collapse of giant glaciers in the West Antarctic, & U.S. President Trump day by day presses the question of whether this country can actually function acceptably while a psychotic moron & his party of corporate shills, racist ideologues, & eat-’em-&-smile government-drowners-in-a-bathtub suited clowns accomplish nothing . . . very . . . loudly.

Feedback on Cenacle 98:
[Tom Sheehan] As my father always said, “We come with two things, love and energy, and we damned well better use them up.” Judith Haggai’s poetry reminds me of this, when she says: “each time a chance to start again with more attention.” And Martina Newberry’s line, “live, you who are left to listen.” The energy and love there are almost visible, here & many other places in this issue.

Poetry by Tamara Miles:
Giving-artist, you burrow a bolster behind
your frail loved one’s back, prop him up against
a coming pain, a gentle drawing down
of colored pencil on rice-paper shoulders.
In a catered caress, served warm, you sculpt
a day from each tentative morning.

Travel Journal by Nathan D. Horowitz:
One day I conclude that, for reasons of morality, since she and I are making love, we should be married. I call her on the phone. She isn’t in, so I leave a message on her answering machine, asking her to marry me. When I am in her room that evening, I bring it up again. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles her green eyes at me, puts on a CD of some singer-songwriter who is popular among cool people older than me, places her silver-ringed hands on my shoulders and, for a long time, dances with me. She’s already signed a contract to teach for a year in Senegal. But maybe we’ll see each other again.

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
I sit awhile, lotus-like beneath a shady willow,
breathe smells of cut grass, melting chocolate.
I feed squirrels, sing love songs to pigeons,
watching as they bob their heads in rhythm.

Notes from New England by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
You just wonder, as you travel through these White Woods horizontally, a sugar cube of LSD melting through you, allowing you to travel in this new & pleasurable way, you just wonder: how it is that the Woods more welcomes you this way, horizontally? What is it about your human form that fits better this way?

Poetry by Gregory Kelly:
i grieve because we are foe. but that is not how we were born.
we were not born to be on two sides of a fence.
that fence that has divided us so violently. so tumultuously. so recklessly.
that fence that has stopped me from seeing you and you from seeing me

Prose by Charlie Beyer:
I’m back for the biopsy in a week. A degrading affair on my knees with my ass wagging in the air. My virgin sphincter is invaded with an ultrasound probe the size of a cucumber. It has weird tools all over the end like you’d see in a fake alien abduction movie. It’s all covered with lances, glittering tubes, and tiny lights. I think this is a scale model of a mine-boring machine he’s stuffing up there. Twelve core samples are painfully taken, turning my aggrieved prostate into the Yucca Mountain tunnel complex. Hurts like a freeway auto wreck. Continues to hurt. Never stops hurting. Now I really do need a cure.

Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
When asked to read to celebrate my new book of memoirs,
I let the audience enter the cubicle from where the work came.
I told them: I’ll celebrate with you by telling you what I know,
how it is with me, what I am, what has made me this way;
a public posture of a private life near nine decades deep.

Poetry by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
A first day of something, an arrival,
 a new face, strange music, sheen
in the memory, like bits of starlight
 fell upon your hand in a deep
night Woods. Departure too, ending
 of something, especially sudden,
every moment to the last weighted
 awkwardly in the heart’s grasp.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
upon awakening
dream still wet on my lips
dare i surrender?

Classic Fiction by A.A. Milne:
Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making “Oo, I say” noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to Keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying, “Are you sure you’re all right, Roo dear?” to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering, “Look at me swimming!” Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, “All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you’ll be all right”; and Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them.

Poetry by Colin James:
After an impromptu inspection,
my cape is still magnificent.
Towards the bottom edge
there are some problematic stains,
and a continuous dampness
I can’t quite account for
without completely disrobing formally,
& performing a further inspection at my end.

Bags End Book #6: The Grand Scheme of Liberation!, Part 3 [fiction] by Algernon Beagle:
It began to get worse tho. Mah friend & newspaper writer-downer Lory Bunny told me that a big fight broke out in Mister Owl’s class at school when Denny & Cory Puppy, who are in the Secret Puppy Club, argued that I wasn’t sick, I was finally getting better. Lory said Alex yelled a lot of Bump stuff & Sheila put up her furry little dukes & threatened to thrash anyone who messed with her beagle. Me? Sheila’s beagle?

Prose by Jimmy Heffernan:
There is here a moral
Though it’s rather abstruse
Do not lose your truths, man
Or for you there’s no use!

Hartley’s Righteous Rants by David Hartley:
I often wondered about why the American South was so religious. Well, from what I can gather, it’s not as pro-Jesus as it is anti-demon. It’s interesting that Jesus as protector and warrior against Satan is very prominent in the American South. Perhaps they know something the rest of us don’t?
Poetry by Joe Coleman
It was a pleasant evening, though;
 rooted where wallflowers grow,
I merely watched her dance.

The Psychedelic Miracle by Mac McClelland
This would be psychedelic-assisted therapy, the not-new but increasingly popular practice of administering psychotropic substances to treat a wide range of physical, psychological, and psycho-spiritual concerns. “Some people stagger out” of the room in Dr. X’s home that he uses for these “journeys,” as sessions are called in the semiofficial parlance. Some have to stay for hours and hours beyond the standard five or so, crying or waiting to emotionally rebalance, lying on a mattress, probing the secrets, trauma, belief, or grief buried in their subconscious.

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
Write me this letter.
Everybody misses
somebody, right?

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
The black kid looks at me & smiles & nods. Says, casually,

“What if Dream-Mind
is Supra-Consciousness?”

Email comments to this mailing list by simply hitting “reply” to this thread—or reply to me directly & off-list at editor@scriptorpress.com

Peace,
Raymond
« Last Edit: June 03, 2017, 09:59:55 AM by cenacle »