Speechless the Magazine

 To render. Be rendered. Awestruck. Awesome.
A magazine of poetry and related arts straight from L.A.



Brendan Constantine

Brendan Constantine studied poetry with Suzanne Lummis, is the author of several poetry collections, teaches poetry at The Windward School, and conducts poetry writing workshops at the summer Idyllwild Poetry Festival. His parents are both film actors.

Emptying Your Arthouse
(poems conceived from the titles of foreign films)

(The 6,6,6,6,8,4 count comes from a form conceived by Jamie O'Halloran)


Onna Ga Kaidan O Agaru Toki
When a Woman Ascends the Stairs

The carpet is so old
            it creaks. I climb tip toe.
Outside the theater
            sirens pass & deepen.
I hide in the menís room & wait
            for a signal.

Buta to Gunkan
Pigs & Battleships

When water comes squealing
           to my fat sink, you pound
on the wall; distress codes
           of a one-armed sailor
aboard a gasping submarine.
           Is it so loud?


Les Jeux Des Anges
The Games of Angels

The first one to cry wins
            first crack at the statues
in the lobby. Loser
            carries the winner home
on their back. On your mark, get set,
            go to Heaven.

Les Yeux Sans Visage
Eyes Without a Face

Your mouth belongs to me.
            That coral leaf between
the dark & your answer
            is mine. What you still own
is what you say into your hand
            & it kills me.


San Michele Aveva un Gallo I
Saint Michael Had a Rooster I

had two big ass dogs, too Ė
            Gabriel & Daniel Ė
all three mean as all fuck.
            Walked the yard, watched
his choice power tools & tow truck,
            his righteous sword.

San Michele Aveva un Gallo II
Saint Michael Had a Rooster II

 Bullet hole in the sun,
            fire crest, fire chin,
coarse scissor cutting names
            out of air, calling home
each spurred or spared or sacred chick.
            Thank God itís dead.


Das Mšdchen auf den Brett
The Girl on the Diving Board

I am no cannon ball,
            sister, no jack-knife trick
of sunlight. Not even
            an amateur swan, just
a coin spilt from my motherís purse.
            get rid of me.

Leute mit Flugeln
Men with Wings

Isnít it about time
            we left? Outside, the trees
are predicting houses.
            The billboards are learning
to read. Letís fly before we have
            nowhere to crash.



Speechless Spring 2007
Copyright © 2007 Published by
Tebot Bach