Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review, a poetry editor at Harbor Editions, and the author of six collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Far Other (Woodley Press, 2020). He holds and MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and two children.
The Hill
My house holds a place
on a hill. To my right,
terraces retain the earth.
Blocks interlock
above the lower alleyways.
To my left, the hill
slopes gently to the chain
links below. Between
these extremes, I wrangle
a push mower. Along
my left half I carve vertical
lines, letting gravity
pull my sputtering green
engine toward the hedgerow
where I swivel and drag
the handle behind me.
Along the right I go
horizontal. Nearest the gnarly
roots of the old maple,
where the chopper wants most
to tumble in my arms, I leave
the tall grass to heighten.
____________
Smiley Faces
I drown myself
in the smiley faces
of rain, the grainy
newsfeed of rain-
stirred maple leaves
motioning to me
feebly in the dark air.
My children compete
with themselves for
my attention, and with
so much else besides.
Lili complains I am
absent, I am elsewhere.
I read about Tzu-ch’i
leaning on his armrest
staring up at the sky, as
I do, and breathing:
downhill the hedgerow
absorbs daylight
in darkness. Alone in
my own house, I nurse
two bites taken down
to the red meat of my
left foot: I am hurt.
My brother asks to mow
in my stead. But for
this rain, I say yes. Re-
turn to what’s at hand:
range of motion exercises
for the bum left hand.
Tzu-ch’i claims to have
lost himself. Lili complains
I have myself lost
in this plaintive rain, drives
the kids to their playdate.
____________
The Fountain
iPhone-lit palm of a hand
draped over Lili’s
head, very orangutan,
as my semen seeps
inside her elevated lower half.
It’s the fourth and we’re trying
again, determined. Baby
number three. As if we weren’t
already exhausted, maxed out,
to the max. Sex is hard
work, manual labor. When you’re
dead-set, you’re deadest.
Our extant children are sleeping
during the drum solo. We stay up
late to make sure they’re asleep
and Theo doesn’t walk in
in medias res murmuring he’s afraid
there’s something with him
in his canopy of blankets, something
snakelike, insidious. Outside,
41st Street is on fire. A fountain
of sparks in the shape of a man
strides toward me standing naked
in the window corner dripping
and wilted and utterly spent. A red
starfish explodes above the black oak,
not loud enough to wake the kids.
____________
A Light Existence
Writing let me right myself.
Admit you are right:
Writing poetry should be a light
existence. Light is right,
even this cloud light beats
darkness, this lighthouse light.
The plumber leaves a dark
stain around the floor drain, an ink
blot of unrefined oil. He clears
the blockage only as far as
his augur is able. Cold clouds
from the west add a layer
of darkness. I change shirts.
How far down to earth
must I be before I drown
in sludge? Plumb the pipe
and you will dredge,
you will regurgitate
your breakfast. The tooth
breaks. Empty your tool bag.
____________
Warts
I hobble into the restroom: McCoy Park,
the loose straps of a sandal flopped
around a swabbed foot, beefily
gauzed, swaddled brown with co-bind,
and there’s this boy seated upon
the stainless steel urinal. His cherubic penis
confronts me. There is no shame.
“Can I get in here?” I ask, awkward
with the knowledge of the way this looks:
I am a stranger, strange and getting
stranger, even to myself. Warts,
I learn from my podiatrist, are a virus
that spreads under the skin. Never knew
I had them. It took five applications
of acid before Mrs. Gonzalez offered
to incise me, unfolding a blue bundle
of swabs, knives I didn’t have the guts
to peek at, fixing my eyes on the porous
ceiling panels, imagining myself miniaturized,
curling up inside a squiggly pore. My bandage
bled through, smudging floor planks, so I
crawled to the bathroom and knelt to pee, lifting
my penis just above the rim. Felt like
my son Theo, who stands on a stool now.
In the public restroom, my other boy hops
to his feet. I say, “Excuse me,” and angle
my body away, clearing myself
as much for myself as for anyone else.
Iris Berry is a native Angelino and one of the true and original progenitors of the L.A. punk scene. She is the author of several books including, Two Blocks East of Vine, The Daughters of Bastards, The Underground Guide to Los Angeles, and her most recent release, All That Shines Under the Hollywood Sign. Internationally known, her wit and often dark, factual accuracy and empathy for her subjects has brought her critical acclaim as well as a huge fan base. She writes her experiences with grace and deadly precision. Her lullaby-and bedtime-story voice is like a haunting tour of Los Angeles that lingers like one of the city’s unsolved murders. Berry has appeared in numerous films, TV commercials, documentaries, and iconic rock videos. In the 1980s she was a singer for the punk band the Lame Flames. Later Berry co-founded and toured extensively with her band The Ringling Sisters, who recorded with legendary producer Lou Adler (A&M Records). Berry also sang and wrote songs and recorded with the Dickies, the Flesh Eaters and Pink Sabbath. She’s received two certificates of merit from the city of Los Angeles for her contribution as a Los Angeles writer and historian, and for her extensive charity work. From 2010-1014 she served on the Board of Directors for Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center. She has served as the mentor to many up-and-coming writers. Berry is co-founder, editor and publisher for her imprint PUNK HOSTAGE PRESS, where continues to champion for original voices.
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