FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 2001

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Gillian Brown (2)
Jessica Moore (2)
Annie Clifford
Paromita Admikari
Erin Whitmore
Wesley J. Furlotte
Aaros
Morgan Dambergs
Angelene T. Hutt (2)
Laura Kingdon
Sarah “Felloway” Feltham
Lauren Kirshner
Stephen O’Brien
Solange Hupe (2)
Nicholas Munroe
Steven Wendland

Prose

Valentyna Galadza
Neil Terry

Drawings and Photos

Marybeth Carty (3)
Emily Comeau
Jessica Moore (2)
Peter Herbert Langille (2)

[PDF]

Gillian Brown

 

First Prize -

Elevator Girl

At the blaze of Eighteen
She went to work at the Georgia Hotel
Free at last.
Lying that she was an Old Hand at elevator operating...
Her skirt shorn off at the Style
The Others gazed covetously upon her
Wondering why she should be the Chosen One,
How she slid under the Tyrant’s
Watch.

The Drunks scoured their sins in alcohol
Reborn to slippery fingers – the World a New Toy –
­Faithless, Fading Man’s version of Christmas Morning,
Beyond the Cold Apple-Pie Gaze of the Wife.

Leveling, leveling...

All in all must depend upon Elevator Girls
In Wine and Golden trimmed Uniforms

In glinting Mirrored and glossy Wainscotted Cage
All in all must sell their Soul to the Elevator Girl
Of the Georgia Hotel

            Up                     Up

They slid            and   -       Slid          and

            Down                   Down

Where she stops...Nobody knows...

At midnight Hades in the Basement Burned,
Cut off from the Carriage, Cut Off.
It was Written that no Sinner should Rise to the Heavens Tonight,
Let them hammer that button as long as they like...

                                   Lobby that was on the Level
                               the
                            to
                     Stairs
              Treacherous
          the
    Climb

For Mortals and Demons might Rise alike
Out of that Good Night.
Limbo of glossy floors and Gold-chromed Porters.
Red-faced Rage flushing out dizzy brains and bellies

The Elevator Girl
Stood Stoic to Sexually Sinister Slime and (suffering)
That fell from fumbly limbs and poured out loose mouths

Until Evening Station

When she wouldn’t level it off quite Right
And trip the Fool onto lush and sober carpets
Through Gates of Wrought Iron,
A Teensy Taste of Sweet Revenge...
‘Oh, Pardon Me!’

One time Glenn Gould came
To the Georgia Hotel
And cast his Bright Shadow
Upon shiny floors
That Resisted - with Wax and Magic –
­All ghosts of Footsteps
And she raised him, all in Black,

            Up                     Up

Brought him          -             and
And brought him

            Down                   Down

Wasn’t impressed until They told her to Be...

            Up                     Up

            and        -               and

            Down                   Down

For All must submit to the Lucid glance,
The soft, young Hand
Of the Georgia Hotel’s Elevator Girl

Leveling, leveling

All in all must Trust in God...
But first must Trust in their Elevator Girl.

 

Postcards of the Rift

Crushed like coke cans
Clanking through the streets -- the music of windy days
Grey, dead, blank-faced days ­-
You sent me postcards
Of each piece, a fragment you’d cut so carefully from me.
You took a photograph of each.        
Sent me postcards of my fingers, eyes, teeth, ears, droplets of blood, little bits of bone
- each morsel severed, preserved in perfect bits ­-
I stared and stared and couldn’t look away ­-
You fucking whore! (but I’m not angry)

How did you feel when your fascist Hay-Day came,
And you, too, got to burn the Books? (you sent me postcards)
I read them in the shadows of a snowy Czech winter
And broke my ribs weeping (I, who never wept)
Ate frozen pizza, cold but burned on the bottom from the frying pan (the oven was broken)
Glad I could be your object. Glad I could give you a murky place to shed your skins in.
Still I loved you (whore! traitor!). Cut into the rage and let it bleed out.
You have made a vicious cynic of me, sweet papery-thin love.

Wondering what the fuck am I doing here?
Gliding backwards on trains, listening to footsteps in corridors - trees glide by the windows in
       dancing light - close my eyes - on then off.
Writing poetry in the pathetic midnight fast-food department stores, treating
       drunks to cheeseburgers and milkshakes (Everybody wants the American Dream!)
And all I want to do is bite deep into my (our) delusions and never come up for air.
(Lord) I miss you.

Sets of Amsterdam parks and strangers to turn about in my fingers
An Israelite draws a portrait of me on a cardboard coaster when I’m not looking ­

Seagulls like cherry blossoms scattering, glinting in the air.
(I slept on a bed made of couch cushions) and set gifts upon a desk (a sad little circus)

Postcards of eighteen

       Searching and crackling newspapers in my hands. Dreaming of seventeen:

Postcards of the Rift.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul