From the current issue: Aubrey Barnes. "Black Like Me"

Let me tell you a fact about myself
That almost everyone I meet feels the need to remind me
I am black
I’m so black that I make Micheal Blackson not seem so
Black, son
I’m so black that in a game of laser tag
I should be permitted to keep my
Eyes open and and teeth showing
Otherwise i’d be cheating
I’m so black that you would swear that i’m a vampire
Because when i’m in photos with no flash
All you see floating clothes
I’m so black that when i’m out for a run
People look at me in jaw dropping awe
Speechless that I’m moving so fast
They mistaken me for the Flash
But, he’s a white superhero
So that’d never happen
Instead they look at me in grandiose curiosity
Asking
“Sir, are you from Africa?”
I’m so black that when I mention that I like to watch basketball
People roll their eyes
To a point that i’d swear their brain rolled right along with them
But when I go to games in cities such as Geneseo
You would swear that I walked into the Gymnasium in my underwear
The way people silently over stare
At
The odd black man at a basketball game
He must be here for a girl
Or to cause some trouble
Maybe we should make eye contact
When he doesn’t make eye contact
But if he makes eye contact
When we make eye contact
He’ll knock our eye contacts
Out
Let’s just not make any contact
I am so black
That my teammate in college was stricken with fear at my appearance
But when he heard that my speech was “politically correct”
And my posture stood erect
He breathed out in great calm
Because it was evident that I was
White
So white that I make Carleton look like Tupac
So white that I mistaken Malcolm X’s name
For Malcolm the Tenth
I am so white that my all white friend, from an all white college
In an all white city told me
“You aren’t like the black people on TV”
When I go to the gym to play basketball
People run to me for a challenge
And leave victor
With an easy scored 21
To my hard toiled 16
Saying “you must not have inherited the genes”
But when it comes to these sixteens
I'm sweet like i'm sixteen
Addictive like nicotine
Spittin fire like kerosene
And you know what friends say to me?
“Oh my gosh, you actually are black!”
So I am black
But I am White
Or maybe people are just color blind
Shutter blinds closed to any sunny possibility of a no label society
Globular organs shrouded with stereotypical presumptions
Assumptions derived from contrived corruptions
Making these ideas of “acting black” and “acting white” alright
But it’s not alright if you’re white acting black
Or black acting white
Well it is okay
Just know we’re going to give you a hard time
When you forgot your belt at home\
And your pants a little
We’re going to say you’re dressing black
But when its around your waist and nicely fit
We’re going to then say you’re dressing ‘white’
Kind of like how Pharisees
Those religious leaders you hate
Judged good and evil by what they perceived with their eyes
Instead of looking into the heart that lies
When Eloheim said there is no Jew nor Gentile
Nor male or female
I believe if he stood in the midst of our color coded community
He would say there is no black nor white
I’m exactly what I was destined to be
An oddity and comedy
Laughable because giggling only makes sense of something that doesn’t make sense
A black acting white
A white acting black
An oxymoron prone to give minds
Prone to labels panic attacks
I mean when was the last time
You went to an ice cream parlor
Anticipating all flavors to be same?
That’d be lame
Just like a world full of agents
Trapped in a Matrix
The Neos bring change
Something out the norm
So i’ll forever say i’m
The paint splashes in a padded room
That can’t be cleaned by swiffer, rag or a broom
I am what I am because I Am said I am
So you see
It's not that I am whiter than you
Or you're blacker than me
But we're the same
Human beings bearing the same beautiful image
So in the end
I’m white like you
And you’re black like me


Watch Aubrey perform this poem.

New Issue Cover, Featured Authors, and Samplers

NEW ISSUE COMING SOON!

We are finalizing ads for the magazine and sending out writer's contracts soon and will have a new issue out hopefully within a month. Featured in this issue will be poetry, fiction, and nonfiction/academic work by:

X. H. Collins
Cody Sanderson
Sal Marici
Aubrey Barnes
Melanie Hanson
Farah Marklevits
Margie Mejia Caraballo 
Thomas McKay
Laura Winton
Misty Urban
Kenneth Darland
Michael Thomas Kelly
Megan Lee




We will also feature photos from our participation in 100,000 Poets for Change from 2014 and 2016, from our Coin-Op semi-monthly open mic, and some Exquisite Corpses written around town.

We want to thank our advertisers so far, The Artery, Theo's Java Club, Spellbound, and the Midwest Writing Center for their contributions. We want to thank Quad City Arts for their ArtsDollars grant, Neighborhood Laundromat for letting us use their space for the Coin-Op Readings, and Western Illinois University for their participation in 100,000 Poets for Change as well as copying and posting our color flyers for Coin-Op.

Anti-Gravity by Danielle Billington

Anti Gravity

To live and be loved by shooting stars and by gravity.
Pleading, violent and full repressed, please, feel noctuary
manipulations, silvery wet wantings and dreamings, ambiguity.

Ideas, images of sound become your hush lullaby actuality.
Silent silvery white…such beautiful and temporary…
To live and be loved by shooting stars and by gravity.

Thrashing in the dark underneath covers, reaching for affinity
out and falling, reaching out and ending, binary
manipulations, silvery wet wantings and dreamings, ambiguity.

You are my dying dream falling and floating-anti gravity
the hundredth story, hitting the hard concrete of your leaving.
To live and be loved by shooting stars and by gravity.

Deep and abiding dying dream falling and floating-anti gravity.
Heart spiraling echoes decrease my hearts murmur,
to live and be loved by shooting stars and by gravity.

Growing thinner, tiny loops of repeating energy, atomicity
blowing words, hush …
To live and be loved by shooting stars and by gravity.
Manipulations, silvery wet wantings and dreamings, ambiguity.

These two poems are by Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhran, of Oakland, California at the time we published them, several years ago. They are not formatted exactly as they were in the mag when we originally published them. Go to the website at http://karawane.homestead.com to view the original publication they were in and to see them in their full glory!

I really really liked this poetry very much.



lessons in excavation



for Sandra Maria Calvo & Maria Mazziotti Gillan


although it is true i have been "american" for six and four and three generations

i have been irish and german jewish and arab spanish and african far longer

my roots there in europe the middle east nord afrika and the mediterranean



(across an ocean twice traveled and even more removed)



are much deeper stronger thicker

than these mere branches thin and weak shallow

and overshadowing the ground upon which i was born

check the soil below they run for miles

those above their distance measured

in only feet and inches



(perhaps it is best this way)



in winter the leaves fall

the thin branches grow thinner gnarled and grey

matching the sky above indistinguishable



(to some the tree would appear dead)



luckily

there are still those of us

who know the truth of things

who know the benefits beyond shade

who know other ways of living beyond the grey

who know what lies beneath the surface and

who still dare



to dig


(previously published in The Hammer)






la lengua of love



for JV



my love for u es multilingue many-tongued washing

over u with each wave of appreciation this gift of

sharing u n yr body with me wetness n warmth

heat hot springs from the ocean floor always

returning wave upon wave of undulation

always finding ourselves on each

other's shores with no course

back nor wanting any

nor wanting any


(previously published in Mizna)

Coin-Op Poetry

So, we have started a poetry reading at a local laundromat in the Quad Cities. We have been going for a couple of months and we had our best turnout the Monday before Thanksgiving. We are going to have another reading this week, Monday December 5th, then we will break for the holidays and start back up on Martin Luther King day, the third Monday in January.

Here is a flyer for the event and also some pictures from two of our previous Coin-Op Readings.

Art Durkee, Issue 7

reading a life by Art Durkee


by a single lamp
the man standing naked
his skin wrapped in words
swirling in seven languages
rapt in the book he reads
writing himself into lists, one thousand
years old, somehow still new:
"everything indigo is exquisite"
does the flower, the paper, the ink
know he worships them: their vibrancy?
it matters only to the ribs
inflating releasing the words
"lovers" and "hijau" and "spice"
and "arigato"
and "sleep" written in the thighs
the word "golden" in Greek letters
spread across his breast
his arms spiraled with poems
to hymns to mirrors to trains, dark
terrors he had as a boy
now read in books he treasures
a library of intentions, inscriptions,

Two poems by Jim DeWitt ca 1999

These are two poems by Jim DeWitt in Issue 5, 1999, back when we were still Voices From The Well.


Middle Night Courage Needed

Know that there's only one low-watt bulb
crouching up inside my pullchain lamp. How it strains to
chew away some smidgen of surrounding roomdark.

Listening close, you might hear its valiantness-for-its-
size penetrating out into sections of the blackest
speckles swarming in to surround it.

Pressuring shadow morphs that do seem snarly
stubborn. Ever angrily swirling back, determined to
overwhelm my little dim-glo bulb, break its spirit.

And right from the veryinstant of my switching it
on, Bad-Old-Blackness has flexed its long shadowed
other self. Seeming much more than just-somewhat
disturbed out there . . .

After Six Hours Suspension

Something stirs you awake. You rise out of cozy
comforters but sight tells you you are too soon for the
coming sun. Curious, you peek out the blind's chink as if
bent on catching night with one of its secrets.

None are seen moving, so stealth helps to place
your body back in. Sinking beautyrest, it calls on that
same something which woke you to reverse-gear you into
more of that temporary suspension soft . . .

21 Scenes by Will Roby

This is from Issue 7, originally published in 2002.


21 Scenes

1 ---

paralyzed, i wouldn't
put
it past you.
Both golden Holy
Arms stuck
standard
and Permanent
to your side.
there's a hole there.

2 ---

gorgeous is
300 lb. redneck
or
everyboy with
blonde hair
Prepping for Proms.
gorgeous = beautiful
dates on thick
chickengrease arms.
beautiful arms
nailed
w/Holy Cross letter
jackets.

3 ---

my Crucifix cried, well
my old lady's
crucifix
cried, but the tears
weren't colored.
as young
Negroes playing in this
sandbox. only
the dirt is Red.
Nails full of dirt.

4 ---

only
outed
couple, gay girls
much pierced, pleasant
"newness of
you"
but
they seem infrequent.
kissing hands
only, the
courting Lesbians.

5 ---

ohhh i could have been
Poem King
of this castle, with
my pen, but
the
little women with thick
necks are all in
BrightWhite.
Pretty Woman, there
must be a Prom.

6 ---

in BeaumontTexas
there's Peroxide rain
cancer
and smoke. how we
ever
have
time to eat or
breathe
i don't know.
but, in America
it rains
and cars slide.

7 ---

grey shirts grow
soon if
buried overnight in Beaumont.
soil, much bled on
and composted
to grow
easy
breezes, someone's wearing
my
grandmother's perfume.
this
to
sniff over coffee.

8 ---

tempted tonight to take
ten lines and
touch Teresias (old
oracle)
and be for a Halloween
the
holy space between
teen toes.
but a shoe
leather w/strap
taints tomorrow the
touching. She sweats.

9 ---

when it's time
abandon this table
and all hope. i'm hungry
but
i'm saving my cents
for books - only kid ever
with
glasses
third
grade
when the other kids
touched tits. i read.

10 ---

admit my mistake,
i
want a cigarette,
and
so
bad my ears ring.
oh, but
you don't smoke.
jesus drank wine
and
my friend Cris went
on a wagon.

11 ---

young kids have
broken
t-shirts and loud stereos
so my
goddamned head
hurts
and
my nose bleeds.
look, a spot of blood
7
on
my
shoelace.
makes red dirt.

12 ---

kid's crowns
are blonde
well
everyone is tuned
to the
same
radio station
and this town's
too
small
for broadband anything.
well.

13 ---

too many people
have too
few raincoats, so
that
if
a week is full of
rain
the fashion rules break.
a twig off
this tree turns
red
in muddy rain.

14 ---

so many new
lies
and the coffee
smells
like
money i flipped out
for a tip
out of
my
wallet once.
all the cars
are
electric blue.

15 ---

we wax cars
and
they stay dirty

16 ---

nouveau
is a difficult French
thing.
as a
concept or a
word
to spell.
art
is similar because
it's a
French complication.
we do it anyway.

17 ---

"Diana's dress"
drags dirt
in
decent
molecules
over the tile. her eyes
with a Red halo
lie
in the center
of her
Face.

18 ---

every man should
own
a pink dress shirt
or at least
a
pink tie.
every man should be
ready
to
look good
and pink.

19 ---

water
hangs in the cups
of Leaves.
it is summer
and there's an awful
wreck.
and i'm off
Balance.

20 ---

and the
car, starting,
splashes her thin
angel gown
in Diana's mud. i
clean it
with my inkpen.
"Are you ready?"

Epilogue ---

"he says he'll
pay
you
back."
"oh
my god, he
owes
me."
she smiles.

Prices and Flesh by James Oliver Smith

This was published in Issue 4, in 1998, when we were still Voices from the Well. There are some indentations that didn't come through onto the blog.


Prices and Flesh


Contact
with someone else
How I would love that
but at what price
what little white lies
would I have to
tell
what favors would I have
to lay out on the
table of my relationships
what balance sheet
would I have to
generate reports on
what body language
acrobatics
would I need to
demonstrate
in order to feel
the touch of flesh
It's all here
within my arms
within my mind
within my thoughts
ready to dispense to
the first taker
Unconditionally
unfiltered
unlimited
unmoderated
but the flesh is hooked to all the
social
Mechanics
of vanity and
industrial
efficiency
so my skin
settles
cold
in the lake of its own
passions

Moonlight by Lyle Daggett

This piece was originally published in Issue 5 in 1999.


Moonlight


a cello fills the room
with its mast and sail
dragonfly wings scratch
the sandpaper of night
vast fields of water
pour over the dam
the island
is swallowed by the river
car headlights at the corner
an empty street
a man sells newspapers
one light on upstairs
a fallen branch in the front yard
a truck has come
to haul it away.

Fundraising for a new issue!!

It has been soooooo long since we have published an issue of Karawane. I'm starting to get back into artistic pursuits and I feel like I finally have the energy to do an issue again. With websites like Kickstarter and Indiegogo, you can fundraise for things like money to actually put out an issue, for promotion, etc. I also need a couple of months to edit the magazine, put out calls for manuscripts, and things that I just cannot do while working 4 jobs! So toward that end, I am launching a fundraising campaign on Indiegogo. Please consider donating and if you can't donate, please forward this campaign on to other people who might be able to donate! I will put out a call for manuscripts probably in a month or two. We will also likely be looking for readers/an editorial board. We will put out a call on the blog and on our FB page. Your humble editrix, Fluffy

Manifesto of the Modern Woman

I did not set out to write about 9/11. In fact, I had been studiously avoiding it and all references. But still it comes out, even when trying to write about something else! So here are my thoughts, as usual, interspersed with other things, on the 10th anniversary.

I have been experimenting with using strikethoughs to show choices that I have made in the text, so I am using that technique publicly for the first time.



I am made up feelings, not memories. I do not live in the
past if pressed
I can summon(s)
the memories, remember the moment the men
in suits covered in soot slow as statues in hardening cement
walked up the streets the
disappearance of a building the
long lines to use the anachronistic pay phone in the park
sees and says strung together like tin cans
across states a continent but I prefer to let memories
fade in favor of feelings the tears that come forcefully on hearing
siren after siren after siren song the sun shining in my eyes
the darkness in my lungs the feeling of not taking abreath after breath.

I am made up of feelings that don't face of love anger courage.

I am a woman who is made of feelings once attached to memories that must fade, shed like an extra skin, an old layer, no so much to make me new, but a skin shed, no longer needed, so that can livebreathe.

Issue 8, 2003: He Had by Jennifer Triton

He Had

Jennifer Triton

no rhythm at all, but i
still sing his eyes like
jazz in my head, an
unstoppable blue, he was
perfectly sky in my
cloudy grey day, he was
sharp as angles, as
sweet as cider & warm
like sunset on brick, he was
cayenne pepper, the
terraced French Quarter,
all voodoo and Miles
rippling thru me- jazz
in my head, he was
mine, in my head he was
sharp with those eyes that
cut me wide, open I was,
honest I was, all angles
and sky he was
unstoppable blue, it was
sharp and unspoken this
bleeding between us this
jazz.

Leigh Herrick, Summer 1998: Poem for Judy Chicago

Poem for Judy Chicago

Leigh Herrick

I understand why the plates -- each
its own horizon, reaching across the dinner table --
And I understand the sexuality of shapes --
the point that these are women's plates, reflective,
each, its proper satisfaction reaching within itself,
announcing its presence, who it is, and who it speaks to --
at least in many of us -- and in you --
And I understand the pulse of expression,
the wave of art embracing the hand the soul
that insists on its existence
lets it move
sets it fee
lets it say it's here.
I understand why the plates, the table --
How very thoughtful to invite us all to dine
on the accomplishments of our predecessors.
Here, to come, to eat and never fill, to feed
without a single chew -- I understand necessity --
And I understand how, quietly, our bodies are the silent link,
still, to our grandmothers' china,
how the cups, saucers, and stemware of genetics and history,
of politics and culture, bear, inherently, our losses and
our gains.
I understand the bodies tied to life, Artemis unfurling
the umbilical flecks found within our ancestors' pottery.
There's fortitude in this communion. I understand
The Dinner Party.
Tied to the tide, swollen, swollen the soul of art.
We eat, drink what we are.
And in the long, tall halls that lead to the showing,
the talk is low beneath our energies.
We enjoy this supper of sounds
until, at last, all Heaven is astir, and all the angels
bent in whisper
that even God is jealous.