Cholla Needles, a poetry journal, has an interesting approach. They think of each issue as a collection of chapbooks -- roughly 10 pages of verse from roughly 10 poets per issue. "Stonewall Two" will be in their next Cholla Needles.
Stonewall Two
Her good sense, a windshield that had served her well, was shattered by hail the size of her fist. In that split second of surprise, her handbag launched itself at a cop. “You sneaky son of a bitch,” (it was her best Lady London) she snarled the instant her grip was empty, as though the cop were last month’s mugger in disguise. Years later, preening before young admirers, “The Philistine didn’t know what hit him,” she would reprise, and it was true. The hand that threw the first stone was massive and threw like a girl. The next hurling hand was pale, potelée and pitched like a Yankee. One hit its mark, the other, the dark — both were seen and heard, which was all that mattered. The purse that my spiritual great uncle aimed like a Frisbee held a pawn ticket he’d found on the men’s room floor. For three hours, slowly getting drunk, laughing with friends, looking in vain for a flirt-worthy stud — quietly, darkly, as though inside the purse, he’d debated: Find the pawner and depending on his looks and the clock, return the ticket in the bar or in his flat after browsing his books, cock, bed and percolator. Or take it to the shop and see if it was still good. He was sure to choose well; he was a skilled debater. The flying monkey’s arrived around midnight. At first they brought dismay. The stars caught fire like straw and landed on Law and Rioters indiscriminately, burning even those who were damp as hay. A hundred voices chorused, “I’m melting!” Some, as though they were stating their name to the possibility on the next barstool. Some with the disbelief of the last Romanov. Some victoriously, others merely boastfully. Some on ejaculation’s crumbling ledge. Members of the audience told the Press: Just before dawn, the bags littering the street like wounded milkmen, parted their clasps, whispered, gasped and moaned with pleasure. The sun broke free and the beer bottles glittered and sang like the giant’s stolen, fallen treasures.
Stonewall Two
Her good sense, a windshield
that had served her well,
was shattered by hail the size
of her fist. In that split second
of surprise, her handbag
launched itself at a cop.
“You sneaky son of a bitch,”
(it was her best Lady London)
she snarled the instant her
grip was empty, as though
the cop were last month’s
mugger in disguise. Years
later, preening before young
admirers, “The Philistine
didn’t know what hit him,”
she would reprise, and it was
true. The hand that threw the
first stone was massive and
threw like a girl. The next
hurling hand was pale,
potelée and pitched like a
Yankee. One hit its mark, the
other, the dark — both were
seen and heard, which was all
that mattered. The purse
that my spiritual great uncle
aimed like a Frisbee held a
pawn ticket he’d found on
the men’s room floor. For three
hours, slowly getting drunk,
laughing with friends, looking
in vain for a flirt-worthy
stud — quietly, darkly, as
though inside the purse, he’d
debated: Find the pawner and
depending on his looks and
the clock, return the ticket in
the bar or in his flat after
browsing his books, cock,
bed and percolator. Or
take it to the shop and see if it
was still good. He was sure
to choose well; he was a
skilled debater. The flying
monkey’s arrived around
midnight. At first they brought
dismay. The stars caught fire
like straw and landed on
Law and Rioters
indiscriminately, burning even
those who were damp as hay.
A hundred voices chorused,
“I’m melting!” Some, as
though they were stating their
name to the possibility on
the next barstool. Some with the
disbelief of the last Romanov.
Some victoriously, others
merely boastfully. Some on
ejaculation’s crumbling ledge.
Members of the audience told
the Press: Just before dawn,
the bags littering the street
like wounded milkmen,
parted their clasps, whispered,
gasped and moaned with
pleasure. The sun broke free
and the beer bottles glittered
and sang like the giant’s
stolen, fallen treasures.