Flying Island

Today (July 2) would have been the 86th birthday anniversary of Richard Pflum, a longtime fixture in the Indianapolis poetry community. He died on March 15. Several friends and colleagues honored him by submitting poems. Dick, as close friends called him, was a founding member of the Writers' Center of Indiana (now Indiana Writers Center). He ran the semi-monthly Poetry Salon, a feedback group for poets, and emceed the monthly An Evening With the Muse, which featured a guest poet and an open mic. He loved to frequent open mics in the city, often garnering respect from spoken-word artists. His collections of poetry include  Richard Pflum: A Dream of Salt (Raintree Press), A Strange Juxtaposition of Parts (Writers' Center Press, Indianapolis), The Haunted Refrigerator and Other Poems (Pudding House Press), Listening With Others: Poems Under the Musical Influence (The Muse Rules), and Some Poems to Be Read Out Loud: New and Selected Poems (Chatter House Press). Besides poetry,...

The Circumference of Our Extremities by George Kalamaras A similar account noted enlarged inguinal glands. It suggested acquiring the slight height advantage of a spider monkey. The head louse found on scalps of Native American mummies is distinct from that of our    modern heads, but no one knows why. Might an insufficient malady require a quantity of forced religious affliction? Asclepius, son of Apollo, discerned a fatal epidemic of typhus among the upper of the lower    classes. Let me inscribe the boils on your back with a voice that respects each of our own family    histories. Yes, it’s Sunday. Yes, examining sputum, stools, and urine may not bring us closer to a why    and a how come , but it may show us how we portion ourselves out. The complex system of everyone’s difficulty makes possible the circumstance of our    extremities. We call the Aphrodite species of worms sea mice , due to their appearance. Fan worm...

Old Scars and Parasites by George Kalamaras Let me return to the arctic fox. The walruses off the coast of East Greenland molt their skin each August to rid themselves      of old scars and parasites. I wish it were as easy to begin each day. I wish I could leave the imprint in the bed, not keep recalling depth by sleep.    The walruses can descend up to sixty feet to feed but, after five minutes, return to  the     surface for air. I consider how the forest rishis mastered the breath and what else they must have learned      from the sad hair of trees. The roadside shadow billows with woodstove smoke. It has been a long spring, summer, and fall, fearing—as we have—the cold. Let me discern the arctic fox surviving on the spoils of bears. You can hear their whimpering a long way off, as if from the blood-stained snout of a     trapped fifth season. Bio: George Ka...

Manifest Destiny by George Kalamaras Feel free to induce me. Press your breath against my breath. Stick your finger down the lorikeet’s throat and expel the sleep medicines. Ask me for a blanket and I will produce a thread. We can each hold an end and vibrate a song in praise of pioneers. The Conestoga part of my heart can only let you in a little. I will gladly feed you beans and lard, watch the flames pony-prance untamed       shadows across your face. We have the same connective tissue inside our more-than-private bodies. It resembles a very long river, difficult to cross. If I were an antelope, you might be a prairie hare. If I a sheep, you, an Australian cattle dog. We have known one another throughout many incarnations. One time I came to you as lightning, you, the fierce, almost-soothing rain. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven chapbooks, including Kingdom of Throat-Stu...

The Sincerity of Thirsty Hermits by George Kalamaras Arenas of moray eels access my rich orange complexity. The sincerity of thirsty hermits is an abundant blue flesh. I am no one, if not nothing. Come to my ear and show me how to sign alive. You are more beautiful than a horoscope made of milk. You are lonelier than all the shoes outside a temple in India. My friend K approached his friend J and asked after S , M , and T . I knew the others peripherally, mostly because of my friends L and Z . Now the trains play backgammon on the track to Gabon. We’d all heard of the German professor eaten by cannibals near Brazzaville. If you want to acquire land in unnatural ways, sit in the dark hut of your heart. Ask yourself down through the diamonds and dead bodies of what you can only imagine      is loss. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven chapbooks, including Kingdom of Throat-Stuck L...

Today Is Close to Today by George Kalamaras In those days everything was more beautiful than everything else. We lived like souls soiling themselves into bodies. I once wished my name contained nothing but verbs. Yes, I was young, but no, I could keep still. If you poison me shy, my cluttered ease might salmon-spawn a flexible sacrifice. We defy the full moon like we might the seal skin of a cricket. You may conduct in my mouth any experiment you wish regarding deep sleep. I am perfectly content masticating indirect objects into prepositions. Of. Beyond. For. After. During which. I seem to always start by ending and close by some opening mouth. Sure, those days—long ago, now—almost seem like the old days. Today seems very close to today. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven chapbooks, including Kingdom of Throat-Stuck Luck, winner of the Elixir Press Poetry Prize (2011). He is Professor of English at Ind...

For the Not Yet Dead by George Kalamaras The other, the one who does not want to die. I must be absolutely sure of his name for I do not want to call him Nikephoros Gregoras or Georgias . His touch throughout the tiles of the house is that of the newly wed. And this reverence applies even to dust, an old coin, a fallen grain of quinoa that might contain pieces of moon. We are told that somewhere exists a pair of better hands. We don’t believe in hands, or even in the word We . We believe in Epsom salts. A softening from the bath. A woman is scarved in roses, dealing cards. The faces are blank, except the Jack of Pronouns, the Queen of Blades. They’ve finally come to remove the tree from the ground of this word or that. I must memorize its name, swirl of bark, totems in the unwept grain. Call it quinoa. Call it elm. Call its touch. back into my once lovely untouched mouth. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of p...