A Catalog Of Small Machines - Winter 2023 by acatalogofsmallmachines

A Catalog Of Small Machines

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

A joint publication of the Driftless Writing Center and the Arts + Literature Laboratory Volume III: Winter 2023 Editor: Mark MacAllister, Driftless Writing Center Cover: Katrin Talbot

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

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A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words. — William Carlos Williams

A Catalog Of Small Machines

Foreword Synergy – an interaction of two or more to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of separate effects

Some folks write alone at coffee shops, desks, or basement tables. Some like getting lost in their own thoughts for hours at a time. I can do those things, too. But many times a week I find myself drawn to small groups writing in parallel. I’m referring to the Driftless Writing Center’s “Connect & Write” program. During the pandemic, this became a lifeline for many of us—a chance to Zoom in from the safety of our own shelters and work alongside other writers. In each 25-minute stint, one knew that others were doing similar and invariably solo tasks: free-writing, researching, revising, submitting. But there was built-in support and encouragement knowing others were also persevering. I came to love the quiet of those stints, as we muted ourselves and dug in. More importantly, I lived for the three times in each Connect & Write session when we dialogued. At the start, when we each set our intentions for the time, it was great to hear the variety of work in which folks were engaged. It was also reassuring to hear from others who weren’t sure of their plan for the day but were going to dive in one way or another. Then there was the 5-minute break between the sprints, when all manner of goodness occurred. Often someone would spark an interest or idea that was just what I needed to hear for a piece that was tripping me up. Or, like a pinball machine, the ricocheting around of various strategies, prompts, or resources set off lights and sounds in many brains at once. I still keep a notepaper handy just for the books referenced, or class recommendations, or crisp words offered. And, lastly, after the second sprint, we came back together to check-out, sharing what we accomplished. Sometimes there were celebrations with clapping or jazz hands. Other times we sat in awe or more silent support of one another for the work invested and the tenacity to proceed. At the end we went back to our separate and distinct lives, knowing that these brief intersections have their own synergistic magic. This anthology is a testament to work started, written, or polished during these valuable sessions. Thank you, all, for adding to this enduring practice!

— Maureen Adams has been a DWC member and active Connect & Write participant for over three years.

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Table of Contents Maureen Adams • Escape from the Doldrums................................................................................5 Jane Barnard • Hashtag Naughty Ladies, or, Mrs. Boomer’s Yearly Checkup..................................6 Sue Blaustein • Suspended..............................................................................................................8 Debra Bushy • Angels, Butterflies and Gnomes...............................................................................9 Rose Davey • Due to a Weak Inheritance.......................................................................................11 Cynthia Dorfman • Breathing through Bergamot in 1970.............................................................12 Matthew Duffy • Hexagenia bilineata..........................................................................................13 Chuck Kernler • I Will Never Catch Up.........................................................................................15 Lamia Kosovic • Becoming Hawk..................................................................................................17 Dee Lambert • Doing Nothing.......................................................................................................18 Mark MacAllister • The Oxford Comma........................................................................................20 murray Marz mirror • adventure poem.......................................................................................21 Roman Montemorano • Must Smell Books..................................................................................22 Alex Newman • Driving Lessons...................................................................................................23 Mary Louise Peters • Which Machine?.........................................................................................26 Rebecca Ressl • Teaching my child good versus bad.....................................................................27 Christine Rundblad • “Connect and Write” Zoom Meeting..........................................................28 Alex Sawyer • Exchange Children.................................................................................................29 Lynda Schaller • Algorithmed......................................................................................................30 Katrin Talbot • Bass at Rest..........................................................................................................31 Stephen Weiser • The Block.........................................................................................................32 Tom Ziemer • 37 miles from Lambeau..........................................................................................34 About the Authors..........................................................................................................................37 Special Section • Where I Work....................................................................................................51

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

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• Maureen Adams •

Escape from the Doldrums Wind is a constant on the ridge we moved knowing life would be different from the depression we exited its stillness humidity and glut of mosquitoes there we’d have killed for a breeze here it’s earth, us, and wide sky Daily we climb the rise to the paved road for mail incline forward partly to push past gravity mainly to create aerodynamic selves to cleave the wind leaning in we make headway Some nights the wind scares me relentlessly testing each window and shingle put loose things inside or lose them even the dogs debate the efficacy of going outside when it's howling they stand at the stoop heads pivoting hair blowing and weigh risk versus need occasionally they refuse Gentle breezes are welcome friends fresh air keeps things moving sheets on the line billow like sails The gales still catch my breath but I’ve started to listen differently hear the wind as waves that crash again and again on an ethereal shore

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Jane Barnard •

Hashtag Naughty Ladies, or, Mrs. Boomer’s Yearly Checkup First off, I wobble into the lab for the annual blood draw. Welcome to Dracula, the Sequel. I’m a weenie, in spite of smiling Sarah and her little rubber hose. As you know, Phlebotomist is from the Greek for phlegm—which is a word no one should ever say out loud. I ask her, “Can you replace my drawn blood with a little Valium?” She gives me an eye-roll, and slaps on the band-aid none too gently. Down the hall a cheery nurse beckons me, her pastel scrubs adorned with smiley faces and rainbows. Helpful if you’re nauseous I imagine. My designs would have little scalpels tied with bows, and a Personal Injury lawyer's 800 number. And what was so wrong with those starched white lab coats that the docs used to wear? I kind-of liked those kneelength priestly robes to remind us that they are, if not God, pretty darn close. Did you know that those little plastic flags outside the exam room door have secret color-coded meanings? The sous-chef—or whatever they call the prep nurse who weighs you (and then should be killed)—flips the colors to alert the doctor. Blue for body odor didn't shower. Green for grumpy Grandpa's back again. Red for run the other way. Now about the little blue-flowered gowns. Since time immemorial they've been exactly the same. Actually, incarcerated prisoners sew them. Some inmate on Death Row with time on his hands (well, not that much time) stitches them up with glee: Haha you suckers there is no open side of the garment which will improve your appearance. Does one leave the front open? Please I'm Catholic. Leave the back open? Help! I can't unsee that. Please smite my eyes. I climb onto the brown Naugahyde futon covered with a slab of white wrapping paper. Before that I’d stepped up onto the handy little shelf at the southerly end, where I placed my purse and those People magazines that I grabbed from the lobby. All the news from 1998. Wait! Bill Clinton did what? I lie there all shivery on the crinkly paper and stare up at the ceiling. It’s a National Geographic poster, the medical version of the Sistine Chapel: I’m thinking, isn't that a bison about to go extinct? Finally my longtime OBGYN walks in, dear Dr Brad. Always the mismatched socks, and shirt buttons strained in ready-to-pop gaps across his belly. Always professional and respectful, he leans over me, for The Breast Check. Even though he’s used to it, isn't it still a teensy bit awkward? As his hands knead my left one, he looks away respectfully and asks, as always, So how was your weekend?

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I’m badly tempted to respond, Not as much fun as you're having right now, but this’d get me reported to HashtagNaughtyLadies and expose my real disorder which is an inability to keep a straight face during this annual palpate-orama. Alas, he retires the following year. My new doctor is painfully earnest, and no fun to tease. She asks me those geezer questions: Do you feel safe in your home? Actually Doctor I do not feel safe in the outside world. Have you ever fallen? In a bar you mean? Do you have a living will? Now there's a euphemism. I suppose I can't call it Croaking Instructions aka My PIN Number Dies With Me you greedy bastards. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?” I dare not mention my hip twinge. As you know, Hippocratic is from the Latin for hip replacement. As I exit, I cannot avoid the billing desk where the ladies do not wear My Little Pony scrubs. No insurance? No problem: we'll take a kidney. That's why you have a spare.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Sue Blaustein •

Suspended It’s one of those cold April mornings. Fine frost on my car in the backyard below. Moon waxing gibbous, blurred edges but bright. My immediate world the way I left it last night. A cold April morning — a Sunday — early. The moon in the backyard, blurry but bright. For a few moments more (as far as I know) the world is the way I left it last night.

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• Debra Bushy •

Angels, Butterflies and Gnomes When the dove of peace lights my way— Angels, Butterflies and Gnomes know we are all travelling and finding our way. Heaven calls— You have met your match. Return to me. Fall, fallen I add Grace as your catch. The light is you. I know you. Ascension so, so, far away. Transformation. Dreaming. Living on earth. You are not to stay. Travelling on one hundred thousand Hummingbird wings. Light. Magic. Buoyancy. I ask is that when death occurs? Wishes granted. Health restored. Sanity proven. Angels, Butterflies and Gnomes. Witness to all miracles. Fascination. Abundance. Between lines I travel. Beyond boundaries I live. Like the fog in the morning. Page 9

A Catalog Of Small Machines

I have my heart to give. This! Here and now. Is for the angry and insecure. For the miserable. For those who know for sure. My world is aplenty. Whole. Kind. Compassion. Robbing the young and the poor. Is what I have left behind. Trees whisper. Chipmunks chatter. I know death is a doorway. Toward life ever after. I believe. I return. I achieve. Only after I learned. Angels, Butterflies and Gnomes. Are the catalysts to the unknown.

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• Rose Davey •

Due to a Weak Inheritance both genetic and more critically financial we find ourselves hoodwinked at almost every tum so we spend most of our time watching muted pornography and thinking about better bodies and how we'd probably just fuck those up too so what to make for dinner and why are we always out of pepper? Pepper? Still there's interference but it's never static anymore it's a buzzing and any instant we'll see the future I wonder if that buzzing is some ancient god, like, Zeus sounds amiable enough, robed and pot-bellied, but muscular, kind of a hot dad vibe maybe I'm thinking of the wrong dad or god, I think Zeus was probably just fully shredded not eating all this processed food did you know they sell sushi at gas stations in the Midwest? It's the last gate or whatever - isn't that a Christian thing - gates? some sure as shit sign of the apocalypse and we're all stumbling around still looking for better jobs and new lovers and faster ways to come in our pants without having to change pants because these are the pants you had on when the storm took everything they are both the only and favorite pants which is a trick we usually just play with people - the only and favorite ugh, I just googled Zeus and he's like, absolutely cut in every rendering so forgive me I guess I'm thinking more of a Santa-god, but not totally fat and old and American more of a Canadian god/dad is what I had in mind.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Cynthia Dorfman •

Breathing through Bergamot in 1970 We breathed through the bergamot of Earl Grey in that last century. Ladies expected to pour tea, wives of the faculty in the scent of the Blue Parlor. And croquet mallets cracked on the south lawn court through French doors while pundits chattered in iambic pentameter. Silver was the course for serving. A time of gentility with each woman destined to possess a silver tea set to entertain at home on Sunday between 2 and 4. And all the while, the tea steeped, bergamot seeped through silken sacks lined with lavender, the water seethed below the surface. Silver plate disguising common copper. Social veneer of civility hid roiling underneath. Seeking parity for the guests: urns of fecundity or stamped with ebony (the Maker’s mark of authenticity), who overturned the rosewood caddy to scatter tea leaves across the parquet, foretelling fortunes while crushing them beneath the serving station.

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• Matthew Duffy •

Hexagenia bilineata the old ’94 German touring motorcycle accelerates through the forces of friction keeps my torso upright and feet off the ground lush summer foliage decorates the bluffs to the right Mississippi River to the left a sinking sun over the valley wall State Highway 35 the Great River Road I alone follow the artery of The Driftless a peculiar cloud hovers above the darkened road a swarm over asphalt moving unlike fog almost an entire year the mayfly dwells a nymph in the wide river wings emerge it lives as an adult for a day perhaps seeking a thrill a mate a dance at dusk

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

I embark on this solo trip as I consider leaving a toxic relationship while the small windshield is plastered in mayfly bodies terrestrial phase so ephemeral

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• Chuck Kernler •

I Will Never Catch Up I have a lot of things that I want to do. I am a writer. I have a yard. I have a house. I have a woodstove. I have a Jeep. I have a fiancé who I aim to please. I promised myself that I would finish my book by June 2024. I have recently revised that expectation to be “finish my rough draft by June 2024.” A heavy snow in April broke many branches on my pine trees. Power was out for a few hours. The emergency crew left a few broken branches because they “weren’t close enough to the line.” The initial damage provided a significant amount of firewood to cut and brush to chip. But I hired a silviculturist to remove the remaining broken branches. That produced more firewood and brush. (I call that “job security!” I love my Stihl chainsaw. The woodcutting went well but took time. Then the Troy-Built chipper shredder broke. It was just a spring, but when I took the belt cover off I discovered an oil leak. Gerard’s Small Engine Repair said they would look at it and discovered that Troy-Built went out of business and they couldn’t find parts! It took several days, but the machine was repaired, received an oil change and a tune up. Life is good! I have never owned an electric lawn mower before this year. I was happy with many gaspowered mowers and learned a lot about maintenance. I replaced several engines over the years. However, my 21” Snapper, the first new mower I had ever purchased, gave me trouble this year. I took it to David’s Small Engine Repair four times in two days. It was “fixed” each time but the fix never lasted long. I gave up and went to Menard’s to buy another. That was where I spied the battery powered electric mowers next to the array of gasoline engines. I am now the proud owner of a Green Works mower. The battery is advertised to have a fifty-minute life between charges but that’s when the grass is four inches tall. In my unmowed yard it lasts twenty minutes. I think I’ll finish mowing before it snows. I have a friend who has offered to clean my chimney and rain gutters. Glen is, however, a busy man. My gutters need cleaning more than once a year. Those pesky pine trees shed needles all summer long. I should say “needed.” I hired Leaf Filter to cover them. That will save time, right? I once owned a hydraulic wood splitter. I sold it to a friend after he promised that I could use it anytime I wanted to. He even delivered it to me when I needed it, until last year. Then I rented one from Winona Rental. It was wonderful. Rather than the split and return movements of the traditional splitter, the units for rent in Winona split both ways. I saved more time. Page 15

A Catalog Of Small Machines

Kirby Truckett is my 1960 Willys Jeep pickup.1 I restored his box and had him sandblasted and painted in 1989. But he lives in Minnesota and salt is his enemy. Two of his wheels rusted out. One of them popped apart, in the driveway, when he was loaded with firewood! I want to drive him in a parade someday. I’m in the process of restoring him again. When I took him to Rislow’s Service, in Lewiston, for a clutch adjustment and to have his wheels removed to be powder coated,2 I was informed that he needed a new clutch. The first one didn’t fit but eventually I got him back to help clean up the yard. I met my fiancé, Cindy at the Winona County History Center where she volunteers. She is the highlight of my life: always eager to help in any way she can. But… I don’t believe that I will ever catch up. My current goal is to try to decrease the rate at which I’m falling behind.

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Kirby Puckett was a Minnesota Twin when they won the World Series. He was known to be “short and stout and maybe lost a step.” That’s a great description of Kirby Truckett! Powder coating is a dry finishing process where a powder is attracted to the metal by an electrostatic charge. It is then cured in an oven to create a coating that is more durable than paint.

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• Lamia Kosovic •

Becoming Hawk She came to me as a clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage A shockwave Carrying a loud "crack" Imperceptibly penetrating my skull A bomb exploding in my backyard Shuddering all dogmas into pieces. She came to me as Hekate The goddess of magick A shapeshifter in the intrusion land A razor-sharp piece of chaos piercing my skin Tending to my wounds. She came to me as a whirling dervish In a crystalline memory of a forgotten world. Pulling the misty curtain aside Finding my body under a pile of rocks and concrete Lifting me up And turning into a hawk.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Dee Lambert •

Doing Nothing Ain’t nothing wrong with doing nothing On such a morning like this. Watching the wind in the pine trees, As they sing with every movement. That one lone golden finch Forgot to change out his black and gold suit For one to blend with the trees. No, nothing wrong with a morning, Just sitting, while summer recedes. Much to do yet on this late summer day, On the cusp of autumn. Perhaps to count the darkening clouds, The lost souls of hornets this late in the year Hungry and frustrated and truth be told A bit cranky and bold. Not that I can blame them, being lost is too familiar to me. An Eagle dancing on currents Soaring so high I can barely see. His noble white head and tail, flash in the sun A song of air and motion A peek at what must surely be—majesty. Gentle breezes on the wind chimes While I play sad songs with folksy harmony. No, ain’t nothing wrong with a morning like this. That mystery bird calling its sorrowful chant Taunting me, “Come find me up here somewhere in the trees. You’ve nothing better to do, as I can see.” He cannot know how important My time today, right here, might be. I must acknowledge the perfection of a white oak tree Gnarled and twisted by old age, And pay homage to the Creator of this perfect thing.

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Maybe write another poem, The gentle quiet of the wind, mesmerizing me. Then, perhaps to go inside Where all these chores are waiting for me. But, no, this is too important to take a chance on time. Time when I might just be free. If there were a thousand mornings like this I would have wasted not a one, not one moment Would I regret, Where I just sat And listened, Breathed in and out, smelled wet leaves And cool air to come. Where there was nothing for me to do No task crying out for me. Except just to be, on a morning like this.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Mark MacAllister •

The Oxford Comma — Big Sky, Montana/3 January 2022

Slept late for the first time in a long time waited for the morning’s final snowplow checked that the flue was closed then put on boots and a balaclava heavy gloves waterproof parka started the truck left the heat on full and in no rush whatsoever brushed the snow raspy dry as cedar shavings from the roof the back one finally the windshield I did all this so that the cab was warm exactly as the windows were entirely clear later today I will practice my cursive compose for some friends long and humble letters that honor the Oxford comma reassure myself that what is lost in the river is ultimately found in the lake that in a few patient decades I will return here having become bighorn as bison with ice in my beard as raven as absolute indigo dark

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• murray Marz mirror •

adventure poem the temples of foxglove ring as we go along. kind of faint & omnipresent. our path bends to their knell. juicy, forgotten silos of pain cycle thru our membranes. all meshed-up & dormant. we gargle what water we have left. to the nymph node abode we go! froth laces our gullets. our longings & maps & such float to the top.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Roman Montemorano •

Must Smell Books — Thanks to the poetry section couch at Driftless Books & Music

They communicate meaning via forest lives where hum & hums ignited the wildest file. Crates are shelf aware, too much wall. Broom lines sweep Sunday poetry under tobacco house truths and lamentations, over coaster shadows, into selected poems. The radiator screeches impotence at the coat-free hook, carving hawks defend anthologies from philosophies, each theocratic arrow strikes an hour. Spare the large type. Slouch from eyes to tiny characters and become blake-frosted yeats, undercapitalized. In the lowest cases, alphabettors win a bonus home and compel the compound uninitiated down the streaming tomes.

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• Alex Newman •

Driving Lessons After my daughter suffered a relationship breakup, she decided that learning to drive would help her get over the heartbreak. So, she picked up the driver’s handbook, crammed for a few nights, passed the test and started jangling the car keys in front of my face. Like a dog who drops his leash at your feet. There’s a reason the books advise not teaching your kids to drive. For one, you pass on your bad habits. Insurance companies are aware of this and offer a significant reduction in premiums if they’re taught by pros. The government gets it as well: The only time a student driver can go on the highway is with a professional teacher, not a parent. All this comes a little late though, since kids have been watching their parents drive all along. Mine certainly have. In the car with his grandparents at nine months old, my son started gesticulating wildly and babbling loudly when his grandfather honked the horn, presumably in imitation of me. My daughter roundly declared her intention to never copy my driving style. “Just wait till you drive,” I replied. “OK, but must you wave your hands around so much?” she said. That’s another reason for not teaching your kids to drive: Pushing someone’s buttons – which families do so well – doesn’t mix well with road safety. During practice drives, I talk my daughter through complicated maneuvers in advance. It doesn’t go well. “There’s an immediate left turn after going over this bridge,” I advise one day. “It will become two lanes, so stay in the left lane, then move into the turning lane.” I forget that for new drivers, thinking through several steps can take critical seconds. Her brain hasn’t caught up with what I’m saying, and she’s not taking action. “NOW!” I yell. “Where’s the turning lane?” she shouts back. I suck in my caustic response. “The one with the arrow on it,” I answer calmly. To her ear it comes out as a shout. “Don’t yell at me!” she says, gripping the wheel tighter. “You’re making me nervous.”

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

Coming to a narrow stretch on a bridge, she slows down. The car behind starts tailgating. I raise my middle finger. “Mom stop it.” “What they’re doing is illegal.” Anna is anxious. “I’m holding up traffic.” “Their problem, not yours,” I say. “If I were driving he’d stop soon enough.” “How would you do that?” she challenges. “Tap the brakes lightly, then speed up,” I sulk. “That sounds illegal,” she says, never taking her eyes off the road. “I don’t think so, but we’ll look it up at home,” I counter. We drive on in silence. Until I add: “If he rearended us, it would be his fault not ours.” “Always the last word, Mom,” she says, rolling her eyes. At 22, I taught myself to drive on an old car sitting in the yard. I also picked up a few lessons from a co-worker. It gave me the abundance of confidence that comes from ignorance. One Saturday night, I drove to work – with only a beginner’s permit – and after work, offered to drive everyone home. Five of us piled in but within minutes of pulling out of the parking lot, lights flashed behind me. I pulled over, rolled down the window and stuck my head out as the cop sauntered up. “Is there a problem officer?” “Yeah, you’re weaving. How much have you been drinking?” “Nothing, we just finished work and are heading home.” “Your licence please?” I showed him my learner’s permit. He flashed his light into the passenger seat. “Can I see your licence?” he said to the girl beside me. She smiled sweetly and said she didn’t have one. He next flashed his light into the back seat. “Which of you has a driver’s licence?” Three heads wagged back and forth in unison. The cop turned the light on me again. “Wanna explain this?” A Catalog Of Small Machines

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“I thought they all drove?” I said. He stared at me hard: “I could throw the book at you right now, but I won’t. Just stay off the highway.” He started to leave then turned back: “Oh and do yourself and everyone else a favour and get some driving lessons.” Which is what my daughter eventually did. They were a graduation gift from me. She tells me she never makes a mistake with the instructor. “Parallel parking is a breeze. And he doesn’t suck in his breath when I take a corner too fast.” Now that she has a licence she runs errands. Occasionally I go with her. One day, I’m sitting back enjoying the scenery, and she hits the brakes. “Did you see that idiot?” she says. “Where do these people learn to drive?” I turn to look out the window. “Probably from their parents,” I say, smiling.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Mary Louise Peters •

Which Machine? Autumn air is all whirl, sprockets, engines and offgas. What is the machine that sprouts the seed, that grows the green, that opens the zinnias, that graces the table, that dances the candlelight, that holds the gaze, that licks the lips, that invites the smile, that holds the hand, that walks the hallway, that closes the door, that pillows the head, that billows the curtains, that chills the air, that dreams the next garden, that wonders the colors, that straightens the stems, that gifts the blossoms, that hold the seeds?

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• Rebecca Ressl •

Teaching my child good versus bad Parasite! Pest! Creepy crawly blood sucking louse laced vermin! he bawls, pointing at the wall. Tick, flee, centipede? Smash it, smear it. Go ahead proceed. Oh wait, no no! Please leave our pollinator friends, our beneficial predators, our harmless coexisting insect squatters. Corner cobwebs, hand cupped fireflies, window pane bee. Ants? Leave the ants, their countertop trail. When you turn around, I will spray their mound, and hope the mother withers. Gray area, I think, as I watch the Queen drown, her crown wobbling.

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A Catalog Of Small Machines

• Christine Rundblad •

“Connect and Write” Zoom Meeting In gallery view the grid of the Zoom writers’s meeting held eight faces in little squares, tiny close ups, each on its own tiny screen stacked like a TV showroom. For some reason today, six of the writers neglected to turn their cameras off while writing. They clearly had no idea that they were visible to all, including to me, who left my page to just watch. Their heads were tilted down, lips closed, gazes soft: beautiful with unconscious abandonment of self. None looked directly into the screen camera. No face responded to another face or checked their hair. Occasionally someone’s eyes would sweep the screen back and forth following text. Or one would draw a deep breath and look up searching for a word in the air. Three held their hands in front of their mouth. Two startled when time was called. The whole screen held a stillness, not the stillness of sleep, but the stillness of attention; like that of a heron waiting in stillness, but ready to grab that darting fish, quick as a thought. Except for this writer who drifted around the Zoom screen eavesdropping and wondering later if she had remembered to turn off her video.

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• Alex Sawyer •

Exchange Children The children’s arrival every year highly anticipated their leaving only made bearable by the anticipation of the next addition to my heart while loosening my hold enough on the last to let her leave on a transatlantic flight the next round of yes you have to wear a jacket because I don’t want you to spend any of your time with me sick the next round of falling in love to make hearts ever bigger

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• Lynda Schaller •

Algorithmed traits of our lives are funneled to algorithms prisms that bend stats into weapons in whip-hands of barons emperors, minions their levers ever more subtly disguised till we no longer know whose name to scrawl on our walls of resistance

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• Katrin Talbot •

Bass at Rest The harpsichord has taken over— it’s Brandenburg five after all, where she slowly crawls in like a fog and soon is the only one singing— and the bass player stands like a Roman statue, his hand draped over the instrument like a lover, waiting for the cadence along with the rest of the statues until the spell is broken and Bach puts himself back together

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• Stephen J. Weiser •

The Block Before Grindr and Tinder, before Craigslist, before the internet and before LGBTQ Pride, gay men clandestinely met each other in mafia-controlled bars and bath houses, parks, public bathrooms and on certain street corners. The “gay scene” was underground and sometimes dangerous for you never knew when you might be mugged or if the cops might try to bust you for loitering or a more serious offense. If reported in the newspapers, you could be outed to everyone you knew, which could result in grave consequences. In Boston, the corner to hook-up in the early 70’s was known as “the Block.” Now while most cruising places could be dangerous and seedy, the Block was in Back Bay, one of the most elegant neighborhoods of Boston. Bordered by the Historic Public Gardens on Arlington Street, the Block started at Commonwealth Avenue, a beautiful tree lined parkway with benches and outdoor sculpture. It then turned the corner onto Berkeley, and then back to its starting point down Marlborough Street. Mid- and late-19th Century brownstones and brick townhouses graced the streets. Gazing into the first floor and second story windows, chandeliers, painted ceilings, and beaux art sculptures appeared in plain sight. Sometimes I felt like I was walking the streets of London. As a college student in Boston, I loved spending time there even before I knew of its notoriety. My favorite spot was a bench by a statue of Alexander Hamilton who dutifully faced a very grand statue of George Washington on his horse at the entrance to the Public Gardens. The atmosphere was magic. In very little time, I was to learn of its peculiar character as a place of romantic intrigue and to some extent danger. At all times of day, young men would cruise the Block, stopping occasionally to sit on a park bench, waiting for the next friendly stranger to stop by and say hello. At night, the Block came alive with all sorts of characters from ivy leaguers, blue collar workers to male prostitutes. The hustlers descended upon the Block every night around 9 p.m. Then there were the nonprofessionals just looking for a date. Consequently, by 11:00 p.m. there was quite a bit of traffic “circling” the Block. Before I understood what was going on there, I would walk down Commonwealth Avenue on my way home from the Charles Street Cinema. One night, as I crossed onto the Block, a car stopped, and opened its door. There were two older men in the front seat, one of whom was slumped over the driver. I thought this poor guy was really ill. I shouted out “Are you sick?” The man on the driver’s side shouted back, “You think I’m sick? You’re the one who is really sick you closet case.” Suddenly I realized this man was not sick but giving

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the driver a blow job. I got really scared and started running in the opposite direction of traffic. I didn’t mean to insult these guys, but I also found the situation a bit scary. Once I understood the nature of the Block and its mechanics, I began to check it out for potential hook-ups myself. I would start by walking down Commonwealth Avenue from my Boston University dormitory in Kenmore Square hoping that I might meet someone even before I arrived where the action was. As winter approached, the cold weather did not stop me from going down there in search of a date. Too cold to walk the whole way, I stuck out my thumb and hitched a ride hoping for Prince Charming to pick me up. I did not have to wait long for a ride. On my lucky days, I never made it to the Block. Due to numerous complaints from Back Bay dowagers, the Block stopped being the spot for pickups when the city decided to reverse the traffic pattern on Marlborough Street in order to prevent cars from circling around at all hours of the night. In no time, the action shifted down the street to a less grand and decidedly less desirable location. Before that happened, my most memorable meetings took place on the Block.

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• Tom Ziemer •

37 miles from Lambeau “Draw! Draw! Draw!” “Screen! Screen! Screen!” The players on the television can’t hear him. They stupidly crash toward the quarterback, leaving seams for their opponents to exploit. Don’t they realize this is his break for the day? The cows in his barn don’t give a shit that it’s Sunday; they still need feeding and milking. His kids will help, some, not enough, before begging off to do to the homework he prefers they focus on. Education trumps farming in his mind, even if he’s gotten pulled back in. Lured by what exactly, he won’t say, leaving his kids to speculate and wonder about family dynamics that involve silence and guilt. His dad will help in much more substantial ways, more than an 86-year-old man should. Maybe it’s an acknowledgment of all those missed childhood baseball games; more likely, it’s a just well-worn routine, a way of life. His ex-wife used to try to tell him that Dilweg should start over Majkowski. It was the sort of hare-brained position she would take. About as well-conceived as her pronouncement years later that she wanted a divorce. She wouldn’t listen. Like a defensive lineman charging forward, right into the offense’s trap.

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About the Authors

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Maureen Adams finds peace and joy in reading with her children and grandchild. She writes from a recently-painted basement corner in the Driftless Region of Wisconsin. Some of her poems have appeared in Trouvaille Review, Creative Wisconsin Magazine, Capsule Stories, and A Catalog of Small Machines. She was an award winner in the 2022 Muse Prize through Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.

Jane Barnard is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. This flash piece is excerpted from her memoir-inprogress. The memoir is her “spiritual punctuation” in this earthly sentence, an intimate summing up of a long creative life. With punchlines. Jane has a Master’s Degree in English and is also a visual artist/teacher. She has published translations of French Surrealist poet Benjamin Peret. She hopes to be reincarnated as a cross between Dorothy Parker and Betty White.

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Sue Blaustein retired from the Milwaukee Health Department in 2016. She published her first book – In the Field, Autobiography of an Inspector – in 2018 and a chapbook, The Beer Line, in 2022. She blogs for Milwaukee’s Ex Fabula, and serves as an interviewer/writer for the Veteran’s Administration’s “My Life My Story” program. Learn more at www.sueblaustein.com.

Debra Bushy has enjoyed the inspiration and the freedom of creating poetry for nearly a year. When Debra is not in the studio creating poetry, she is outdoors or in the studio creating artwork in the form of original photographs and Japanese Origami.

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Rose Davey lives and writes in Wisconsin’s Driftless region.

Cynthia Dorfman is a frequent flyer between Maryland and Wisconsin and often Zooms with the crew of Driftless writers and those from around the world through the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery's Virtual Writing Hour. Her work has appeared in Red Ogre Review (and the anthology, The Ogre Sees All), Red Wolf Periodical, Ekphrastic Review Challenges, and on The Viewless Wings Poetry Podcast. She writes about people and experiences in her life and sometimes flashes forward into fantasy. Formally educated at Skidmore College and the Bread Loaf School of English, she spent many years with the U.S. Department of Education.

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Matthew Duffy is a writer, poet, and environmentalist from Teejop, the four lakes region of Ho-Chunk ancestral land in McFarland, Wisconsin. His technical writing has appeared in IBPSA, and his poetry has appeared in Ink Waves. Matthew is also a contributor to Discover IES Blog about fossil fuel reduction from the built environment.

Chuck Kernler is a retired Fisheries Specialist from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. A man of many talents, he is eager to point out that he was the only Fisheries Specialist with a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree. In his retirement he enjoys writing, gardening and toy making, to list a few.

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Lamia Kosovic is a writer living with her daughter Hana in Madison, WI. Born in Sarajevo, Bosnia, she moved to the US after the war in Sarajevo in 1995. She received her PhD in Arts and Philosophy and published Re-imag(in)ing of Posthuman (2003), Violence of Sensation (2017), and several articles in academic journals.

Hildegard (Dee) Lambert lives in Cazenovia, Wisconsin in the heart of the beautiful Driftless Region. She has been writing poetry and journals since her teen years. She has been published in the UW-Rock County Anthology, in 1973, and the Driftless Anthology in 2023. Dee has over the years written numerous columns for both local newspapers and for Gerber Products Company. She also wrote sermons for over 15 years. She is currently a member of Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and the Driftless Writers group as well as Shake Rag Alley Poetry Workshop.

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Mark MacAllister grew up in northern Illinois, spent a great deal of formative time on his grandparents' dairy farm in southwest Wisconsin's Driftless region, and learned to write at Oberlin College. Mark now lives in Pittsboro, North Carolina but travels often to the Wisconsin Northwoods and to Michigan's Upper Peninsula to hike and bike the backcountry. Mark’s chapbook, Quiet Men And Their Coyotes, won the 2022 Concrete Wolf Chapbook Contest and was published in January 2023. He is also the winner of the 2022 Heart Poetry Award from Nostalgia Press.

murray Marz mirror is an artist and diviner nestled in the bluffs of the Driftless. xe believes in the healing art of nonsense.

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Roman Montemorano is a poet who lives in Madison, WI. He has lived in 14 cities and worked for nearly as many companies. Roman's poems have appeared in Moss Piglet and the London Writers Salon Anthology. He has also won first prize in Madison College's Yahara Journal poetry contest as well as honorable mention in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Muse Contest.

Alex Newman is a Toronto-area freelance writer and editor with two grown children, an aging cat and a Labrador puppy. In the past 30 years she's written for several national consumer publications, including Chatelaine, Toronto Life, Cottage Life, and all three Toronto dailies. In the past few years, she's been trying her hand at memoir and personal essay. This was originally published in the Globe and Mail.

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Mary Louise Peters calls Wisconsin home with ties to Rhinelander, La Crosse, and Madison. Mary has been published in WFOP calendars, the blog Reflections from the Center, and two anthologies: Same Location, Multiple Perspectives (2022) and Stitching Earth to Sky (2019). She is a member of Writers and Critters, an international writing and critique group for women writers. Mary is a Courage & Renewal® Facilitator, providing retreats and renewal experiences since 2010. She has worked as an educator and consultant at local, state and national levels to improve early childhood and special education for children and families, teaching practices and conditions for staff, and state educational systems.

Rebecca Ressl is a nonprofit grant writer, poet, and prose writer, amongst other things. Her work can be found in Lily Poetry Review, Sky Island Journal, Masque & Spectacle, Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Courtship of Winds. She lives in Wisconsin with her partner, child, rambunctious dog, and piles of books.

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Christine Rundblad lives mostly in Milwaukee, part time in Richland County, and finds poetry the best way to pay attention at both. She thanks the Driftless Writing Center’s Connect and Write for encouraging the habit of writing.

Alex Sawyer is a passive voice technical writer, but direct creative writing off the clock helps keep the technical jargon flowing. They live in Wisconsin with their spouse and whichever exchange high school student they have that year. They can often be found hiking or biking.

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Lynda Schaller grew up absorbing her elders' tales and free-ranging the rural Driftless landscape. She has lived in the rural Gays Mills intentional community Dancing Waters since its founding in 1982, where she learns from the land, tends group process and writes essays and poetry.

Australian-born Katrin Talbot’s collection The Waiting Room for the Imperfect Alibis was recently released from Kelsay Books, as was Wrong Number from Finishing Line Press. The Devil Orders A Latte and Falling Asleep at the Circus are forthcoming from Fernwood Press and Turning Point Books, respectively. She has seven chapbooks, two Pushcart Prize nominations and quite a few chickens (katrintalbot.com).

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Stephen Weiser is an artist living in Wonewoc, Wisconsin since 2014. He lives on a ridge in the woods with his husband, Andrew, dog Yoffie, and kitties Puffy and Spot. All of them serve as an inspiration for his writing, photography and visions. He formerly practiced Health Care Law in Chicago, Illinois and is still struggling to let go of that part of himself which interfered with his art.

Tom Ziemer is a writer based in Mount Horeb, Wisconsin (the self-proclaimed Troll Capital of the World). He is a former sportswriter for the Wisconsin State Journal and Wisconsin Soccer Central.

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Special Section

Where I Work

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Making Space for Writing We three moved in

two households to one a floorplan designed for just an aging couple My writing alcove took over the LAST corner of the basement way back behind freezers the dehumidifier and winter gear The little niche boxed in like a fortress was also a sanctuary an escape pod I have marked my territory here literally through sloshes of coffee and bladder leaks from sneezing or laughing with gusto And through signs posted Calm the fuck down! and Nobody gets in to see the wizard Not nobody, not no how! And by the stacks of papers book piles and files that mostly contain my thoughts and ramblings Making space though is also allocation of time dedicating moments here hours there to wrestle with the magic Guarding this castle of both place and time to sit alone with the words and write

— Maureen Adams

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I write longhand at coffee shops where I love the ambient sounds of "human wallpaper." Or at home, in my living room, bedroom, or studio, usually in a comfy chair or in bed. I love the tactile pleasure of an ink pen on lined notebook paper. I don't play music (I wouldn't hear it anyway). I ignore the clock and the phone, happily lost outside of time and space. Once I even forgot about the hard-boiled eggs on the stove: not a happy ending.

Then in my studio I enter the piece into the computer, after which I print it. Next I edit and revise the hardcopy until I'm satisfied—which is never. But “done is better than perfect!” Wherever I write, I‘m fully absorbed in "the zone.” And grateful I get to do it.

— Jane Barnard

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A Collection of Recollections The space I write in is a small den with a collection of recollections. The chair from Edmund Wilson, there for inspiration, but not for sitting. It causes my back to spasm. And the radio cabinet, which collected mail in my grandmother’s hall, was built by my grandfather in the 1920s before the love letters stopped. The stack of books includes the family Bible gifted by an ancestor to his daughter as he navigated the Great Lakes by steamer. It overlooks the rug from Afghanistan bought in Kensington before the war began. A collection of recollections dusts my imagination.

— Cynthia Dorfman

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Where I Work Mostly but not always in my little office in the woods—a 12’ x 12’ building stuffed to the rafters with books, classical records, and a wide variety of electronic and outdoor equipment. It’s also home to “the quiet chair,” a huge overstuffed club chair that my kids occupied when they came to hang out while I was working. There was only one rule: You can stay as long as you want, as long as you are quiet.

— Mark MacAllister

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When I need extra respiration and an exuberance of living things, I ride my bike to a picnic table at the edge of Madison’s Nine Springs Creek marsh in the Capital Springs Recreation Area. The table is situated just west of The Gilman Mounds and the accompanying disc golf course, adjacent to the Capital City Trail. Here I was inspired to use the structure and essence of Carl Sandberg’s Chicago to write Marshago. Here I crack open a tiny mason jar of Aeropressed coffee, my laptop, and my ears to the sinusoidal whir of crickets, cranes, cyclists, and chirpers. Here, as in an airport, the cacophony decants my self.

— Roman Montemorano

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Where I Work Words find me by candle light, in feathered places, under star-filled skies. I write in this galaxy of wonder. I write in my mind and net words (like butterflies) in notebooks. My Fisher Space Pens can write at every angle—to tell it slant or to say it outright. I write on my laptop with a keyboard that mimics typewriter keys; I write in my phone, drafting email messages as one writes love letters on their heart. Letters and postcards are penned as I travel. Flowing penmanship is my spaceship. I write in the dark to expose love and light in this world; my words are sent off to all who might catch them. I write where time and heart and observation and metaphor meet: the matrix of meaning. I write in the moment. If I’m at home, I work at my desk, window facing west.

— Mary Louise Peters

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This is my desk. It reveals the fussy procrastination of a self-conscious writer. The various tools of a writer are evident: computer, a typewriter, multiple pens, and bottles of ink of many colors. Notebooks, too, collect on the desk to encourage organization but rarely achieve it. Mostly the piles on the desk are a distraction; but when the moment comes to actually put down real words, it is sure that everything needed is right at hand—including the coffee and the dog.

— Christine Rundblad

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I write in our cabin across from our house in the woods. We are on a ridge a few miles from the magical town of Wonewoc. It is a refuge. I try to do most of my meditating here as well. In the summer it is cool. In the winter, the wood fire stove warms my thoughts.

— Stephen Weiser

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