"A Weekend Concert for Copernicus" - Joey Connolly

"A Weekend Concert for Copernicus" - Joey Connolly
   “Listen dear readers with your eyes and ears
   And you shall hear the music of the spheres;
   Cosmic cha cha for millions of light years
   Use your imagination to shift mental gears.”

(the bands you'll miss on gravity-free Friday)
Red Shift and the Sonic Boomers
Martin Marietta and the Boeing Boeings
General Relativity and the Theorists
The Cosmic Cupcakes
Neut Rino and the Boson Particles
Professor Astro Cat’s Frontiers of Space
Simon L. Taneous and the Super Novas
Todd O’Globo & the Globular Clusters
Doctor Dud and the Dwarf Star Thuds
Red Giant and the Yellow Suns
Lead Boots and the Lunar Landers
The Duke of Drones with the Martian Rovers
Plutocrats Redux and the Planetoids
Singularity & the Thresholds
(bands on Saturn’s Day)
Galileo and the Galaxy Girls
The Milky Wayvers
Sailor Star and the Hawk Kings
The Oristas of Everything
Orbit Elliptico & the Copernicans
Asteroid and the Meteorites
Sunny Saturn and the Ringers
Tobor and the 8th Dimension Dudes
Iggy Imploder and the Big Bangers
Astral Project - Alive and On the Inside
Heavy Waters and the Light Years
Gravitas with Ambient Pressure
Dark Matter and the Right Stuff
Dirk Energy and the Unknown
(closing the concert stage on the day of the Sun)
The Doppler Gangers
Scrunch Up the Photons
Quirk Quark and the Fibonacci Storks
Trans Planckian and the Timestoppers
Kepler’s Katzenjammer Kids
Tycho Brahe & the Silver Nose String Band
Feynman’s Future Four
The Jetsons' Jug Band
My Favorite Martian Music Band
Interstellar Overdrive
Buck Rogers Photon Energy Band
Atomicritus and the Anti Particles
Fang Lizhi and the Celestial Dragons
Hubble’s See Farther Sextet
Nicolaus Copernicus was born in Poland on 19 February 1473. [The painting: "Astronomer Copernicus, conversation with God" / "Astronom Kopernik, czyli rozmowa z Bogiem" is by Jan Matejko, 1873]

"An Old Field Encounter" - Bob Ambrose

"An Old Field Encounter" - Bob Ambrose

   It was just an old field. I have been back
more than once, perplexed
at how very ordinary in the light
of midafternoon, or morning, 
or the light-not-light of gloaming. It’s gone.
Whatever was is not now. It seems
a shame, the untame rush replaced
by shrug and stolen glance
at time, the slow ride home
for reheated leftovers to sustain
my aging. It was fall
     when I went wandering
blazed paths through pungent hush
of hickory, beech and white oak stands 
to forest edge at right-of-way, cut
straight across the curve of hills where
I stood blinking back the light
     by the sun-splashed shores
     of an old field grown wild 
     breaking over asphalt slabs
     which once went somewhere
     beyond the post hole fence 
     that vainly holds back green
     swells of sumac and thistle
     tangled in turbulence
     sparkling in the silent roar
            of  a thin place
            onto an emerald sea
     in the presence of which
     I would remove my shoes
     wash my soul in sunlight
     and float the timeless warmth
              a new heaven 
                   and a new earth
But that was all and over soon, just slant
of light and insect drone, no still small voice
that could be heard above the buzz
and background trill, so was it somehow up
to me to say out loud what hangs in air? 
     All flesh is grass, its beauty as
          the flower of the field
that dies with fall – been said by better
than one who wanted just right then 
no more than now and this sweet earth 
of distant laughter, lovers strolling, 
stoic mother gently holding 
sleek cell phone and squirming child. Right
there beneath the freshening breeze
a shadow passed inside of me:
     You hear your heart
         not that of mine.
I found it best to follow back
the well-worn path that’s cut around.
I did not hear then a voice
there was no other voice but mine –
just jumbled words set in my mind
like taking sun and sending roots, like
softening ground and healing scars,
flowers dying, weed fields thriving. Who
can say where words come from
but now I really want to know
did Moses ever think to go
back to bush to watch for fire
and hear the holy words again?
He did not deign to verify,
went down to Egypt, back to reeds,
to sea, to Sinai, but for me:
What I know I know too well, like
what the ways of science tell,
so some fall soon I will return.
I’ll go back armed with leather bound
field guide to flora, open mind to watch 
weeds. Perhaps I’ll learn their proper names –
the way cool starry night fuzzy top vine
must be known to a branch of botany. Perhaps
I'll catch the roar, and this time listen
to the silence inside.
[portrait of Bob Ambrose by David Noah]

"And then a hot dog made him lose control" - Rob White

"And then a hot dog made him lose control" - Rob White


I like to think that I'm a thinker

I ponder and philosophize and wonder about the way of things

I struggle with the epic problem of mankind's direction

Where we're going and who we're going to be

There's hope there despite the darkness

But one bit of painful mystery stands between us and nirvana


What the fuck is a hot dog?

This be-breadded abomination

This dick-shaped tube of pig lips, rat guts and God's regret


Woe is man that we could create such a thing

Proving further that we have strayed from the pure light of creation

And into the infernal morass of "why the fuck not?"


It is neither a dog nor is it often hot

It's just a cylinder of sadness cradled between halves of ugly white loaf

Would it be any better if it were actually dog?

Surely we'd balk at consuming our quadrupedal best friend

So why in the hell do we name this salty meat after them?

What's wrong with hot goose?

The geese are nature's assholes, so why should we feel guilt at naming our culinary mistakes after them?


This unholy meat is so bland and non-descript that we have to slather it with other shitty substances in order to disguise the self loathing we must feel for having created such a thing.

We adorn these substances with fun and pithy names such as "chili" or "relish" to disguise the fact that every bite brings a pang of existential doubt

"Why am I eating this shit?"

"Why am I covering it in liquids bearing the hue of the crayons my five year old eats?"

"What has happened to my life and am I a slave to the fickle whims of predetermination?"


My biggest question, perhaps, is this:

Is my fate, indeed, already sealed?

For I know that come Labor Day, or June or before

I'll be standing on some middle-class white dude's back porch

Talking shit about local politics I do not know shit about

And wondering when the meat's done


I'll forget this epiphany of life's promised light

Held ever out of reach behind the adequate convenience

Of this rolled up, grease-covered decepticon posing as a sausage

I'll scoop it up and pop it on a paper plate, careful not to spill my solo cup


For a brief instant, I'll hear the wisdom of my greater angel whisper in my ear asking why?

Why must man destroy itself?

Why can we not cast down our chains and transcend the prison of consciousness?


I will tell that voice to shut the hell up and pass the mustard.

"For the twice dead" - Gail Tyson

"For the twice dead" - Gail Tyson

Fog wraiths sweep across the road,
swathe our car, headlights hurdling
two-lane blacktop past Amish farms,
shuttered taverns, towards our hotel.
Grudge-hoarder, phone-slammer, my mother
sleeps five miles and five years away.
Her mind, riddled with holes, has made
us whole, can no longer dredge up times
I enraged her, thinks the remote
is a phone. Tonight I’ll listen
to my husband breathing, recall
all those who died to me before:
fellow travelers who swore they’d stay
in touch, best friends who moved too far—
kinship stretched eggshell-thin until
the day I hear, by chance, they are dead—
and her, the parent who cut me off.
Tomorrow we will roll away
affronts that entombed regret, years
wasted that nonetheless thickened
my soul, that help me bear our coming
together, her coming death,
that make love denser than before.

"Surrender" - Eugene C. Bianchi

"Surrender" - Eugene C. Bianchi
“…there’s nothing wrong with impermanence, suffering
and egolessness; they can be celebrated. Our fundamental
situation is joyful.”  (Pema Chodron, “When Things Fall Apart”)
Disappointment and anger on a cold afternoon
when we arrive to do a poetry program
the cultural director neglected to schedule.
It may be why I chose a dark Christmas blend
to shake the blues at a favorite Starbucks reading
Chodron on unfounded joy.
Death ahead is all around our shaky traces,
much as we deny it even in old age…
rather than criticize, we reschedule,
because who knows the pressures on the director?
Better to feel our feelings and let go,
aware of brokenness and compassion . . .

"Ode to Browsing the Web" - Marcus Wicker


"Ode to Browsing the Web" - Marcus Wicker

Two spiky-haired Russian cats hit kick flips
on a vert ramp. The camera pans to another

pocket of  the room where six kids rocking holey
T-shirts etch aerosol lines on warehouse walls

in words I cannot comprehend. All of this
happening in a time no older than your last

heartbeat. I’ve been told the internet is
an unholy place — an endless intangible

stumbling ground of false deities
dogma and loneliness, sad as a pile of shit

in a world without flies. My loneliness exists
in every afterthought. Yesterday, I watched

a neighbor braid intricate waves of cornrows
into her son’s tiny head and could have lived

in her focus-wrinkled brow for a living. Today
I think I practice the religion of  blinking too much.

Today, I know no neighbor’s name and won’t
know if  I like it or not. O holy streaming screen

of counterculture punks, linger my lit mind
on landing strips — through fog, rain, hail — 

without care for time or density. O world
wide web, o viral video, o god of excrement

thought. Befriend me. Be fucking infectious.
Move my eyes from one sight to the next.

Marcus Wicker was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He is the author of Silencer (2017) and Maybe the Saddest Thing (2012) and is the poetry editor of Southern Indiana Review. He is assistant professor of English at University of Southern Indiana. "Ode to Browsing the Web" originally appeared in Poetry.

Haiku and Senryu

before she leaves for work
a toothpaste flavored kiss

tattooed granny
butterflies, flowers, and a ball of yarn
with needles 

though she’s long gone
he still puts the toilet seat
back down

David Oates is the host of Wordland, a radio show of poetry, stories and comedy. His "Night of the Potato" is a collection of poems and short stories. Haiku collections are "Shifting with My Sandwich Hand," "Drunken Robins" and the upcoming "The Deer's Bandanna." Oates is the former editor/publisher of "Monkey" Magazine and slammaster of the Athens GA Poetry Slam. He is a creative-writing teacher and a performance poet.