Poetry — July 16, 2017 13:42 — 0 Comments

Orange Cascades – Graham Isaac

“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining

is Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

Splash dashed across

their clickable meanings.

An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

Paris when it comes to omelettes.

When I went on the “date” with the chef

from Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.


Dueling concept sof what food even means: “Has the art gone out of

Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down

Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”

“Three cans of beans for a dollar– coupon inside.”


We went on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

our buses literally passing. When she talked about

her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.



Graham Isaac is a writer, performer and illustrator from Seattle, Washington. He holds an MA in Media and Creative Writing from the University of Wales in Swansea, where he co founded The Crunch reading series in the back of a speakeasy. He is author of multiple poetry chapbooks, including Filthy Jerry's Guide to Parking Lots, released by Babel/Salvage Press and The Third Best of All Possible Outcomes, from Shotgun Wedding. Since 2011 he has co-curated The Medicine Ball, a multi-disciplinary showcase for writers, actors, and visual artists. His work has appeared.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney