The Octopus Review #4 is Here!

Friends—

I’m pretty excited about the new issue of The Octopus Review because it marks a whole year of doing something I wasn’t sure would even happen the first time. Now there are 4 issues, one for each season, and I look forward to continuing as long as people will send me their work.

I think you’ll enjoy the stellar words & images here, so dig in to THE OCTOPUS REVIEW #4

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******************************************************************Steve Brightman

That Ancient Maneuver

Coming up Dodge Street
on trash night and someone
must have been moving out
or must have taken advantage of
the Memorial Day mattress sale
last weekend because a giant white mattress
was on the curb. Even though
we are knee-deep in the 21^st century,
fading sunlight made this mattress
look like a trojan horse knocked sideways.
And I was less surprised that
the trojan horse mattress was upended
than I was that someone
would have tried that ancient maneuver
on the sons and daughters of Akron.
Our fathers told us long ago.
Our mothers taught us long ago
to love, but to confirm.
Trust the heart, our mothers sang to us.
Don’t trust anything that comes
from the belly, not even
your own blood as it spills
into a parking lot on South Hawkins.
The belly is a liar and
it always has been.

"SMASHING ABSTRACT" Oil pastel by Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Ninety-Seven Of Anything

Seventeen days,
through an odd

and unexpected
blessing via phone,

became ninety-seven
and ninety-seven

of anything 
- especially days -

is more than a man
can carry home.

Steve Brightman lives in Akron OH with his wife and their parrot. He firmly believes that there are only two seasons: winter and baseball.

***********

"CONSCIOUSNESS" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport

******************************************************************William Taylor Jr.

Ridiculous People Expecting Me to Help Them

In the dark and quiet hours the loneliness of the world is there

like a gas station bathroom in Yellow Springs Ohio. 

The night full of other peoples' loneliness

and not much to be done for it. 

My laptop sits open on the floor,

windows flashing messages 

from lonely people wanting to chat.

The loneliness of the world is a telephone 

ringing at 4 a.m. or someone on a bus

dragging you into useless conversation

when you only want to gaze out the window

at the buildings and signposts, and now 

people on the internet are telling me

that Denis Johnson is dead.

I'm hoping it's a mistake,

but more and more it's looking to be true.

There's a pile of books before me,

his among them, 

as I was searching for a poem 

to show a friend.

Mr. Johnson, he knew

some things about the dark

and the people lost within it,

people like myself,

sitting here with drink

and reading old poems

by the long and newly dead,

chat windows flashing like sirens.

Outside it's 4 a.m. and broken hearts 

litter sidewalks like butt ends 

and beer bottles, but no one's 

coming round in the morning 

to sweep them up.

"MISTI" Acrylic/canvas by William Taylor Jr

*******

Haight Street, the Summer of Love, Fifty Years On

It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm drinking 

at Murio's Trophy Room. 

It's a mellow vibe, a handful of people 

chat up the bartender and sip their beers.

There's quiet laughter and two  

yellow dogs lounging beneath the stools.

There's an old guy looking like Henry Miller

as he sits by the window with a Pabst Tall Boy

nodding his head and tapping the bar 

to the ska on the jukebox,

and I think how I would like to live 

long enough to be him one day,

and then I think about how 50 years ago 

Richard Brautigan stood on the corner 

right outside this joint

handing out his little books 

of poesy to passersby;

a useless and beautiful gesture;

and I think how everything that's worth 

much of anything is a useless 

and beautiful gesture,

as outside the runaway kids still sit in doorways

and wander the streets in search of drugs and  free love 

and answers they'll never find

to questions they've already lost interest in,

and I think of how it still feels like San Francisco

even now, in spite of everything,

as one of the yellow dogs

stretches and yawns and the old guy 

gets up and waves and says

“live well” as he steps out

into it all.

The Hatred of the Universe

The universe hates me, she tells me over drinks.

She moved to San Francisco just a year ago

and she's since lost four jobs,

made three visits to the emergency room,

spent two stints in the psych ward,

and suffered a nasty breakup 

with the woman who brought her here.

Earlier this afternoon her mother called 

to tell her her father is dying, 

and she's booked a red eye flight to New York 

with the hope for a chance to say goodbye.

For now I sit across from her drinking gin and thinking

how the universe doesn't much care for her 

one way or another;

the stones and thunderbolts are cast 

haphazardly but find our hearts eventually.

More often than not whatever it is that's left of us

survives to enjoy the sometimes decent spaces 

in-between the onslaughts until the next 

one arrives. She is pretty in her sorrow,

and I tell her the universe thinks she's just fine.

There's time enough for one more round

and we drink awhile in silence as everything 

goes on until it doesn't.

William Taylor Jr. lives and writes in the Tenderloin neighborhood of San Francisco.  He is the author of numerous books of poetry, and a volume of fiction. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was a recipient of the 2013 Kathy Acker Award. He recently edited "Cockymoon: Selected Poems of Jack Micheline," published by Zeitgeist Press in 2017.  "From the Essential Handbook on Making It to the Next Whatever" is his latest collection of poetry.

*************

"BIN" by Keith Winkle

*********************************************************************Matt Borczon

Marcel Marceau

learned mime

from a

teacher who

performed

totally nude

this was

after his

time fighting

in the

French resistance

this was

after the

war taught

him to

keep his

mouth shut

after the

war locked

him in

that glass

box he

never figured

out how

to get

out of.

COLLAGE by Matt Borczon

Everybody knows

you shoot

the horse

that breaks

its leg

you kneel

before you

pray you

dot the I’s

and cross

the T’s

everybody knows

that tombstones

are always

cold and

death is

a warm

meal you

shouldn’t eat

that Saints

weep wine

politicians lie

husbands cheat

the universe

expands and

stars explode

everybody knows

the world

is covered

in water

that monsters

live miles

under the

ocean that

meth will

make you

sell your

kids and

love fits

in your

pocket

like condoms

or cigarettes

everybody knows

that grace

fits on

the head

of a

pin that

art eats

its children

and science

makes robots

smart enough

to write

this poem.

Matthew Borczon is a poet and navy sailor from Erie, PA. He publishes widely in the small press. He has published 6 books of poetry, the most recent The Smallest Coffins Are the Heaviest was released through Epic Rites Press this year. He is the father of 4 kids and he works way too many hours to survive.

COLLAGE by Matt Borczon

********************************************************************Lois Betterton

Luck had nothing to do with it…I have finally found a home.

I always played fair, always enjoyed the game,

And, shining brightly now is my reward.

Just like a play the acts unwind

and spin their threads into a worthy tale,

woven into color stories studied all my life.

Enough to know that secrets seldom leave a trail,

as words hold secrets and reveal

the hidden truths that

can be reworked like supple clay,

and glazed and decorated by fire,

hardened into immortal stone one day,

interpreted by what we always say.

Learn just enough to work the words

successfully in truth and even just for fun.

Remember to forget enough to make it through

The reality of being unwittingly alone.

It wasn’t easy to be an adventurer.

There was never a question when the compass sent me South.

The music really caught me by surprise

and art as I ran into the sea,

all calculated risks for sure, I danced and spun

with laughter and still hold

onto the joys of love in all its goodness now

within my heart’s deepest delight 

appearing right in front of me.

I smile today when glimpses suddenly appear,

especially when a tune catches my ear.

As various shades of blue and sailboats drift right there

before my eyes that daily just appear

before my very own eyes, often a surprise, inspiring me to work

these words with friendly face within this place right here.

Us, you and me, face-to face, this cannot be replaced, 

this moment that we share in this small theater here.

I can honestly say that luck played no part in any of it.

I do believe I’ve been lucky, seemingly by accident at times,

sometimes with dreams of impossibilities deliberately coming into play.

And I’m convinced there’s always been a plan,

when words worked their way into the plot.

So, I’m convinced there’s always been a plan

whether we're prepared or not.

Play with the words and make ‘em work.

Deeply listen and they’ll tell you what to say.

Work your words with caution in your mind

and use them in your own specific way.

Taste them on your palate first.

Yes, listen first and then digest their power.

Taste and smell them, toss them in the air

and weightlessly reach out into each eager ear.

And know the moment must be right,

Yes, even when the outcome’s out of sight.

Work all your words with style, finesse, and care

for all concerned and mostly for yourself.

Their shapes and sounds will directly lead

You to the very place you need to go.

Lois Betterton is a poet who grew up in Yonkers, New York and has resided in Sarasota, Florida since 1998. She began writing poetry as a young child and has embraced the written word all her life.  She founded and hosts The Word Show in Sarasota with other local free range, organic poets. 

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"TINA" Watercolor by William Taylor Jr

********************************************************************Tim Anderson

Carrion

  

Shithawks.

Squawking wing flapping

nasty ass creatures

feeding on god knows what.

There's no traffic.

The desert is as dead

as the carcass

thats being 

shredded.

I walk past the

funeral,

a few birds hop and hiss,

I whisper

"no thanks, I've had lunch."

I haven't seen a

car

pass in hours.

Just a few semis roll by,

ignoring my thumb.

Wonder if they saw my finger.

Southern Arizona is a bitch.

With feet straddling

the highway stripe,

I squint my eyes

and piss for distance,

fooling myself

that I am making it rain

on the mountains

in the blue horizon

over a hundred miles away.

More cars pass.

No one looks

at my eyes.

I dream as I trudge along.

I dream a car stops,

a woman gets out.

I see the need

on her face.

She seems frantic.

She shoves me down

on my back

without saying a word.

She's hungry.

She pulls my cock out,

straddles me

and guides it in.

She’s wet,

very wet.

Her hands rest on my chest

she arches her back..

A car lays on the horn.

An angry blast,

spining me around

as it roars by.

"Get out of the road you fucking idiot."

I look down and see

I have an erection.

I actually have a hard on

walking

alone

down a dead highway

in a hollow wasteland.

The dot gets larger

and larger

till it takes the

shape

of salvation.

At the end of my arm

the sign of needing a

ride

appears.

They stop.

The portal of doors beckon. 

I toss my pack in back

and slide in next to it.

Two shithawks with

17 teeth between them

swivel their boney necks around

and ask

"how far?"

The warmth of the 38,

blue steel 

nestled

in my

cowboy boot

answered back.

"as far as your going."

Tim Anderson originally from Memphis TN, spent a great deal of his youth with his back-pack on traveling the States. Having a penchant for honky-tonks, free spirit women and roadside taverns there are many of these States where his welcome was worn out.

*********

"DIVINITY" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport

*********************************************************Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Hittites Doing Jell-O Shots

off the Naked Bellies of the Egyptians 

Between Wars

some semblance 

has to materialize 

that is what the Enlightenment promised,

but the Enlightenment is goners

baked into a cake 

and forgotten 

so I crack another Vodka mini 

imagine the Hittites doing Jell-O shots

off the naked bellies of the Egyptians 

between wars

that strange way best friends can be mortal enemies

when a girl is involved 

running hair behind my ears 

and saving it for later 

knowing the banks will always open 

before the minds do

staggering home 

through a green 

Peruvian mist 

hoping Rembrandt’s Night Watch 

has the evening 

off.

YOU CAN DO IT IF NARCAN DO IT!

the mind numbing agent is a double spy

Botticelli full of cavities and painting nimrods

into the hen house   

Portrait of a Young Man (1514)

not at all like Magritte’s 

sorry Raphael, bring her in for 

questioning

the right people want to know

and the wrong people 

have all the methods 

extraction yes, amateur dentistry,

Peter the Great was more than a pace car

my bathhouse 

is not your bathhouse 

and neither of us has gone 

cold Turkey 

you can do it if Narcan do it,

I’m a positive Polly 

just kick the damn tire 

and listen for 

air.

"FLEZBEVRIN" by Keith Winkle

Dashing Prince Frivolous 

Today is a glittery day,

I put on old Andrews Sisters records 

and prance about my room 

a real debutant

back from the ball 

and lost to love letters that leave out 

all the sweat and thrusting 

chipped enamel from a frequented cup 

finding a home under unclipped nails 

a slim volume of Cocteau translated in coffee grinds

and fixed addresses

archeology should never be of the living breathing mind

that is where Picasso got it wrong with all his women,

but when the results are good, who’s to question?

Hardly the artist.  His brake pads have been faulty 

since inception

Is it you then?  Dare we say, the censor?

Dada never answered anything because it never

acknowledged the questions.

Verlaine with all his decadence 

and not a single head of hair

Orphée

La Voix humaine –

Dashing Prince Frivolous:

Je reste avec vous 

Edith Piaf  

this $7 sunhat across my forehead

thwarting away distant brown 

melanomas  

and the way I see it

Africa is rich in history 

and poor in circumstance 

which is a very academic way of saying

the poor are on their own 

as I skip across this room,

gallivanting really

knowing each of King Arthur’s Knights 

by name and sexual preference 

Malory’s lazy eye in the sky 

like Capote from the nosebleeds

of 20^th Century America

the way his wavering coin slot voice always 

tried to make you disbelieve him

as you went from page to page 

wondering when the truth would make 

an appearance 

and ruin it 

all.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Octopus Review, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

**********

"UNTITLED" by Keith Winkle

************************************************************************Tony Egler

Let's see...

On the day I was born my eyes opened, but I would see two of everything.

When I was seven my eyes were cut with a scalpel and sown with cat gut.

I remember waking to bandaged darkness that made me forget what light was.

When the bandages came off my eyes they were born a new and light bathed them in singular forgiveness.

Now, alone, I sit in a cardinal world with only one of everything, wondering what the double of this or that was doing.

When I realize seeing double was not the problem, but the not knowing which was the mirror image.

Tony Egler is an avid Science and Science Fiction enthusiast who for many years has engaged his muse as a spectator, but has longed to be an adept. He has practiced his craft with the development of screen plays, manuscripts and short fiction. He lives in Sarasota Florida with his partner and co-conspirator. His work has appeared in AntiMatter magazine.

"FIRE & WATER" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport

*****************************************ARTISTS********************************

Jay Mora-Shihadeh was born in Philadelphia where he attended The University of the Arts, receiving a BFA in painting and drawing and a certificate in Art Therapy in 1992. 

Jay’s artwork has evolved from experimenting with representational to abstract expressionism. He employs bold color that is both direct and expressive. Physical, sometimes brutal uses of line shape and gesture are the hallmarks of his work. He strives to grasp the unknown, the subconscious.  As an artist, spontaneity and process are as important to him as the end result. 

Currently he resides in Sarasota, FL where the sunny, colorful landscape imbues itself into his work. His art can be seen on Facebook and Instagram. 

www.Facebook.com/jayartwork 

www.instagram.com/jaymora_art

William Taylor Jr. is an artist and poet living in the Tenderloin district of SF. See his poet bio above for more info.

Matt Borczon holds a degree in fine arts from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. See his poet bio above for more info.

Keith Winkle: Visionary? Yes. Artist? Hell no. But I love art and I try to create when I feel the pull. I was born in Ohio but raised on the offshoots of Jupiter. I graduated from Ms. Elkis’s art class, Riverview High School.

[ed. — artist? hell yes. I should know, I graduated from Ms. Elkis’s class too.]

Maggie Davenport graduated with a BFA in painting from Ringling College of Art and Design in 1999. She currently lives and works in Sarasota, FL. Much of the imagery in her work depicts her experiences of finding connection to a higher state of vibration or “being in the flow.” This is the state she works from when painting. A place of being open and connected. There is no thinking, just painting.