Guinotte Wise… Transgressions



Her tanned skin turned white over her knees as she knelt by the side of the pool. I held onto the tiled ridge, the water lapping about my shoulders.

“Your eyes are red,” she said.

“Chlorine. I’ve been in too long.”

I kissed her knee. Briefly. Softly. It seemed natural. She put her hand on my head. It felt like a benediction. Karherine was born in 1921. I was born in 1943. The year was 1965. It wasn’t that she was twice my age. Jesus, she looked like Lana Turner. Heads swiveled wherever she went. More problematic was that she was my mother-in-law.

“I’m going back to the room,” she said, pulling her dark glasses down over her eyes. She dropped her lighter, knelt again on one knee. She had a paperback, some lotion, the lighter, her drink. She kept dropping things. Then she scooped them roughly into a straw tote, stood, finished her drink, slopped the ice out onto a grassy area. One piece white suit cut high on the thighs. Legs like a Las Vegas showgirl. I let myself sink back into the pool. I watched her form undulate through the blue water, then swam away.

It seemed like the world was on the edge of a cliff. The only reason I wasn’t in Vietnam was my 2S classification, married, a kid. Not mine, I’d found out. The draft lottery could still get me. I almost wanted that if the war hadn’t been so futile. Blacks were on a short fuse. Feds were arresting my friends for pot-selling entrapment, and the sentence was medieval: life was over for them, they were running to Canada. Things were changing. A man had taken pictures of us in Mexico City. I’d noticed the sun on the lens. Then he took off.


Guinotte Wise has been a creative director in advertising most of his working life. A staid museum director once called him raffish, which he enthusiastically embraced. (the observation, not the director) Of course, he took up writing fiction.

Copyright © 2015 by Guinotte Wise








Spirit Ariela Olivier… Broken



I act, I speak,
I live, I breathe

I do not let others “perform” me.

I can’t be contained
I won’t be named
I have BROKEN the wall of

fortune and fame.

Me against me, is me against you.
Hello? How many walls

must I break through?

I fight for my life by flowing

within the winds of respite.

God is here, God is hear..

but WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE my dear?

I close my eyes, I close my heart

born perfect in a world– then TORE apart

BROKEN OFF…piece by peace

Living in a world of make-believe

Where indeed? A road it seems
going every which way

to a heart, a fist, a trigger, a spick, a nigger

UP, I cannot hear these words, my ear…

I’ve been robbed, raped, and killed.

PERHAPS this is not my field

There are other roads indeed.
I LISTEN AND CHRISTEN my heart and my sleeve.
“Innocent as a dove, perfect in love”

“Wise as a snake.” The latter I’m afraid is what I mistake.


Lived and told LEARNED–
found or STOLE,
YOUR living pieces for the life you hold.


Spirit Ariela Olivier is a poet and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California. She has been writing poetry since she was old enough to hold a crayon. She writes poems without a wall to bounce them off. Her work is an invitation for you to peruse the secrets of her soul. She currently resides in sunny Los Angeles. This is her first work to be published.

Copyright © 2015 by Spirit Ariela Olivier









Craig Kurtz… The Elopement Note


The Elopement Note

To all you clever people
who don’t believe in love:
They’re fixing the numbers on the public clock
& they falsified the weather report.
The sky is rigged, the clouds corrupt;
the sun’s a slut, the moon takes bribes.
From all this invidiousness

I heartedly efface myself.

To all you hipster intellectuals
who don’t believe in fate:
The verities come in vending machines
& destiny is a programming code.
The muses are but brummagem, kismet is cajolery;
free will’s wrapped in cellophane, conation is downloadable.
For all this ignominiousness

here’s your prize — epic abyss.

To all you supercilious cynics
who don’t believe in anything:
Romance is anachronous
& arete is démodé.
Sincerity is a double cross, matedness a despotic plot;
marriage is the in-&-out, loyalty a sucker’s bet.
Hip hip hooray for your ironicalness,

& boo-hoo (ha-ha) on my dumb happiness.

— Your most humble servant,
the luna moth stuck to your windshield.


Craig Kurtz resides at Twin Oaks Intentional Community where he writes poetry while simultaneously surviving the dream. Recent work appears in Aerie Literary Journal, Conclave: A Journal of Character, The Criterion: An International Journal in English, Danse Macabre, Penumbra, Poetry Quarterly, Red Fez and The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry.

Copyright © 2015 by Craig Kurtz