brief introduction
We have had the honor of publishing Gene Pfeiffer's poems in several issues in the past. We admire his work. Now we are excited to feature Pfeiffer's chapbook, The Invisible Runner, as the inaugural book of our new chapbook series. These poems create an alter-ego if you will, the Invisible Runner, who is the "I" and sometimes not. The interplay allows the poems to discover territory as if the Invisible Runner were an explorer. We as readers are not left stranded on base. We are driven all the way home.
The Invisible Runner (PDF)
The Invisible Runner (Make a Book PDF)*
Sample Poems
Another Runner Born Under the Scales of St. Michael
The Invisible Runner Sits Through Your Sister's Funeral
Another Runner Born Under the Scales of St. Michael
I have been conjured brought up
with a simple incantation brought up
not for my speed but for the good
of the game pushed station to station
whenever the ball was put into play
by real batters and real runners
with legs scabs collar bones blisters
and endings for pain I never took a lead
I was pushed from behind and easily
advanced or forced out by those lower
in the order my speed measured
by their speed my existence
dependent on them like baseball
once depended on the summer
in ‘67 and ‘68 these boys were already
too old to see me they counted
magic numbers and were never told
they were counted as soldiers of Christ
innocents born under the scales of St. Michael
an attempt by the city and church to construct
affordable fairness in the old wards of a city
melting between its bricks and murder
the numbered apartments were a leveling out
so that the tar and shingles
could at least delay the rain before
they slipped into what might be forgiveness
each of these sorry structures would later
burn under the southern strategy
and I was there to see the flames
because one boy on an orange and red
evening after being called home for supper
forgot to unconjure me forgot
that once started the lies of believing
will circle the bases unchallenged
forgot the consequences of playing without fire
and the things we would see as we came home
would be unrecognized revelation flashes
in the numbness the boy was told to call America
we saw these things
because playing with the rules
keeps the line moving to all its ends
I saw these things
because of four words chanted
in a dusty field choking on the clumping tall fescue
invisible runner on first
The Invisible Runner Sits Through Your Sister's Funeral
just days ago you watched one sister feed
another sister spoons of salty mashed potatoes
and pieces of rosemary roasted chicken
then you held a glass to her lips
like she once did for her children
and your children
white wine from a box in her kitchen
and she smiled like this
was a Christmas photo from the 60s
later you filled the same glass with water
and she made clear the disappointment
of life’s expectations and fermentations
“that’s not” was all she said
not the pathway to breaking down that we imagined
not a place to pause between fresh and rotten
not what I thought an urn would look like
there’s a cardinal painted on the oak face
and the box and bird are placed under the altar
next to the disappointment of religion
of course it’s not a true story neither merciful nor loving
not unleavened bread but a pie crust waiting to be filled
and there was never a meaningful hierarchy
funny how a cardinal is the only bird you can identify by song
it always comes back to baseball doesn’t it
mascots and the disappointment of so many seasons
that’s not the magic number
not how to calculate slugging percentage
that’s not a mother’s preferred way of communicating
but your sister was sure that the sighting of a cardinal
was a sign that your mother was still watching
you would smile and say to yourself
that’s not
her
yet on the day of the diagnosis
a brilliant bird was trapped in the back hallway
you freed him simply by opening a window and raising a screen
(a little help) to fly beyond the disappointment of barriers
that’s not the skin of a crushed grape
that’s not the integrity of a cell wall
that’s not rain you hear between the sunlight and stained glass
as disappointment is poured into the chalice
and the gay priest recites words that are nowhere near a song
you sit with her children
because the oldest uncle has never believed
they will spend days waiting for their birds to sing
you for the disappointment of water and wine
blood and body
Gene Pfeiffer is a poet, fiction writer and ballplayer from St. Louis. His work has appeared in various journals including Volt, Spillway and The Cincinnati Review. He works as a communications consultant and teaches in the Lindenwood University MFA program.
*To "Make-A-Book" open the pdf in Adobe Acrobat.
Pages to Print=All
Page Sizing & Handling=Size
Click=Print on both sides of paper
Click=Flip on short edge
Orientation: Click=Landscape
Print the document. Stack and fold it. Staple in the gutter and YOU HAVE A BOOK!
