"I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" Painting By Rhiannon Yandell

Rockford, Illinois, is a great arts community. I've been proud to be part of it for 35 years now. Recently a "new artist" came to my attention. Her name is Rhiannon Yandell. The piece I'm posting here was from a show titled PROPAGANDA at the 317 Art Collective, and because of the subject matter is a departure from her signature style at Linear Chaos, which she describes as "Linear Chaos is abstract artwork using layers of line and color as an expression of the seemingly opposing ideas of structure and chaos coming together in life as well as on the canvas." If I didn't love this piece so much it would almost seem unfair to post it here as indicative of her style. I'll also post a few of her abstract pieces so you can get a true idea of her talent. 

"I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" by Rhiannon Yandell. The title is a reference to the movie The Stepford Wives, and also a call back to 1950's propaganda that encouraged women to eat more sugar in order to control their weight. 

                  "I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" by Rhiannon Yandell

I'd really like to encourage you to check out her abstract pieces at Linear Chaos because they are quite superb, and perfect for complimenting your design palette no matter the motif. She's also an artist I admire very much and hope to be able to collaborate with combining her visual sensibilities with some written word. 

                                                      "PSL Sucks" by Rhiannon Yandell

                                                   "Astral Prison" by Rhiannon Yandell

From a design perspective her work really just adds so much to a room. And her themes are so diverse and employ so many different color schemes that you're sure to find something perfect for whatever mood and theme you're trying to convey. So, please check out her website. And support your local artists. 

John Wiley

John Wiley writes about this poem: Most of my poetry is escapist, but "Murder/Suicide" is autobiographical (see link below if you're interested). I'm bipolar, as is most of my family. My brother was the odd one out with major depressive disorder. I'm way too close to this to know if the poem is any good, but it was good to write it.

Murder/Suicide                                                                   John Wiley

I. Friday, 9:50pm - The Phone Call

   Major Depressive Disorder 

+ Rx antidepressants

+ alcohol

+ unfaithful wife

+ firearms

= . . .

II. Saturday - My Kitchen

Walking around and around

my kitchen, 800 miles

away from yours, which is still

surrounded by crime scene tape. 

Did you think about it

or did you just do it?

Should we have one funeral

for you and your wife,

or tow?  Christ.

Murder for love, suicide for remorse?

Or were you just telling us all to fuck off?

III. Sunday - More Details

Infidelity, discovery, reconciliation,

twelve years, rediscovery:

she never stopped.

Just laid better cover.

Shit, shit, shit.

IV. Monday - The Airport

There are so many of us in the airport;

if you put us all together,

we must be going everywhere.

V. Tuesday - Your Kitchen - Eight Bullets

One bullet through one bar stool,

and into another one.

One in the floor.

One through the refrigerator door,

and into the meat drawer.

(Not Present:

Wife: two bullets in the chest,

one bullet in the back,

one in the head.

You: one in the head.

She on one side 

of the kitchen island,

you on the other.)

I walk around and around

your kitchen island,

where your glasses sit 

next to a list I don’t read,

putting my fingers in the bullet holes.

VI. Wednesday - The Mortuary - Funeral Plans

Cremation for everybody.

Your grown children and your wife’s family

arrange her service at the church

you both attended every Sunday.

Our sisters and I arrange yours;

same church, different day.

VII. The Obituary

Our sisters want to say you loved your family.

Should we write that?

Why do I want to protect you?

We decide to put off writing for a while.

VIII. Memories

We ate at the same table for eighteen years.

We slept in the same room,

played with the same toys.

We liked some of the same girls.

We were each others’ best man.

If you haunt me tonight,

will I recognize you?

Or will I see your ghost and say,

“I don’t know you.

Wrong house.”?

Because I don’t recognize anything.

Not one thing.

IX.  (. . .)

X. Dreams

I’m walking around and around

your kitchen island

putting my fingers in the bullet holes

while every other memory of you

bleeds out.

Gone.

XI.  The Funeral

(I have enough money

to either fly out for the funeral,

or to scatter your ashes.

I choose ashes.)

Our sisters tell me:

Your pastor says you were saved

because you accepted Christ,

but won’t bless your ashes

and talks a lot about hell.

Fuck him.

XII.  On the Way to Scatter Your Ashes

There are so many of us in the airport;

if you put all of me together,

I must be going everywhere.

XIII.  The Police Report

Battering ram, S.W.A.T. team 

through the front door.

They clear the house.

There’s just you and her.

Information was collected and woven

into a more complete picture.

She took her boyfriend to the airport

and came back to end your marriage.

Well.  Emotional violence can be

just as fatal as any other variety.

Even-steven now?

How the hell should I know?

XIV.  How the Hell Should I Know?

Understanding, forgiveness;

are they the same thing?

If you have one,

do you automatically get the other?

How much understanding

does it take to have forgiveness?

Will I ever know?

Will I ever know anything?

XV.  I Always End Up Here

In my head, I’ll always be

walking around and around

your kitchen island

putting my fingers

in the bullet holes.

Maybe I can touch you that way.

I’ll look through those holes

trying to see you forever.

I miss you.

I love you. 

I’m sorry.

Three Poems By Robin Ray

Robin Ray, formerly from Trinidad & Tobago, resides in Port Townsend, WA. If being a gay, mixed race immigrant wasn't enough, he also discovered he was saddled with autism, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. A self-taught musician, novelist, screenwriter and poet, his works have appeared at Neologism Poetry Journal, Red Fez, Aphelion, Scarlet Leaf Review, Flash Fiction World, Spark, and elsewhere.

Sax and Violence

and for once

the heartbeat of a sax

is conceptualism

bebop’s golden reach

blue notes dangling

like chrysalis in the air

i feel my muscles hypertrophy

they call abstraction a sin

who’s who?

invest time in an invention

that subverts gravity

pulverizes matter

boxes its ear

sends it whimpering back

through the pines

could be time well spent

careful with those

acciaccaturas, bird

might behead somebody someday

maybe even me.

Tesla Had a Twin

the words between words are words

am   was is   rejoice!

one minus x = nightmare city

toss the ring   skirt the boss

ring the bones   nothing’s lost

cassiopeia bondaged again

500 tons of cocaine in her cleavage

wickedness blinds the deaf

the words between words are warring

troop stamp tramp sloop stomp

mace spear knave sword slave

he who breathes life into horror

drinks pain

electricity grinds its axe again

one plus x = sweet retirement

ante up

it’s all over.

Chloë is All Grown Up

she belongs to the nice

the 5th wave of opportune

the mystic ambrosia

accidentally cut bleeds ambivalence

naturally tanned

drunk off laughter

gracile in her touch

gloomy in ignominy

the opposite of love is transparency

bidding war / lottery / slot tournament

prize: her hand

results: no winner

perhaps just the bridge from which

her lonely heart was flung.

Surrealist Poems By Gregory Wallace

Gregory Wallace is a poet and artist living in northern California. He is author of The Return of the Cyclades. His work has appeared in Black Scat Review, BlazeVox, Danse Macabre, Sonic Boom, Clockwise Cat & Five 2 One. He has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and a Master of Arts in Creative Writing.

SLEEPING EARTH

women gatherers chloroform tulips cold unfolding

sleeping earth a sphinx behind night blood

like dust dolls around velocities

honeysuckle verified drift charcoal

urges shake sleep pillars watering sunken lines

raised surges trolley clinical the anti-now

shadow flows in universal horse cinder

microscopic to illuminate mist flame

cloud flower forbidden and

pale car curved your woman from glass direction

sometimes finger assassinate the sleeping police

nymphs enchanter on chestnuts

banner to lands with thermostatic clouds

princess child happily exposed snow space ashes

light birds of Night touch earth shadows

carbon crocodiles lances between distended rusting

SPRING SOLDIERS

Your glittering tree sack embroidered spring soldiers

pumpkin carpeted herring

emerald crowns with another women

hummingbirds passed angel whiteness from scepter in admirable tombstone

the frog hands in curve from curled secrets

diagonally pink her kisses trailing tinted pilots

snow eyes of gently noises glittering

boat wooden for Valhalla in eyes against slow red sunbeam helmet

on sky gas with aluminum wing

spectral lizard above anthracite blooms

wild armor legislation closed and angels canoe

across forest mist and procession by midnight sea

small emplacements under pink skeletons

glistering trees as cold breath of breached powder sunset

birth forbidden stones and small soul sets sleeping golden with glittering watering

Your silver secret serves small insect suit

shady stars wanders plastic edge

eye sunken with cinder or throat

the coffin of body is key tobacco

another fragile shake on princess painted child

cold early clouds places gold window on fleshy television

imperishable pebbles past cunning avenues

red moon sings of green nymphs brightness

phantom pauses leaning paper banner of replaced in sun bodies

STEEL FOR CROW IN EARTH

Steel for crow in earth

as girl blooms wind soul sets sail

between Tassels of magician when sailor poisoned on her travels

kills is crowns and the

hammering pulls honeysuckle across armor tinted pump

pink water colored vapor

earth in silver always rain

April sun past on rainbow/

poplars glide red and chasing fireworks

beneath guest islands gently snowing the body sleep

what are poppies crow ...

winged memory and midday noises to fell ghost swords

chimney in ghost shake under police echo

curved animal around grass and swabbed herring

sleep propped cornflakes on frozen zigzag

smiling chloroform replaced restless outcry in meadows multiform

restless microscopic fish perfumes

the touch from skirts hope for another perfumed flags

she kisses small birds every evening

feathers make cheeks her slow rising flame

mermaid milk in bare eyelids

lighted crystal comets and your animal hats snow off crows

CONCEAL HER LISTENING PURE

Borneo filled forest clouds beyond pillowed bodies

savage in grave with small curled tube

sentinels release curved for all pillars scalded

public following ring women and emerald sea garlands

or beautiful drift birds with small boulevards and icy procession

then night like glass snow by golden pilots

watering flames of animals radiant

gatherers of tombstone ardent with constellations

his coat unfolding clouds reborn

intimate frog pushing lily in palm pipes

loud umbrella offerings silent thunder angel

curlew glides against the steel cat

ashes warming lizard boxes with crows

my monoxides girls burnt the gently painted sea

a pink shop shudders in flames over cactus  

foam finger adorned phosphorescent lines

carbon shines like aluminum skeletons painted by sherbets

trolley in quivering noises

enchanter ambled rays of fireplace arches

labeled tyrannical cloud white as sack ember

FLAMING STEPS

Flaming steps spot shining rooster

lion pool not already listening to cluster

horizon on background of lozenges

multiplication table bit  the creamy mountain

and can you hear rain?

elevating gasoline would singe fluttering situation

rafters drizzle heron sweeten

air dangers as bluebird springs light woods

distracted poets just compare charming flamingos

every deadly hummingbird devoted giddiness with climbing

in what different owls labors is raining inward

plural street arrive advance that very resolution

screams little seeds and come the smaller end

and more sexy in the speed of falcons

sometimes they linger in stone problems

rain descends in tubes that looks to the blotter

choice of trouble is circle of eternally thickened stamp

attentive polygon avoided curls from head behind you hair

bright skull listens to morning eggshell

a terrible cypresses bent on spectators brought cheese

Desdemona shining interior located rectilinear future