The multilingual, multicultural online journal and community of arts and ideas. There's a heaven above you, baby.



We wander the ghost lanes of
our lost souls, coat collars turned
up against the blistering cold.
There is nothing left to gamble.
All bets were off, for us, a long
time ago. Time is all that’s left,
It’s the kind one serves like a
prison sentence.
We huddle beside the Mission,
smoke caged cigarettes, wait for
it to open: prayer, meal, lights out
at ten, spectral dreams with
phantom men.
Prayer? What is there to pray for?
Tomorrow we will rise slowly,
as from a graveyard like dead men,
and haunt the world again.

Key in the wrong door, maybe it will open
to something better?
I hear two doors close behind the locked one
The sound is final, my visit done.
I grew up near a race track, horses, dogs.
All the races were fixed.
There was a sign staked near the entrance
someone hammered into the ground.
“Jesus Finds The Lost.”
Lost bets I wondered?
No, the lost find Jesus, I concluded.
Not as good as scoring money but they
have to win something.
I’ll end this poem with a conversation
with a homeless person.
“Are you lost?” I ask him.
“I’m homeless. Can you spare some
“Maybe. I’m writing a poem. So far
it has no meaning. I was hoping you could
give it some.”
“You want meaning from a bum?”
“I’ll take it from anyone.”
“You need the right key to open the right
door. If you never find that key you’ll
be locked out forever.”
I gave him some change anyway.

    Random Intimacies

    On the weekend at my favorite coffee shop, I would see the same woman working, who greeted me with a smile and some friendly comment. She didn’t know my name. I didn’t know hers. She became a fixture in my Sunday morning, knowing my cup and what goes in it, she asked where I was heading, where I live, told me where she lived and that she sometimes walked to work.

    During the week, I frequent different places; the same coffee shop chain as the Sunday shop, just different locations depending on where I’m heading each day. Each one features its own cast of employees and customers, each, like me, with their own story.

    Over the months, the weekend visits that included the cheery woman became normal, just a part of my Sunday, which really was focused on my taking my young nephew for “our” time, me with my usual shots of espresso on ice, his frozen concoction. He and I knew that we would probably be served by the happy gal, and even though we never spoke directly to it, it seemed understood that she was as part of our routine as the drinks.

    As life goes, someone alerted me that the woman had gone into a coma associated with advanced cancer that I never knew she was struggling with. She was expected to die within 48 hours, which she did. The wave of sorrow that hit me was as unexpected as hearing the news: after all, I didn’t even know her name, so why that would trigger anything but mild feelings of distant sorrow for her, or her family perhaps, was a surprise. I thought about the times I conversed with her husband outside the shop, introducing our respective family dogs. I found out her name, and that she and her husband had three children along with the dog, and that they lived in the house that years before had offered their yard to a float that didn’t make the grade for the local Independence Day parade. I saw the collective sorrow of her colleagues, who went through the pulling of espresso shots like robots with tears streaming down their faces. And I cried while trying to talk to my nephew about life and death and people and random relationships that form while we’re not paying attention.

    So back to a different shop, where groups formed around some random guy who held spirited conversations with whomever was around. He brought his big furry dog every day and tied him to the shop’s fence while inside he was holding court and waxing philosophical, or political, or social, psychological, whimsical. I knew the dog’s name, but not the guy’s. Nearly each of the days that I started my morning at this particular place, I could count on seeing them there.

    One morning, I was barely out of my car when the man rushed to me and shouted from ten feet away, “MY DOGGY DIED.” And he broke into tears. I felt compassion, and listened as he sobbed and spoke to his loss. I realized that my reaction was not just obligatory, but heart-felt. Curiouser and curiouser.

    I offered a hug, instinctively as an animal lover but also because of this strange nothing of a relationship that still made me teary-eyed as I went into the store. The employees at this store, who also know my drink and my cup but not my name, asked how my morning was going, and looked deeper as they may have noted the tears..

    I collected my drink, headed back to my car, and began my day post-coffee-shop. I would think about the guy and his dog, and the cheery woman at the other shop who died and left a hole in her friends’ and family members’ lives, and it got me to thinking how strange it is that we become intimate with people whose names we don’t know, whose houses we have never been to or would likely ever go to, whose families and friends we didn’t know, whose histories we have no part of yet with whom we are inextricably linked. Via espresso. Via location, interests, common steps we share.

    If I am a microcosm in the vast planet of people, I would venture that we all carry our own unique set of intimate relationships that we don’t necessarily or immediately recognize. It is the random quality that makes it easy to relegate those moments, events or relationships to the mundane or unimportant. Yet the way we touch others or are touched come in surprise packages. In a collective sense, as part of the teeming intricate concept that defines humanity, we are ultimately and simply not alone.

      The Hunger Games

      Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH
      “No Names” play the hunger games
      (not movie stars, not athletes, nor
      heroic challengers). Forget about Hollywood
      and its glam girl/glam guy health club figures,
      who can hurl spears, throw knives, shoot
      arrows, with the aid of their doubles, and
      face down trouble without out a blink,
      after all,
      victory is written in the script, or there
      would never be a popcorn selling sequel to any
      of this idiotic Rambo bullshit.

      Down and out ghetto dwellers are the real
      hunger sufferers.
      Slum, barrio, hood, backstreet inhabitants,
      trying to put a meal together, pay the rent,
      are the actual hunger games combatants.

      Crouched in fear, as the latest purge draws
      near, the child, mother, sister, brother,
      father, uncle, aunt, grandparent, waits
      for the next cuts in Medicaid, unemployment
      compensation, whatever else can be withheld
      or eliminated from the less fortunate of the
      nation: food stamps, educational grants,
      raising the minimum wage to something a
      family could live on for a change, as well as
      that distain for the hard times that come
      to those living in a slum – crime, fires,
      random dangers, sweltering summers, deadly
      winters, denial, destruction, as if poverty was
      a justified punishment.

      No name, no face, no voice, no choice –
      no heroes in this hunger game.
      OK, now and then an Orwell, London, Spinoza,
      Van Gogh, Gauguin, innumerable other
      luminaries ahead of, or out of sink with, their
      time, who are famous now but were, and
      sometimes stayed, starving nobodies. Like
      Nietzsche who lived in a cheap room and died
      in an asylum without a nickel or a friend.
      (One could go on and on about these genius sad
      sacks who, through no fault of their own and no
      dearth of effort or talent, couldn’t feed their families
      or pay the rent).
      Like Pissarro, my art teacher’s favorite painter,
      who would have died impoverished and unknown
      if he hadn’t become, by chance, a key witness in
      the famous Dreyfus treason trial and painted,
      in his 19th century French witness protection
      program, Paris street scenes from the second
      story window of his government supplied cheap
      hotel room (actually more like a prison cell
      because they would not let him leave it until
      the trial was over) – a viewpoint that had
      (oddly) never been done before and instantly
      caught on, and made him, in his last years, a
      small and totally unexpected fortune –
      everyone had to have one – just people who
      suffer misery and pain and shame, and oddly
      from many, blame.

      Today the summer sun sparkles across the
      land, oceans, rivers, lakes and ponds.
      A soft breeze blows. White clouds float.
      Tree leaves rustle. Life is beautiful in the
      other America – like the dazzling shapes
      and colors in a picture book: the majestic
      purple mountains, the amber waves of grain
      Those who live here are the winners of the
      hunger games. They never had to play them.
      Bad luck has never visited them.

      Then there are those who forget or are
      egocentric enough to actually think that they
      pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, or
      have bought into the Hollywood-style illusion
      of heroics. Especially if they can, in this
      Romantic view of things, use it to puff out
      their own little chests.
      What saps!

        Philadelphia Magazine

        First Friday Roundup: #phillytype, Corner Store, Meltdown, and More
        BY MARQUESA ROTUSKI | JUNE 6, 2014 AT 9:09 AM

        Our guide to what’s worth browsing this First Friday.

        “Meltdown” by Rex Sexton
        Award-winning Philadelphia based artist and writer, Rex Sexton, will be featured at 3rd Street Gallery this Friday. Sexton’s works are dreamlike and filled with emotion, and his newest exhibition is no exception. “Meltdown” focuses on the struggles of the last few decades, the feelings of angst behind conflict and hostility, while also capturing the hope of better times to come. June 6th, 5-9 p.m., 3rd Street Gallery, 45 N. 2nd Street.

          The Running Man

          The Howl

          My military stint in D.C. bordered on Twilight
          Zone lunacy.
          Federal agents shadowed me. There were 3rd
          degree interrogations by the C.I.A. as well
          as background checks, psychological tests,
          interviews with the Pentagon’s assorted
          military brass.
          I was just a draftee. They wanted to train
          me for a job that required a Top Secret
          security clearance, absolute loyalty, and at
          least a year of specialized and complex
          Better than ‘Nam & getting shot or
          bombed. I was against their war. I resented
          being a prisoner. It was that or jail. D.I.A
          was better than sitting in a cell.
          I lived off post in a downtown D.C. flop
          not far from the White House.
          I couldn’t live on post with all that
          spit and polish.
          It was a sleezy cluster of backstreet dives
          and dumps, by the Greyhound station,
          filled with cheap rooms, pawnshops,
          seedy bars, strip joints, porno book
          stores, winos, druggies, muggers, pimps
          and whores.
          On army pay it was all I could afford.
          Below the Mason, Dixon line it often
          was too hot to sleep. I sat one night on my
          tenement rooftop smoking cigarettes, sipping
          Jack hoping I would crash. I had to get up
          early, catch a bus to my post, change into
          my class A uniform at the barracks, report
          for duty, study photo images shot from space,
          try to decipher what they meant in the scheme
          of things.
          Suddenly military choppers filled the air.
          You couldn’t do this in Chicago, the buildings
          are too tall.
          They swept the midnight streets with their
          They circled, crisscrossed, went back and forth.
          Below them was a swarm of cops, chasing
          through the deserted blocks.
          Five floors below and two blocks down, I
          spotted the Running Man – that’s how
          I always thought of the guy I saw futilely
          fleeing for his life – arms pumping, head
          thrown back, chasing back and forth like
          a rat in a trap. He was a husky man, athletically
          built, dressed in a gray, three-piece suit.
          Was he a saboteur? A spy maybe?
          An informer perhaps? He didn’t rob a
          Seven/Eleven to create all that
          I wanted him to get away, drop down a
          sewer, disappear behind a secret door.
          I wanted him to do a vanishing act. He was
          running hard, but he was running out of gas.
          Was I rooting for the underdog? – Maybe,
          but we are all Running Men aren’t we?
          Running for our lives, running from our lives,
          running from the Man, running from death,
          which will get us in the end.
          Suddenly the choppers flew away.
          The cops went away.
          There was nothing about the Running
          Man in the news the next day.

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