BlazeVOX 14: An Online Journal of Voice. Spring 2014

an online journal of voice
Spring 2014
!"

B L A Z E V O X [ B O O K S ]
Buffalo, New York

BlazeVOX 14 | an online journal of voice
Copyright 2014

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without
the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

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Table of Contents

Poetry

Amy Thomas Andrew Baron
Aviva Englander Cristy Bethany Price
Billy Cancel Josephe Jackson
Christien Gholson Coop Lee
Daniel Morris Dave Migman
Dilip Mohapatra Doug Bolling
Doug Draime Gabrielle Bills
Gary Sloboda H.V. Cramond
Henry Crawford Ian McPhail
Jacqueline Michaud Jake Syersak
John C. Mannone John Emil Vincent
John F. Buckley Jon Simmons
Josefine Petersn Josh Sterlin
Julie Finch Keith Moul
Lucy Falco M. K. Sukach
Marcia Arrieta Mark Cunningham
Mary Holter Mark Young
Matthew Kirshman Meg E. Griffitts
Michael Berton Nat Sufrin
Natsuko Hirata Nigel McLoughlin
Peter Beckstrom Philip Byron Oakes
Richard Kostelanetz Roger Craik
Sergio Ortiz Simon Perchik
Stephanie V Sears
Yvette Flis Zachary McCoy
Spring 2014

Fiction

Elizabeth Alexander At The Last

Jesi Bender The Banshee, or Margaret Mary's Red-Leather Satchel

Katie Brunero Sweetshop

Trudy Carpenter Stepping Out

Mandee Marie Driggers Budding

George Djuric Skeptiko

Zachary Scott Hamilton Shared Thread

Sandee V. Harris Shredding

P.J.P. Hayes The Ragamuffins Dinner

Sidney Thompson Down Time

David Scheier Excessive

Creative Non-Fiction

Alleviating Existential Despair:
The Journey from Divinity to Mortality in Byrons Manfred
William Scott Harkey

Lucky, A lyric Essay
Rebecca Cook

The Wishing Well
Daniel Carbone

Text Art Series: Well
bruno neiva

15 Questions | Interviews with BlazeVOX Authors

An interview with Chuck Richardson

Book Previews

THE ELECTRIC AFFINITIES by Wade Stevenson

An atmospheric, evocative tale of youth endeavoring to live free.

Kirkus Reviews

This book reveals, harbors, conceals fraught desire with electrical sparks

Ultra Violet

Read Preview here | Explore more here

The Complete Dark Shadows [of My Childhood] by Tony Trigilio

Barnabas Collins, kitsch vampire but source of poet Tony Trigilios childhood
nightmares, rises from his casket in the first sentence of this intrepid fever chart of a
poem. Trigilio manages to create a riveting two-fold narrativepersonal and TV-
screen ekphrasticout of piecemeal sentences (one per episode) that honor the
most unlikely of poetic subjects: a cheaply produced, blooper-ridden, gothic-horror
soap opera. This is just the first installment of what promises to be a classic
American coffin-shaped (I hope) epic poem.

David Trinidad


Apollo by Geoffrey Gatza

It has often been said that Marcel Duchamp gave up art for chess. Geoffrey Gatza has
reversed the process, and produced a sumptuous souvenir program of a
performance of Stravinsky's ballet Apollo, framed by an elaborately-plotted chess game
between Duchamp and his female alter-ego, Rose Selavy. The results are stunning.

John Ashbery


atboalgfpopasasbifl: Irritations, Excrement & Wipes by Jared Schickling

His use of found language, annotations, and visible excisions of text illustrate
beautifully the ways in which all writing arises from ones life as a reader. This is a
smart, thought-provoking book by a truly gifted poet.

Kristina Marie Darling, author of Melancholia (An Essay) and Petrarchan


CELLULOID SALUTATIONS by Elizabeth Block

It's all here: love, work, child. And the writing. Mainly the writing. It takes over all
these other things and yet it is built out of all these things. This is how Elizabeth Block
erases Elizabeth Block, as one poem claims. She does this automatically, animalistically,
while wailing forward, gracefully and with improvisation.

Juliana Spahr


CRUELTY by Jefferson Hansen

In Jefferson Hansens collection of short stories, Cruelty, his assorted strange and
confused characters are much like the people who pass through my life any day, only
with a more pronounced and interesting strangeness. ... The intellectual nimbleness
displayed in Hansens short stories is not unlike what is told in old allegories and folk
and fairy tales.

Mary Kasimor


Dear Darwish by Morani Kornberg-Weiss

Morani Kornberg-Weiss addresses the other in perfect awareness of historythat
there may be no answer, no personal reconciliation. She proceeds anyhow into the
thicket of the past not for the sake of settling accounts but to understand the edges of
a possible future. One hopes it is only the first of a series of poets making such
engagements.

Kazim Ali


Fantasias in Counting by Sophie Seita

Sophie Seitas Fantasias in Counting furthers an evolving, intense and remarkable
body of work with performative textuality, spatiality and ethics of presence. Her
poetry and poetics test the very limits of prosody; her theatrics work the
defamiliarised into the known: a fantasia of the writers making defaulting into non-
ownership. Rhythm and its predications and failures are central to speech.

John Kinsella


January Found by Michael Sikkema

January Found is a hallucinary of the contemporary, its poems contemporous wonder
rooms filled with the outside noise of our culture. I didnt even know that January was
lost until Michael Sikkema found it for me here, leading the way for the other months
looking to speak the future as these poems do: with incision, wit, and an oblique and
energetic intelligence.

Gary Barwin


LIZARD OR EASY ANSWERS: THEY ARE NONE by Thomas Meyer

Lizard offers the poet and reader a simultaneous process of personal narration, a
creation evolving thought the constant change of form, the reading and the writing
in a balancing act of creation, and divination improvisation. Lizard an ever being
written and, therefore, changing form of poetic prose thought the I Ching: A form
of interpreted life is a meaningful form of poetry.

Michael Basinski


Music for Another Life by Kristina Marie Darling And Max Avi Kaplan

These are dispatches of desperation from the world of cake servers, meatloaf,
garters, and freshly vacuumed carpet. The Adele of Darlings poems is prettiest at a
distance, the sleeves on my dress neatly pressed, the flowers in my hair a blur, and
indeed up close these are messy, domestic lives. Evoking the era of Madmen and
Revolution Road, the accompanying photos by Kaplan are perfectly styled
companions to the materialism and longing captured here.

Carrie Olivia Adams, Author of Intervening Absence


Nested Dolls by Clayton Eshleman

In Nested Dolls, Clayton Eshleman weaves threads of myth, dream, memory, and
imagination through a work etched in what he might call, after Adorno, a late style,
wherein affirmation ventures forth in the face of annihilation. These are nestual
investigations of abyssal loss, death, and rebirth coiled within one another,
explorations of the reality of the invisible world and the labyrinth underlying the
poem offering further episodes in the life of the Minotaur and the Spider that have
marked Eshlemans career as a poet for more than five decades.

Stuart Kendall


One Year In A Paper Cinema by Travis Cebula

Nobody looks in the newspaper to see what's on TV anymore. For that kind of
news, we have to go to poemsspecifically, Travis Cebula's pitch-perfect One Year in
a Paper Cinema, whose shapely, lyrico-epigrammatic interfaces with a year's worth of
TV listings in The Denver Post pull open the gauzy curtain separating "art" and "life"
to reveal something at once fresh and recycled, mysteriously stochastic and
predatorily pre-programmed. Almost as soon as this book was finished, the Post
stopped printing this section. Thank goodness for the celerity of visionary poets!

K. Silem Mohammad, author of Dear Head Nation and A Thousand Devils


Requited by Kristina Marie Darling

Why, Kristina Marie Darling asks, or, more exactly, doesnt ask but states in the
form of questions in her star dusted book of meteorites, Why can so many things
be mistaken for metaphors. Metaphors, meteorites, these are the last telegrams of
nano narrative. .... These are subatomic automatons, little engines that should.
They are like, well, liking. They are like nothing else. And I like liking all this liking.

Michael Martone, author of Michael Martone and Four for a Quarter


Sailing This Nameless Ship by Justin Evans

Lifes journey is fraught with twists and turns, false starts, and doubling-backs. Its a
messy affair, one thats not easily charted or understood. ... Soundly lyrical yet subtly
narrative, these poems find a grounded energy in a bittersweet longing for home that
is belied by a thrilling apprehension of whats to come.

Jeff Newberry, author of Brackish.


Scholarship by Joe Safdie

Joe Safdie's new book exists in a place where poetry joins with other forms of
thought & knowledge ... to make a new hybridity in place of what has been kept
apart & alien for far too long. In doing so, he joins a select company of poets for
whom nothing human is foreign & everything observed or imagined can enter the
field of the poem. That he does it with boundless humor & grace is also worth
noting.

Jerome Rothenberg


Spring 2014
!"

IntroductionIntroduction

Hello and welcome to the Spring issue of BlazeVOX
14. Presented here is a world-class issue featuring
poetry, art, fiction, and an arresting work of creative
non-fiction, written by authors from around globe.

Spring Matters:

Is it spring yet?

Spring seems to be in the air, but it seems non-
committal. After a long, cold winter we have been
sitting on our new issue of BlazeVOX until things
started to blossom. But it is now mid May and even though we are not basking in a garden filled with sunshine and
birdsong, it is spring and we are ready to roll. In this issue we have 50 poets and 11 fiction works and several
creative nonfiction that make a spectacular issue. There are also book previews of 16 our newest books and an
interview with Chuck Richardson to round it all off. We hope these fine writings shake out the chilly breezes and
help us all remember that tingling feeling of anticipation and expectation.

Rockets, Geoffrey

Spring 2014

Zachary Scott Hamilton

Row Boat Wingspan

(i.) ENTER IN WARM GREY

Passion flower is always an old photograph rambler when on a ship, where spacemen dance in too toos, blending
up their pink frosting so we can work on their image in a darkroom-
Piecing umbrellas together out of circuitry, and gear motors the Ottawa ships drift south, on their waxed sails, a
black bird, sinking through the clouds for a nice atrium, or the clock towers, or a barn to scoot up against - A pearl
necklace of nights these ships swarm through, lichen creatures, to spread the days into a captains half calculated
equations - now songs our team wrote, using maps for the details -

(ii.) BUS RIDE

Curved enthusiasm, wrapped along the heart, as a coral snake - poised gently beneath shell fish sleep -
A triangular shadow converges into a rug of light reflecting laughter in the concrete, and a diagonal sunlight erodes
away at the toilet paper holder, back and forth with the pencil markings, a paper bird with nails.

Rolling dots, square of earth, the neon line sprayed in the cobblestone, most of them made of black moss, climbing
to the towers -
hummingbird machine berries from a newspaper the man reads, slightly green to yellow falling off, into their cash
machines: trucks, throats, Stieglitz in their construction -
parked in a pink Cadillac behind Portlandia water fountains, shirtless, squeezing their fists -
Filming their stage -
Spring 2014

A cup of coffee and a hidden cloud, and a bridge of wires behind a hand and a football ring - green hat, a small tree,
rolling shadows meshed through the street - sail boats emerge from within the iron - lurking freight - graffiti letters
to the sea. Giant pillars and silhouettes, a design erodes to another - Paved, then sunlight curved gently - perched in
a holiday confusion of skeletons we were to use as sky, but changed tempo- breathed new colors - new granite
sculptures of family-
in line with a reason to soar with maple leaves as brushes - and press the water toward a center, and let the sun
sculpt her hair into a room of bubble tea - You look like your names, maple leaves, relaxed to the music, speaking
stories into the roots for a brief memory, selected as static.

A wine cellar, unearthed as Yokohama digs for painted islands, and circuiting for prayer - the final tree into the
havens -

(iii.) THIS IS THE STORM OF IDEAS

Most overlaid, stacked in rhythm
To the steps and progression
Of her hands the same
Lined in corn. A gray dove
flies low to inspect in
Its most delighted and
Tricky camouflage, the bird
Calls going off above.
Circles of bass layers,
Eyes folded and looking
Deeply into the creation
Of its uncurled hands,
The same hands, pointing

Towards a self, tucked
Deeply and smoking a
Little bit of its voice
Snuck up and exposed.
Pressing in and handing
Out, folded and talking
Back all the hairs,
Drawing attention to a
Camera swinging
Clutching and resting
Ringed and controlling
Forming around books,
Plants they are, dancing
Operated, and operating

Hands held high and
Delivering
_
And through a window
Fingers woven in double,
Their flooded brains
Glass towers, where
The socket wrench
Is god and light
Hangs in a canopy
And children dance
Very well, shimmies,
Stomps, hair that is
A flame without meaning,

arms dusting at the
air, throwing the
air a football and
tugging down the
oars
a socket wrench
is king here in

the skylight motel,
all circuits will
whisper the planet has
woven together and
now we must dance

like glory hasnt

met us yet

in a dream

(iv.) Rowboat Wingspan

The machine tubes bundled into a context that could be explained as figure eight and venom, a
collected serpent running into tracks.
Since running of its tracks in South Dakota, the rainbow apparatus, rented to me from the
community college has been caught in the crossfire of winds coming off of the pacific ocean. I
drink a concoction of the Russian alphabet, and Swahili a mix of Tennessee and splitting hairs
Inside the robe as setting, my piece of work appears before me, in my velvet dressing room
The train, sixty cars from south Havre, to North Dakota (something like that,) stretched like a
shiver in a photocopy goes by A witch, hungover, sleeps on her old broom, and flies through the
windows, laughing light speed, even in her haggard sleep
A team of analysts try conceiving of hair, tearing back the instincts they all tend to have about hair,
and instead conceiving of it as a notion
Overgrown brush by the railway, as I am stood near the tracks, are pulled up by hand. I begin to
swallow them with lunch I roll the diamonds around inside my velvet robe gum in hand,
mustache me
Shrugging off the dream in front, I am now lurching forward, toward you.
You are the environments escalator of my nausea as it were you are my nostalgia, and my
nightingale, with a row boat wingspan
The only phrase you seem to understand is the one written over the walls of this city, and reads as
follows
Grow food, stickers!
Now glazed in the suns reflection, the kind that warps windows into eatable language, i.e. the four
way window pane of the sixties
I get a head full off these buildings, my face for walls my sash for streets that I can fling aside
vehicles with, the ants and spiders
But, I think as I walk away, do not give up

(v.) Posture

Her gold fish silhouette of hair curls fallen leaves to the sidewalk, in the edges there
a sunlight sinking into the veins of the cities, like leaves, they climb into the root, like
skeleton branches turning a century by the mouths, full of cellphone wires, dark cable
communicating to spit away texture. Pathways of our collecting machines, pull in stems, and seeds,
through a Hi cube, run down along its chassis

A fifteen minute long exposure, a lifetime searching through mazes of guitar strings
and keys on the piano, to select our ceiling a floor and entry way into her body

Shared Thread

I write to you from the cranky neck of my wife (e.) The year is 1777, and Sasha enters obelisk geometries of
Josie City, with a snails pace
She is biting me Small, blurring German dolls, at the curvatures of her eyebrows; she is looking at the lake, it used
to be a clock. We dont want to look at flat black, its scaring her and me to sleep Snail trails of chipped, gold
skeleton keys daisy chain beneath her, amidst this orangutan logic she has tucked, and partitioned with laudanum.
I rub my eye, and struggle to rub my eyebrows against hers

The slime is a mauve, and golden reflection, displayed as multiple bulbs of light, they act in the way stars do, to
retrace her steps; stars, so intent that she tucks deeper, unknowingly, as she lingers to a shop window, handling the
skeletons in her pocket. I dream country roads until morning, on foot, finding poor, rusted housing

Twelve inch Sasha, I find out, through research at a public Library (hidden in the back with the manifestos,)
has written the most accurate account of my life. I find this out in the year 1666, through the Montague Publishing
Archives.

~ Ape trains, rushing through town, dividing mental street from shoes, and its hard to feel like a beast in these shoes ~

The next week I find her grave (at the cemetery in Paris,) on my way to Prague to teach about the innovative
filtration systems of the northern Gypsy, blending down from the bent silk and alignment all string ~ I meet Sasha
the next day, in Germany, near a Doll factory, where Steffen and wheeler dolls are produced. She is reluctant to
speak, but after some technical ranting on my part, she finally says her name, and this:
I will be home later. and Don't worry about me now, I am doing research.

There are hands Ivan found, painted white in the hospital, lounged plump, abandoned to a field, where the path smells like
winter spruce, dangling from ropes, as fine as the razor wire used to keep out the blind from rummaging for manikin legs
Sasha follows me back to Paris, sitting on the train car directly after mine.

In those days, groups of suited swimmers threw all night parties with fine cigars
Mimosas, and manikin footage, where in, a group of swimmers lounges drunken, under black water, sharing smoke
over the legs of heads, of hands, of feet, dunked vintage with the manikins

When she makes love to me, a dream of buried clocks tick underground. Women dressed in white, paint
their faces with leaves, using black ink until the perfect circle covers noses, and eyes, mouths, earlobes, jewelry. That
had been deconstructed by secret society, the known Walthers White Winters
Her body is a connection device, pouring essential oil into my skin, an inescapable vortex of clocks, both
ticking forwards, and at the reverse back with time, pouring snow. Little pockets of the group still exist today; even an
exploration to the first hotel (since boarded) takes place off of the coast, in a small town in these dreary folded papers
The theater and its coordinates cannot be discussed here.

Most of her subtle gestures seem derived from a past lover, and I fear, as I am falling in love with her, I am falling
in love with her past.
Leather rose is the entire clue
I move to Italy, and then to America in 1670. First to skirt back a bit, and curtsy, for in the lights at ones binoculars

I meet Sasha in America, in a hostel in New York in 1672. The hospice of the heart must be warmed before its
valves close up, and cool.

She, like me, is trying to escape something not worth discussing. Shared thread, a bony eclipse, those shuffled rooms,
turning, turning, and on the perfect English argument, salt shoulders. Check, change the channel. Flowers, bee, and conversation with the
grass

We, instead wander New York together, finding objects: little forgotten remnants, scraps of the morning paper,
and pieces of the city left to rot.

Hold that thought: next, a white channel it takes, shuffles, flips, next channel, the room, the waking room, the dark piled
underwater, and magazines - a shared voice, one yelling
We make collages out of these objects, and feel we have fallen in love again.

In an oak chair waking up from a long dream
In Love together for months, every morning, every night, and sometimes three times in the afternoon, we imagine
clocks, ticking underground, until they tick over all of my dreams. Cat masks and candelabras in the chimney singing
song fires
In the mornings, we drink coffee at a small table, the one we found in the alleyway behind our cheap tenant. Before
the echoing chambers, emerging open, before the echoing chamber releases its hourly pink signal, the rooms wait,
sleeping, and the first flake of lead paint cracks from the ground floor, in the foyer
After some time, I have forgotten why I left Paris in the first place, sucked, abnormally deep into my dreams.

The shattered hands, delicately shifting around in a circle, on the floorboards
We make love for days, we eat nothing but rice, and garden tomatoes she grows. A shot out window - hunks of
plastic wrapped faces, and torsos being staggered in a configuration that is well fitted to comet - Smashing me into
the stove, the wall, crushing my pocket watch under her foot, she cries in pain, and blames me for her loss of
happiness. Fluttering in the eastern clock
I lose touch with my body for two whole days, transfixed in mid air, above the bed.
The signal draws a ghostly party at the swimming pool, west wing
We make love slowly in the air, starving, caught in moving recordings, as higher levels in 02, and moving objects
Never leaving the apartment, Sasha, and I stop exploring, we quit collating, we stop paying rent on the apartment,
and one day the landlord starts knocking, so Sasha barricades the front door, and says we enter, and leave through
the window, through the fire escape.
A talk show of European grays with three of the output/input RCA computers glitch, and signals
interrupting heart beats We only leave at night, and she begins shoplifting. Headsets feeding back with violin,
harp, prepared guitar, and 5:00 a.m.
I find food in the trash, and we eat again, struggling to lift one of the white arms to the nose, there in one corner
One meal a day, moves a mirror - She goes out for a week, and I don't see her. After a week of sleeping alone, I
wake up, and she is hovering over me. Oh, on string
She demands nothing more than peaceful rest, and kisses me on the lips, her skin smells of Patchouli and
frankincense. We fall asleep together, arms wrapped, a cocoon of ticking dreams. Now the feet lift from the floor
boards, (bend he the jacket,) and the tail feathers crawl their own string, and a man above the room (floor four) with
hands in reflections, all the many masquerades the room makes and has witnessed
She holds a mirror before my face, feeds me medicine beneath the mirror, and will not look at me, little, gathered
leaves she has chewed, to help heal my wounds. Shot gun holes through that one

We write letters, hers post marked 1777, mine 1666. I begin to believe I have lost my mind. Or the post man
has made some kind of mistake, or she is playing a trick on me. But still a good mask
I spend all of my time between composing, stealing liquor, and cigarettes. Hallways flurry, puffy, cookie, birdie
nests, fight, flight of white beak, and raven, into Atticus
I purchase, with the last of my money, a small parcel of rat poison, and stamps. That when the recording crew
entering with boxes, tapes, computer wires, screens, chests of cable, two way radio, antennae
I talk to no one, haunted at every movement, every shadow my hands cast, I begin to write the letter while the
place grows bored, wants only to rest, and wither behind me at its equipment, away from the Microphones aimed at
the memories
The rat poison glistens, dead black in the circumference of the small bottle: danger, Poison, skull, and cross bones.
Do not drink. The liquid is flat, and empty. The way I feel (but worse because it has the potential I am unwilling to
venture through,) I must get away. I must write the letter and hideaway for an angel in the morning, with a queen of
the costume room, changeling, withering, mirroring.

Zachary McCoy

Tikkun Olam

For the Kabbalist, ultimately Tikkun Olam repairs not only what is broken in the world
but also what is broken in God. Some random Temples website

The world is broken and the pieces are
us. The way we fit together is yet
to be discovered. The secretburied
in the moments after the sun has set
on certain Cincinnati summer nights
the Ohio river smells like a beach.
The salty stench of catfish seems right,
while I try to make sense of how we each
reach for, but never grasp, broken pieces
of one another that mirror in perfect
alignment. Space between the stars ceases
to mean nothing to me. We resurrect
each other with held hands, holding one
another together while falling
apart. Will my jagged pieces run
together with yours? How like the sprawling
space between stars we all seem to be.
An undiscovered, connected sea.

Spring 2014

Filling In: A Mad Lib

Every day is a ________

noun

Between who I once _______
verb

And who I have ________.
verb

Ive lost _________ of the ________________

verb a word to describe what you see

That seemed to ______________
verb

My every thought.

The ____________ _______________seems gray
adjective something you once loved

And my_________ is falling out
body part

With each ______________________day.
an euphemism for death

Where has my ________________
something youve lost

Gone?

I sit ____________________

something awful

Next to a __________________ girl

flattering adjective

Who I ____________ want

adverb

To ask out for _______________.

beverage

Who writes poems about _______________
interesting noun

And makes me feel not as ___________________

negative attribute you think about yourself

As I make myself.

This all seems so___________________.

a despairing adjective

Why do I even bother?

I just want back what I ______________

a desperate verb

When I _______________ you.

same verb as above
I just want to feel

Like I am _______________ again.

something you will

Yvette Flis

A Change is Coming

Talk spills like milk to the floor, waves and crowns with droplet jewels and distances, more of them. We watch, see
our words circle, halo, float away, and they do, they always do, into the nothing inside us, outside this house, they
echo and roll off while we stand naked and more naked, the air between us thick with our disease, our now ending
days away, new lives to begin, old names to recover, to be covered, and fear too - that doldrum-lingers.

We look at each other, always eyes unfocused, hands drop, the fog of thick words hovers around our knees, inertia
rules and waits. It waits again.

Spring 2014

Caco

Cacoethetic you, who calls at demon hours, lays in wait by the door, follows all movements and finds new
interpretations for light-handed remarks muttered at window-sills when daylight breaks through scarlet rimmed
clouds that boil up on the horizon.

Cacophonic me, who caws with sunrise each morning, perches on an oaken frame and sings off-key, wings
stretched, runs talons over lintels again, who hopes for chalk-boarded screeches and goose bumps, and scuttles
under a bed, ears covered, Edvard-Munch-mouth open, whenever the telephone rings.

Cairn Mining

marble skin draws heat
transforms flesh to wax
and melts upon impact
a metamorphic puddle
traced on spent sheets

morning recalls
services given,
a body honored
the goddess smiles
in hushed deliberation

stubble scarred cheeks
razored lips and chin
a pinked alabaster
blush memory
of open thighs

hard breaths heard
the hand of god
smooths silk
and carved stones shudder
into magma flow

William Scott Harkey

Alleviating Existential Despair:
The Journey from Divinity to Mortality in Byrons Manfred

Existentialist philosophy teaches us that subjective human experience is burdened with a crisis. Residing at
the core of the human condition, this crisis is the unbearable weight of responsibility that comes with almost
unrestricted choices and the consequences that result from those choices. It is freedom that the individual is
burdened withor rather the angst that comes from the burden of absolute autonomy. The metaphysically
alienated individual struggles to obstinately exhibit his or her freedom while shouldering the overwhelming weight
of choice and responsibility. With an array of almost unlimited choices at ones disposal, the most prominent
display of ones true freedom is his or her ability to choose death over life, to make a choice to refuse life. Suicide,
in this respect, is ones choice to put an end to his or her existential angst.
Though the existential individual may be metaphysically alienatedthat is, he or she is his or her own
phenomenological islandthis same alienated individual is a culmination or a product of external objects, both
people and things, around him or her; it is these external objects that comprise the individuals identity, as they are
the deep builders of a personal identity and are detrimental to an individuals identity when threatened or taken
away. With that said, not only then is the subjective human condition burdened with angst over limitless choices,
but the individual is also burdened with despair when an object that has been firmly invested into the individuals
identity is either lost or damaged. Just as angst is produced by ones sense of freedom, despair is produced by ones
damaged sense of identity. Both can be alleviated by a definitive display of personal will: suicide.
It is with these existential ideas that we turn our attention to Lord Byrons metaphysical play Manfred. In
the play, a supernatural drama concerning a noblemans attempt to use his mystical powers to relieve himself of
Spring 2014
guilt over a vague past transgression, we see that both existential angst in the face of choice and the despair
produced by the outcome of a particular choice are the key driving catalysts of the narrative. This analysis will thus
detail how existential angst and despair are the motivating drives of Byrons Manfred; how after the destruction of
an object invested in the plays protagonist, we see him, consumed with existential despair, attempt to alleviate this
sensation through choosing mortality over divinity.
The dramas protagonist, Manfred, is a mortal human who through self-seclusion and intense mental
discipline has mastered a great part of the mysteries of the universe. He is a superhuman on a quest to attain
godlike status and transcend his mortal nature. However, at the commencement of the drama, the reader finds
Manfred in an exceedingly mortal state of existential crisis, seeking to forget the memory of a past indiscretion.
Evidence dispersed throughout the play leads the reader to the death of Manfreds other, Astarte, as the incendiary
of Manfreds present predicament. While the reader is only privy to vague references of Manfreds past
transgression, one can see that the initiation of Manfreds existential crisis begins with the killing of Astarte,
Manfreds female companion and equal:
She was like me in lineamentsher eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tearswhich I had not;
And tendernessbut that I had for her;
Humilityand that I never had.
Her faults were mineher virtues were her own
I loved her, and destroy'd her! (2.2.106-17)
Aside from Astartes femininity, Manfred and Astarte are equals; they are each others doppelgangers and both each
others metaphysical other. However, although both are bonded by love, Manfreds insatiable drive to uncover and
control the mysteries of the universe is too great for even love to assuage Manfreds quest for divinity:
From my youth upwards
My spirit walkd not with the souls of men,
Nor lookd upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine;
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one whobut of her anon.
I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion. (2.2.50-61)
Manfreds ravenous drive toward celestial supremacy forces him to cast aside all mortal weakness, love being one of
them, as gods are in no need of love. However, not only is love viewed by Manfred as a trait held only by mortals,
but the reader also finds another trait in Astarte that Manfred considers a quality that would arrest his ascension
toward divinity. Manfreds quest is also hindered by Astartes femininity. Manfred therefore must destroy that
obstacle in order to continue forward on his path to transcendent preeminence. Astartes destruction, though, has
unintended existential ramifications for Manfred.
Why was Astarte such an obstacle, and why did her death inadvertently hurl Manfred into an existential
crisis instead of projecting him closer to his end? The answer lies in the manner of relationship Manfred and
Astarte maintained, one of incestual narcissism. Freud teaches that in primary narcissism, the ego sees itself outside
of itself, in a similar fashion to Jacques Lacans notion of the mirror stage in the Imaginary register, and so the
external object of love and/or admiration is primarily one of a representation of the subjects very ego: Freuds
account of primary narcissism, like his theory of object-love, implies that we love others less for their uniqueness
and separateness, and more for their ability to contract our own abundance, that is, to embody and reflect back that
part of ourselves we have invested in them (Clewell 46). Love, therefore, is actually the love of the self: one loves
the external as a representation of ones self, and all love, according to Freud, is narcissistic. All love is thus self
love; in loving an external object or person, the subject is in a sense loving him or herself. In the case of Manfred,
through loving Astartea character who embodies Manfred himselfManfred is loving himself. He is loving his
own ego.
Not only does Astarte function as the external representation of Manfreds ego, but also, in a sense, she is
Manfred, thus making their relationship one of incest. A reader, using the vague references provided, comes to find
Astarte as the idealized version of Manfred; she functions as a mirror in which Manfred projects all his ideality on
to. However, as the quoted material above details, Astartes ideality and mirror representation of Manfred is
damaged by her femininity, a representation of human finitude and in opposition to godliness: Manfred
in effect, creates his loved one as an author would a character; she has no existence apart from his
narcissistic perception of her as an extension of himself. This is why her sexuality is so threatening; the Romantic
hero, such as Manfred, wishes to deny his own physicality, to achieve the ideal. Thus, he is repulsed by female
sexuality, and he must avoid contact with it at all costs in order to maintain his transcendent, superhuman
condition. For this reason, he wishes to render his lover inaccessible and thus permanently desirable.
(Stein 190) As her ideality must be maintained, Manfred must destroy Astarte in order to preserve this ideality, as
her inferiorities are a direct representation of Manfreds un-freedom and limitations and therefore must be omitted
from Manfreds ideal ego. These limitations are worldly, corporeal, and human and stand as obstacles in Manfreds
journey toward divinity. Furthermore, Astarte can remain ideal within Manfreds mind, in the intellect of Manfred,
only if she is absent and her femininity is omitted from Manfreds mental representation of her.
Manfred can love only an idealized reflection of himself; he destroys Astarte rather than discover her flaws
and mortal nature. In this way, he can avoid facing his own. Manfred seeks a mirror of his own best qualities and a
vehicle for his search for transcendence. As a human being, Astarte cannot fill the roles Manfred wants her to, and
he must destroy her to preserve her in her ideal state. Dead, she can be what he wants her to be, and he can freely
imagine her to be the perfect reflection of himself that he desires without her own identity getting in the way. (Stein
200) Murdering Astarte represents Manfreds attempt to shed himself of imperfections and impotency in his journey
toward godlike supremacy. As Astarte is a direct representation of Manfred, is the screen on which Manfred
projects his superior nature, is Manfred, she must be destroyed if Manfred is going to transcend his present state
between man and god and become only god.
Manfred expresses this discontent over his own mortality and understands that in order to achieve divinity,
he must rid himself of all characteristics of man:
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar, with our mixd essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will,
Till our mortality predominates,
And men arewhat they name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other. (1.2.39-47)
Man, as Nietzsche also described, is something to be surpassed. As Manfred states in the passage above, man is
already half a god in that he has the ability of perception, forethought, and the ability to create: man is dual in that
he is endowed with two souls, one sensual, of the body and fated, the other transcendent, immutable, and of the
gods (Twitchell 605). However, Manfred wishes not to maintain this dual nature and teeter between the realms of
gods and humans, but to exceed his humanity and be all god. Unfortunately, Manfred has yet to achieve this
holistic godly nature and is plagued not only by guilt, but also by fear, fear of domination by the other, a very un-
godlike characteristic.
Manfreds transgressionin murdering the feminine inferior aspects of himself within his otheralso
highlights a particular aspect of his personal disposition. As found in the drama, Manfred is a character who fears
domination, seeing that domination is a quality of low mortals and not gods. Wishing to reach a divine status, he
refuses to allow any being or spirit to hold a superior position above him: I will not swearObey! and whom? the
spirits / Whose presence I command, and be the slave / Of those who served meNever! (2.2.157-59). This kind
of fear of domination plays into Astartes destruction as well, as Manfred fears that his ideal self, his projection
represented in Astarte, might rise above and exceed him. Manfreds projected self might be beyond his own grasp.
With that fear of his reach exceeding his grasp, Astarte must die in order to preserve that ideality through the
removal of Manfreds inferior characteristics and also to arrest that ideality in a permanent state. In such a
preserved state, Manfred is now able to work past his own stationary ideal projected ego instead of continually
working toward an unobtainable ideal state.
Manfred, like all existential characters, is doomed to freedom. He is faced with insurmountable possibilities
and the consequences that follow the choices he makes. In angst, he makes a choice to end the life of Astarte in
order to move closer to his celestial objective. He becomes free from the burden of limitations symbolized in
Astarte; however, this freedom comes at a cost. Manfred, violently projecting his life toward a future project of
transcendent supremacy, comes to understand his angst and realizes the damaging consequences of his independent
actions.
Manfred is a character already in an isolated state, not only due to his own self-seclusion but also due to his
superior intellect and capabilities.
I could not tame my nature down; for he
Must serve who fain would swayand soothe, and sue,
And watch all time, and pry into all place,
And be a living lie, who would become
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with
A herd, though to be leaderand of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I. (3.3.117-24)
In destroying Astarte, Manfred is completely alone. Though in a considerably secluded state before, Astarte was
Manfreds only companion in his isolated statethe only other person who was almost equivalent to Manfred, so
with her death, the incestual narcissism is broken, and the perception of identity-equilibrium is thrown out of
balance. With this upset in identity, with the removal of Astarte as Manfreds invested identity object, Manfreds
journey toward divinity is hindered and even abated as he becomes consumed with existential despair over the loss
of an aspect of himself.
Astarte functions on two primary levels: that of an object Manfred has invested a part of his identity in and
also as a means of self-validationan other. Both of these levels complement one another, as they are both
external objects that threaten Manfreds being in their absence and propel Manfred into a state of existential despair:
But to my task. I have not named to thee
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,
With whom I wore the chain of human ties;
If I had such, they seemd not such to me
Yet there was one. (2.2.100-04)
First, as mentioned in the introduction, the subject naturally invests a part of him or herself in external objects.
These external objects, be them things or persons, become both the representative of and the support for the
subjects internal psyche, the subjects identity. We saw this same form of identity investment in Freuds view of
narcissism, as the external object becomes a direct mirrored reflection of the subjects own ego and object of love.
If this object is damaged or destroyed, the subjects very identity is threatened. Astarte is thus this object for
Manfred. Her absence injures Manfreds identity, throwing him off his determined course and forcing him into a
state of melancholia over the lost aspect of his identity.
Secondly, Astarte, due to Manfreds extreme isolation, both intellectually and socially, was Manfreds only
means of self validation. Just as Hegel teaches that both the master and slave need one another for self-validation,
with only Manfred alone and with no other means of authenticating his own existence through external
representation, Manfred is unable to assess his own self-awareness. In Byrons drama, nature seems to mirror the
internal existential angst and despair within Manfred. Without Astarte, Manfred is unable to appraise any sense of
otherness; without an external other to base his own perception of reality and identity on, Manfreds own external
reference has been destroyed by his own hands.
His inability to discover himself in erotic or natural experience is at least partially the consequence of a
transgressive act that separates him from the human community, but it also coincides with the terrible thought that
his encounter with another person was merely a delusion. The disruption of his relationship with Astarte collapses
the distinction between self and other, just as it largely forecloses the possibility of future encounters (Melaney 469)
Consequently, with the absence of Astarte, functioning as both Manfreds external ideal ego-object and his object
reference to base reality on, Manfred is forced on to a new journey, from seeking divinity to seeking the
assuagement of his existential despair.
Bringing the vague history of Manfreds past transgression to the forefront, the beginning of drama, where
Manfred, found in a state of utter despair, is seeking forgetfulness, makes clear his existential crisis:
The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then
It will not burn so long as I must watch.
My slumbersIf I slumberare not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
Which then I can resist not: in my heart
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within; and yet I live, and bear
The aspect and the form of breathing men.
But grief should be the instructor of the wise;
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. (1.1.1-12)
Thrown off of his course toward divinity, Manfred must first find atonement for the loss of his other. As this other
was Manfreds ideal ego and perhaps the greatest part of his psyche, he must find a new other to grant him this
atonement and regain his sense of full-self. It is on this journey that Manfreds drama begins.
Manfred wishes to forget the destruction of his other by the powers of his own superhuman wisdom.
Plagued by guilt, Manfred calls upon the spirits of the earth to aid him in forgetting. Freud teaches that guilt is the
product of the super-ego, disappointing or dissatisfying the residual voices of the subjects most prominent external
agents. In the psychological universe of the child, these external agents are the childs parents. For an adult, this
agent moves from being the subjects parents to the internal voice of social pressures. In the case of Manfred, his
guilt, as has been shown, is produced by destroying his equal:

Thinkst thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the saltsurf weeds of bitterness. (2.1.51-8)
His personal super-ego, the residual voice of Manfreds own humanity, deprives him of progressing toward divinity.
Manfred can never reach a godlike status while maintaining such a human quality as guilt, as he is striving to surpass
humanity and its pressures. Guilt, like Astartes femininity, is un-godlike, is a sign of humanity, mortality, finitude.
In order to alleviate Manfred of this existential despair, this mortal guilt seen as a threat to his identity and his goal,
Manfred seeks forgetfulness and the subsequent destruction of his super-ego.
Manfred, using his supreme powers over the elements, begins to conjure the spirits of the earth. He wishes
to use his influence over them in order to force them into magically making him forget his past transgression and
the product produced by that transgression, his guilt. However, the spirits of the earth are unable to grant Manfred
that which they dont possess:
We can but give thee that which we possess:
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power
Oer earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign
Which shall control the elements, whereof
We are the dominators,each and all,
These shall be thine. (1.1.139-44)
The spirits of the earth are powerless to fulfill Manfreds request. According to Christopher Strathman, He is able
to summon things well enough, but it is of no consequence in relieving the anxiety of the human condition (374).
What Manfred is requesting of the spirits is beyond their power. These spirits are of a lower order on the chain of
being and, therefore, do not possess the capabilities to do such a task and interfere with the workings of a being in
time.
Unable to forget his past transgressions, Manfred attempts to commit suicide on the mountains of Jungfrau.
However, it is apparent that Manfred hasnt come to understand the full degree of his existential angst, his
independence to choose out of an endless spectrum of choices. About to leap off of a cliff, Manfred is suddenly
halted by the passing Chamois Hunter:
Friend! have a care,
Your next step may be fatal!for the love
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink!...
Hold, madman!though aweary of thy life,
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood!
Away with meI will not quit my hold. (1.2.100-03;110-12)
Manfred is easily swayed from ending his life here in this scene, thus revealing his feeling of limitations among his
own choices. Manfred is still a captive of his humanity and is thus predisposed to his remaining human qualities:
Manfred is recalled from the brink of the Jungfrau by the voice of the Chamois Hunter, a figure that appeals to
him in friendship and common humanity (Sperry 195). The hunter leads Manfred to his abode, and there we
become aware of how time and knowledge weigh heavily on Manfred.
Manfreds journey toward divinity is immobilized as he becomes consumed with guilt over Astartes death
by his own hands. In order to continue toward divinity, Manfred must shed himself of this guilt, as guilt is a weak
quality of humans and not of gods. Unlike weak mortals, Gods do not forget: We are immortal, and do not forget;
/ We are eternal; and to us the past / Is as the future, present. Art thou answerd? (1.1.148-51). Manfred seeks
forgetfulness, as guilt is the product of the super-egos voice raging against a past occurrence. In having the
strength of will to choose forgetfulnessthe high spirit creates itself anew without guilt, debt, mourning or pity
(Soderholm 54). But this journey too becomes disrupted by Manfreds realization that despite his superior status, he
is still a being in time. As gods are outside of time, transcendent of all of times framing powers, Manfreds true
human condition begins to surface and eclipse his superhuman qualities. We find that Manfred is a human and is,
therefore, a being subjected to time. As a being in time, he is susceptible to the perception of times passing:

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
In all the days of this detested yoke
This vital weight upon the struggling heart,
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness
In all the days of past and future, for
In life there is no present, we can number
How few, how less than few, wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moments. (2.2.164-77)
Gods reside outside the realm of time while still maintaining memory. Not vulnerable to guilt, as they have no
parental agents or order to submit to, gods do not function in the same way as mortals. As Manfred begins to
realize this, he understands that he will always be unable to forget the knowledge of his past and free himself of
mortal guilt. He therefore must lower himself to a mortal action and seek forgiveness from an external agent, the
spirit of Astarte.
Manfred goes to the throne of Arimanes, a superhuman mortal, much like Manfred, who appears to be the
sovereign over the spirits, a Prince of Earth and Air (2.4.1). Again, unwilling to submit to the authority of anyone
or anything else and establishing his supremacy among Arimanes and his subjects, Manfred forces the spirit
Nemesis to raise the spirit of Astarte so that he may inquire about the afterlife and implore her to forgive him.
Speaking to the Spirit of Astarte, Manfred states the following:
Astarte! my belovd! speak to me:
I have so much endured, so much endure
Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me
Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made
To torture thus each other, though it were
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved.
Say that thou loathst me not, that I do bear
This punishment for both, that thou wilt be
One of the blessd, and that I shall die;
For hitherto all hateful things conspire
To bind me in existencein a life
Which makes me shrink from immortality (2.4.118-130)
Manfred seeks forgiveness from an external object, from the lost object of his identity in order to cure him of his
existential despair and continue forward on his path to divinity. However, the spirit of Astarte gives Manfred no
consolation, only prophesizes his death the next day and, through his death, his freedom from his own personal
ills. Interestingly, Astarte does not provide Manfred with the gift of forgiveness and only acknowledges
Manfreds present existential state. She gives no evidence of having a memory of the past events that took place in
her life, that of her death and her resentment at Manfred for his injustice against her. Though she doesnt provide
Manfred with some sort of conciliatory clemency, a reader may speculate that death might lead to the erasure of
memory, and with it, the elimination of guilt and existential fragility that comes with the living human condition.
Manfred seems to have picked up on this idea that memory, guilt, angst, and despair are not a quality maintained by
the spirits of the dead. As Manfred comes to realize that his existential crisis will always hold dominion over him in
life, his only means of conquering such a crisis is to regain his sense of personal supremacy and exercise his
autonomy in rejecting life.
Manfred has now come to terms with his existential crisis, and understands that to truly become sovereign
over himself and master over his guilt and despair, he must commit suicide and die triumphantly. High in one of
his towers, Manfreds journey toward his own death is tested twice, first by a goodly abbot and second by an
abominable demon. Here, a reader sees Manfreds ego doing battle against the forces of his super-ego, represented
by the Abbot, and his id, represented by the demon. Both are representatives of Manfreds psyche and his lifes
fight for survival, as both seek to hinder Manfreds autonomy and exhibit their power over him. Their battle
anticipates Manfreds eventual mastery of himself as an autonomous being (Macdonald 31). As a representative of
the super-ego, the Abbot wishes Manfred to submit to the phallic laws of the holy institution, and through
Manfreds submission to a higher order, Manfreds humility will free him from his existential despair. Manfred
refuses:
Old man! there is no power in holy men,
Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form
Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,
Nor agony, nor, greater than all these,
The innate tortures of that deep despair,
Which is remorse without the fear of hell
But all in all sufficient to itself
Would make a hell of heaven,can exorcise
From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge
Upon itself; there is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the selfcondemnd
He deals on his own soul. (3.1.66-77)
Manfred refuses to submit to the authority of the church. There is no power in prayer or in the men of the church.
Manfred, again in understanding the value of his personal autonomy, cannot submit to any authority but himself.
He is moving toward an understanding of his own mortality, knowing that true freedom will only come with his
death. Any other power could never free Manfred from his existential crisis. By relying on the super-egoic
institutions of God, Manfred would be weighted with more guilt not only due to the loss of his ideal-ego Astarte,
but also at this loss of his autonomy in giving over his self-rule to the institutions of laws, limitations, and phallic
submission.
While the Abbot is pleading with Manfred to submit to God and His Church, a demon manifests and claims
that Manfred, through his past transgressions, is subjected to damnation.
Speaking with the Abbot, Manfreds
last speech is briefly interrupted by a spirit who has come to claim him for the underworld. The spirit
breaks into remind Manfred of unspecific crimes which he has committed, crimes which apparently make
him subject to the spirits world and will. Manfred shifts the focus [to] his own defense. Before the spirit
interrupts, Manfred stresseshis powersemphasizing the autonomy of his mind, which Is its own
origin of ill and end. (Glass 211)
The demon reminds Manfred of his past transgressions; he serves as a representative of Manfreds will to power, his
insatiable drive toward godlike perfection. However, in this stage in alleviating his existential despair, Manfred has
come too far only to be suppressed by the primal urges of his former lion self. Like the Abbot and both the
psychic and institutional things he represents, Manfred must conquer the demon of his psyche through his own
egoic autonomy.
My life is in its last hour,that I know,
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour.
I do not combat against death, but thee
And thy surrounding angels; my past power
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,
But by superior science, penance, daring,
And length of watching, strength of mind, and skill
In knowledge of our fathers when the earth
Saw men and spirits walking side by side
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand
Upon my strengthI do defydeny
Spurn back, and scorn ye! (3.4.110-21)
Though the demon attempts to deceive Manfred in declaring his power over Manfred, now fully aware of his
existential autonomy, is the victor over his past transgressions. Just as both the Abbot and the demon attempt to
sway Manfred in the direction of the worldly institutions or the fixed past with all the faults Manfred committed,
both are unable to sway Manfred from attaining his new found objective in fully ridding himself of angst and
despair.
Manfred began his journey with the goal of attaining divinity by uncovering the mysteries of the universe.
On this journey, Manfred rebuked humanity for the peace of solitude needed for such intense study. Along the
way, he found a companion, almost an equal, but in order for that companion to remain ideal and pure in Manfreds
imagination, she needed to be destroyed. Manfred is a character doomed to freedom, and for that freedom, he is
susceptible to the existential consequences of his choices. Unaware of what such a horrific choice might have on
Manfred, killing his other plunges him into a state of existential despair at the loss of a part of his own identity.
Unable to gain forgetfulness, unable to erase the power of an appalling past memory and the guilt that burdens all
beings in time, Manfred is forced on a new journey, leaving his goal of supreme divinity for mortal death, and the
ending of angst and despair that comes with death.
Manfreds existential crisis comes to an end on the precipice of one of his towers. In order to alleviate his
inner turmoil, Manfred must accept his humanity and display his ultimate act of freewill. In order to reveal his full
autonomy over himself, to express himself as the only authority of himself, Manfred commits suicide. Like
Manfreds past transgressions, the details are vague and left to the readers imagination, but Manfreds act is clear in
his final speech to the Abbot:
Tis overmy dull eyes can fix thee not;
But all things swim around me, and the earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well
Give me thy hand.
Old man! tis not so difficult to die. (3.4. 144-148; 151)
Manfred dies a silent and dignified death, declaring this authority over his senses and the authority of the elements
around him. Death offered Manfred peace from angst and despair, peace from the drive toward divinity and
toward the assuagement of his personal guilt. Manfred is triumphant and conquers his existential crisis through his
ultimate act of freewill, reigning supreme over himself by choosing mortality over divinity and the death that comes
with itthe silent peace that comes with it.

Works Cited

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Association. 52.1 (2004): 43-67. Web. 1 Oct. 2011. <http://www.apsa.org/portals/1/docs/japa/521/clewell.pdf>.
Glass, Loren. Blood and Affection: The Poetics of Incest in Manfred and Parisina.
Studies in Romanticism. 34.2 (1995): 211-226. Web. 29 Sep. 2011. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/25601113>.
Macdonald, D. L., Incest, Narcissism and Demonality in Byron's Manfred. Mosaic.
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Trudy Carpenter

Stepping Out

I know I should feel something, pain somewhere maybe, but Im standing next to my body and all Im
aware of are smellsthe odors from so many mouths too close to my face. Peppermint, Old Spice, White
Shoulders, black coffee. I take half a step back to lean against the wall, hoping I wont faint inside my black dress. I
hold my breath when Marvin Oakes, Shirleys husband and President of the Board, whispers a sour smell through
waxy teeth, You were a helpmate to him, Lillian, a fine wife. None better.
She did her duty like we all do, snaps Shirley, his wife.
Stacks of blue hymnals prop open both front doors of the church, letting in cool November air. The line
winds down the concrete steps to the parking lot. It looks like everyone came, all dressed in Sunday clothes on a
Friday afternoon, calf-length dresses that pull across widening hips, suit coats shiny from heavy irons. Mid-priced
sedans keep weaving in from the cemetery, headlamps still on, a few braking in front to let out the elderly or young
women with babies. A gust scuttles a curled red maple leaf across the floor, and I shift my weight forward again.
Abruptly, Shirley thrusts her arm back through the tight line to my elbow. When she grasps bone, her small
diamond ring slips sideways and she flicks it up with her thumb. You just stay put as long as you need to, she
insists to the rest of the procession, Were not going to rush you. In unison, heads nod.
I know that another couple will soon be sent by the Bishop for the congregations approval, and the chosen
will sleep in the double bed Karl and I shared for three years, hang their clothes on the same hangers, use up the
parsley, cook with the same pots and pans. The house wasnt ours. That was made clear at the start. My early
proposal to paint the white kitchen yellow had been vetoed by the parsonage committee, but, without asking, I hung
a framed print, a Picasso with a scrambled design of body parts, above the sofa. When Karl frowned, Whats that
Spring 2014
supposed to be? I told him I didnt know exactly, but it made me feel free. Shirley squeezes to bone one more
time, smiling, And now arent we glad we left those kitchen walls white? One less thing to worry about during this
tragic time.
I remember the Christmas Eve Karl stood in my parents living room and grabbed my shoulders, his hot
breath flaming my face. I closed my eyes and parted my lips, eager for even more passion. Instead he announced
his miraculous calling, his forever vocation. Bewildered, I opened my eyes and closed my mouth. All that fire, but
not for me. Dont worry, he said. Nothings changed. We can still marry in June.
Marian Ballard shakes my hand, drops her eyes, bites her loose lower lip, and whispers a statement that curls
up at the end, I know I shouldnt ask you this right now, but I hope youll still play for the choir this Sunday?
Marian continues, shaking her head, Mrs. Kesson wont do it on such short notice. I blink away anger but Marian
has already assumed and smiles her expected relief.
Next clumps Carol Wickern on squat heels, a tissue balled in her hand and waving shreds when she swipes
at her eyes. She sobbed on the couch in the parsonage because Shirley complained that the altar bouquet looked
like a bunch of weeds. It was my job to soothe Carol, praise her use of natural beauty, later joking to Karl, How
did Christ do all that work without a wife? Karl contracted his brows, tried to laugh, got as close as a grimace.

Five or six people down the line, old Mrs. Weber, who is hard of hearing but insists she isnt, blurts to the
woman behind her, So shocking. For a wild moment, I think its something Ive done and drop the hand holding
mine. That stalls the line, and faces ripple worry until I again hold out my palm. My legs feel stiff; Im not even sure
I can walk when I need to.
When the congregation shuffles me forward, Mrs. Weber cups my face between thin green-veined hands,
My poor dear, you must come to dinner on Sunday. The smell of her face powder triggers memories of the
Sunday procession of 12:30 dinners, roasted chicken, lamb, pork, beef, always an animal, the choicest parts carved
for the ministers wife. The exchange of polite words skimming like flat stones over a lake.
The air stills when Marvin shuts the wide front doors, one then the other, behind the last straggler, sliding
the hymnals aside with the edge of his shoe. Its so hard to find a good fit, complains old Mabel Otney to herself
as she trails down the stairs. Im not serving on that committee again, thats for darn sure.
Marvin supports my elbow down the steep linoleum treads edged with metal, nineteen in all. The stairs are
too narrow, so he holds my arm from behind, like were dancing an old-fashioned reel. At the last step, he swings
to my side, leading me through bright fluorescence. Food waits on a long white plastic table, and card tables sag
with desserts. It is only three-thirty, two hours before most people in town eat their suppers, but the cold wind at
the cemetery and the long receiving line have starved everyone. By now, the first through the line have stood idle in
the basement for half an hour, tapping their fingers on the backs of folding chairs, waiting to sit until the widow
arrives, late like a bride. Marvin Oakes waves his hand for attention, clears his throat and raises his voice, Bless this
food to our bodies, O Mighty Lord, and us to Thy service. Amen.
I hesitate when Marvin nods, pushes the middle of my back, forcing me to start the line, lift a thick paper
plate from the stack and help myself from the offeringspink ham slices ruffling off a center bone, sliced beef
steaming in juice, crusty chicken legs piled high. Mashed potatoes and gravy, mustard potato salad, macaroni with
cubes of yellow cheese, creamed peas and peanuts, shredded lettuce dressed in light orange, two wide bowls of
bright Jello. From nowhere I hear Karls laugh, Funeral food should be real easy to swallow. Hands crossed over
their bellies, church women smile behind the full table as I take a small serving from each dish so as not to offend.
When my hand trembles, Marvin carries my plate. God moves in mysterious ways, he mutters, shaking his head,
scraping my chair out from under the table.
The church women make the desserts, too, those bright circles of pudding, triangles of pie, squares of
brownies, each on a thin paper plate. Desserts require a separate trip. Theyre reserved for the end, like the reward
of salvation. A tall urn of decaf drips onto a plate. When asked, I shake my head no. I never drink coffee. Why
does no one remember that? Karls face floats onto the napkin unfolded across my lap, and I hear, Eat and drink
in remembrance of me. I lower the forkful of beef to my plate, wipe my lips, sip some water, swallow hard.
After its over, just a blur really, Im back in the parsonage. Pairs of high heels parade platters and bowls
with foil caps, feet stepping exactly where Karl fell just three nights before, shattering his glass of milk into
quivering pools and clear shards across the just-waxed linoleum. I came running, blew ragged breaths into his lungs
a long time before pulling his head to my chest, rocking him, whispering things he needed to know. Even if he
heard them too late.
Wisps of comfort whirl behind the womens retreat through the door. Try to rest. Ill call tomorrow.
Youre in my prayers. Shirley Oakes frowns at the Picasso as she passes, then turns with an offering, Mabels
got an apartment over her garage. Ill ask her about it.
All this food will be wasted, I murmur into the refrigerator, and someone will have to take back the
dishes. The congregations bereaved are expected to return dishes clean within two weeks, one per day, staying
long enough for a refill of coffee. Gets people out of the house, Shirley explained.
The clock over the kitchen stove keeps up its regular ticking, but when the refrigerator cycles back on, I feel
the draft, slam its white door. The dishes of food will grow colder and colder inside on dark shelves. The thought
makes me shiver, and I wander the house with one arm wrapped around me, tapping the rough couch and chairs, a
smooth white wall, the cold bathroom sink.
In the wall closet at the back of our bedroom, I push beyond Karls other black suit and starched shirts to
reach the leatherette handle of a large fabric suitcase. My jerking it forward knocks over one of Karls shiny black
dress shoes. Shirley insisted they wouldnt show in the casket so it would be selfish not to give them to someone
who could use them, but I dont feel settled, probably never will, about burying Karl in his socks with no shoes. It
felt disrespectful. He would never have left the house like that.
I heft the case onto the bedspread and spread it wide, returning to the closet, then wrapping my lavender
dress in a thin terry towel. I see my younger self joyful, twirling in front of the full-length mirror in my childhood
bedroom, dressed for the honeymoon trip, the start of our new life together.
Then I unbutton the long-sleeved black dress, still warm from my body, and watch it flutter into a band
around my bare feet, staring a while, then stepping out of the circle. Perhaps Shirley will take it to Salvation Army
along with Karls other suit, shirts, and shoes.
After zipping the suitcase, I wait on the edge of the bed until I cant see the grass on the lawn. My eyes blur,
and bright crosses appear through the street lights. Time feels like nothing, and Im still not wearing my body.
When the furnace starts up, I startle back into the room, rise, bump the suitcase on its stiff rubber wheels
through the familiar stale rooms, stopping at the closet just inside the front door. A string snaps on the light, and I
tug off my wool coat and scarf, the only clothes left in the closet. The hanger swings wide, setting in motion a
chain of rhythmic swaying and tinking as each empty hanger connects with the next, all the way across the steel rod
to the end and then, more slowly, back once again.
Once the motion has stopped, I can open the front door and step outside, pulling the door shut behind my
suitcase. The last word from the parsonage is a soft shhhhh as the metal door locks into its spongy weather stripping.

Stephanie V Sears

Curiosities and horrors
(from a drawing by Odilon Redon)

At all ages I was in the night
that changed familiar shapes to strange apostrophes
baffling me during dark interludes.

Three trees of diverse diameters
keep each other inevitable company.
Is this frontier mine only
at the tip of the world
where gloom and brightness elute each other
in black hatchings, highlights, wings,
the aborted features of dusk?

Globular eyes exude the sweetness
of unwilling horror,
they watch me as I watch the unplumbed shades
of an alien spectrum.

Nothing is stable, nothing rooted.
Balloons bounce around me
gooey like balled spiders.
Uncertainly, I tread, I run, I hug
the unnatural face of a forest gnome,
the creased and hollow promise
of childhoods gummy haven.

Branches of bone glut on the night.
Their phosphorescent calcium
shimmers from top to bottom with lightening
and reveals the wallowing features of terror,
sated and obese.

Spring 2014

The very place

It is a breathless ring
a north pond, plane
under the skys skein of consent
edged by tall crisp reeds
shadowing to hide
the obstinate past.
Ice percolations quaintly
magnify the russet icons
of old prostrate grass.
Ducks flutter upward
chanting nasal phonemes.

Something departs,
the scene converts to allegory.
Sun improvises across the gold torq
of curled and braided hair,
tints cheeks with peonies,
and seals a reunion.

Love promised, missed,
perjured by ill luck,
comes to be by that law
that nothing is lost.
Sheathed in the feathered powder
of a fouett, an arabesque penche,
lovers embrace in a pas de deux,
and engrave their lines
once suppressed.

The promised horse:
to those I know in Egypt and Syria

That evening rested magenta
on the desert grown out of its dust
for the promised horse
into a gardens rosebud light,
dune and shadow comingled,
where together we heard
the cool voices of silence.
His round planet eye
commanded space to be still
as he won over the latent sun,
something of foam, something of fire,
furlongs ahead of the ground
a floating stride of mist
in his limpid wake
leaving the elixir of speed.

I pledged myself to the bridge of his back,
the high ideogram of his neck
where haste mapped the course
of his immortal blood.
For he is without rage
therefore inhuman
with power to extend the day
and sweeten the night.
Herald atop his own crimson crest
inscrutable arch spanned
between obedience and supremacy.

Safe from my own deviations
I was part of that alchemy of faith.

Simon Perchik

Five Poems

Before the morning kiss this cup
must be heated, aroused
and full length in the ravine

its jittery tongue waits for the sun
to move closer, fill your mouth
as if every breath has a tragic ending

is covered in water made invisible
by tiny desert stalks
and something to hope for

--it takes hours, panting
till the light darts across
smelling from coffee

that asks what time is it
and the kiss that goes by
no longer evening or old.

Spring 2014

To protect itself this pond
freezes over, fills with light
the way the first mother on Earth

made it safely ashore
taking her child along
though you are still thirsty

cold, half ice, half comforted
by this ancient flower
blooming now as snow

--this knee-deep pond
once overflowed with power
could insist on Spring

would lean against the sun
till it begins to heat again
taste from salt and open sea

--you can look through
see where the straight line began
and keeps arriving

as if every cradle at night
is rocking in water
and the now invisible silence.

With one grudging whisper
all that the sky had given you
--half-hearted

as if your first breath
could be returned
no longer struggling

--Dave, your feeble lips
are flickering
can hardly make out

where the night is headed
though to the darkness
everything is snow

is covering your pillow
the way you once imagined
what words were like

before the coming and going
--you didn't see, Dave
as words do

how the door to the room
was suddenly let in
no wider than this page

and the hand in back
stomping to keep warm
comes off when let go.

But where is the river
--not one inch closer
though the will to win
has outlasted you
the way sunlight slows
loses out to the cold

--there must have been a wound
a rock and that someplace
the dead are waiting for
while you watch how the horizon
slowly ices over, carries you
into open sea where your breath
lies down on the darkness

and drinks from this half the sky
lets the other side take the lead
eating away at these stars
sprawled out as shoreline

--you are surrounded at last
clouded over by moonlight
and nothing but moonlight.

It's the lane-to-lane
that throws their aim off
though for other reasons

you can't hold on, the map
too slippery and the climbing turn
is already opened much too wide

--even without the landing lights
the straight line is dangerous
tries to get a bead on you

the way stretchers lift the dead
who want only to move again
--take command! do in-and-out

or what chance do you have
with this constant terror
--a split-second stare

can break the windshield apart
and its slow, sunlit curve
all those years in the making

was not saved, its pieces
laid out as roadway and glass
and that half look over your shoulder

to pass on the silence
you were waiting for, already lowered
into shadow and the wings.

Sidney Thompson

Down Time

Cooper was deep in Chrysler product, where you never saw anyone who wasnt showing a vehicle or, like him,
going in to pull one out. Being far enough away from customer parking and the main driving lanes to be considered
remote. You wouldnt stake out a spot back here to catch an up, but Brandi, even newer to Hank Hood Automall than
he was, appeared to be doing just that, between two Town & Country minivans.
Nice tie, she said as he passed.
Yeah, its my conversation piece. He smiled but was still miffed by his whole initiationhis fifty-dollar tie
scissored right in half in the morning meeting simply because hed sold his first car last night, or half a car. A split
deal. Big deal!
He walked to the end of the row, where the PT Cruisers were parked, and when he saw the Opal Metallic was
practically as iridescent as a mood ring in the sunlight, he got hopeful that the Hadleys might feel different about the
color today. He wanted a whole deal today.
He leaned against the car to unlock the lockbox and glanced back in Brandis direction, catching her looking at
him before darting her attention elsewhere, swinging tight blonde curls. He could finally, for a second, take her in: the
bare arms, the low, ruffled top, the snug capri pants, the calves, the heels. Dressed for success.
Spring 2014
All right, he told himself, focusing on the lockbox, then on the key inside it, he could do this. He could go up to
KFC right now and win Claude over and close him down. He cranked the engine, then when he pulled out of the space,
Brandi jogged over to him in tiny skittering steps with her hands balled up close to her breasts.
He stopped to see what she wanted, and it took him a moment to locate the switch to lower his window,
forgetting at first that the controls werent on the doors but on the dash.
Where you going? she asked.
KFC, he said, and before he could explain, she said she was going with him and bounced around the front
bumper to the passenger side.
As soon as she was in and had shut her door, she dropped her seat to full recline and squirmed as low as she
could, her top riding up on her midriff, revealing a yellow-jeweled navel ring.
I dont think theyll be open yet, though, she said.
No, probably not, he said. He rested his hand on the gear-shift knob and hit the gas. He could act cool like
the next guy. He didnt have to know everything. But my customers a manager there, he felt he needed to explain.
I guess opening up, he said, tooling past the point, where the other salesmen milled for business, shooting the shit.
Once on Highway 98 and out of view of anyone on the lot, Brandi popped her seat upright and straightened her
top. Take your time. I gotta have a minute. She reached toward the floorboard and came back with her lighter, a
Phillies Blunt shed bought that morning on the way to work, a dime bag shed bought off Demarcus in Detail five
minutes ago, and a razor blade, which Detail always had plenty of. Demarcus was a friend of hers from when she
worked at Hank Hood before her incarceration. She was glad to be out and back, of course. He wondered why she was
explaining all of this to him.
Cooper watched her remove the thin cigar from its cellophane sleeve, then bring the cigar to her mouth, running
her tongue up and down its side. She glanced at him, and he looked away to watch the road.
I hadnt sold in so long, I shouldnt be doing this, she said, but I just gotta relax a little, you know, and then
Ill be all right. She held the cigar in her left hand, butt up, then with the razor blade in her right, with surgical
precision, she began slicing the leaf wrapper, down to the tip.
KFC was coming up, so he slowed, and as he passed he spotted the Oldsmobile Alero parked in the back. So
Claude was there. He was there.
Cooper pressed his foot against the pedal to speed up again, and now watching Brandi lay the razor blade on her
thigh, then cradle the cigar in both hands, Cooper couldnt resist any longer. What are you doing?
What do you mean? she said absently as she gently pulled the incision open with her thumbs to expose the
tobacco. Then, as an afterthought, she turned to look at him. You never smoked a blunt before?
He shook his head, and she smiled.
Wow, really? But you smoke, right?
Oh, yeah, he said. Not in awhile, but sure.
She looked forward, then nodded at the BP coming up. Pull over a sec.
Cooper turned into the gas station and parked far away from the pumps. Brandi opened her door, and he looked
around nervously as she held the cigar outside, and with her thumb slipped inside the leaf wrapper, she began carefully
raking the tobacco out.
All right, she said, shutting her door, just gimme another minute, then we can do whatcha gotta do.
Cooper pulled back onto 98, still heading south, out of Fairhope now, to mostly trees and rolling land. They
actually werent very far from the house in Point Clear Stables Leah wanted them to buy, so he took a right at the next
street to cut over to it. With the deft finger movements of a clarinetist, Brandi sifted away the stems and seeds,
dropping them back into the baggie, while crumbling the pot into the leaf wrapper. He didnt explain where they were
going, and she didnt seem to care.
When the next road graded upward past the cow pasture, with the cows grazing near the fence, he said, Cows.
He didnt know why he wanted her to see them, but she was nice enough to lift her head long enough to let him see her
look and smile, before finishing up, and she was so close. Just gotta roll it up, lick it up, and burn it up, she said.
He paused as he turned on Polo Ridge Boulevard and pointed out the golf course through the trees. See the
golf course? he said.
She looked, and still licking the blunt, she nodded. Cool.
You think so?
She lowered her face and searched between her legs for her lighter. Yeah, you dont?
He shrugged. My wife wants a house down here, like bad, he said. They passed the gate house and the pond
and bridge, while Brandi, holding the blunt by two fingertips, ran the flame of her lighter up and down the length of the
incision.
He circled the neighborhood, then stopped in front of the blond-brick house with the For Sale sign posted in the
yard. Thats it, he said.
Pretty, she said, holding the blunt loosely in one hand. She set the razor blade in the baggie and the baggie on
the floorboard, then tugged the handle of her door. Lets check it out.
He scouted his potential neighbors. It was desolately quiet. Around here, he said, leading her off the
walkway, through the yard and an unlocked gate, to a patio garden.
Ah, this is awesome, she said, spinning, soaking it up.
Not too much, huh?
She shook her head and backed up to the house, leaning out of view of the street and letting her hair nestle
against the bricks. Then she put the blunt to her lips and lit it.
Cooper walked up to the window Leah had peaked through the last time they were here together. The pale-
yellow archways and high ceilings and columns said elegant decadence.
Brandi snorted, fighting to hold the smoke in her lungs, then stretched out her arm to pass the blunt.
He hesitated, thinking maybe later, but maybe he needed to relax now, too, so he took it, an easy thing to pass,
and took a hit.
She released her smoky breath in a gush, then reached for the blunt. Whats your name?
He released his breath and coughed. Cooper, he said.
Never been arrested, have you?
Cooper shook his head.
Been to college?
Been there, he nodded.
She smiled, and her eyes were green and gold and blue and brown, and on fire. Then she closed them sleepily
as she took a long drag. Then he took one last hit before she took her last hit, and then she put the ember out against a
brick.
So, you wanna go inside? Is that it?
Oh, I dont know, he said, realizing what she was asking, unsure if that was what he wanted. Do you?
Sure, she said. Im on the pill. You dont have AIDS, do you?
He laughed. No, dont have AIDS.
Because youre married?
He showed her his ring. Im married.
Or I could just suck you off out here under these palm trees. Its so nice out here. What a life! She opened
her arms and spun around as if to dance with the entire subdivision.
Leah had dismissed his overtures for sex when theyd found the window unlocked. Why was he married to
Leah and contemplating anything more with her by buying this house? Why was he leaning back in the shade of a bay
window and dropping his pants? Why did the palm fronds tick when they touched? Why did he have to lose half a tie?

Sergio Ortiz

Headlines

Meadowlarks sing
to the dead man who got sick
with sorrow.
Covered in deaths icy mosses
the dead man lies flat, laughing
sardonically at heaven.
He wants to read the headlines to
ponder and resolve the riddle of his days.
For his brain is not swamped
with the poisoned blood of lust.

On the day of his death he read
news items about whats happening in Iran.
Suddenly the Ayatollahs of the revolution
piled in his heart and they suppurated
in his soul and he knew he had been cheated
by life, so he died and meadowlarks sang pleaded
for his asylum in heaven.
The Ayatollahs laughed, and then there was silence,
except for the hiss of his rotting body.

Spring 2014
Medication

Half asleep and wrapped
in a blanket of nightmares
I pass through all the broken
windows of the world
with an appetite for cake.
It is the medication struggling
to wear off, the dew-haze blurs
of an autumn sky. I yearn
for a day without a fix, a day
with the consciousness of who
Ive become in the tall grass
of my imagination.

Game of Thrones

It's one of those days
when I think I'll sink into a frozen lake
where paper ships are torched,
and I sit long inside
my last sorrow, and the earth
is lonely, and the Game of Thrones
is over, and I leave this winter
parfait to the ravens.

Its one of those days
when my dragons spit fire
and swirl without end, and I absorb
the outline of a snowy owl
on a branch, and the minutes
he sleeps holding her right breast
in his left hand, and my dragons spit
more fire than the pyre I march on
searching for the reasons he pushed
me off the wall.

Its one of those days
when I see wolves eating
the carcasses of pigs,
and I see many throats inside one
throat swallowing a shattered mirror,
like that one day when he fucked me
so hard I shivered and wept and laughed
and shivered and wept and laughed
again and again until the voices died down
and he left, and I put him in a poem,
and it rained.

Sandee Harris

Shredding

My hatred for shopping interfered with my ability to make sound decisions. I didnt have any patience for
bargain-hunting, or comparison shopping. This time I knew at least that the shredder that I would buy should be
medium-sized and sturdy. When it came to something that I wanted, generally I didnt bother with type, unless it
was necessary. I made a bee line to the area with the item, picked up the best-looking one, and bought it, no matter
what it cost. I had paid $800 retail for leather pants from a department store once. I needed something nice and had
found it. I would pay whatever the store told me to pay. I had to have an outfit to wear to a birthday party. Friends
who knew better scolded me, but I didnt care. The goal was to get out of the store quickly, unless I was on
tranquilizers. The day I went shopping for the shredder, I had a hang over.
In the shredder aisle at Staples, I checked the sizes of the ones on the lower shelves. Having located the
shredder aisle shortly after arriving, I had this slight luxury of perusing. I had expected to be searching helplessly for
the shredder aisle with no sales person in sight.
When a short Spanish woman with orange hair asked if I needed help, I felt further release from tension in
my shoulders. This was unexpected I didnt think the young sales people there gave enough of a shit to actually
ask customers if they wanted anything.
Spring 2014
I want a medium-sized shredder. Im shredding a lot of paper, so it should be good quality. Then in
afterthought Of course I dont want to spend much money. If she hadnt been there, money wouldnt have
been an issue. But since she was there, I felt, why not mention it.
The Staples brand is good, and theres a rebate coupon for it. I was having a hard enough time focusing
after another night of heavy drinking. A rebate coupon? What was that -- exactly? I felt dizzy. This would involve
mailing something in -- signing papers. This was too much to absorb.
Let me go to the register. Ill show you what we have. Ill be right back, she said, walking away -- leaving
me. Though this was turning out to be something else, I would wait, with an open mind. It was darker in this aisle
than in the others, probably to my advantage. There were bags under my eyes. My skin in the bathroom mirror at
home looked green. In this state, I could live in this relatively dim corner of the store more comfortably.
I looked beyond to see my girl, behind the counter at the front of the store, talking to a light-skinned
Spanish kid with cornrows. He wore a red shirt, the store uniform. My sales girl wore a dark blue blazer because she
had a higher status. I felt more confident about her in this profession -- and she was returning to me from the front
counter in good time, no dilly dallying. She held a rectangular piece of paper with a lot of writing on it.
You mail this in and you get $20 back, she said. The shredder cost $39.99. After the rebate, the shredder
would be twenty bucks. It was the store brand -- pretty reputable. The effort was worth it. I trusted my girl in the
blue blazer. I walked out of Staples that swampy day feeling some promise for the future at the beginning of my
vacation week.
A co-worker once used her two weeks vacation to clean her house. I would never slight myself like that, but
decided that it would be fine to use some of that time to shred paper. Papers clogged files in my kitchen file
cabinet. There were piles on my desk, a tall, unstable pile behind the computer interspersed with post cards that I
was supposed to be turning into a mural. I only just needed to go to Target for the crafty supplies. But the one
across from the projects was always so over-crowded. It triggered my shopper anxiety and gave me heart flutters.
The papers outside of the cabinet were dusty and sticky. While rifling through some of the pages and
postcards behind the computer, I saw a couple of flat, dead cock roaches. That wouldnt deter me from making my
post card mural. I could just flick those off.
I thought possibly of doing my mural during vacation week. Maybe Id even go to the beach if I could pry
Kenny from his bar stool to drive -- not drunk of course. There would be strings attached, but I could handle it.
After the outing I could disappear for a while, hang out in different bars. Kenny was good company, even if he
always wanted to be so serious about us all the time. We did the drunk thing together well he looked after me.
He wouldnt let anybody mess with me. For a slight guy, not too tall, he was fearless. But he was a sappy drunk --
too romantic. He wasnt bad looking, I guess, but cigarette, alcohol and drug abuse, gave him some unattractive
traits. He was bloated, had a hacking cough, and didnt take care of his teeth. After being suspended from the police
force, he managed to stay employed as the manager for some company that hired security guards for office
buildings. He did his lunches at the bar in that upper-east side neighborhood.
Usually, all I had to do was tell him I was getting back with Paul and hed back off. When I looked at him, I
saw my own alcoholism. I would distance myself from him to see if I could find any true connection between us.
We appreciated the same things in the same way songs, TV shows. We had a similar sense of humor. The South
Park Timmay episode really got us going that night at the bar. It became our drunken catch-phrase. As the clich
stands, we sat at the bar surrounded by swarms at one of those bar birthday parties in our own world. He kept
saying, I hate you, because we were such an overwhelming match that night, but with too many drawbacks for
me, including the fact that we were alcoholics.
We came from the same neighborhood, went to the same junior high school -- had working-class parents.
He was white and I was black, but that didnt matter. He was an around the way white boy from a working class
neighborhood. I got on well with these types -- not too bourgeoisie or pretentious. There was a connection between
us for sure, but there was also a lot missing. The liquor was his character. It was the same for me but the hole that
I had, I tried to fill with Jack Daniels. He didnt know he had a hole. Besides filling the hole with alcohol, he was
intent on filling it with someone to love him. I was looking for me.
There were suns on every day of that week on the weather channel grid, but it would be humid. The weather
would cling to me, and I would be reminded that the gene pool I had inherited demanded that I suffer in
increments. Among the cool and unbothered, I would sweat profusely.
At least I had air conditioning in my apartment, courtesy Auntie Andi. She was there, always, offering her
money, old furniture. Did she think that I was pathetic, a charity case? The last she had heard I was sober. Her
favorite niece was making a good effort, a heroic effort. She would do what she could to help. She didnt know that
I had given up the idea that I should be sober.
But never once had I asked her for anything. I was prepared to live through my indignities, because I was
responsible for my choices, and didnt usually feel victimized, unless I thought about my handicapped DNA, which
made it difficult for me to conform -- blaming my parents and feeling victimized because of their poor choice to
procreate sometimes worked for me.
I never cared for fashion, for clothes. Clothes were a hindrance. Suffocating. I refused to wear them at home.
On that first day of vacation, I started shredding the papers, naked.
Though thrilled at the discount, I had doubt at the twenty dollar shredders ability to shred. I took the
papers around my apartment and made ten piles on the floor, in front of the sofa. For a sense of accomplishment
and order I would shred those first, then do the file cabinet in the kitchen. With the visuals of the piles out of the
way, the file cabinet papers would be easier to conquer. The nagging imagery in the background would disappear,
with the help of liquor.
At first I drank Amaretto sours. I had never made mixed drinks at home. Usually I went to the bar. While
pouring powdered sugar into the glass with the lemon juice and Amaretto, I had fun pretending to be Claudette, the
bartender at the Green Lantern the black, naked version of Claudette.
In morning sun, I set things up in the slight space available on my counter top with the peeling contact
paper that had been painted white by the ninety year old tenant before me. It was hard to clean. The substances on
there I just accepted as part of the apartments pre-war charm. Kneading the lemon, I remembered the wooden
pullout tray at the center of the counter top that expanded the space. Paul had one in his apartment on Audubon
Avenue and knew immediately what that handle I had always ignored was for. I had spent thirteen years in this
apartment without investigating I didnt know the thing opened up into something. It was great for setting up
bar.
I had tried waiting for twelve to drink but started at 10:30AM because -- fuck it. It was going to help me to
shred. Morning drinking was nothing new, but I was surprised at how quickly the sweet, thick Amaretto went to my
head. I was even queasy. Drinking the Amaretto straight out of the bottle might work, I supposed then, as the
powdered sugar and lemon were probably the culprits. The vodka in the freezer would be even cleaner,
unadulterated and clear.
I took a squat on the sofa with my drink, and as suggested in the extremely small print shredder instructions,
I introduced seven pages into the metal teeth of the thing. After successfully shredding several groups of seven
pages, I tried for more and was further encouraged by my lovely machine and its capability I had managed groups
of ten, eleven, and twelve pages. One of the ten piles of pages in front of the sofa had disappeared and I needed to
dump the shredder container. I drank vodka from my pink coffee cup, punctuating my moment with a sense of
accomplishment. Finally the piles were demolished, emptied into plastic garbage bags.
Done with the pages on the floor, I wobbled to the kitchen and ripped the cheap file cabinet drawer
open. A smell like old library wafted into my face, and gave me a wave of alcohol induced nostalgia. I flipped
through pages in the manila files encased inside of the alphabetized green Pentaflex folders. I thought of the old
days where most of the papers were from, and experienced a warm flourishing from inside.
There were pay stubs from a job I had years ago when I worked with Lucy Schnitker in the American
Standard building. The building was brown and gold -- across the street from Bryant Park. They still had shag
carpets, but were renovating to update their look. There was one floor there that had a receptionist desk, chair and
offices, but no people, as if it had been abandoned. It was a nice view from there of Bryant Park. I wondered who
was keeping that dish on the reception desk replenished with candy. There were never people around, but every
time I went up there it was full. I discovered the floor one day, just snooping around. It was a great place to
masturbate and to take naps. I always grabbed a couple of pieces of candy on the way back down to my floor.
These were the days when you werent expected to work so hard. The early eighties was another
planet. While every decade has its stamp, this was a time that was truly the future and abundance. George Orwell
had marked the time indelibly with 1984, so it was preordained. When the 80s finally did come, the MTV videos at
that time, new wave music -- the B52s, Lena Lovich -- it all fell in line with reflections of his prescience. People
dressed like a bad science fiction movies version of outer space. I dyed my afro platinum blonde. I wore fuschia
lipstick.
At American Standard, Lucy Schnitker and I chatted most of the day. We ordered multi-colored file folders
and paper clips. I like that kind of hair, she said before I had made my decision to dye my afro platinum blonde.
I think it would look just as good as the regular kind of hair if it was blonde. I rolled my eyes, and repeated, The
REGULAR kind? I left it alone, besides in my new role in sobriety, I had decided to temper my need to be
confrontational it was healthier. Lucy didnt mean any harm. She was just not sophisticated. She had no idea what
she was saying. We smoked cigarettes and took naps at our desks in our cubicles in turn, so that one of us could be
on watch for any superior looking to put us to work. My boyfriend in Atlanta would call the office just to say Call
me right back, and I did, so that the company could foot the bill for the call without him paying. At twenty-one
and newly sober, I made my plans to go back to college. I did most of my homework at my American Standard job.
I pulled out the rest of the American Standard pay stubs and set them aside for shredding. In other files
there were tax forms, old bills, and unemployment check stubs from way before everything was computerized. I
lingered on these papers, trying to remember some other things that were happening in my life around the dates
printed at the top.
There was an unemployment stub dated June, 1999, the coming of the new millennium ha! I was
unemployed between 1999 and early 2000, which would be brief in this post market crash era. I had used the time
for writing and for going on a vacation. I wined and dined, danced and passed out, eventually depleting my bank
account.
At this time I threw the false notion of my so-called alcoholism in the trash after years of sobriety. What
had possessed me to get sober at that burgeoning age? Werent all young people profligate? Never mind that the
young people that I knew were tired of me embarrassing them. There was that incident where I took a bath at a
party. We didnt know the people friends of friends. The girl who lived there looked at me in the tub barely
awake and asked, She gonna be okay? Unfortunately, it was one of the few things I had heard that night, because
I had spent most of it in a blackout. Yet I had decided in 99 that I had been overreacting when I took that oath of
sobriety at twenty-one.
My present stab at drinking was a determination to dull the trauma that would eventually kill me if I
remained stone cold sober and vulnerable to the sundry harassments of life. It started with klonopin, and that led
back to booze back to the bars.
Hey, where you been stranger? I was missed! I sang Whats New Pussycat every Karaoke Wednesday at
the Green Lantern, Persian lamb boa wrapped around my neck, wallowing on that filthy floor. I never told the
bartenders what I wanted. Theyd have the double Jack down on the counter upon seeing me come through the
door. Sometimes when I finished, Claudette would slide another drink across the counter for me, on the house.
At home with the shredding, I wanted my own little shred party special -- a way to take the pain out of a
chore. The Amaretto idea I got from TV. There was a commercial with a Latino man, the scenery was brown,
creamy. The background rippled, like a thick drink being poured into a glass.
I got the idea for putting the vodka in the freezer from a trip to detox. There I learned that alcohol didnt
freeze. So you could have ice cold freezing liquor without any annoying ice taking up space and watering down your
drink. At detox, an alcoholic could learn more than just how to stay away from a drink one day at a time. I learned
some ways to keep drinking and not get drunk, the pills to take to counteract the effect, and of course there was
coke, but you had to take it in the right dosage otherwise you could kill yourself good. At detox, I also learned about
the different types of drinks I didnt have time to cover as a drinker unable to walk and chew gum at the same time.
I would get stuck on one or two drinks until someone introduced me to something else. For me it was usually Jack
Daniels or tequila and beer at the same time.
But any drink you put in front of me I would drink, rot gut, lint-filled, spilled over a plastic-covered sofa --
as a teenager, I slurped rum off of my girlfriends mothers plastic-covered sofa when wed accidentally spilled it.
Wasting alcohol was passing up a grand opportunity, throwing money in the trash. It was the substance that
could help you get things done, quieting all the distractions.
Before shredding the papers in the kitchen file cabinet, I thought I should tidy up the plastic bags in the
livingroom. I hadnt tied them closed and wanted to line them up neatly for a sense of order. I didnt want to
become overwhelmed, and this would help, as I could feel myself losing control. While walking back to the
livingroom from the kitchen, I felt dizzy, nauseous, depressed -- disenchanted. Where was I going this week on
vacation, utterly broke? Sure I had plans, plans that didnt involve going to the bar everyday with Kenny. But would
I be able to bring them to fruition?
How would I begin with that post card mural if I couldnt make it to Target because of my heart flutters?
There were classically styled modern renditions, a black sketch of a horse with wings with an olive-colored
background. The best was the postcard of a painting by a Spanish artist, with nudes, men and woman, on a platform
in the city square. One of the men in the painting had a body and penis resembling those of the man I had brought
home from the bar in a blackout Ardiel -- from The Canary Islands. In all, I had collected fifteen postcards. It
wasnt in my budget to buy the supplies to make a mural. I was still paying off debt. The budget was necessary. I
had spent all of my money on a bottle of Grey Goose and a twelve ounce bottle of Amaretto. I was shocked to
learn that Amaretto was twenty-four dollars. I knew about Grey Gooses exorbitant cost, but hadnt anticipated the
Amaretto. Maybe I should make an effort to enjoy myself more, since Id spent all my money on shred party
liquor. Forget about making the bags neat. I needed to relax.
And so it was, back to the kitchen, to the refrigerator for more Amaretto. Exhausted from drinking, I was
compelled still to swig from the icy cold bottle. Carrying the half-emptied bottle on the way out of the kitchen, I
decided to take a nap. That might help give me energy. I was indeed wiped out, very tired. A fleeting thought that I
should eat entered my brain, but I didnt have any food. I would have to order it over the phone. That was too
much to consider. My lower body was a bag of bricks and my head was disconnected from it, and in a hostile
region.
The plastic garbage bags with the shredded paper seemed to be swelling, on the verge of exploding. The
dark heavy air in the apartment put me in a stupor. I felt suspended in my little space, held against my will. I
watched those black bags. While shredding hadnt been as horrible as I had anticipated, thinking about the task of
shredding the papers in the kitchen file cabinet next exhausted me.
I looked at the bloated bags and wondered about Lucy Schnitker from American Standard? Was her life
fucked up? Did she ever marry the Palestinian guy? I never did graduate from college. Everybody at American
Standard was pleased when I had decided to go back. I rolled my eyes at the bottle of Amaretto.
The little shred party I had tried to create was a disaster. I felt a hollowing out from the inside and an
echoing chamber filled with my own small voice, straining to reach something unattainable.
I didnt remember when I had collapsed onto the mattress on the floor. I came to and turned out to be a
naked and sweaty lump amidst big black bags, body bags, bags filled with elements of me, surrounding me in my
state of sorry consciousness.
There was a warbling. My search out of the window for birds ceased once I indentified the tone and meter
of a phone ringing. I appreciated the persistence of the caller since I had little energy to walk to the phone. I would
have to induce my body to sit straight and stretch up. My blood sugar had dropped. I shook. I experienced the
remnants of a high, a miserable type of high, not euphoria, but a dulling over of my senses in the worst way, a
leadening. The voice on the other side of the receiver, an angel.
Its Daniel Princeton, my brother said in mock authority. Using his last name was part of our running
gag.
D-Da-niel, I responded.
Mona -- whats wrong?
At this I cried. After the embarrassment of crying, I told him I was hungry, but didnt have any food, and
that I had shredded papers.
He commanded, I want you to do a project. He sounded like my father, and how the hell did that
happen? He was giving me another one of his assignments the nerve of him, but I so appreciated it now. He was
doing it to make me feel useful.
Sniffkay. Whats the project?
I want you to write something for my movie. Ill send you details -- got it? My brother had been making
films for his independent company. He made furniture -- taught at the local computer center. Why couldnt I think
of some other things to do like my brother -- be independent, industrious? Maybe if I had someone, like he did, to
help me, to co-support me and encourage me on, to give me money. Thats what I needed, more money.
I was in an on-off relationship with Paul, a man who didnt know who he was. He found his identity
through women. He had a hard time with the fact that I had started to drink again and went to Alanon, and in
alcoholic fashion, I didnt understand why. But generally, the relationship was two-dimensional. We were connected
more by the fear of being alone, than by having anything really in common. He was conservative, someone who
looked forward to the pathway outlined by the culture; and he liked Christmas I did not a major problem for us
every year. Not only was I a drunk, I was free-spirited. Marrying him would have been to have taken on an object,
something to present to people, to let me appear normal. That would have been fine for a while. I realized however,
that being with him was speeding up the process of my deterioration. So I began to try saving myself, severing the
hold that we had on each other. But I wasnt clear how to repair my life so that I would feel worthy of it. Getting
sober did occur to me but I wasnt ready for it yet because I couldnt look at myself too closely.
O-okay, I told Daniel. He knew I was drunk. Then, Im sorry Im like this Im hungry. I was surprised
that I had allowed myself to appear so helpless to my little brother. I wiped tears from my face and rubbed the
wetness on my thigh. Daniel wasnt doing any pussy-footing consoling -- maybe a little.
Get something to eat. Go to sleep, and youll feel better when you get up. Dont drink anything else
today. Drink water! He nearly yelled he was always nearly yelling. His voice was full of exclamation points.
After getting my assignment from Daniel, I hung up the phone and looked at the mess, at the bags of
shredded paper, my life in bags. I had accomplished something positive. Then I remembered that there was oatmeal
to eat, no milk, but that was fine, and as long as I focused on Daniel, on the assignment he would give me, I would
be fine.

Roger Craik

LOVE POEM TO AMERICA (Back in the pub, an English oaf explains the rudiments of baseball)

Wot oi mean is, meantersay, frinstunce, roight?
Snot loike cricket, this boiseborl milarky,
Least, not frum wot oi could tell.
Moin jew, oi wuz pissed as arseholes in the first arf owwer
Wot wiv orl that beer jus porin down me frote!
Corsits not proper beer, loike ere in Englund,
But its so bloody ot in merricuh you jus keeps yer elber goin, roight,
An then yore not poxed off, fyore a discriminatin bloke loike wot oi am.

Wot else? Well, for starters theres this bloody big soign, roight,
Orl lectric, wot flashes fings listen, will yer?
Workin geezers inter a larver, artyfishul loike:
Mister Gary Fuckin Glitter imself Esquoire, woodjer bleeve,
The one wot goes rock n ro-ole, rock n role,
An orl the wankers goes HEY! an shoots their fists inter the air
Loike its fuckin Nuremberg orl over again.
Christ alive, dont people ever bloody learn?

Cumterfinkuvvit, dunno wossermatter wiv merricun blokes. . .
Theres orl that totty there, roight, jus gaggin for rumpy pumpy
(Smashin bazookas n orl, as Wirdswirf wooduv sed)
Showin the goods loike theres no tmorrer,
(An ow many toimes jersee a bint at cricket, eh,
An then theyre orl so hoity-toity n lardy-dah
you woodn wanter shaggum anyway?).
Fuck me, oi ad a stiffie loike the rock uv Gibfuckinraltar!
Spring 2014

Wodjer mean, the game? Oi jus told you, didnoi? Didnoi?
(Soime again, Alice, an a packet uv salt n vinegars.)
Well, its rounders wiv knobs on, turdn polish job.
Everyone gets a go, seems tmee,
So if you balls up first toime you gets eight goes more
Nuffink loike real loife but thats merricuh for yer.
Oh aye, you ave to ave a fat neck n spit. An the bloke oo chucks,
Ee orlways looks the uvver way first: oo the blue blazes ud fall for that?

Wood oi go again? Yer avvnt got the brains God gave a maggot, you blokes!
Bloody roight oid go again! At least its got some loife to it, boiseborl, some joy de vivvy.
Moikes you feel you can do fings. Any uv you cunts erd uv the merricun dream?
Well, ooever erd uv the English dream? An why not, eh?
Because there fuckin isnt one, nless you corlit a dream
Tgo down dole wivver UB40 on Monday mornin
An tave nuffink for cumpny evry artnoon but foive-fingered Mary and the nags on the box?
Fyarsk me, a one-legged man atn arse-kicking party

As a better loife than orluv us. Lennon, John Winstun Lennon hiff you please,
Now ee got it roight, (part frum bein shot, natcherly),
Cos ee didnt fuckin fiddle when Rome started burnin but wentn scarpered sharpish instead.
Scandal? Oill give you scandal oo gives a finchs fart bout Gobjobgate
Arter fifteen fuckin years uv fuckin Fatcher?
Well, firteen then. Cmon! Jus look at us bunch! An take a butchers at this dump:
Soime pickchers as uv been ere since me ole dads toime,
Soime ole fish-oid sifflitics playin darts, Duran Duran. . .

DAVENPORT

That late evening in his prime,
once he heard his mistress car
go purring down the rhododendron-shrouded drive
and disappear into the hum of Dorking Road,
Davenport did not, as usual,
stride up to the deep maroon
Victorian bathtub with the lions claws
and turn both taps on full.
Instead he settled down to read.

High summer, the last of twilight
deepening around the stucco hall,
the alabaster table lamp a jewel
honeying the gloom. Davenport read on.
The book was one he had not read
in over forty years. It spoke of a wood
named Morkery after dark, and one small boy
alone on a railway train as it drew near
a country station, and an old man waiting.

The known forgotten words
in their appointed fonts.
It seemed to Davenport as he read on
that there had been no intervening years:
the schoolboys broken promise, adulthood.
At length, from the shrubbery or nearby wood,
one bird struck voice, and held the world.
In due course, all the others joined, each one
distinct to Michael Davenport, grown young.
WE, AND I

We means both of you in quiet
unison, poem after poem sharing
your plump capsule of a syllable
smooth as halibut liver oil.
What subservience of married verbs!
(What absence of demur.)

That said,
theres
me.

I term myself I

gouged, a split-nibbed
stripe
gibbeting from page to retina and

bitternish,
grallatorial,
drawn up as if

furled to a spike
in a brackish marsh
of bulrushes, my beak

skewering the sky.
KINGSTON, 1978

Winter and an indeterminate time
on Sunday afternoon, and Im
living with my grandparents rather than
with Kim and Carolyn, as I had planned,
on Putney Hill. Within an hour
the light will start to fade. Its too late
to stroll down Orchard Road to stare
into lit unpeopled shops. So Im here
in the living room. The TVs on:
The Big Match with bald Brian Moore.
Sunderland v Middlesborough, half-time score
0-0. All the games are yesterdays.

My grandparents cigarettes are poised
cylinders of ash. The ceiling blurs
in seas of slowly-heaving smoke, like Elgar.
FACULTY MEETING

Ripplingly, at the long
formica tables furthest end, the Dean
amidst her fearful friends or those
she thinks of still as friends
is giggling at her own conceits and its

Monday and its noon or almost
certainly after. And there, oblivious,
(they elected him Chair), sits

DrunkoDrunko of the check-stub doctorate,
Drunko grinning his Glenfiddiched laugh
in deaths antechamber from a mouth
rictic as a postage stamp. Itsit is

imperative (as orders called and isnt),
imperative I feign to heed
the Halloweened, the bulleted,
agenda sheet, portending Christ knows what;
imperative, too, I not invoke
shades of Hogarth, Grosz, Hieronymous Bosch,
still less the massy veinous head,
piranha-lipsticked, Alice Cooper green,
thats Mussolini apoplectic,
springing into Rome.

Beyond the airless carping room,
beyond the swivel eyes
concentrated to the point of spite,

spreads in quiet magnificence the college lawn
that once a year is crowned with dandelions.
I stand and muse.

A small-town university,
become small-town.

I am living in a different country.
A skein of geese goes creaking down the sky.
THE COCK AND THE CHORUS GIRLS

Laughingly the driver told me how
the stockbroker, new to the village,
objected first to the cock, so
inconsiderately early starting to crow,
and then to all the cows, lowing down the road
from byre to field.

The driver called the cows the chorus girls
(in his mirrors view I smiled)
and said theyd been this way, you understand,
nigh on five hundred years.

Nigh on five hundred years. Check-in, passport control,
and England dwindling below, obscured
increasingly by cloud.
I leaned back in my seat to drowse

but couldnt. The laptops glowing
like icons in their rows. The drinks cart
jostle-slabbing down the aisle. Everything
surreal as usual

apart from what the driver said,
jarring into something never meant
of Englands countryside, its very heart,
moving in me still.

Richard Kostelanetz

From: CUNNING PUNCTUATIONS

Handsome suits make a man.
Handsome, suits make a man.

Thanks to a resume so strong, rewards come often to me.
Thanks to a resume, so strong rewards come often to me.

Police save us.
Police, save us.
Police save us?

Spring 2014

Now my friends listen to me.
Now, my friends listen to me.
Now, my friends, listen to me.

You will be required to work twenty four-hour shifts.
You will be required to work twenty-four hour shifts.
You will be required to work twenty-four-hour shifts.

Rebecca Cook

Lucky

Lucky, so lucky God loves her, so lucky he formed her in the womb. Verily I say until you that that girl always
believed, she always did her best, but from the moment she knew her own body, from the moment a boy was inside
her there was never enough room for her and Jesus in the same space and all the thick dark of the empty church
opened its mouth and swallowed her, the whole world of the world opened its arms and she was one with the world
and still trying to hang on to God, but only a half God, a diluted God, watery and uncertain, bearing down on her
while shes kneeling at the altar rail, knowing that as soon as church is over shell drive with that boy somewhere
and fuck, knowing that God, as sure as the I am that I am, will show his displeasure and so she runs on ahead of
him, being the first to pray, the first to witness, the first to ask probing questions in Bible study. How did it happen,
how did she move from the little girl pressing her eyelids in the dark, watching the yellow-green light and knowing
God was there? How did she move from the girl in her Sunday school teachers little red-rimmed mirror full of the
girl that Jesus loved to the girl spread open on the car seat, naked, a sacrifice of blood and bone?

Spring 2014
Once on a Thursday night, alone in her room, she opened her heart to God, wide open to Jesus, Come into my heart,
save me, and then she was shot clean through with goodness, her chest both light and heavy with Gods terrible love
bearing down on her in the dark but she was saved now, safe, secure in Gods love and wondering why her chest
wasnt lighter, wondering when the peace that passeth understanding would come upon her, wondering why her heart
was still evil, poring over the picture of the devil in the big Bible, his muscles rippling, his loin cloth haphazard
across his middle. She sits comparing the devil to the sissy Jesus with his syrupy look, soft lips and eyes, elegant
fingers knocking at the door, knocking at her heart and she had let him in, he was in there, but she didnt feel safe,
she didnt feel right, only heavy and guilty, so guilty for all the sins of the world.

And all those times she had to open her mouth to speak the word, the terrible word, so heavily her Christian
witness came from her mouth. She tells Alesia that God loves her but Alesia doesnt want to hear it and she doesnt
want to say it but she has to. She has to be camper of the week at Camp Joy, the best girl, the best Christian. She
has to learn the most Bible verses and to be carefully good, watching the long line of girls being baptized but she
was sprinkled as a baby, it was already done for her, and when she was ten she was sprinkled again, the drops of
water cold against her hair. But see how the preacher dunks the girls under the water, a real baptism, the water so
clear that surely Jesus is watching the whole time, surely the Holy Spirit opens the sky and doves fly out because
when she was a little girl the whole world was in the Bible story book, the whole world was in Moses and the
bulrushes, the whole world was in Sampsons long hair curling against the pillow and God was watching everything
she did, impossibly large in the sky. She played in the yard and God was there, standing in the garden, knowing her,
down to her bones, knowing her thoughts, the dark inside of her, the storm in her head.

She can still smell the church, can still feel the hush of it, the rustle of bulletins, the rasp of money on money, the
organ, the piano. She can still trace her fingers along the raised swirls in the green seat cushions that her granddaddy
donated to the church. She can still lie down and put her head in her grannys lap, such a long sermon, such a long
time before its over and its hot, so hot, the flies swirling around the room, fans swishing this way and that while
she lies with her head in her grannys lap, looking at the little gold ring on her finger during the long prayer, her
hands folded just like the pictures in the big Bible, and after its over shes still so desperate to catch them because
theyre playing tag and shes always it, always running in straight lines while those mean boys run in circles and God
doesnt love them, no, God doesnt know them like he knows her because shes special inside Gods love, more
special than any of the other kids who dont take God seriously, who whisper during Sunday School lessons, who
never find the Bible verses in Bible drills, who never understand how serious God is, how serious hell fire is because
its yellow bright hot and the demons stick you with red hot pokers. Your skin falls off in pieces and she doesnt
want to go there so she believes in Jesus, because her mother told her to, she believes in Jesus, in his power to save
her.

Its because of her that her father is going to hell. The man came to witness to her father and she wouldnt stop
whining and distracting him, she wouldnt be quiet and go play and so her father finally gave into her, but not to
God, his soul doomed to hell fire because of her and now she prays every day, every night, please save my father. But
does she really believe hell burn, does she really believe everything they tell her? How far she moved from that
little, frightened girl with her big God everywhere, in her ears, in her pockets, God filling up every space. How
quickly she became the girl denying god. Youre not a Christian, are you? the boy asked and she said No, the
words burning into her, a hole in her stomach. Youre not a Christian are you and yes, shes forty-four now and the
past is so far behind her that Jesus is a shadow, a dream she once had and God is empty-handed, reaching for her
from a long way away, reaching for who she once was, for the girl reciting the books of the Bible, as fast as she can,
trying not to trip over the middle of the New Testament, trying to beat her own record. Hes reaching for the girl
with her collection of Bible tracts, cartoon pictures of the demons squeezing the babys toes so hell cry during
church and distract the worshipers. Cartoon pictures of Jesus in heaven, sitting on a throne, preparing to judge
everyone. Hes reaching back for the girl with the brand new, pigskin Bible that her mother just bought her, how
proud she is, a study Bible with a zippered cover. She still has it, flowers pressed in the middle from church retreats
and Christian summer camp.

Yes, shes forty-four now. Its been years since she tasted the grape juice in the tiny glass, how she used to suction it
to her tongue, trying not to make a popping noise when it came off. Hush, people are praying! Its been years since she
sang in the choir, her voice lifted up to heaven in harmony. Its been years since the Second Chapter of Acts, years
since she still believed even though shed discarded so much of what shed once been taught, discarded hell fire and
brimstone, discarded creationism, discarded the closed-off, closed-minded religion of her youth. But, even then, she
still believed, still talked to God, still prayed over her food, prayed for forgiveness for her sins, in Jesus name,
Amen. And she cant forget, even now, how she was standing in the kitchen, washing dishes, and a white, searing
light shot through her chest and out her back, she could see herself standing there, filling up with light. And she
cant forget the dream that God sent her, telling her not to get that job in the bar downtown, telling her to choose
another path so she wouldnt be lost, so she wouldnt be in danger, and thats how true it was, how it must have been
true because she really believed it, all those years, she really tried to know him, to reach out her mind and connect
with him, in the dark of her head. She must have really believed. And shes glad, glad that God found her in a lump
in her winter bed, glad that her mother told her to get saved, to ask Jesus into her heart, glad that she went to
church suppers and Vacation Bible School, glad that she got upset when she saw the Pledge of Allegiance with
under God removed. Shes glad that her head was full of God, that she prayed obsessively, over and over again,
before every meal, after every sin. Shes glad that she was always the winner in the Bible drills, that she was the one
to beat, the one all the grownups admired, how she even brought her Bible with her on church retreats, the only
pious teenager, the only one poring over her Bible at night, the only one going to sleep with a prayer on her lips.
Shes glad that she crawled under the church benches trying to get away from Skipper, glad that the splinter got
stuck in her shin, glad that it festered, glad that she tried so hard to understand Jesus suffering but she never could
because shed heard about the man that Ivan the Terrible tortured to death and surely that man suffered more than
Christ. Shes glad that she belongs to God, even now, because it was real and someday hell take her back, when
shes tired of all this, when the world is too dark or too full of light. Some day when the time is right, hell call her
back and shell go to him, at last, back where she belongs.

Philip Byron Oakes

Making Change

Insights on outer limits of appearance as
if it werent what but where it matters least,
to more the merrier a Christmas come
summer time. If it werent meant as chance
offering to gracefully recede. Under
contortion to perform antics in the antique.
Planting cactus in swaggers blossom. A term
limit of visibility in the fog footing the bill,
paid with passing millstones in the life. Eyes
squandered peering inward, as it were in a
novel when the voices begin ceding wealth
to the music. Dressed for a promenade of
hands raised. The purchase of feet in the
slippage left dear John. Letting the purpose
do the serving. A loiter serving a hitch as
answer to the kerfuffle. Equating the
plangent with a music yet to be.
Spring 2014

Ante

Concessions cleared for lift off kilter.
Viral cogs in a vow to scream. Theatrical
misgivings a good whupping cream, of
crisis borne as legacy tucked away at war.
Starting the ball rolling sissy fusss way of
saying timber. Owning the weight of an
argument uphill. The return of a tickle
embalming words. Spreading light thinly
veiled in rifts, where rivers used to be
enough to take to the water for
redemption. The grating pride in humility.
A spin cycle of the incarnate.
Captions to the panache
holding stories to the
floor.

Next Street Over

Conciliatory handkerchieves waved in surrender to small town aerodynamics. A warren of
loners cramped in steerage of drunken boat, afloat on dreams administered remotely by
hands in the till break of morn. Solo flights in a crowd of recruits to the smell consoling
victory. Warding off the convivial putting cold shoulders into it, unravelling elbows rubbed
the wrong way home. Pants hitched upon a star. A new shirt to swallow a treasure chest of
pangs, pooling in a steady beat of tom-toms to the emotive rhythms of here and far.
Dubious and dutifully. Dwarfing the commonality of sense endeared as gesture made to last
the live long day.

Diurnal

Rhythms the deliquescence blurs
in melding, trading the immediate
for the vicarious attentuated from
a vantage taken unawares.
Breaking bread into where it
comes and goes as both sustenance
and leverage, behooving the awkward
to gauge their strides rummaged from
the ruckus below. Leading grass to
growth in color and body electric.
Center mass infusing the
extraneous with relevance,
tickling nerves thought lost to
the struggle. Inferring a bond
to the sweet spot on the nucleus,
crunching numbers till they break
without bursting the bubbles
cohesion to the beat.

P.J.P. Hayes

A Ragamuffins Dinner

The frog in Elaines soup sat up with a banjo and started singing. And right away I knew I was screwed.
How could it happen. A Five Star restaurant. The DuPont Hotel. And the frog in Elaines entre wasnt
dead before the chef prepared her dish. Nor did the chef bother to separate the legs from the rest of his body.
Nobody knows the trouble Ive seen, The frog wailed, Nobody knows but Jesus.
Elaines eyes widened. She jerked a napkin up to her mouth.
I dont believe this, My words tumbled out in self-defense, Ill speak to the manager right away.
Normanhes singing, Elaine choked.
This was supposed to be our makeup dinner. After all the nights Id been out running around. Neglecting
her. Blowing the rent money on nameless stupidities.
A few nights ago shed had enough and threw a microwave out the window at me. So Id promised and
cried and spoke of a new start.
But the frog twanged his banjo and really belted it out: Sometimes Im up/ Sometimes Im down/ Oh, yes
Lord/ Sometimes Im almost to the ground.
The little flame from the candle in the middle of our table flickered slightly. It cast the frogs shadow across
the tablecloth.
Heshes got a nice voice, I said.
Hot tears streaked Elaines mascara down her cheeks.
Her bottom lip shook.
Spring 2014
You look beautiful tonight, honey, The frog in my throat was another story altogether.
I raised my glass of wine, To us.
Her eyes floated down to her glass but she didnt move.
I leaned back and downed mine in one gulp.
This could be the end of the line. She had to see it. Id failed at the make-up dinner. Couldnt even take her
to a spot that properly killed its animals before serving them.
Five years of marriage
On the table, the frog stopped singing. His eyes popped wide like someone squeezed his throat.
Jiminy Cricket! He screamed, looking up.
The Head Chef swung his meat cleaver and chopped the frog in half mid-scream. The chef, hed crawled
across the floor commando style so the green fellow wouldnt spot him.
Frog blood and part of the banjo splattered onto Elaines dress.
Her eyes emptied in shock.
Chopped him up right in the middle of a serenade! The Head Chef whooped and thumped his chest with
hairy fists. He turned and stalked off, dragging his knuckles across the carpet.
Ill get the check, I mumbled, The food doesnt seem to be agreeing with us.
Outside, Elaine ran crying down the sidewalk and fell into a puddle.
Elaine- I reached for her arm but she jerked away.
A light drizzle misted the back of my neck.
The boy from the valet service came by, Should I bring up your car, sir?
Yeah, the car, I said.
We drove down Market St. without saying much. The windshield wipers added an almost comedic rhythm
to Elaines sobs.
Of course, I knew it couldnt be over.
And when we got to be a couple blocks from home, Elaine let it out.
So, I guess once you drop me off youre going to head over to Dylans?
Dylans. The name hit me like cyanide in the gut. Typical Elaine. Jugular shot right away.
The first time Dylan stopped by our apartment a wave of cheap cologne and cigar smoke strangled out all
the oxygen.
I dont know, I said, careful to keep my voice even, Why would you say that?
Even asking her that question was like throwing the first haymaker in a slugfest.
I first met Dylan the day he got fired from my painting company. The day he got fired was also his first day
on the job. He spilled a five gallon bucket of paint on the carpet of this huge Greenville mansion.
You know why, She snapped, Every time we fight you run over to hide at his place.
You gamble and waste our money and do God only knows what else, She continued.
Id broken the dam wide open.
I work hard, I told her, And you only complain.
Oh, oh, oh, I get it. The harder you work the more right you have to throw our money away? And dont
give me crap for complaining. Im the one that got married because some guy promised me the world and only gave
me a ghetto loft.
Right. Back then I thought Jimmy Stewarts moon-lasso monologue held more than water.
Dylans downtown apartment was a gambling parlor. Bunch of us gathered Friday and Saturday nights to
play poker. We called it a Gentlemans Club. We put on bathrobes, lit huge cigars, drank whisky and played cards.
Mostly we just went there to escape our marriages and other such failures.
I pay all the bills, miss, I reminded her, You spend your days in face-paint school.
And thats the truth. Well, Cosmetology school.
You used to call yourself an incurable romantic, She lamented, turned her face to the window, the city
lights.
Raindrops on roses, baby.
We used to have these deep connections, Elaine moaned, Do you remember any of that?
Speaking of connections
All the sudden it hit me why Id made such a fuss about going to a Five Star restaurant.
Connections- The electric company promised to cut our power weeks ago. And the water company too. Id
been intercepting the notices.
Uh, lets not go home, I said, Lets walk around Rodney Square.
Elaine eyed me, Its pouring rain.
Yeah, the rain, I said.
We pulled up in front of our old red-brick abode. The porch now lay barren from junkies carrying our
chairs and tables away. Same two gray cats perched on the railing. If someone looked at our house dead-on from
the street, theyd see ours was the odd one out. It was sunk lower than the rest so our roof appeared cockeyed. The
neighbors told us we bought the Special house.
Elaine stepped out into the rain. Ankle deep in a puddle. She hopped from one foot to the other.
Are you coming in? She asked, Shut the car off, will ya?
Ill be right in, I told her, pretended to look for something in the glove compartment.
Oh, ok, She scoffed, Youre going to run off to your little friends place.
Lightening cracked across black clouds.
Closest thing to electricity were having tonight, baby, I thought.
No, no, Im not, I sputtered, I just need time to think.
Dont stay out here all night, Elaine slammed the door shut.
For a long second the only thing I heard was her heels tapping up the front steps. The front door
screeched to a close.
Wait for it. Wait for it.
I dialed Dylan, Hey, buddy. Just got back from dinner.
Howd it go?
Total disaster. You were right.
Dylan sighed, I hate being right all the time. So wherere you at now?
I leaned over the steering wheel and looked up at the dark house, Well, she just went inside and Im still
out in the car.
Oh, no. Shes gonna find out the electric and water got shut off.
A sudden high-pitched shriek cracked the nights silence. Followed closely by a microwave going through
our kitchen window and landing with a solid crunch on the pavement below.
Yeah, she just found out, I said, Boy, shes mad.
Did she throw the microwave out the window again?
Oh, yeah.
Elaine stuck her head out the shattered window, Norman, you piece of crap get up here! The lights wont
turn on! Nothing works!
Dylan whistled, Is that her screaming? I can hear her like shes standing right in front of me.
Yeah, shes shaking her fist at me too.
Buddy, you need to get out of there. Come to my place. Youll be safe here.
I rolled the passenger window down, Elaine, I have to go-
Get back up here, Norman! I mean it! You monster!
I hit the gas.
I love you! I shouted, You look beautiful!
Idiot. Norman, youre such an idiot.
Nobody knows the troubles Ive seenNobody knows but Jesus

Peter Beckstrom

Becky

I am a man of singular vision.
Not distracted. Each thought
Requires time to hatch.
Ideas come to me
One at a time
Like eggs down a conveyor belt.
One by one they get placed into the carton.
Occasionally one egg comes
Down the belt seeming;
A little bigger;
A little whiter;
A little more oval;
Than another in my box.
I swap it one for one.
Fuck it! Theyre all
Skillet fodder. Omelets
Every one of them,
Except the second to the right
In the third row. That one is poached.
I shot a fawn
On my neighbors
Clover plot. It was there
And so was I. Armed
With stock and steel
I winged its grape.
All the juice came running
Down its funnel snout
With no cup to catch it.
My dad said once, Becky,
Is the cup half-full, or half-gone.
I said, Dad, I dont see no cup.
Where was I?
Did I ever tell you
Ideas are like eggs?
Spring 2014
Discontent Is Minnesota Winter

Minnesota winters are joyfully received
By those suffering seasonal amnesia.
Its welcome worn by February
Christmas trees and April Snow.
Color deserts this cold desert,
Sucked away by salt.
Warmth is a tourist
Escaping
Through open doors
And leaky windows.
The frozen remains
Of a clouds cry is carried
Away in blusters spreading
Like speckled smoke
Dancing against a cerulean scene.
Jack Frost belches
His hoary breath
Upon any mug
Smug enough
To peer inside his gullet
While a polar bullet
(Whose multiplying missiles are
Dependent upon the winds whim)
Shoots over dead leaves clinging
Stubbornly to bleached Birch.
Minnesota slows
To the speed
Of below
Zero.
Natures NASCAR
Screeching in reverse, leaving
Trails of tread and turning
Slushy snow into tire turds
Harder than crystals cubed
In arctic ice trays
To be discarded
At gas stations and parking lots,
Which become convenient toilets,
For ridding ourselves
Of winter refuse.
Mother Nature is geriatric.
Minnesota is her summer
Retreat. She abandons us
Come the fall.
Mebius Book

What a little thing you are,
Square and bound
In skin, standing tall
In a row with the rest
Of your friends and kin.
You cant talk, but
Speak volumes of lives
And experiences from
Yesterday, tomorrow, right now,
But only when youre open.
I choose you from among the rest.
Your friends are jealous.
I pull apart your cracking skin
And read your insides,
Divining what I can
From your paper viscera.
Your knowledge releases
Me into the vast
Textual dimensions
Where letters become stars;
Words become galactic havens;
And you become a universe
In which time moves
At the whim of the creator.
My mind has escaped
The humdrum reality,
But I must return. You
Have earned the right
To lay next to me
As I sleep.
Your time will come
Again, on the wooden shelf,
To wait for the next explorer
Wishing to page through
The internal infinitudes
Of your little leathery body.

Stray Thoughts

She yanks the childs leash.
A skittish pup.
Silent because it knew
The struggle began with a whimper
And ended in screams.
I might have said something,
If I thought she wouldnt take it out on the
Dog. The kid. The child.

Its clothes arent two sizes too big.
Its just two sizes too small.
Pulled along the sidewalk
Like a garbage bag
Too heavy to hoist;
It was small enough though
To carry in my backpack. That
Dog. That kid. That child.

Passing the bakerys dumpster
Its head lifted to greet
That glorious stench;
Last weeks stale moldy bread.
He was hungry enough
To wish for maggots
In that musty loaf. Poor
Dog. Poor kid. Poor child.

Invisible to passers-by
Until it brushes against a leg.
They will look and find
A childs shell hiding
The scared stray.
Towed along by
Its harness of hate. Stupid
Dog. Stupid kid. Stupid child.

His name is Buddy.
He whines while sleeping.
I held him once for too long.
That was a mistake. We are
Not friends. Her
Dog. My kid. Our child.
You Disgust

Let tomorrow be your maid. Keep cleaning though,
Youre living yesterday right now. You cant hide

Your cranial filth. Its the pan crusted
At its contoured corners with last nights lasagna;

Or the errant piss drips in front of the toilet;
Everything cruddy at the edge of human perception.

Your ingenuousness doesnt escape scrutiny.
If your pain is a painting it would be The Scream

Held under water by your own inability to
Let go. Come up for air.

Yesteryears abuse slices. The internal damage lasts
The longest, flares the brightest (areola rosy),

Never fully fading to an acceptable sight.
The gum eraser obliterates any sign

Of graphite scrapes. Your eraser perches atop
Ten cent pencils; cheap and pink like your scars.

Never gone just smudged. Crossing it out
Would have looked better.

You keep smearing and manicuring
Hoping to fool peoples eyes. We all know

When your words spew forth:
Youre a landfill jammed to capacity;

Sour cream beyond its expiration;
Rubber razors against sheathed veins

That carry no blood, only bile.

Nigel McLoughlin

f rom Event Horizon

3.

the instinct
before it disappears
in a spine
of aphrodisiac
pipettes to the lightning
caught on a sunbonnet
worn by a dowager
like a rookery of notions

it oscillates
from a blackguard
who rifles a column
of backbone to the windscreen

slips over
burning sandstone or clove
to babble on a placard
held by a weakling
when we least expect it

meaning tangles like nasturtium
a childs legs
in a grandmothers garden
raising hackles
on a bear
a creditor of the nominative
the inevitable imperfection
Spring 2014
6.

before the homicide
yeomen lunge at the turn
to drizzle over
headquarters surrounded
by bougainvillaea winging
cardinals to stuff
its feelers into the birthplace
of the priestess

a milligram stashed out
on the operatic wing
of critical monetarists
wait in lotus-filled airfields
like cathedrals full
of blackleg pirates
struggling to the pulpit

14.

the insurgent disappears
quick as the appeal of rosebuds
to approximate a trial

a nucleus moves caught
in the sunshade
where pitchforks backside

to the limber gasbag
rind themselves in shadow
like a stutter of fellowship

or a thread that might become
a guru of sheath seen
to grow careless

with cleanliness turns
elegantly in on itself
while an octogenarian

cattleman dodges the draft
just before the downpour
old sewer steamer

drudge quick as the nip
of mouse in his cadence
mid-sling and catching

a lychee of blemishes
where others might dither
and move wolfing oblivion

his pale daughter rides
a tram towards the limber
importunity of recapture

18.

integrate the beauty caught
when nuisance moves
in a bivouac of print

sighs cascade
in the cathedral of an urn
wedge the threshold

against us
everything harbours
revisions acting

to stop and recast
the drumbeat of hollow receptacles
trampled in our regression

our later cover-ups
a blether of hoodlums
under the dome of distant statistics

we move late
to the lightship like a seashell
in the beck beyond the crevasse

of airways hides a copycat
antigen in rivulets
of blood

Natsuko Hirata

The Late Summer

Though this
powerful season isn't over
and shes still snuggling up to me,
she brings

a cryptic bulletin
with ragged ice.

To experience aspect of
"that time" and "that sense" enough,

quiet tables bearing fugitives
shall spend time under sunshine.

The more sunshine,
the more shadow covers

this burned heart.
Spring 2014

Gallery called study

Agalloch aroma
arouses recollections of
decked sun shower.

A geographer
was measuring lapped sunset glow
for a map.

Kamejima river
(Edo era)
outside the glass.

Holy bridge.

Leanhaun Shee
is hemming to
the chamber
with faint bells.

Do not wake me up
if I can be there.

Masker in the Dusk

Significant musk
brilliant dusk.
Dangerous task
Venetian mask.

A cafe of strong magnetic field.
Cameriere always can't read
exactly her expectation.
He brings a bit different coffee,

Bitterer,
Sweeter,
Hotter,
Colder,

Always a bit off the point.

Because the magnetic field is mad?
Or is the Cameriere slow?
Or should she slide the mask?

Conjurer

He casts magic
on my words.

Golden dust.

This invisible wand
is a familiar cane,

This mystery dust
is burning brightly
in my step.

Nat Sufrin

at the very end of the internet we notify death & arrive home to a party
dressed already. we other worlds will
sweat forever, describing slights, expiring
dates. the best remain
unrendered while the worst insert
the file into itself, beautifying
bitches photographing whites.
this is a lyre & nothing
is alright. bowl with us
to believe in trust, to still
obesity for life & inhibit
the maldesigned. when youre ready
we will go ancient face
lose genitalia in your area &
leverage deep. the time
for analyzing metal & getting over
hitler is breaking braugh. when you say
great hair do you fall in love
with copy? do you hurry in
remembering dust answering
freedom receiving the machine?

no, not at all. no, you
advise modigliani, you bleach
the chair, revive the gutter, stand
in the shower. insist on
unionizing the females & one day
you may admit you suck
at moving, but for now, cock steady
insinuate shit, offer products, tube
your search, increase scraps. no need
to worry, this is all on a case-by-case
need-to-know stasis. coming home
Spring 2014
will call for more than hearting
the heavens, writing the
west bank, fucking the sea beach
express. no, you must descry
the thick of things, growing your castles
affixing that face, leaving blank.
when we say wait for wrinkles, go ahead
design the perfect ceiling for sharing
happiness e-mails. lubricating
the future may involve less
than rubbing the kids
suction cups, inserting food
into the land, shattering
your makers kidney stones.

Michael Berton

The Unraveling

consider then
when we started
transgressing
the complacent camaraderie
craved and spent

how did expectations
crisscross
scissoring
one anothers equilibrium
off kilter
emotional trickery
the chi of gathering
beauty away blemishes
to be revealed and debated

later while we became
entangled in rendezvous
circumventing
the gaze
the all-knowing vent of honesty

how and when
the unraveling
would come about play out
in a nip and tuck
nice day for mimes

while we posture beside ourselves
wishing an audience looked on
stomping and whistling
encouraging
us to go on with our faade
a bounty of lust
Spring 2014
Knock Yourself Out

One persons gibberish
is another persons nonsense

Some nonsense is poetry
masquerading as public art

One persons nonsense
is another persons hipness

Now knock some nonsense
into your creative self

Inside mediocrity
glides the hipster
circulating contradiction

Hip is wearing a mask
pretending argot
functioning in ambiguity

Pushing the hip
against the immovable truth
falls into kitsch

One square person rising to work
is another person resting
from a night of hip

One persons hip
is anothers bum

Now square yourself out
and knock some hip
into your bum

Now knock some squareness
into your creative self

Now hip your bum to the tale
or trade your bum for a hip

Said the square man
to the hipster woman
can I bum
some hip off you

Said the obnoxious woman
to the nonsense man
may I bum
a hipster off you

Said the gibberish man
to the kitsch woman
may I grasp your bum
and hip off you

Tales of gibberish
fool faux argot
into copacetic squareness

Is the nonsense person
the square hipster
when ambiguity masks the kitsch

If a square
has a curvy bum
does that make them
awkwardly hip

If a bum speaks gibberish
is the nonsense considered hip

Sipping Green Tea with the Raider Nation

does poetry

need paper passports
barefoot for comfort
bell-bottoms for flare

the vogue of the vague

valerian mothers milk

a pardon for Billy the Kid

another narco-corrido for global financiers

a text message amped as a piano solo

so many baby beats
trying to howl
themselves a following

as in late breaking news
dissin your rhythm
with doulas dueling over placentas

insomnia everyday
reverbing
a Tibetan Buddhist hangover
manacled to a karaoke bar

wanting one more
Magic Johnson fast break

and get a last chance
dance
with the vanguard left
and get that
elusive revolution

In The Shadow Of Sasquatch

walking evolutions footprint
one size fits all predators
a world of giants & gnomes
human migration
tracking bone & dung
shedding skins
hunting magic
savage intoxicants
earths backwash
all that is ingested
recycles as nutrients

graphite pixels
supernova sonar
high definition dna
organic tuning
a new constellation
frontal lobe sweating
an etch-a-sketch pattern

tumble in the belly
suicide reverb
in the gargantuans ear
secret lives of inanimate
objects diagrammed
on the blackboard
dead screen echo
cerebral humming

Straight Arrow

the knowledge of dust
the earth bleeding
a shy carnal habit
skin peels at a rate
of strip mining acres
toward feasting
subsistence on bone
scrapping for scalp
on the wounded knee
scabbed and tracking
two faced god treaty
tossed buffalo nickel
skyward lightning
obsidian percussion
booms rifle squint
lead plumage smoke
jive rattle distortion
harmony ringing
centurys dollar stench
on the indigenous market

Chrome and Metronome

say yes
dont say no
go for positive go for p o s i t i v e!
comprend!

wash it down! wash it down!
g r i n g o b l o o d
spilled over pretty blonde
girls and boy poets
go see my sister
yeah!!!!
the one with the holy cross
tattooed on her chest
and confessional eyes
thats my sister
ride her in your
b. m. w.
r a h
o c e
w h e
n o l
s
compa!
shll do likewise

say yesssss!!!
dont say no
go for positive!!

those cool saints
those cool sinners
have stained my rep
with the chicks
las rucas
who stay out
till the wee wee hours
in the morning
in the park
they are reading

l e y e n d o
r e a c h i n g
l e a v i n g
r e t c h i n g
a book! a book!
you know it! man!

say yes
dont say no
go for positive! go for positive!
Q u i x o t e H e a d

homeboys and homegirls
know the faces
catch the traces
dope dates
gang rates
its where the h i g h is
comprend! rescend! descend!

the rhythm rhythm el ritmo
its what you need in those pants
with your mothers high heels
to attract the sex
and get the sting of your maturity

im the one that knows
your family name
and its cryin s h a m e
to know the truth
C A R N A L !
it takes a l l
a l l youve got

dont blow your top
over g r i n g o b l o o d

go for go for P O S I T I V E !
amplify your mind ese!
percussions
surrealism
la raza infinitismo

w a s h i t d o w n ! w a s h i t d o w n !

Meg E. Griffitts

Our Marital Bed

my love
the body You kept secret
once laid now bound
on our bed,
a stainless steel autopsy table.
the palm of your fingers
dig and dissect,
below my clavicle, my jugular notch,
Your hands keep going,
You find it
my sternum
vivisected,
the skin peeled
like cellophane coating
over bloody pomegranate seeds.

snap, crackle, pop.

see the underside of my lungs
press thumbs into them,
watch them sputter and stammer
with the clamor of a train,
the burden of reticence.
Spring 2014

You lift & hold my chest
close to your lips,
my thoracic cage split like a virgin bride
on her marital bed, Your
fingers clasped around
my shoulder blades
sharp like shovels
forcing back.

Your head hovering over me
a sleepy halo forms,
the shadow of Your skull
eclipsing my mouth.

The Phones Are Down

Unfamiliar phrases discharge
like shot gun shells
reiterating loneliness
home, IED, casualties.

You knew Franklin right?
Well thats why the phones were down,
his family had to be
notified.

Theres not enough delay
in the computer screen
for me to pretend
I dont know
the weight
of this braille
like a muzzle forcing
my tongue back.
This dimpled
steel language
you can only feed to me
in pieces.
I have seared it
to my clavicle
so if you
come home
I will be identified
as yours
or
something
that has been
lost.

Boot Camp Bible

It was in your things, the ones they
returned to me,
that Bible your mother gave to you
before she started crying
as you got on that bus,
before the jarring clamor of yes sir,
and gritted teeth forcing back spit and blood,
your sweat bleeding into the fragile text,
bloating its pages,
my picture dissolving into your flesh.

I remember how you used to say
you didnt understand why people said late instead of dead
youre only late coming home.

I dont remember if I laughed at this or not.

I do remember
the brassy voice in the background
of a static phone call
screaming, a wail, an alarm,
your calloused hands rummaging for
the lace of your boots
and me
asking
will you be safe
then a silence weighted by
a brethren I could not understand

You said
Im going to be late.

The Proposal

He proposed by an ocean
a private little beach with
veins of black sand
that stayed in my hair and ears
for weeks after we left
like shards of ammunition
from standing too close to the
mounted, diaphanous paper silhouette.
The waves were bigger than
anything I had ever seen before
crashing into my hip bones
with an increasing ferocity
as the moon hummed its siren song to
the tide surging and evaporating,
eliciting increasing salty sighs from Poseidon
for me, the girl,
trying to clutch any remnant
of the undercurrent.

Thats where he told me he didnt believe in god
while we looked at the stars that
pulsated and fled our vision

He told me he needed to marry me.

I know now
he just wanted his own North star,
light not from a god
but from a girl
that he couldnt blink out.

Matthew Kirshman

My Mouth, Which Burns

He wakes after the Twin Towers tumble.
Because theyre beautiful to each other,
They collapse in a havoc of ashes.
My mouth, which burns from holocaust flashes,
Takes me inside the wet dark thick organs,
Whose oozy sense stems from their being flesh.
Through the pink, boozy paunch around my trunk,
I enter the dense history of signs.
Both paunch and trunk have their primitive cult.
The king learns to chew gold naturally,
As a reflex, the business of Kingdoms.
Why should I suddenly be in the world?
So this poem becomes my creation,
These creatures submit to constant castration.

Spring 2014

Prelude to a Fertility Tale

He creeps, slinks around the castle
On the scent of a mans brain,
Like a fox, scared and cunning both,
In a steady state of nerves.
There was a crime in the cornfield.
An ax was mislaid;
A solo inhabitant reacts to the cry;
Dark tongues orbit the earth.
She whispers into the hole of his brain,
A tale from childhoodJack & the plant of gold.
Enter the story through the sound,
A nest of bees below ground.
Through the ear, yet another underground.
A sonic figure takes shape,
A story, a fantasy, a murder mystery
To pass the time.
A giant fell in the cornfield.
She purrs, once upon a time, there was a kingdom
And a king looking down from a cliff
To a village by the sea, a hamlet.
The surf is heard throughout the kingdom.
She prophesies a tale of seven winters.
From the crime comes seven consecutive blights.
A narrative runs and from the words grew spirits.
A king from whose figure a tale of temptation grew.
You were not true to me, the sea said.
A poor man collecting aluminum,
This poor man who lived alone with his daughters,
Alone heard the sea say the king was untrue.
The smallest seed of a crime grew under the skin,
And the thought of doom grew
Into rumor, into tumor,
Into humor, into horror.

Mary Holter

There is a Monster at the End of this Poem

I am not human
I am not German
I am not coffee
I am not artwork
I am not poetry
I am not writing this
I am not human
I am not in my sunset years
I am not watching TV
I am not listening
I am not breathing
I am not breathing
I am not watching you
I am not writing
I am not eating
I am not what you think I am
I am not open to that at all
I am not into that either
I am not human
I am not a vegetarian
I am not vegan either
I am not a non-smoker
I am not a poem
I am not a cigarette
I am not a Buddha
I am not a TV
I am not a good writer
I am not a poem
I am not a bowlful of marijuana
I am not happy
I am not happy with you either
I am not sad
I am not dead yet
Spring 2014
I am not at a funeral
I am not at a poetry reading
I am not a fascist
I am not a marxist
I am not a lion
I am not sitting
I am not human
I am not inhuman either
I am not a poem
I am not like that anymore
I am not music
I am not a song
I am not a film
I am not a video either
I am not a car
I am not a car radio either
I am not at my desk
I am not on the phone
I am not a computer
I am not email
I am not a tweet
I am not in charge
I am not out of debt
I am not money
I am not credit
I am not a bank
I am not an accountant
I am not an ant either
I am not a toy
I am not human
I am not asleep
I am not a cat
I am not a pot of tea
I am not a book
I am not a poem
I am not speech
I am not the president
I am not congress
I am not progress
I am not open
I am not closed
I am not occupy
I am not political
I am not what you think I am
I am not that either
I am not about drugs
I am not a pillow
I am not about to run anywhere
I am not for war
I am not against war
I am not what you would call a true-believer
I am not a superhero
I am not a hero
I am not a jelly donut
I am not here
I am not there
I am not measured
I am not able to be measured
I am not human
I am not your family
I am not at your dinner table
I am not in your home
I am not at my home
I am not on the streets
I am not in a fish tank
I am not a truck
I am not John Ashbery
I am not a good poet
I am not a good person
I am not worthy of emotion
I am not able to rid myself of emotion
I am not a machine
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not an airplane
I am not a yawning gap
I am not subsidized
I am not politics
I am not in the commons
I am not affordable
I am not a house
I am not demanding
I am not conservative
I am not talking
I am not downsized
I am not an owner
I am not labor
I am not a psychoanalyst
I am not practical
I am not a house
I am not a gingerbread house
I am not forgetting
I am not a memory
I am not a time
I am not late
I am not early either
I am not human
I am not ethical
I am not a volunteer
I am not a metaphor
I am not able to explain
I am not a dealer
I am not on ebay
I am not sentimental
I am not without sentiment
I am not valuable
I am not vital
I am not we the people
I am not the universe
I am not an urban fox
I am not a city rabbit
I am not a dog
I am not cultured
I am not a vocal determined minority
I am not a nation
I am not making it worse
I am not ninety years old
I am not piss and vinegar
I am not a windmill
I am not the crown
I am not empty
I am not doing what you tell me to do
I am not aristocratic
I am not healthy
I am not in bed
I am not stupid
I am not human
I am not with the Internet
I am not animated
I am not part of the staff
I am not realistic
I am not in danger
I am not dangerous
I am not embracing anger
I am not Elvis shooting the TV
I am not unfair
I am not unsound
I am not sure
I am not in protest
I am not outside
I am not a real treat
I am not best pleased
I am not reacting
I am not mocking you
I am not ridiculing
I am not old
I am not sorry
I am not anywhere near the end of this
I am not disappointed
I am not bored yet
I am not thinking of something else
I am not looking at my watch
I am not fidgety
I am not in protest
I am not voting for you
I am not worried
I am not smiling
I am not laughing
I am not honest
I am not flicking you in the head
I am not pleased
I am not part of the one percent
I am not hungry
I am not human
I am not a quote
I am not a child
I am not educated
I am not me
I am not you
I am not the news
I am not a guide
I am not a philosopher
I am not shaking
I am not impressed
I am not dreaming
I am not in New York
I am not in a trance
I am not wondering
I am not a worm
I am not employed
I am not in the past
I am not in the future
I am not alive
I am not dead
I am not solid
I am not monied
I am not concerned
I am not an appendix
I am not on the lam
I am not free
I am not alone
I am not with friends
I am not very far away
I am not near you at all
I am not able to tell you that
I am not remembering well
I am not misremembering
I am not a train
I am not alighting
I am not vocabulary
I am not a single word
I am not a rifle
I am not a killer
I am not a poet
I am not human
I am not watching CNN anymore
I am not a drone
I am not military
I am not a warship
I am not unaccountable
I am not able to make peace
I am not able to make water
I am not able to eat without killing
I am not a killer
I am not eating
I am not killing myself with tobacco
I am not high right now
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not clean
I am not shaved
I am not an animal
I am not what you think
I am not alright
I am not a machine
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not cancer
I am not a Virgo
I am not a twin
I am not born
I am not reborn
I am not getting younger
I am not old
I am not what I thought I would be
I am not cool anymore
I am not a bully
I am not in school
I am not in my locker
I am not a victim
I am not a butterfly
I am not a flower
I am not a scent
I am not a cup of tea
I am not coffee
I am not sugar
I am not open-minded
I am not a tablecloth
I am not a table
I am not a foundation
I am not cracked from water damage
I am not plaster
I am not a statue
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not sluggardly
I am not a spy
I am not a communist
I am not with them
I am not with you either
I am not for my own interests
I am not for your well-being
I am not fond of the post office
I am not afraid
I am not in the dark
I am not naive
I am not a bottle of water
I am not an ocean
I am not a droplet of rain
I am not cloud
I am not seeing a silver lining
I am not going to stop
I am not releasing energy
I am not a green house emission
I am not mission based
I am not on the moon
I am not going to ever set foot on mars
I am not in the mood
I am not ready for Christmas
I am not ready for the New Year
I am not winter
I am not snowfall
I am not an icicle
I am not a frozen circle
I am not green leaves
I am not an autumn sunset
I am not giving thanks
I am not thankful
I am not ungrateful
I am not shaking your hand
I am not welcome
I am not hearing you
I am not kissing you either
I am not inside of you
I am not in love
I am not loving
I am not unloved
I am not a cat
I am not a doctor
I am not voice
I am not sound
I am not unsound
I am not level
I am not a mantel
I am not reading
I am not awake
I am not flowing
I am not on top
I am not thinking
I am not thoughtless
I am not obscure
I am not clear
I am not championing
I am not worn out
I am not a heathen at the gate
I am not a gate
I am not a door
I am not fixed
I am not in the highlands
I am not enjoying myself
I am not longing
I am not a thing
I am not brilliant
I am not trivial
I am not supercilious
I am not extreme
I am not a fact
I am not fact based
I am not talking
I am not swelling
I am not lying
I am not a liar
I am not telling the truth
I am not on opposing sides
I am not a reflection of myself
I am not bristling
I am not shocked
I am not explaining
I am not in a crux
I am not a crucible
I am not adherent
I am not conveying this well
I am not going to stop for a long while
I am not against you getting up and moving around
I am not a poem
I am not going to get upset
I am not rude
I am not Hamlet
I am not a ghost father
I am not expounding
I am not in a cloud of doubt
I am not reassessing
I am not rummy
I am not failing
I am not ham-fisted
I am not riding high
I am not a front runner
I am not an 'also ran'
I am not in your head
I am not out of my head
I am not careless
I am not reckless
I am not skillful
I am not anything
I am not a thing
I am not endangered
I am not small
I am not composed
I am not on my game
I am not footloose
I am not free
I am not Lazarus
I am not reborn
I am not tired
I am not going to play with the cat
I am not contradictory
I am not going away
I am not a machine
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not a concerto
I am not a parallelogram
I am not rhombic
I am not feigning
I am not baited
I am not a heartbeat
I am not tortured
I am not repressed
I am not boarded
I am not water
I am not brave like you
I am not going to run towards fire
I am not running into gunfire
I am not exploding
I am not dying for you
I am not going to save you
I am not able to fly
I am not a bursting alarm
I am not able to reach your outstretched hand
I am not watching you fall to your death
I am not on a mountain
I am not an avalanche
I am not on my way to the dentist
I am not remembering Paul Harvey
I am not recalling those days
I am not going to remember anything I do no want to remember
I am not your son
I am not angry
I am not going to ask why you asked me that
I am not questioning your authority
I am not overruled
I am not ruled
I am not a ruler
I am not measured
I am not tomato soup
I am not in a can
I am not a pipe
I am not real
I am not surreal, either
I am not confused
I am not on a voyage
I am not bound for glory
I am not hopeful
I am not for technology
I am not a futurist
I am not a rocket ship
I am not seven
I am not striped
I am not five
I am not any year
I am not a plate
I am not a mouthful
I am not childlike
I am not a gallerina
I am not a shopper
I am not citizen
I am not incorporated
I am not around the corner
I am not a mural
I am not a memorial
I am not never-ending
I am not powerful
I am not up to date
I am not watching
I am not hiding
I am not exporting democracy
I am not on Facebook
I am not social
I am not anti-social
I am not on policy
I am not a hatchet
I am not a tree limb
I am not playing nice
I am not an invention
I am not a status
I am not getting my thoughts across
I am not staying in touch
I am not a tutor
I am not a lifetime of stories
I am not a blogger
I am not a wonderful gift
I am not a great-great-great-grandfather
I am not there yet
I am not dead enough
I am not on the page
I am not with me
I am not exhilarating
I am not a giver
I am not going to chill
I am not as fast
I am not as loud
I am not paying retail
I am not jumping in
I am not an estate
I am not dusty
I am not for sale
I am not a squirrel
I am not a cheetah
I am not cheater
I am not victorious
I am not choosing
I am not going home
I am not ok
I am not
I am
I am not at bay
I am not bath water
I am not dry
I am not a warthog
I am not warmth
I am not a candelabra
I am not snorting
I am not therapeutic
I am not making strides
I am not searching the web
I am not amazing
I am not the queen
I am not in search of my next meal
I am not foraging
I am not hoarding
I am not suckling
I am not wild
I am not comfortable
I am not switching mothers
I am not a monopoly
I am not a machine
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not what you say I am
I am not a phenomenon
I am not a magic bullet
I am not white hole
I am not a public library
I am not getting it
I am not subscribing
I am not part of the public
I am not on the surface
I am not producing paradoxes
I am not knocking on your door
I am not enormous
I am not being viewed
I am not in focus
I am not a galaxy
I am not backwards
I am not changing history
I am not a Luddite
I am not a rate of flow
I am not a mouth
I am not a moth
I am not the same
I am not in a rocket above the earth
I am not on the ground
I am not fast
I am not in the center
I am not moving towards the past
I am not taking you into account
I am not correct
I am not wrong
I am not in Massachusetts
I am not in a gravitational field
I am not on GPS
I am not revealed
I am not possible
I am not in the universe
I am not traveling at the speed of light
I am not far fetched
I am not a worm hole
I am not time
I am not in time
I am not a time machine
I am not in the book
I am not a camera
I am not the universe
I am not messing with Texas
I am not an alien
I am not an illegal alien
I am not around
I am not a competitor
I am not Afghanistan
I am not a brand new computer
I am not compelling
I am not human
I am not a poem
I am not approved
I am not easy on the budget
I am not my own boss
I am not unleashed
I am not ultimate
I am not licensed
I am not a gun owner
I am not installed properly
I am not engineered
I am not unbeatable
I am not cooking
I am not getting eaten
I am not answering you
I am not all the rage
I am not suffering
I am not a parody
I am not based on a novel
I am not a blank slate
I am not a Ouija board
I am not infallible
I am not a bow and arrow
I am not a tango
I am not tangling
I am not done with that story
I am not a man
I am not a dirty old man
I am not looking at your chest
I am not hitting on you
I am not in two parts
I am not hurt
I am not an escalator
I am not elderly
I am not entertaining
I am not finished
I am not an idiot
I am not noble
I am not a hoodie
I am not a reader
I am not into books
I am not a hub
I am not scary
I am not aligned
I am not a servant
I am not no one
I am not one
I am not granted wisdom
I am not wise enough to see
I am not mistaken
I am not understanding
I am not wounded
I am not resilient
I am not in motion
I am not intelligence
I am not a trinket
I am not worshiped
I am not a traitor
I am not convinced
I am not back-sliding
I am not in Rome
I am not a tractor pull
I am not into Rod Stewart
I am not into football, either
I am not slanted
I am not horizontal
I am not lengthwise
I am not lost in a maze
I am not hoisted
I am not a horse
I am not blind
I am not disappointed
I am not a witch
I am not desperate
I am not seeking redemption
I am not people
I am not crap
I am not lettuce
I am not sucking
I am not a product
I am not chrome plated
I am not a stimulant
I am not lemon
I am not facing north
I am not nude
I am not a malady
I am not a colored light
I am not buying shoes
I am not a customer
I am not shielded
I am not in my own shoes
I am not Milwaukee
I am not an x-ray
I am not lethal
I am not made up of atoms
I am not radioactive
I am not going to tell you anything anymore
I am not the monster you were looking for at the end of the poem
I am not
No really
I am not a monster

Mark Young

Je pense, Don Quixote, je suis

It might be tarted up
by the French as being
une belle epoque, but
essentially the state of
natural philosophy during
the middle ages can best
be described as a few
horny gentlemen in a hot
tub trying to make it
with a girl in a red bikini.

Spring 2014
I'm always happy to take them back

The ontology of mode
coupling theory is
built by applying the
dynamic properties
of crystallized urine
from potassium-
depleted rats & then
using natural language
processing tools to
determine the slope of
the extinction curve.

The concept of podcasts

My anime shrine
comes with an
airtight plastic lid
capable of with-
standing extreme
fluctuations in
temperature. I didn't
have to kill any-
thing to make it.

A line from Kim Kardashian

Matter changes its state
when energy is supplied to
it. Solids become liquids, &
liquids become those classic

black dance shoes that bars
& restaurants often say they
have so as to seem as
graceful as other places that

support female pelvic health
& bladder control through
state of the art epic experiences.
Our core area of expertise is

sputtering technology. You
do the work; but based
largely on anecdotal evidence
it seems impossible to completely

fix a prolapse with pelvic floor
exercise or repair bikes by
means of techniques less toxic
than conventional solvent-based

products whilst still including
a sense of responsibility
toward the less fortunate &
references to plasma television.
Four geographi es

Zanesville

Two & a half
thousand denture
patients spend

more than one
billion Euros
every year

collecting
imagery from
space because

they don't
want to pay
the earth.

Xinjiang

Somewhere on Wuyi
Roadaka 312 National
I discover, just past the
turnoff to it, that the

Changji Urban
Appearance Bureau
of Environmental
Health Gardening

Farm Environmental
Protection Institute
hasn't shared anything
on its page with me.

Columbia, MO

One of the most
important
accessories for
creative growth
is a gun safe

dehumidifier
that turns from
blue to pink
to signal when
to reactivate.

Oven's River,Victoria

There is just the
one mention of

Texas persimmon
in the ethnographic

literature, a cite of
that episode of Here

Comes Honey Boo
Boo entitled "A Day

in The Life of a 3-
Wheeled Vehicle."
I meant an African guy

I meant an African guy

I meant an African guy on dating site in which he convinced me to come down and live with him

I meant an African guy on dating site in which he convinced me to come down and live with him pretending to
Love me,

Love me, after coming down from the States

Love me, after coming down from the States with a enough money in which i intended investing with

Love me, after coming down from the States with a enough money in which i intended investing with and even
went to the extent of selling my fathers properties (USD4.5million)

went to the extent of selling my fathers properties (USD4.5million) he is trying to do away with my money.

went to the extent of selling my fathers properties (USD4.5million) he is trying to do away with my money. I'm a
foreigner here and it is dangerous for me here,

foreigner here and it is dangerous for me here, this is why I need your gesture assistance.

foreigner here and it is dangerous for me here, this is why I need your gesture assistance. Will you be of help?

Sincerely yours,

Sincerely yours, Sharon Lee.

Mark Cunningham

[sort]

After she caught her breath, she said its when people are choking like that and cant speak that they need help,
and he said now you tell me. The power of simile: nuclear energy is like solar power, and in rest homes
patients hang on as if to love. My favorite time to see the Milky Way is a clear night in November or March
when I step outside wearing a t-shirt, and its a little too cold, but I dont want to go back inside. A rock cant
be smashed into pieces, because each piece becomes a separate rock.

Spring 2014

[sort]

John Locke said continuity of consciousness constitutes an individual, though he didnt record what he was
thinking just before he came up with that idea. She was saying something interesting about the mind being
ungraspable, so when the call came through on the other line, I asked her to hold that thought. Meaning of
vertigo = vertigo of meaning. I crossed the street and the rest was history. Then I walked down the block and
crossing the street was history.

[sort]

At first, all we could talk about was the car. Later, we could talk about the car wreck, too. He has the erased de
Kooning drawing, but I collect burned-out fluorescent tubes from Dan Flavin pieces.

[sort]

I like sunlight when it hits the window at an angle so you cant see much else but the dust on the window pane.
Im still trying to figure out what he meant when he said that a good players mind slows down when the action
around it gets hectic. The no of our where. We gave the new organism a name from a dead language so
everybody would understand. Someone almost there vs. almost someone there.

Marcia Arrieta

here

the life planned
the life imagined

ambient
metamorphoses

dada abstract surreal

Spring 2014

crossed out pattern
movement of

museum the atlas into antlers & wings

the tree visits the sky

value the lost days

despite yourself

collage the philosophy

in the poeticsnonlinear

balance

the poem & the star on the birds head

the mind is an abstract paintingadd real feathers

you now only have a hundred books to read

the phoenix
or we need easy wash

notes forces reflexes

helicopter over mountain

summarize perpetual dare

and if

consider

vulnerable recognized elemental

to locate

the circumstances of virtue

hems & mobiles

passageways

to find the idealist

no postage necessary

follow the yellow squares

through blue light shadow

into another room

consciousness

the form is the world

hemingways hero

steins language

cummings paintings & poems

no postage necessary

falling while running
across the street

iceland & icarus appear
in the first pages

it all takes place in Scotland

these are the clues you should follow

remember when he played the clarinet
she played the piano

stone & star & spiral

the light through the cabin door

pick yourself up
& continue

Mandee Marie Driggers

Budding

e waddled into the room wearing blueberry pie down the front of his shirt. Oh would you look at this
boy! cheered his mother. He smiled in response. Oh how could I be mad at you? Would you look at this
boy? He must have been hungry, his mother said. There's no punishment for this boy, his mother's son,
sweet-toothed, white teeth, behind deep blue disguise.

his boy licked the honey dripping from his fingers. They were still powdered with the dry dust of a morning
spent forming mud pies in his Grandmother's flowerbed. His mother made biscuits with buttermilk and
though she liked them best with a little black on the bottom she knew to keep the oven low so they would
still rise to the lip of the pan. This boy, her son, loved them warm, caked in cold, hard, butter. Butter that eventually
seeped over the edges and into the chips in the plate when warmed.
Do you want to play a game? asked his mother.
He nodded.
Okay then. Patty-cake, patty-cake, she formed the thick paste from the bowl into flattened lumps, plying them
from her hands with a thin layer of flour, all in cadence with her tune. Bakers man. Bake me a cake as fast as you
can. She set the first biscuit into the pan, greased with lard. Would you believe this boy? He's a mess. She smiled,
H
T
Spring 2014
gesturing to the puffs of dirt he had carried inside with him from the yard. Go wash your hands so you can help
me.

he boy did not receive money for chores, only for being born, which meant one single Jefferson. Do they
even take two-dollars anywhere? this boy asked his mother.
Just like two one-dollars, she said. Her cigarette ashed itself into the remnants of meatloaf on her
plate. The tray was a pale yellow, cut into tiny sections like the kind they served free lunch on at school.
Can I have that? he asked his mother, pointing at the sugar-free-pudding still topped with the shiny foil.
You sure can birthday-boy. Im not too hungry.
You should quit smoking mama. Said this boy, pulling off the foil and licking it clean.
I know baby. Theres a lot of things I should of done.

hen his mother was moved to the hospital, they sent this boy down the road to his uncles home. In this
new neighborhood there weren't many houses but there were parks and so came the possibilities of
friendship. He sat first on the bench by the swing set, ready to catch the eye of any kid his age that might
want to play. When the sun had started to blind him he set-up under the shade.
Maybe they were all too young or maybe he just wasn't friendly but when the sounds of an ice-cream truck
came barreling through, he sensed this might be his only opportunity.
What can I get you? asked the pepperoni face in the window of the ice-cream truck.
Do you have any push-ups? asked this boy.
No. Just whats on the sign.
T
W
The sounds of popsicles, icy morsels, and 64 options should have been the soundtrack to summer.
Ill take a raspberry popsicle please.
Sorry, all out.
Orange?
You got it.
Thank you, said this boy.
Next.
He sat back down in the shade, joined by another boy.
You can have half of mine, said the stranger. He pulled apart the two sticks, handing him the slowly
melting blue-red of his raspberry treat.
Okay. Lets trade. he said, swapping out half of the sour orange for a taste of the familiar.

his boy, his mother, was dead. She was no longer with us, had passed, moved on, was lost.
Give us this day, our daily bread, mumbled this boy from the front pew of the church. His
mother's coffin was closed. The body of Christ perished from the fingerprint of his tongue.
They didnt have a wake, just a few folks dropping off macaroni casseroles and sweet-potato pies in-between
half-hour sitcoms and on-the-hour news shows. Dinner was loosened neckties and paper plates gone soggy in the
microwave.
Do you want a biscuit? asked his uncle's date.
No, thank you, said this boy.
I made them, she said.
T
My plate's full.
Just try it, said his uncle.
No, thank you.
Just take your fucking no-thank-you bites, kid.
No, said this boy, No, thank you.
It's fine hun, she said to his uncle. Anybody thirsty?
Water, please. said this boy.
I'll take another beer, said his uncle.
Another? she asked.
Yes. Another.
Do you want a glass?
No, thank you, said his uncle.

efore his cousin's left to push buttons, firing missiles, shooting from ships, Desert Storm; when Cobain wore
dresses, shot dope, just dope; when the president spoke, on TV, only in predestined moments, subject shot:
torso-up, subject: torso-up.
Up she rose from between his knees, her brunette hair framing a face that was just two years his senior. She
didn't kiss this boy just yet so he smoked one more for the nicotine colored coffee cup until she returned to him,
still in his shirt.
I need to go, she told him.
Do you? he replied, knowing she would before the words left his mouth.
B
I'll phone, she whispered, her tights up to her knees before he could even suggest she come to dinner.
She tried to kiss him now, with too much mint in her kiss for him, this boy. He turned his lips to her cheek,
this boy, still consumed with menthol or the thought of sleep, post-coming, like too much turkey before the Steelers
kicked off. This boy, still hungry for love that dug its heels in.

M. K. Sukach

Porno Star as CIA Operative

She took such small, cursive breaths
Things with a one in four chance
Killing unreasonably one and not the other
To make a fucking living, fucking perhaps
Is nonetheless weird like couth
Like digging stones with manicured hands
Its all a bit of tradecraft, really, uncanny
Cunning, the way she was always leaving
Arriving so easily, so imperceptibly made up
There were never any clouds in her afternoons
Weird like June Cleaver always gardening in her pearls
So perfectly cartoonish like politics and porn
A "plumber" arrives but her pipes are never fixed
Really, how many of us ever made it whining about the rules
Spring 2014
Trigger Pullers

Odi profanum vulgus et arceo Horace, Odes, Book III

If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth
Tim OBrien, How to Tell a True War Story

Some get whats absurd about an exit sign posted in the northwest shitter
of Bagrams acre of fire-hazard hooches, just off the corner of Motel 6,

and some dont. To our asylum, favored over other less scholarly ablutions,
we flip-flop tardily in battle rattle between Matins and Lauds for the peace

and transient discretion to publish our standard pith for the war
as well as the ardent lineation such liturgy demands of the office:

UNiT UP! JUiCY PUSSY CaLL Me

now imagine you arent hypothetical
googled DICK and your Picture Came UP
Your ASS IS an amusment park

Que ferait jesus?
WTFO?
coalition brother
Talk AMERICAN Fuckhead!

We dont know how or how well our brotherhood will translate in future
journals of anthropology or what might become of these stalls consecrated

in the Sharpied capitula for the next song and conclave of mouthy soldiers
who understand an exit sign in a tin shithouse is sadly fucking ridiculous

and, therefore, do not talk falsely of any beside them nor the ashy names
sealed in a commodious urn, held by the tongue, or released by a trigger.

Lucy Falco

Solitary Confinement

Short-haired lady
With a mood ring lick
Hand claps syncopating
Lackluster leaf flights

I lied so many times
It was a language
I walked in the
Canopy of the fur trees

And the forest forgave me

Spring 2014

Ayn Rand

My pliant framework
Buckles in reverse
This alabaster architecture
Texture of bleached molars

Fountainheads
Prisoners of latticework
Wrought iron rib-cage
Chain-link tongues

Aneurysm

Im burdensome
In my other tongue

Weary in the
Western wilt

Oh, I could be a normal

And maybe, the eyeless
People will keep away
From these windows

When I put up
The duct tape

Perhaps Ill stop
Finding footprints in
The yard
And the swing set
Wont creak at night

Ave Maria

A simulacra of
Ply-weave fabrics
She hobbled among
Splint thistle
Bee-swarmed with
Concentrated gunfire

Serpentine smoke tail
Golden star, shes no shiksa

The heavens were yawning

Hymns kissed her with neon syntax

Comedy of Errors

God wont send winds
To drag you to this door
Studded with fingernails

With your boy clothes

With all those nothings

With your uterus carrying
A forest fire to term

Prayers

I have spina bifida of the soul

Phosphene flint strikes
Flickered in my optics

Rogation, invocation
Supplication, imploration

I hum this fizzle of grace
Disintegrating those in earshot

Halation turning me blonde

Joan of Arc

Those silkies
Said a girl
Couldnt wear
Her hair like that

Young graves for old men

The Virgin
of Orleans
Knocks twice
On the church double doors

To make skull caps
And throw rugs
Out of perverts
And whisperers

Amen

Valley of the Dolls

My wings are more
Feather-dusters

A prosthetic head
In the flux, gelatin fillings
Wig thats called a bob

Quarter horse in a quarter-dress

Hemingways fishing line
Pulling me together
That corpse in the hallway
Asks me for a glass of water

A Pillage

Again, the claws
Amber crust loll
Womb sags with laws
A molesting, a maul

A structure in its prime
A rouge streak on the streets
Groin folds under pantomime
Her wounds, lye secretes

The loathsome hag
Swaddled with nights
She is given a plague
Yet charged with the vice

Keith Moul

ONE-LINE RHYMING POEMS

Numbers such as one--numbers late, as expected--numbers unprotected--numbers to the sun.

Correct if wrong--correct open doors--correct tribute to whores--correct lyric in a wasted song.

Sometimes cry--sometimes oppress--sometimes largesse--sometimes rye.

Subject to conditions precedent--subject to horseflies in air--subject to familial care--subject to things not meant.

Hesitant as to fate--hesitant that she misunderstand--hesitant to walk in sand--hesitant with hate.

At last, absurdity is clear--at last, the runner's in a rundown--at last, sundown--at last, a cold beer.

Spring 2014

TALKING CANDY BAR BLUES
Noel Paul Stookey

In his deep, comedic voice, Paul Stookey soloed with guitar a song
about the evolution of innocence of boys and wickedness of adults,
half a chocolate bar of unknown brand offered and neighbors near
at hand policing street corners during public events. It escaped me
but late news reported each detail in keeping with the fourth estate,
without a hint of exaggeration, nor discernible whiff of fabrication.

Now I know the song by heart. The angle by the press is askew.
Mr. Stookey was haplessly ensnared in a gangland conspiracy, set
in motion by an innocent offer of Candy, son, then shifting gear
when the plainly scared boy returned with Mom and neighbors to say
Him! Scared too, Mr. Stookey pretends to await the now late bus
Anybody got a watch? You could see just how late it is. I got a
better idea. Lets find somebody with a watch and stare at him.

Mr. Stookey must hear Pervert, the kids life is ruined, although
hes now IN THE MIDDLE OF A BUBBLEGU-U-M OR-R-GY!
(This capitalization and punctuation are mine for a literary effect.)

At top gear, racecar speed, Mr. Stookey has achieved enlightenment:

Well, I've had some troubled times before
but none like the trip from the candy store.
Oh, I sympathize with the kid all right.
Somebody's nice to you - probably ain't right.
I'll grow up - I'll learn the way.
I'll learn so that my later days will be pros-s-perous,
chocolate covered - if I don't bite off more than I can hide.

Youre right with me if you find the moral as well as the story immoral.

YEARS OF FRIENDLY FIRE

In case of fire, touch the door first to know the other side.

For marriage heat, appoint a fire lieutenant and hire a guide.

Let's call it thirty years of flame, thirty years of friendly fire
to warm the house, thirty years of white hot furnace ingots
as if a heart could serve as furnace without reliable warranty.
Touch the door; watch for smoke chasing oxygen to a vent;
remember that oxygen will boil out of blood cached in lungs.

Love arrives just in time to save me: a big red truck, with hoses
to halt the spread and a ladder to pluck me off the roof--loyal
lieutenant, arriving amid the sirens just in time for thirty years.

Katie Brunero

Sweetshop

If you sliced me open youd find clumps of slightly damp confetti and slick noisemakers sounding out the motions of
my chest. I aint makin this up! You draw that exact blade down the length of me and out tumbles cone-hat lungs, party favor
organs, and streamer intestines all glittering with bile and blood. Of course Ive thought of seeing someone bout that. Bet the
sonogram would perplex doctors. Is that a pony? Piata pregnant gives wife beating a whole new meaning, dont you think?
Anyway, thats not even my biggest secret. The Biggest Secret is walking towards my bakery in low-hanging pants all
sown over with silver thread depicting him, or someone like him, holding smoking guns. They are ridiculous, but my love
turns them cute. The door crashes behind him, sending the sound of bells all over my small shop.
Why you wincing? If you hate em so much, take em down, he says. When he does things like that, like noticing
how Im feeling, it just cuts me up, my party parts fallin to the floor so I have to walk careful not to step on myself.
You lookin hot today. He fans himself all theatrical, which I hate, cuz I know its just show; but dont let me fool
you, his low whistle twirls my pinwheel. And you wanna know the worst part! Oh no you dont. You are going to shame me
hell, I shame me.
When you off work? he asks, pretending like hell have me after work instead of right now.
Few hours, maybe. I play along.
They say love is blind. It aint. Its just stupid.
Spring 2014
The shop feels nice with him in it, but since he started coming round Ive done a lot to fix it up. Before the windows
were sort of foggy, and pasted over with local advertisements. Since him, Ive cleared them up, even added a few chairs. Not
that anyone uses em. People are mostly in and out. When I first took over the business fifteen years ago, Id hoped my
desserts would speak for themselves. I even tried to be nice to people, but I quick found out customers just went to me cuz I
was the only convenient option.
How bout one of them sugar cookies? he asks, looking at the single glass display beside the register. He hasnt
shaved in days and I can picture the few brave hairs that have pushed through the oily soil of his upper lip. I dont like it when
he forgets to shave cuz it reminds me of just how much of a difference twenty years makes. He pretends at being a man, and it
shows just how much he aint. When that happens, I say you be you! and he says, Me being someone else is me being me,
and then its like a video of someone blowing out candles in reverse: breath coming in, flames jumping onto wax sticks, warm
light illuminating hungry faces.
Want me to flip over the sign? he asks. I get so excited my stomach turns and I feel like vomiting sparkles.
He looks me up and down, his tongue darting over his upper lip. Hes playing cool, but theres a snap of uncertainty
in his eyes. Damn if I dont love him for it. You might find it hard to believe, but until he walked into my shop, I didnt think
that sort of kindness existed, not for longer than it took to get what you wanted anyway.
He repeats the question with raised brows. I dont know why, but this time, something stops me from inviting him
around the counter. Party music paused, the guests in me are silent, waiting for the first tare of wrapping paper.
Well? he asks.
I shrug, but am already releasing myself into the sturdy hold of his confidence. He fishes behind him, finds the sign,
flips it. I look down the barrels of his guns, spitting threaded smoke. OPEN rocks just above his waist. Hes real short for
sixteen. The kind of small you dont grow out of. Thats parta why I acted the way I did that first time. I thought, damn,
somebody get that boy some cake, and then, That somebody is YOU, so I took a cupcake from the case and held it towards him and
said Its on the house. He didnt move so I said, You want it or what? He ignored the cupcake, kept looking right at my
face, eyes scanning all over it, and said yes PA-LESE.
Can I ask you something? he says, back still barring the door.
Shoot, I say, even though I dont want him to. I get nervous when he asks if he can ask.
Theres this thing tomorrow. I was wonderin if youd wanna go with me? His hands are eaten up by oversized
pockets, the bump of his knuckles make the guns lifelike.
Weve got here. Why you wanna to go somewhere else? Im bluffing. I want to blindfold his words. Want him to
chase my tail, pin me down, but I know, to him Im not just a piece of ass, and maybe thats the worst part.
Tomorrow theres gonna be this thing at Joanss Lot. Just tell Old Man you was at work? Old Man is my husband.
When he was the age of The Big Secret, he was a thick arm hanging out a yellow Camaro; from rings to wife beater, that arm
was nothing but muscle and ink. He saw me following that arm down to the heavy-watch wrist, so he curled a fist around his
middle finger and gave a half-smile head nod like he already knew he had me. Party over. Until The Big Secret came along,
that is.
Well, you wanna go? The Big Secret asks.
I cant think of a worse idea than showing up at some party with this boy. Me, sexy as a sack of potatoes, trailing
behind The Big Secret, all full of babyish bravado.
You wanted some cookie? I ask. Damn I sound stupid. Every word that forms in my mouth gets away from me fast
as it can. Im the kid no one invites to the party. Hell, I am the party, and Im not even invited.
I want you there. Aint nobody gonna mind. They do, Ill fuck em up. He laughs, and looks me in the eyes with a
fearlessness so fierce its a challenge. I wonder what it is he thinks hes doing.
I dont say anything, so after a few moments he walks around the counter and says, Ill take that cookie now. We
laugh at how dumb we sound. Our exhales becoming inhales until there isnt room for breath. He lowers his hand between my
legs, trying to light the fireworks, clicking the lighter again and again, until it produces a flame, spreads down the wick, bursts
into a thousand sparks. We make it to the backroom, where, hours from now, Ill be folding eggs into a bowl of sugar and
flour and powdered strawberries. I almost trip on my apron in a rush to get it off. Then I am rolled out on the table, my
brown body a landscape of doughy dips and rises. Im embarrassed by his inscrutable gaze. For a moment I think hes going to
change his mind and get the hell out of there, but he leans in, his breath sour, and says, Fuck, you are so god-damned beautiful.
He moves lower until only a sliver of his head is visible above the swell of my breasts and belly. Hes just hoverin so I
ask what hes lookin at.
Its like a party in there, he rises a bit to look up at me.
Suddenly panicked, TELL me about it, splutters from my mouth. The flour on my arms and thighs turns to paste.
He chuckles low. Can he see, really see, whats in there? With a boy like him you never know. Too fucking smart. Too
fucking young. Before I can stop him, he starts in. Finally he finds that spot, pins the tail just right. The fire workers let loose
their grand finale. I sigh. He raises his head over my stomach and tongues a circle around my belly button. I let my hand rest
on his head, fingers tracing around the tight, nubby knots of his hair. He is the frosting on my cake. The kid who brings the
best present, a small gift wrapped in large packaging because he knows the tease is my favorite part. He pushes into me,
serious with concentration. He is a wish come true, but probably the kind that turns out to be a curse because you werent
specific enough. Before him, I was all: Please, Help. Something, Anything. I guess you cant get much vaguer than that. Shit, son. He
moves quicker, hungry. Somewhere people are clapping. Happy happy happy. I am going to pay for how good this feels.
I gotta get back to work, I say, wiping flower from my arms.
When you want me to pick you up?
Youre crazy, I say.
Aint nobody gonna care or nothin, he says. I read the spice rack labels, avoiding his eyes. He takes my chin in his
fingers, his gaze jumping from my left eye to my right, like hes taking inventory of my thoughts.
What? I say.
Ima come here tomorrow and get you.
You be wasting your time. I aint gonna be here, I say, which is a lie.
He pulls his ridiculous pants from under the counter and hustles them on. I get that feeling when after all the guests
have gone, and youre at the table facing a slice of cake but you cant take a bite, and youd trade every present for the presence
of the friend that gave it.

The next day, I force toffee icing through a star shaped taper and think of how to let The Big Secret down easy. At
first I am simply saying no to the party, but as the hour passes, our imagined conversation intensifies until Im ending things
completely, repeating the list of why its all wrong, each reason a note played over and over in my mechanical music box of
excuses. It is a jolty, tinny sounding song not even a monkey would move to. I ruin another cupcake with sloppy frosting,
scrape it bald, start again. Maybe he and I could find a home together where distance doesnt exist. Somewhere in me, a clown
with performance anxiety worries the bright fabric of his parachute pants.
The list of my mistakes grows as the day passes. The buns burn; I pull them from the oven all covered in black cracks.
Theres too little flower in the death-by-chocolate cake; its rim turns to cement and the center goes soft and drops out. The
cookies looked fine, but I taste one and it is like biting into potato salad, which made no god-dammed sense at all, so I give up
tasting things.
Thats how it was before The Big Secret came slouching into my shop that first time. Id soak warm fruitcake in
perfectly-whipped cream but it never tasted any better than that nights frozen fish sticks (which I rarely bothered to reheat).
Before him, if I had to deliver a birthday cake, the only thing Id say to the customer was: its heavy, like I was lying on a
curse. Maybe the curse worked in reverse. I place brightly colored fruit on a soft skin of custard, and think, if I lose The Big
Secret again, Ill be losing his version of me, the only one worth a damn. And what about after? When the party drains from
meleaving me a husk, a Party Place with the light on but nobody homewhere would all that joy go? Could I stand to see
our happiness swinging from my husbands heavy arm?
My back is turned, but I hear the clatter of bells. Instead of crashing back and forth into the glass door they are
silenced immediately. My breath stops with the silence, but my heart continues its thunder. When I turn around, The Big
Secret is cutting off the bells with a pocketknife. I open my mouth to ask how he expects me to know when a customer has
come in and Im in the backroom arm-deep in dough, but he stops me with a finger. From another pocket he pulls a round
metal object. He peels a strip from it and sticks it to the doorframe. Then he swings the door open and closed. A simple,
hushed version of happy birthday to you swells through my shop. I am filled with somethinggratitudeso much so I get
goose bumps. I feel nestled in a bed of frosting. I am soaked in the smell of warming butter. I am a chorus of celebration. I
forget about all my years, draggin down my skin and spreading me out. I am a new kind of expansive, the kind that floats.
You gonna come then, he asks in response to my smile.
Reality is a pin to my helium heart.
Im not gonna be ableI struggle. This thing were doing
He stays stand off still.
We have to end this, I say. A little glitter spits out.
You breaking this thing off? You cant, he says, so calm.
I can get angry with fear. Ive got a choice, and Im makin it, I tell him.
But it aint about us, The Big Secret says, messin with the paper hed peeled from the back of the door alarm.
What?
You know, he says, looking right at me, eyes bright as a camera flash.
I know what?
The baby, he says as if its fact, and not terribly interesting at that.
What? What you know about that? There aint no thing
You think I cant tell?
Youre just a kid, I say. The party in me has turned riotous and I am fighting, uselessly, to keep order.
My mom had twelve kids, my sisters have five among em, he says. I know your body, and I know the signs, and
youve been shoutin them all over the place.
Youre just a baby. Babies shouldnt make babies.
Im not scared. Im actually kinda excited bout it, he says.
Suddenly, I am ready for him to go.
This is not a conversation I am capable of.
I am more exhausted than Ive ever been, might just curl up right here on the floor. He starts pitching me a plan, a
future together that sounds so good its cruel. I have to say something to shut him up before I agree to everything.
Whose body is this? I demand, knowing full well its the one his love has made me.
Yours, he says, looking like hes been cornered.
Mine. Youve mixed up what you want with what is, I lie. Youre forcing me to act my age He scoffs at this but
I keep on. This thing we are. Its like eating cake. First bite is the best, you know. Then each following bite tastes a little less
sweet, until eating is a chore
Thats not true the muscles in face start to seize.
Until you are sick of the sweetness, I say.
He has the indignant, inward gaze of a person shot in the chest.
Its just too much of a good thing, I say, trying to soften where Ive stung.
Happy birthday sounds through the store.
I tap the registers space bar over and over. It cant be your birthday every day of the year, I say to the sound.
END

Julie Finch

Back to Hank

I think someone like Bukowski
Would have called it a backbreaker,
Plain and simple, no dressing it up.
That all passion is madness dug
From the grave, the hollow growing
Ever deeper, the more you spend,
The less you save of your own life.
That love, if that is what it's to be called,
Is an iffy hand at best, a currency not
To be trusted on any market, a plain
Bad bet.
Yet the man himself fell and fell often,
Working that shovel of paper and type,
Writing his guts out, writing to women,
Wooing them outrageously, pockmarked
Rake, stealing them from other beds,
Taking them easy, taking them right out
From under the noses of men more handsome,
Successful, and certainly more sober, more sane.
It's a conundrum, this love business.
That saying? "You made your bed, now lie in it"?
Well in love's case, it takes two.
I think of Bukowski, madman and prophet
I'd like to ask him what he thinks of you,
Wherever you are,
And whether you're worthy of the laborer
The fallen, toiling, foolhardy star.

Spring 2014

Once

When the world with its ample crush
Has turned its body against you
Remember the time we owned
Every street, every star, every bird
That flew from its solemn joy out
Into the awaiting world, where it sang,
Miraculously, among the living.
Remember the sky that would not forsake us,
The strangers who did not look away,
The lights of their faces saying Yes to
Whatever it was we stood for in their eyes.
Remember the night that did not close in,
But instead, expanded with every step
And led us back into each other's gaze.
Remember grace, and its blossoming.
Remember when the morning arrived rich,
Undaunted by the journey beckoning forward.
Remember that you were cherished fully, and wholly held
By arms that could barely reach beyond
The blessings.
When this earth and its infinite solitude spin
Outward upon your every path,
Remember there was a time when we walked as one
Under silent shades of an evening's falling,
When we conjured the unsayable, the bold and certain
Unfolding of a love that was not mistaken or misspent
But sprang like tulips in an empty field
To be lavished, to be revered, to be free.

Beacon

Burn as if the mountains will not last forever,
Shine as though the farthest star were not but
A fiery homage to its former self,
Dead now, and yet still a beacon
Illuminating this dream, this sky, this space.
Be the flame that refuses to dim,
The ache of every arching doorway
That longs to summon someone home,
Stand tall as the tree before it is felled,
Arrive like the arrow as it pierces skin
To bone, be the steady rock and water
That whiles its edge to smoother stone.
We are here to give ourselves away---
Incandescent, yearning, vast in our capacity
To bear what is and what must be done
To save each other, to save each other.
Be the light, the stream, the sun
Cast yourself upon the water and stretch
Like the ocean to its most longing shore
Giving, silent, awakened, and truly alive.
Avail yourself to miracles.

Josh Sterlin

Bone to Basics
(the earthly, remains)

We are unwrapped,
depositing our calcium
(in the river bank):
burial grounds
our hearts in our bones.

Laid out to rest
like clothes, unrobed
for ever-
(unless the archaeologist
unpeaces her together),
y forager now undisturbed by
its civilized heart.

Back to the land,
with no more movement,
Basically.

Spring 2014

She likes it rough

She doesnt need to
buy all those products
to exfoliate her skin,
all she needs to do
is date a farmer.

Climax Species

I can smell your musk
partner, trail ing your
hide. La chasse for tail,
(quivering between your legs)
ends. Fur trapping.

Splattering brain
all over your face,
knees buckle, all-fours
fallen to the ground.

Eating you out
of your skin,
stretching it wear.
Its time for you to
meat your Maker:

Hunting
is a
wild game.

Shedding

Just like the rest
of the mammals
I leave my fur
everywhere.
I wonder if
they also find
some on their
tongues every time
they fuck.

God Head
To Jackie

The slow jams fade out as you disappear,
and in, resurfacing with you prostrate
wearing someone elses sweat.

They never warn you that
you can drown in your own body.

Going down on your knees is alter worship,
but here the god-head moans back.
The congregation may be seated,
this aint no standing prayer.

I will always put my face
to the oldest, and holiest
city.

Josephe Jackson

Crying crime

You look like a crime.
you smell like a crime
and you have no crime.
I committed a crime,
and now you owe me
multiple dimes.
I live in my spleen,
but i love in my
crummy tummy,
and you just made
friends with my
aortic valve.
What are bodies
but floating waves
on an ocean?
And so we claim
our pretty remorse
while we roast our
snores and this
utterly foul prune,
privately,
and you're who I see.
When I'm a crime,
you cannot exceed.
Hug me,
like the wind.

Spring 2014
Heartshaped Box

Kurt Cobain was my idol,
when he jabbered,
his songs
smelled like incense.
no, He never appeared
on american idol,
but never would he stand
there, and leave me idle.
People think,
he was an infestation
of pandemonium
but he was not,
he was erotica,
in women glazing
hearts.
He was a riot,
that the world
couldn't contain,
and thats why he died,
in pain.
because he came,
over - our lives
to listen to fathers
cries.
Who is it you see
in heart shaped box,
Is it Mr. Cox
my librarian
who condemned me
for listening to
his music in 1992?
Who knew?
how much
his songs flew
across the state.
Now, hes up
in heaven

Josefine Petersn

Underwater

I imagine it would be like breathing underwater
But if I try, I might die
Why?
You try, and if you die
Ill tell them you were trying to breathe underwater

I went down to the ocean one night
had dinner in a joint by the beach
shrimp skewers with cocktail sauce
and the house vino, a bottle or two
the place was empty, or packed
I stared at the moon- super moon
service was terrible, I wont return
but I still tipped ridiculously well
left all my cash on that little table
outside I took my shoes off
threw them in a garbage bin
wish I could have lived my whole life
barefoot- the ground always sand
Spring 2014
or concrete, or grass, or wood
I passed a lot of strangers on the boardwalk
they were all looking at the super moon
and eating, and laughing, and singing
if I hadnt left all my cash somewhere
I would have shown my love for
that old guy playing sucky guitar
he was untalented, but had heart
someone left their dog tied to a bench
I talked to him or her for a while
we bonded over abandonment
and cookies and whatnot
his or her fur was kind of a mess
so was my hair, we bonded over that as well
I bummed a cig from a bum
he stank, but seemed in good spirits
told me he was excited about
the recent legalization of gay marriage
his brother was gay, he said
though he hadnt talked to him
for years and years and years
because his brother didnt want to
he said he was really happy for him
and wished him nothing but the best
I got on the beach, the sand was chilly
felt good on my feet, there were blisters
thats why I threw away my shoes
they were always uncomfortable
I ran around in circles
did jumping jacks and handstands
cartwheels and running man
played air guitar and sang reggae
or maybe I yelled it more than I sang it
I think it was jamming by bob marley
there was no one on the beach
I had it all to myself, all of it
and the ocean smashing a million waves
thats when I decided to try it
fuck it, you only live once, right?
I had always been curious to see
what itd be like to breathe underwater

Villain

I am the one walking barefoot
in grass cut like glass
he says while licking his fingers.
He doesnt want to share his courage,
this self-proclaimed gangsta.
What makes a villain?
the story probingly continues.
Green, hazel, black eyes
seeing the world through broken filters.
I am the one whos been thrown
to the wolves here
he says while the choir continues
its scornful melody,
no one wants this nobody to be anybody.
Anyone who wants to be somebody,
has to do nothing but everything
he says while poking a hole in the thick,
velvety curtain blocking the view.
His clothes fall to the floor and
he is naked, everyone else is not.
A monologue well versed ensues,
as gasps and huffs rise to a crescendo
enclosing the auditorium.
Green, hazel, black eyes
see through broken filters,
a show expertly maneuvered
by a state-proclaimed conductor.
I am the one who wont call
tomorrow today
he says while his knees weaken and
hit the stage floor.
He doesnt want to share his fear,
this self-made underdog.
What makes a villain is what a villain makes!!!
the story abruptly ends,
three exclamation points
putting it to rest for good.

Jon Simmons

Buddhism and Mosquitoes

In certain sects of Buddhism, insects
arent considered sentient beings,
my neighbor RJ says, slapping a mosquito on his forearm.
He flicks it off, swirls his limeless gin and tonic.

RJ leans on the picket fence
and professes great truths.
A slow life is a better life.
Everyone is religious, even if they dont know it.
I tell him not to generalize.

The sun bows over the plain, orange and distant,
lobbed, slow-pitch softball for Gods.
Im new to thismoved
to a cotton ball climate from the Pine Tree State.

I repeat the part about Buddhism and mosquitoes,
because Im confused. RJ nods.
Everyone goes through a Buddhist phase,
at some point in their lives, he says.
Even mosquitoes.

I wonder who is my Buddha?
Is mine the same as the mosquitos
that is biting my neck?

Spring 2014

John F. Buckley

Frustration

And now that you mention it again, this
is indeed the easiest poem in the world
to write, its lines extrusions from the glue
gun of a glib prodigy, a sleek sensation.

This piece let us call it a construct
is about nothing. It builds scaffolding
within which hangs empty space, hot
pregnant air, the loom on which to weave
a blank, blue, beautiful tapestry, seamless.

I read the book by the man who split his
chest to bare his soul amidst rainstorms
and eggshell eyes, and I feel perturbations
in my heart, dim concerns. I want to express
my own anguish and resilience, wrest hostile
memories from the quartermaster and set them
like claymores in the minds and bowels of readers.

But all that issues forth is birdsong from
blithe sparrows wearing straw boaters,
chirping away in the play of phonemes
and pipedreams, happy horseshit.

Cartesian dualism: life kicks me in the groin
and the mind reacts with a tinny aria.

Spring 2014
Cloud Map Ceiling

The spare-bedroom ceiling shifted. It trembled incessantly
Nothing seismic, it started to move, forming letters

and shapes in the stucco patterns As if possessed by
a stenographer poltergeist taking notes on whatever

informal court proceedings may take place in this room.
I lay on the bed, trying to decipher the messages I read

them just fine but the sense of the plot and the illustrations
escaped me until I looked out the window and saw

similar yet more diffuse shapes in the sky. The clouds!
The ceiling had become a map of the clouds, one written

in American vernacular with comic-book pictures. This
cloud was an homage to NCIS, with clear portraits of

Mark Harmon and Cote de Pablo and episode guides
of their exploits as Navy police. This bank of cumulonimbus

was a dark, complex, celestial puzzle, a three-dimensional
combined chessboard and crossword with esoteric hints

sprouting across, down, and rearwards and with twelve
distinct pieces: one seemed to have to solve the clue to move

a pawn or a rook or a hooked executioner, And pieces did shift,
but how? Who was doing the puzzle and playing the game?

Was it put to a vote, each viewer below helping to shape
the answer? Whose ceilings were also decoding the sky?

Or was there something else majestic or hinky at work?
And why was it all depicted in English? Were other ceilings

elsewhere around the globe translating the clouds, perhaps
into Italian with Renaissance-inspired or inspiring artwork?

Did Muslim clouds without illustrations float over Baghdad,
Tashkent, and Jakarta? I couldnt watch once the questions

accumulated like thunderheads, keeping me awake at night,
invading the smooth glassy pond of semiconsciousness

I cultivate when watching television, which is very often.
I hung a heavy, opaque curtain over the stucco and closed

the blinds. Now when I go outside, less and less, I stare only
at the ground. Have I learned or avoided a lesson here?

Acceptance Speech

When I think of all the other, much more experienced candidates in the bars, cafes, and cubicles across this great
nation of ours, it amazes me, warms my peach-pit heart, that you would single me out today to celebrate the
awesomeness of my self-pity.

There were times, so many times, when I felt my poisonous envy, of those who were younger yet more talented or
accomplished than I, had been overlooked by this selection committee. I know now that you were just granting me
the space for me to be me, to demonstrate what I was capable of, to prove just why I deserved this award.

I know Im not the easiest man to love. Truth be told, Im surprised anyone even likes me Thank you, thank you,
that was a little bit of improvcant keep a bad man up, am I right?

Ive had some stiff competition. You, constantly worrying about aging without an entourage of attractive female
devotees to show for it. You, fretting about getting fat but your feet hurt too much to exercise and you cant afford
a podiatrist. And you, complaining about the children you never wanted, about the baby daddy who suggested you
remain childless and who doesnt pay enough child support, about a professional world maliciously conspiring
against your quickly-shifting whims of what you want to be when you grow up and have to go to work. Dont get
me wrong: you are all enormous babies. I cant take that away from you. But I guess this was just my year to get
lucky.

Id like to thank my parents, who each modeled, throughout my childhood and the first part of my continuing
adolescence, what it truly meant to be ridiculously sorry for oneself. If they both hadnt already crushed my heart by
dying, robbing me of what could have someday evolved into a nurturing home environment, I would dedicate this
award to them. But whats the use, now? Theyre dead and Im all alone. Yes, thank you, thank you. More improv.

Id like to thank all five of my ex-wives, whose emotional withholding kept me lean and hungry, helping me
maintain the eye of the tiger, the spleen of the elephant, the broken spirit of a true competitor.

Finally, Id like to thank all of you. Thank you for allowing your words of encouragement to fall on deaf ears. Thank
you for letting your praise seem like thinly veiled sarcasm. Thank you for enabling me to close my eyes to your
pictures of a better, more optimistic and hopeful world. Thank you. And good night.

John Emil Vincent

Existential tips from our studio chef

Within the closed circuit, theres always risk of erotic target location error and its best to wipe down surfaces
completely, almost ecstatically, before we begin. Remember, youre effacing, not polishing! If your narcissism
whinges too much, try counterclockwise.

Realitys resilience is a bonus, just dont come to count on it. Think of it as habit, not reflex. If necessary to buck
your tic toward collapsing sequence to category, close your eyes. Press the lids. The little supernova light blob will
come, then go. You may notice some elegant branch shaped veins; it may give you a wintery feeling. Think of this as
a lesson. Come to suspect everything is a lesson. Be, however, always skeptical of absolutes.

Anticipate the double bind but dont try to outsmart it by underthinking! Remember that most wrongs later in need
of redress will be racked up in your profitless research. Success, then, second order: by comeuppance once
removed. Resign yourself a little. Guilts a great healer! Then feel proud of your resignation and make yet another
gigantic categorical error that will set you back years. Thats okay. Really, its the fire you need under your ass and in
your 50s will be just the thing. One trick I like is the bad people are their own punishment defense. Use that
liberally, it really is like aspirin, an oldie and a goody. Analgesics from another better simpler time still working their
magic.

And of course, your worst enemy, and your best friend, is Mister I told you so. But Im getting ahead of myself.

Spring 2014

John C. Mannone

Where is Dr. Luke?

I can see things in the clouds, you know, by the way they shape,
and in the water breaking over rocks, as if they were some sign for me.

Where is my patron Saint Amabilis or Dr. Luke for that matter?
Amidst the myriad of bubbles bursting out from this unholy sea?
Hiding from the emerald shark shaped inside the walls of waves
sleek, with white-laced belly splashing out of the deep blue?
I see it batter the limestone rocks, this Great White materializing
from green black waves. I see the spray wisp to shadows, to wings:
a metamorphosis to Mephistopheles.

Can monsters turn into angels? No doubt, the angels have
transformed to monsters. Lucifer can tell you about that.

I see its eye, a black swirl; its mouth with teeth torn out
still gnashing in this kind of hell. I see it dissolve in this lake of water
spattering like fire. Can you see the foam reform into a werewolf?
Is this what happened to the herd of insane pigs that jumped off
the cliff into the Sea of Galilee? Those demons trapped in swine
now washing loose the violence in this ocean.

I can see things in the clouds, you know, by the way they shape,
and in the water breaking over rocks, as if they were some sign for me.

I see that same eye bulge from the wet chrome fixture in my bathroom.
I suppose it came to scare me. Where the hell are you, Dr. Luke?
Come out of the shower mist and quell this leviathan! There are swarms
of mist glowing as embers, and they remain unquenched.
Spring 2014
Nightstalker

The sky opened its eye tonight,
Glared wrath of the moon.
I prayed I was too close for it
To see me shivering in the pines.

The pine lashes of its eyes
Caught tears in the wry airhis
And mine. For centuries, I ran
Through the universe, but now

His werewolf smile found me.
His tears are from dust of night-
-mares lodged in clouds of time.
Mine are from the mist of terror
Of his love.

The Lazarus Phone

My cell phone, sleek and charcoal gray,
lies on a polished wood table. The edge
of its lid buried in glare from an overhead
light as if some trans-celestial star.

This would be miniature coffin has a body inside
flesh and bones all turning to pulver. Its casket face,
not wrinkled, but smooth as gravestone.

A name is lettered there, it doesnt matter
what it is. We all know whoevers inside
is merely dust to the wind, scaled way down.
But death sizes it the other way. What the hell?

Its nothing more than a bunch of circuits
and an empty screen. I wonder if itll light up
after the resurrection or simply give blank stares

waiting for the call, Come hither. Can He stand
the stench from waiting so long? Is this

an out-of-body experience? Even mine?
Would that mean I am Lazarus
or just your run-of-the-mill living dead?

I dont know. All I know is that I started
writing about something my life, or was it
just about a cell phone, which is now on hold
between heaven and the other place?

Martha! Im just a cell phone waiting for a call
from God. Please dont weep for me. But if you must
just dial 911 and pray that someone answers.
On the Brink of a Spinning Black Hole

Has it ever occurred to you
that we might be sitting on the edge
of a spinning black hole
boring through space convolving time?

And when we call out in search
of other intelligence, dont you wonder?

Where have all our disembodied
voices gone? Have they looped
through time, wormed back
to meet up with their mouths?

Will the sweet words, and the vile ones,
disappear into streams of unconsciousness,

into a zoo of particles, and antiparticles,
into the good, and the bad, then separated
and beamed back on a black-hole-wind
scattering seeds for new galaxies,

new beginnings, new intelligence? Maybe
the dice will be thrown differently

this time. Maybe well find ourselves
and wont have to die on the rim,
spinning on the rim of a deep black hole.
Maybe this time, well learn not to kill.
Mercury Rising

It is a mere black speck, an ember in the glare of the red morning sun, youd never spot it without a filter on your
telescope, unless the sun had turned its back on it, dipping below the horizon when Mercury was in opposition to
the whole thing, his deserted parent leaving him in the twilight of early dark. In those silent moments, youd see the
messenger with his winged feet chasing the sun. Youd see him naked-eye, no telescope needed, not even binocular
glass.

~

Glass, clear blue, as the Pacific Ocean that hides the blue-skinned shark wavering in the clear light. Its in the waves
pulsing the glass wall, the metal parts of this fluorescent world. Inside this ocean of light, held by the thin glass of
bulbs, theres a different kind of bioluminescence, a different kind of temperament. Mercury rising. Do you suppose
this is what drove the sharks mad?

~

Mad in the melting heat of the desert mines, alone with your mirage. In the smelting heat where the greed for gold
gives metal fume fever and the heart is poisoned. The temperature is rising mad as a hatter. Mercury is boiling.
Mercury, on the sunny side of Sol.
How Many Angels Dance?

The Flight room weather map loops
Yellow flickers over strands of green
Just mist edging Chicago. Red globs
Already dissolving in the Great Lakes.
The storm was dead when I left her.
Mid way, Michigan bound. My single
Engine drones in and out of ghost clouds
Washed to graveyard gray. By Gary, Indiana,

Radios crackle from electrostatic rain hiss
And lightning slashes clouds spilling rain
As blood; the storm howls and my engine
Rumbles. Instruments show the resurrected
Black crosses stabbing my plane
On the screen, I zigzag away; jagged
Lightning in all quadrants, in angry pursuit
Wields its fire sword burning air to melt

My wings under the egg-crate sky cracking.
The wind globs the albumin clouds
As funnels of turbulence on me. Fear churns
With prayer, but angels dance on heads of pins.
I see them waltz on oscilloscope screen,
Swathing the ballroom as whirling lights,
Waxing the stratus, buffing out all the red
And yellow streaks, until its nothing
But green.

The Craziest Thing Mona Has Ever Done

A red lamp shaped as red lips is poised
across from you; you, half in shadow;
her light, in secret, caressing your face.

How I envy that. For now, in quiet I sit
in the other room, no moonlight to glance
at me or warm my loneliness. I pray

tomorrows dawn clicks off her hot light
when sun slips through the bamboo wall,
lets my silhouette kiss you on the cheek

and when you wake, youll understand
my sated smirk, my dear Leonardo.
Chewing Pasta

Reading while chewing pasta is a choking hazard. John Tesh said so on the radio station. Politicians words
could lodge a wad of noodles in your throat before theyre ready to be swallowed, chased there by the rapid
inhalation preceding a guffaw. But if you survive the laughter, you could still choke-up on their not-so-
funny lies.

Jesi Bender

The Banshee, or Margaret Mary's Red-Leather Satchel

The day broke in a deep purple when Margaret Mary was on the train to New York, a fashion magazine
passively laid across her lap. Her body hummed to the steady vibrations. As they rolled on by the calm black
waters of the Hudson, her eyes were elsewhere - she was watching trees scratch the sky.

For me, to look at a photo of a young girl - some dead-eyed model with colors globbed on her face - sat all
disjointed in the odd angles of stilettos and long thin limbs like a pale de Stijl painting - there is nothing so sad. The
brevity of a blossom, the golden lily. I know now that no matter what she does, the rest of her life will be lived in
souvenirs.

Je me souviens, her lips mouthed.
[I will never forget.]

My mother (G-d rest her soul) always said life is just a series of moments and where you choose to place
yourself. Time and lines, time and lines.

Margaret Mary was choosing to place herself back in lower Manhattan, closer to the water shared with
Brooklyn, where the tallest buildings are project housing and the streets are no longer numbered. She was going to
a small bar near her old apartment on Clinton Street to watch a man she used to know sing a few songs and pick a
Spring 2014
cittern. But for now, she was somewhere outside of Albany, sitting silently on a train that shook to some obscure
beat like an angry hand rocking the cradle. In between her legs, on the floor, sat her red leather satchel. It held
something very important - she guarded it with a foot on either side. When she got up to use the bathroom, she
strapped it to her chest.

Opposite the toilet, as in most bathrooms, sat a mirror but in this bathroom, its proximity was abnormally
close and it was made of something just slightly better quality than a sheet of tin foil. It was impossible not to see
her self. Her hair stood red and blanketing, a fury of tussled gossamer, and her porcelain skin randomly punctuated
with freckles. Under her eyes, thick dark-purple highlights curtseyed to the harsh precipice of an Aquiline
nose. Below the crucifix at her neck, the satchel on her lap bulged with the present she had brought for him. The
reflection was too loud or too close. The lines seemed aimless and broken; the colors screamed in opposition. She
turned away from the mirror like an angry wave.

I think the most closely related emotions have to be sorrow and anger. My sick brain oscillates between the
two. Sometimes, when I think of what might happen when he sees the present inside this satchel, a raw happiness
crawls over me and then even joy becomes somewhat perverted. It is in the unknown of the future combined with
all the heartache of the past. I have something to give him; I have to guard it between my legs.

Back in her seat and day had fully broken. A new sun sat fully visible in the sky. It rose like a halo around
the outline of upper Manhattan as the train moved closer to its destination.

Soon the train stops and I work my way upward. Outside Penn Station, in the pulsating heart of this town,
the sun shines down on tomb-grey buildings. This city is my church. Littered with idols, with its wine and roses, I
am navigating it like an endless text and its myriad meanings. Moving forward, I tumble down Fifth on an invisible
current.

Margaret Mary moved through the streets with her arms wrapped around her satchel like it was her only
possession. She moved fast and her cross beat against her chest to the rhythm of her stride. After getting lost a few
times, both physically and in her thoughts, she arrived at the bar by her old apartment right before dusk. She could
hear him before she saw him. Margaret Mary decided to take her Eucharist (You-kah-riiist she mouthed to
herself) at the bar, though as close to the exit as possible.

The King of love my Shepherd is,
Whose goodness faileth never,
I nothing lack if I am His
And He is mine forever.

His voice is light and beautiful, and the music feels so close to pure. An Irish brogue against the lilt of
punctuated strings evokes something almost magical. But I dont know if there is enough purity in this world for
wonder. I dont know if sin isnt ingrained from conception. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers. If he does, it
doesnt show on his face. His eyes are closed, a peaceful head floating underneath the light, decapitated by the
black background.

Thou spredst a table in my sight;
Thine unction grace bestoweth;
And, oh, what transport of delight
From thy pure chalice floweth!

The songs seemed to go on for hours, ebbing like a wayward tide, with Margaret Mary keeping a steady pace
of a drink for each changing melody, a blessing for each blessing, and it was well into the night before he stopped.
The moon outside, hanging close and low, pushed forward her torrent.

After his set, there was no pause - Margaret Mary made her way through crowd, the angry wave crashing to
the black shore. She walked straight up to the man that sang and opened her red leather satchel. Before he fully
recognized her face beneath the fire of her hair, she sat this object on top of a bar stool, and it bled, and it cried. It
cried a hundred dirges; it wailed a thousand psalms. Margaret Mary opened up her mouth to sing along but all she
could produce was one long, loud scream.

"Margaret Mary Keen!" The man gasped, shrinking backward onto the stage. Heading backward into the
spotlight. Her present floated in its jar, beads of condensation running down its side like tears.

Oh Father, I'm so disappointed. I'm kind of like my own mother now.

Jake Syersak

from Prolegomena to the Opposite of Weather

*

Is there enough you in a mirror, beyond you, to allow a curvier tough of the frame to loosen? To release an abyss
fibonnacian, an oceans endless glass as ideas in the mouth best reflectedby a good rolloftheeyes? I could look out
on the Pacific for as long as its endless takes to prove me wrong
to Other the Atlantic
but still,
the oceans a skys entirety inflected, a folio spine-cracked
across a singular line of inquiry with which
we ask ourselves into answers
as easily as mask ourselves in questions. Maybe,
just maybe,
its the ocean separates me from weather. One tongued query of whether I opposite you spooling into the same ocean
a mirror is, the query become the frame that binds our glassiest questions to all this all this is-abyss is
& answers only, is.

Then again, I alone cant gauge an oceans endless
Spring 2014

*

Lets go ahead & say a gauge for eternitys physique is nothing more than a border. Lets go ahead and promise when I say
an eyelashs akin to a wave, Im forcing an eye to own up to its action, an ocean to shake my hand, a storm to sense the
presence it wraps around me. This is a form of restoring order, forcing movement into inordinate radios. But lets also remember
we cant just the things
together, or back together, as it
were. Im thinking here of Mallarm,
unwiring the from why. Lassoing the lazur back from sky. Hes why the why I think is dead &
lessrealismore. Why I wont believe glass outlasts any idea of glass, or that lazurs any lasso toward oceanic mystiques. Glass,
ultimately, is a religion. Genuflective, an umlaut. Too-trusted insights unsee us from a the. Prolegomena of the opposing.

If we squint hard enough elsewhere, elsewhere winks back.

*

Winking back can insinuate a problematic circling. Elsewheres an orouboros if one end cant empower the weaker reality.
Its viaOuija or a mystic or thelike I
cant stand the distance between
the distance I cant stand.
The other day I thought, if I drink enough coffee-flavored coffee crystals,
eventually, itll taste real. Until the, the real, off-course, crashes headlong into ethereal,
but what does this mean in a broader, historiographic scope?
that those who make use fuse users into chic refuse? I could support the stem of this thesis up from potpourri &
out through Marx,
& if I wanted,
from photography to the postmodern arc (architecture, in particular ) & back again. Think of all those multifoliate koi in koi
ponds cycling, as deco does, through all those corporate plazas. In every construct criticisms built a natural apology

for merging ,urging re-emerging over

*

Sometimes I think in awe of the moons urging the raw to move on, as masseuse of tides.
Sometimes I think of the west coast Pacific US Hwy101, where the whole coast congeals like ajaw joins the tongue, a
jarring agate-rocked et cetera meeting waters seemly ad infinitum
& wonder how far the mouth tastes
distance from a seas blue.
The rust-colored leaves in this memory are hinging on the Pacifics most indigo & artificial torment of a coast-.
line. & Im ingraining myself with the worn viscera of highway, nestled in the oceanic flex a firm Earths
is. I think there is a comfort
in harboring ones self inside an insight. Like an Emersonian eyeball, rusting along a socket that longs from & returns to

a faade. Like the joke, no end in sight

*

I want to tell you exactly what I mean. In Seattle, circa
September of 2011, I wrote,
I want to rend from weather its opposite, or
failing that, weather
an opposite into. I cant tell you exactly what I meant by that. It was as if to ply I around an aria, the music refused
any adherence to air toward what I was trying to do, which was weather opposites
into. Toward. An Attempt at prying
open a vantage point for years after I wouldnt escape. I was applying glass to my teeth, trying to reflect
what was gnawing, unseen, but pollinating nevertheless,
never the-less, never
unlike a thick coat of
rust entrusts a machinerys delicacy, like winds orgasming through a field of oregano.
Awe for the sake of. To sculpt awes sinews. Hew forecasts plastique. Weather into out of toward.
What I wanted was a rust turned river never understood but for its running the hue of any well-weathered machine until wherever
any of the means run is

opposite what does this mean

*

opposite what does this mean

like the joke no end in sight. a faade

urging re-emerging over, for merging

elsewhere winks back, if we squint hard enough

I alone cant gauge an oceans endless, then again

Jacqueline Michaud

STUDENT REPORT FOR BIOLOGY

A squirrel scampered up the shad
1

tree outside my bedroom window.
It jerked like a little strobe
2
.

To the sash I flew in a flash

and threw it up, but too late,
he was gone. Then I heard these
tiny feet dashing along the ridge
of our roof. People always think

the squirrels so adorable, but I say
if it didn't have that fluffy tail
I bet theyd go, Hey, theres a rat
on my roof! That made me think

about roofs in general, then Xmas:
Santa has no tail but he gets a pass,
right? Maybe its not just because
he brings us cool stuff like last year

I finally got Grand Theft Auto,
which was totally awesome! --but
because he has eight miniature
reindeer, and youve gotta admit

1. shad: A herring-like fish that enters rivers to spawn.
2. strobe: A stroboscope.
Spring 2014

they are cute. Ergo my hypothesis
3
:
Without his bushy tail the squirrel
would look like a rat, and without
his reindeer with their fluffy tails

Santa would be considered a perv
4
,
sort of like Eddie Low
5
, and maybe
people would call 911 to get him
arrested, and then Xmas would suck!

The End

3. hypothesis: A proposition made without any assumption of its truth.
4. perv: A pervert.
5. Eddie Low: A perv in Grand Theft Auto
911

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MY LIFE: AN ATTEMPT
AT AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

It was Volume I of the two-volume set
by Leon Trotsky left behind
by the owners of a house
my parents could not afford
to buy but only rent.
I don't recall all the titles
they brought with them in the move,
paperbacks chiefly, but recollect Dad
had all of Ian Flemings novels.
Hed send me to Rexalls to buy them,
But please, dear, dont say who its for.
We lived in a small town back then.

I see him now, sipping a Black & White,
puffing his Muriel, imbibing the sexploits
of 007, as Mom, on the sofa beside him,
lights another Kent and dog-ears pages
of Larousse Gastronomique, planning her feast
for the Bishop-soon-to-be-Cardinal.
But don't tell the nuns at school, dear,
shed whisper, euphoric to be the chef
for the Most Reverend Excellency, who once,
with his chauffeur, delivered a dozen Barbies
to the Home for Unwed Mothers.
(Merry Christmas, girls!)

The appetite for fairy-tales thrives still,
while Leons old autobiography,
reissued in paperback, cant compete
with all the Thrillers, Mysteries, and other
subgenres at Amazon.com. Anyway,
I think I read it.

Ian McPhail

a supple river as frosty as toothpaste
a soft body like frosted toothpaste

water is soft like gum
so damned soft it looks like its
supple as gum

a pink flesh
for meat

a string white blanket of fat
for the teeth

strip that away and below
it,
a goosebump

crampy cold water biting the meat
of your calf muscle

gray drowned meat

gray drowning sky

torn

Spring 2014

an ultra violet ray leathered
from its withering output
the sun's poisonous tower

a stick up job
stealing your prison
slips a mask on

slips on a face
cracking brainbone
covering up tracks with more tracks

covering up tracks with poor juice
covering up tracks with no smile
scalded with an ugly mug

jumped frozen
slick of ice
slick of paw

the new day blindsides you

she flushes it down like a spiraling rage
destroying millions of budding minds
and personalities

a flushed chest, scarlet as a cherry tomato

cherry pop scrubbing the walls clean

clear cardinal blood

the toilet has a pink tongue whispering
the sunsets of the sewer

all my clothing is soaked in gasoline
it eats at my skin

the smell is the hazy horizon of the desert
light morning

vessel

she laughs and gummy candies pour from her lips slickened in wine

she opens a book she already knows and smiles

Henry Crawford

as you clicked [on that hard drive snapshot]

as] you combed your watery hair
as] the photographer chatted up your mom
as] sister snapped her bathing cap
as] the family marched to the diving board
as] the photographer set up the pose
as] the Ocean Motel offered a terrace layered backdrop
as] the sun wore off its color
as] sister beamed a bathing beauty smile
as] mom clasped your open shoulder
as] you turned one eye away
as] the photographer shouted, now!

as] the camera filled with visible light
as] a solo wave broke anonymously away
as] you slid into the pool
as] the diving board sprung back
as] you broke the plane of water
as] chlorine re-closed your eyes
as] they all walked back into forgotten time
as] each pixel lights up in a window looking out
as] you screen the reverse miracle of years
as] their night was coming ashore

Spring 2014
Driving in a Car

I am driving. I am driving in a car.
Stores going by. Some already gone. Streets holding up
a mirror to my wheels. Lapping up the surface of the earth.
The night is all comets unconsciously coming at us.
And I am driving into the space between the lights.
What would they look like on the other side of earth?
To the people there? Walking with us in our steps?
Their feet touching the bottoms of ours.
Walking on our reflections. All without a whisper.
Just passing by.
And I am driving. I am driving in a car.
I have a radio aimed at the sky. The waves are silent
until they burst into song. Then they go back to waves
as if that was their one sacred calling.
As if the lights of all these buildings were really stars
with their own private gravity. Held in the arms of an
empathetic galaxy spinning down like a figure skater
with time accelerating and falling into a pillar of speeding grace.
And I am driving. I am driving in a car.
And watching. Ive traded in my daylights
for headlights. Water for evolutionary eyes.
Ive come to see this city alive. Its double helix boulevards running
two ways down a one-way street. And I am driving to meet
the people who brought me here. The invisible dead.
Its hard to think of them going about their tasks
or even combing their hair. Yet I am driving in a car.
Seeing with their eyes. Reaching with their hands.
My father caught me peeing in a bush.
His smile regaled me in the sins of the living.
My eldest father held the dying hand of a Babylonian prince
and built for him a wall of continuous living cells.
The machine inside the ghost. The engine under the hood.
And I am driving. I am driving. I am driving in a car.

Four Small Stories

1. A small boy witnesses the death of his father.
A week later he goes into the fathers closet and
picks out one of his ties. He struggles with
the ends, unable to fasten the knot.
[The boy is the brother in story #4.]

2. A mother searches her sons desk draw.
There is a small glassine bag of heroin in the
draw but she doesnt see it. Its underneath a
diary that she is afraid to open.
[The mother is the woman in story #3.]

3. A woman stands on a street corner waiting.
Shes going to ask her husband for a divorce.
Just as he arrives she goes to check her face
in a store window but is unable to see herself.
[The husband is the father in story #1.]

4. A man seeks forgiveness from his brother.
It is an old wound. They sit down
across from each other in a diner booth.
They talk until they have noting more to say.
[The man is the son in story #2.]

H. V. Cramond

Part I: Prose Poem Dungeon
Directions: The audience chooses poems through use of an 8-sided die.

1 Once. Once there were woods and a house. There was a place with people in it and something changed and we were
all transformed, especially the Decepticons. They went home again. It was a place. There were still people in it but
they were different people. We were all happy because after this there would be no more sleeping, which everyone
knows is dying. No more pennies for Charon; no more cats. This was the first day.
2 The wager was whether or not someone could bring her back to the tree. She could consent or it could be a trick, but
it had to be done by nightfall and documents must be notarized. There must be an order to things. We thought she
could be a Foolish Wife maybe or a Stepmother but she kept slipping and on the worst days, we couldnt decide if
she was good or evil. She would sing to herself, I wish I never wore those shoes. She swore herself I would never
sing. The contest ended when she bested herself.
3 The opposite of destiny is not loss but boredom, a kind of sleeping. Listening is kind not remembering. No, tell it
again so we know how it happened. When I was four, I had pneumonia and almost died. That couldnt have
happened to anyone. To hear my mother tell it, pausing to turn the page. Here you are saying what you like and
what you always wished for. Remember?
4 A girl goes into the woods. A girl goes into the woods. A girl words woods and goes. As in, along for the ride. As
in along for, they hope, something that hasnt been before. Like, for example, a girl in the woods being described.
A girl walks, enters, a girl is surrounded by shadows and trees. Strobe lights. A girl about to hit up a place where
things happen, and for sure are gonna happen to her. Might. Potentially. There is that hope. Other women have
ridden: fast car right, front seat, back seat in an ocean forest in the back of a pickup watching the mangrove, palm,
the bramble of night tangle and untangle itself from moonlit clouds of dust. Or looking up, with a friend hands on the
machetes women learned to carry. Women like Diane, Artemis, Ephemera, Treat, and we hope later Bea and Slip.
5 A stranger comes to town to teach us something not too big and not too small. We decide to hang him.
6 Something clever with language that isnt about anything. Something about clever isnt anything about language.
Language is a clever choosing from a list. Options are a person. Personality is cleverly optional. Anything is a
language without a starving, mostly mad street dog. List something, cleverly: hands, face, experience with graphic
design and html. Design mostly mad language.
Spring 2014
7 I once had to choose a person. There were a lot of options, each option had a different set of very compelling traits,
hair, eyes, musical talent, good figure, negotiation skills, competitive, kind, innovative in appraising rising and
falling market values as well as with a list of ingredients. Some had many, none had all. Eventually, I had to get rid
of them all. I could not choose on the basis of any tangible trait for that position. Instead, I wrote the position in
sand. The first one who stepped onto the sand-clumped title, was the one the title chose. The palaces papal office
now run by a starving, mangy, and mostly mad street dog.
8 I once had to be chosen by a person. I made sure to be very gendered and very accomplished but not too much or too
little. I had just the right amount of hair and teeth and such big eyes. When the briars grew in, and then the thorns
and then the roses. Some lesson was learned, brewing at the fire, spinning at the fire with no scissors to be found.
Rust everywhere and feeding the secret song of mice.

Part II: Story as Board Game
Directions: Eight volunteers from the audience choose characters using a paper fortune teller (sometimes known
as a salt cellar or cootie catcher, most often used by little girls to decide who they will marry). Three
designated areas are marked out by colored spike tape on the floor: The Palace, The Woods, Town.

Each volunteer can do any of the actions or say any of the things assigned to his or her character, in any order, any
number of times, but is limited to that list.

Characters
1. James: Hard of hearing, hard of seeing, loves fountains, scales, symmetry and record stores; asexual, but
occasionally found talking to young women in museums, or I suppose Palaces & Woods. Gender not identified.
Physically: medium height, lean, hair so coiffed it could kill, model good looks that turn grotesque when he smiles.
James checks locks on doors, lights in rooms, stoves, and girls pony tales.
Leans in to another character and smells him or her.
Says, I see your potential.
Compliments someone and asks if what he just complimented is vintage.
Says What was that? and squints
Says, What are you doing after the reading? I know this great place. We can really get to know each
other.

2. Slip: Woman-child; curved, tall, once a cheerleader now a traveling saleswoman, she sells rings. Dreams
while waking, fabricates when talking, she is beautiful, unreliable, has a melodic voice that sounds like water against
wood.
Says, I might have just what you need. But it will cost you. Just a little.
Says, Let me tell you a story.
Says, The card of death is a sure sign that danger is up ahead. Sometimes it means that youll overcome
something thats been holding you back. In either case, pay attention.
Says ,I love how solid you are. You know exactly who you are and where youre going, dont you?
Chooses an object from the room. Approaches another character and put the object in the persons hand.
Says before you go to bed, brew this as a tea and youll have your wish. I promise you.
Says If it is fated for you to recover from this illness, then you will recover whether you call a doctor or
not./ Likewise, if you are fated not to recover, you will not do so whether you call a doctor or not./ But either
it is fated that you will recover from this illness, or it is fated that you will not recover./Therefore it is futile
to consult a doctor.

3. Ephemera: Refugee from a country no one knows; small, large eyes, smart, powerfully powerfully smart.
She writes, organizes creatures into communities, and makes love similar to the way hermaphrodites reproduce. It is
a way of covering, enveloping those who are capable of getting close; changing them into something new. Ephemera
writes the following on the windows (with dry erase markers):
This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be
false to any man.
I would prefer not to,
How can you tell a woman artist from a man artist? Check to see who cleans up after the opening,
If I post that Im being political on Facebook, even though I only posted to see how people will react, what
does that make me?
Is there Facebook in China? And what does Facebook look like in a Communist country? What if it looks
the same? What does that mean for the way me and my friends use it? Would that mean were Communists,
too?
I am the bad wolf. I create myself. I take the words, I scatter them in time and space. A message to lead
myself here.

4. Treat: a person of good intentions who hides her emotions until shes acted on them. Needs to convince
others to like her, even if it means being manipulative. Eyes appear to be laughing, silky voice, cold skin that melts
when touched. Her parents kidnapped her from a rival when she was a baby. Believes power and control are a means
to happiness.
Treat claps when approached, then stops. Says: Are you okay? Are you sure? I have something I think
youre going to like.
After another character speaks, says I agree completely. Of course its for the best. I dont know why
everyone else seems to be against you.
Says, It is easy to see why each man kills the things he loves. To know a living thing is to kill it... to try to
know a living being to try to suck the life out of that being.
Says, Im sure he was only kidding. Dont be so sensitive.
Says, Youre not like everyone else. How they make everything into a big deal. Youre cool.
Says, Men should be either treated generously or destroyed, because they take revenge for slight injuries -
for heavy ones they cannot.

5. Taylor: a fatalist and an insurgent. Quick with a needle, close-lipped. Mouse brown, fades into walls, soft
shoes, thin. Whistles brightly. Exemplary herb garden. Gender unknown.
Taylor hides behind whoever just spoke and appears to have heard something. If anyone notices her, says
Its nothing.
Taylor sings Patti Smith songs but only to the tune of Happy Birthday.
Laughs at something thats not funny, stops when noticed. Moves to a different location.
If another character sits on a chair, she asks if she can see it for a second and puts it back into the audience
and yells Death of the Author!
Convinces another character to break the rules.
Blind hate against the enemy creates a forceful impulse that cracks the boundaries of natural human
limitations, transforming the soldier in an effective, selective and cold killing machine. A people without
hate cannot triumph against the adversary.

6. Bea: Female, works as a very successful matchmaker; links people based on electrical charge. Desk full of
candy, plump. Lives in a co-op where she is in charge of composting and building maintenance. Efficient, pleasant,
hums while she works. Asexual. Reacts to even well-intentioned physical touch with violence; it burns her skin.
Says, Sir, I dont even know you.
Hums while moving two other characters together. In order to not touch the other characters, she has to
improvise. Says I have this feeling while tilting her head approvingly.
Rearranges the chairs in the three spaces into a straight line.
Love is not love/ Which alters when it alteration finds/ Or bends with the remover to remove/O no! it is an
ever-fixed mark/That looks on tempests and is never shaken
While walking in a circle, says Now put take away one hand. This will require some sensitivity. The
walker will have to be receptive to your touch, to be open to a more subtle way of being directed. Leaders,
you have to take care of your walker, adapt to what they can absorb. If they are handling it, try to trick them,
take them off their guard. Mind the walls.
Says, My formula for greatness in a human being is amor fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not
forward, not backward, not in all eternity. Not merely bear what is necessary, still less conceal itall
idealism is mendaciousness in the face of what is necessarybut love it.
Says, Do not cede to the bitterness and pessimism that the devil offers us every day. Instead, we must find
new ways to spread the word of God to every corner of the world. Dont you agree?

7. Stephen: A collector of maps and paper. Loves detective novels, crossword puzzles and dust. Very white,
very soft, male. Polymorphus light eruption (sunlight allergy) & ABCC11 gene (no armpit odor). Frequently
disoriented after dark.
Says, You look a little lost. More lost than me I mean. What was it that I was after?
Says, Its no surprise that seed spilled upon the earth fails to propagate. Perpetual intention protects
denigration, accidental varietals. But it is not this way. Its not the incest, its the miscegenation. Thats
Faulkner. One eighth part equals both less than one and all fractions round to whether high yellow or paper
bag and what is wheatish complexion? When pushed face-first into the density of the earth. Mud-covered,
we unbind each others lotus hands.
Says, As infants we are just a jumble of diverse biological processes over which we have no authority, and
our first task in life is to develop a coherent personality which pulls together this fragmented confusion,
says I read that somewhere.
Says, concrete behavioral traits that patently depend on content provided by the home or culturewhich
language one speaks, which religion one practices, which political party one supportsare not heritable at
all. But traits that reflect the underlying talents and temperamentshow proficient with language a person is,
how religious, how liberal or conservativeare partially heritable.
Says, I have made my peace with these events and, as far as I am concerned, the case is closed.
Says, women are naturally helpless to exercise political positions. The natural order and the facts show us
that man is the being for politics by excellence; the Scriptures show us that the woman is always the support
of the thoughtful man and and doer, but nothing more than that.

8. Machina: muscular and conventionally attractive. Becomes clumsy when anxious. Appears just after
tragedy strikes. Genetically engineered, generally put-upon.
Says, You know, I would have done it differently. If you had planned a little better, this wouldnt have
happened.
Says, I saw her again today. She looked good. I didnt say anything, but I know that shes changed. I dont
know. I think Im going to call her. What do you think?
Says, Ill die a warriors death. Stories will be told of this day.
Says, Where did you come from? We were made from the same stuff all of us and you insist on being
broken and outraged, laying your strangeness upon us.
Says, You always do that. I was trying to tell you something and you make it into a story about you. I have
a life too, you know.
Says, Manifold are thy shapings, Providence!/ Many a hopeless matter gods arrange./ What we expected
never came to pass,/ What we did not expect the gods brought to bear; So have things gone, this whole
experience through!

George Djuric

Skeptiko

Dear Sonny,

I am writing to you so to clarify a 53-foot truckload of misinformation you were bombarded with as of recent. The
evil that men do lives long after them, the gossip that women spread perpetuates into infinity. The good, on the
other hand, is often misspelled, regardless of natural simplicity of the word. So let it be with gossip. On the bright
side, I am in good afterlife health and even firmer spirit. We had a brawl here, I dont deny. It was forcefully
resolved into the best of outcomes where, as you would say, I raised the bar.
Now, please, listen carefully. Clairvoyance and exaggeration go together. You personally may not be interested in
clairvoyance, but clairvoyance is interested in you. A clairvoyant must not fear ridicule if she is to push all the way to
the limits of humility or the limits of delight.
When I entered here, it was like my first visit to the country fair in Petrich, except the locals were talking about the
holographic universe applied to quantum physics instead of tasty hearts made of leceder dough. Nobody ever
comes back from Beyond to tell you how hard was the afterlife transition of the woman, and how sudden and
overwhelming her last anguish was. Nobody can say with what thoughts, with what regrets, with what words on her
lips she joined the dead. But there is something refined in the sudden passing away of her heart, from the vast,
Spring 2014
unrestful rage of the surface of physical life into the profound peace of the depths beyond, smoothly operating
there since the beginning of ages.
As for us, Slavs, we carried our peculiarity like a worn out, rightarmfallenoff wooden saint from the forgotten
homeland, a talisman bargained for at some East Trzciniec flea market back in the 6
th
century, invariably refusing to
let it go. By modern standards, the idea of an original home is absurd. Even early narratives always speak of origins
and beginnings in a manner which presupposes earlier origins and beginnings. But the single point of departure lives
on. The widely circulated Times Concise Atlas of World History perpetuates a map showing the Pripet Marshes as
the Urheimat of the Slavs; that vast swampy home is ringed with outward-pointing arrows marking Slavic
emigration. The silliness of this image does not keep it from being unforgettable.
On sober reflection, I find few reasons for sending you my updated version of an obscure, neo-Gothic French
version of a seventeenth-century Latin edition of a work written in Latin by a Dutch monk toward the end of the
fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century. But I am sending it to you in a desperate attempt to illustrate
the live force not just empty words behind me. This is an alchemist formula how to make gold out of non-precious
metals. You try it, it works. Here it is: I, Nicholas Flamel, a scrivener of Paris in the year 1414, entrust you with this
pinnacle of my life, so you should pass it on with care. Take thou ten ounces of the red Sun, that is to so say, very
fine, clean and purified nine or ten times by means of the voracious wolf alone: two ounces of the royal Saturnia;
melt this in a crucible, and when it is melted, cast into it the ten ounces of fine gold; melt these two together, and
stir them with a lighted charcoal. Then will thy gold be a little opened. Pour it on a marble slab or into an iron
mortar, reduce it to a powder, and grind it well with three pounds of quicksilver. Make them to curd like cheese, in
the grinding and working them to and fro: wash this amalgama with pure common water until it comes out clear,
and that the whole mass appears clear and white like fine Luna. The conjunction of the gold with the royal golden
Saturnia is effected when the mass is soft to the touch like butter.
This woman is a sorceress! Forget clairvoyance, this is a witchcraft at its finest. Or alchemy, which is all but the same. The old school.
Can she read my thoughts? most definitely. Do I care most definitely not. She has her powers, I have mine. The true alchemists do
not change Saturnia into gold anymore they change the world into words. After endless days of scratching around in flea-infested car
dealerships, Im finally going back to where I belong: to my script. The scripts formal qualities are the only measure of the writers
obsession with his subject; the form is always in proportion to this obsession.
There are some enterprises, like your beloved writing, in which a careful disorder is the true method. I am only
trying to lay in front of you my personal experience in this matter, more cosmopolitan than you might imagine. The
moment of truth, the sudden emergence of a new insight, is an act of intuition. Such intuitions give the appearance
of miraculous flushes, or short-circuits of reasoning. In fact, they may be likened to an immersed chain, of which
only the beginning and the end are visible above the surface of consciousness. The writer vanishes at one end of the
chain and comes up at the other end, guided by invisible links. You have to dig out that chain from your viscera,
dive without a thought after it, and hold your breath for a long time. If your lungs explode in the process so be it.
Become an obscure and patient pearl-fisherman who dives into the deepest waters and comes up with empty hands
and a blue face. The fatal attraction will invariably draw you down into the abysses of sentience, down into those
innermost recesses which never cease to fascinate the strong.
Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Aim for the throat. Keep grinding. Be
bloody-minded. Argue with the world. And never forget that writing is as close as you will ever get to keeping a grip
of yourself.
How do I know all of this? Well, when I was ten years old, a rainstorm fell on Rupite. At the time it did not occur to
me that rain forms puddles on a flat roof when the drainpipes are clogged, and I would have continued to feel
falsely secure if I had not suddenly discovered a crack in the wall. The funny part is that our roof, typical for the
Balkans, wasnt flat but well angled. Cheer up, Vanga, I kept saying to myself to keep up my courage up while being
chucked out of safety net, you are sure to find out whatever it is that scares those village people. It must be in the
essence of the rainstorm, and thats why theyre so dead set against going into it.
Beware: those bastard existences where you sell cars all day and write short stories at night are made for mediocre
minds like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch
nor pull a plow. Our culture has engaged in a Faustian bargain, in which we trade our genius and mastery for
krugerrands and exaltation.
Keep in mind, sonny, that everything is theoretically impossible until it is done. One could write a history of science
in reverse by assembling the solemn pronouncements of highest authority about what could not be done and could
never happen. People will gladly share with you their five cents: agents provocateurs disguised as friendly neighbors,
editors-in-chief, blind readers, voluptuous librarians, Gypsies, ghost writers, gangsters as well as odalisques
obliterate them all! Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see
the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be.
But a great artist a master can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is, and force the viewer to see
the graceful girl she used to be. And more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see
that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply imprisoned inside her ruined body. He can
make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her
heart, no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Georgi. Growing old doesnt matter to you
and me, we were never meant to be admired but it does matter to her. I am leading to a personal story here, dont
you see? It was 1926, I took a field trip with my school for blind to the outskirts of your beloved native Zemun
where the pen of Ovid was said to be found, if you could trust our Slavic gift for falsifying artifacts and other facts.
Prvomajska Ulica, so dear to your young heart, was a dirt road then. While strolling casually behind the rest of the
group, I passed a tiny road on my left, well covered in shrub and barely visible to a blind girl, when a strong force
almost swept me aside. You guessed it right it was Ulica Sime !olaje. The first step was to recognize with how
much force and of what kind I was dealing with, and the second, when I suspected it happening, to maximize it to
my advantage. That really was about giving my full attention to whatever presence I was experiencing. It couldve
been a mental intrusion or a song going on in my head that had something to do with a person Ive never met. The
lyrics could be telling me something, or the song was strongly associated with a certain future event. I paused.
Those distant Gypsy shacks emitted a solid signal obviously a crafty pythoness had lived on the premises. Yet,
something way more potent took place, and her being there simply amplified the occurrence. Then and there and
please dont laugh at an old, dead woman, ugly as hell at her finest I fell in love with you! God help me and
Mother Teresa, my darling peer. I saw you the way you were in 1968, back to Belgrade from the European tour
where your parents took your sister and you, fresh from Paris, talking to your cronies about the aftermath of the
student demonstrations there. Your vigor blew me away, your passion, eloquence. Years later, in 1961 please dont
blame me, I couldnt resist, it was one of the rarest pleasures of my physical lifetime I ordered your mother to
take you to Rupite. Well, if I may state so, you werent a beauty contestant then: cross eyed, large head over an
overweight body nothing to write home about or take a picture with, ha, ha! Now you know. What you dont
know is that I still love you. As my godson, of course.
Now back to business. The question is not who is going to let you in, to welcome you as their scribbling peer,
because they wouldnt if it were up to them it is who is going to stop you. Nobody. That is where my confidence
in you peacefully rests. You are brilliant whenever you choose to be. I will always remember your 74 YU Rally
performance: the audience was stunned, your own crew was watching in disbelief. They later said each guy thought
he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation. And the Yu Rally was an international clearing house for rising talent;
they came from all parts of Europe. Let me tell you this: once a master, always the master. Dont ever listen to a
word more about it, either an outside or from within the subject is closed for good. Remember: perhaps Manolete
was a hoof fetishist, or suffered from terrible hemorrhoids as a result of long nights in Spanish horn parlors but
he is a great matador, and it is hard to see how any amount of Freudian bullshit can have the slightest effect on the
reality of the thing he did best.
Continually work on the conscious need of the strong writer to come to terms with the blind impress which chance
has given him, to make a self for himself by redescribing that impress in terms which are, if only marginally, his
own. A perceptive French critic has once argued that in an age of deepening illiteracy, when even the educated have
only a smattering of classical or belletristic knowledge, erudition is in itself a kind of fantasy, a surrealistic construct.
Thus, writing is a perpetual bullfight with the reader. Silambam is a bamboo-based Dravidian martial art from Tamil
Nadu in south India, but also practiced by the Tamil community of Sri Lanka and Malaysia. In one-on-one combat
a master would just slide his stick to opponents wrist many times during combat. The opponent may not notice this
in the heat of battle, until he feels a sudden pain in the wrist and throws the stick by reflex, without knowing what
hit him. This is exactly how you win the reader for life your book simply drops out of her hands the moment it is
finished, and she walks out to collect her thoughts; her mind agape.
As for the critics, you plainly quote from Shakespeare: I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you came
unarmed! Literary prejudices are so to speak the mechanical instincts of the critics: through their prejudice they do
without any effort many things they would find too difficult to think through to the point of resolving them. As you
well know, it is all but impossible to carry the torch of mastery through a crowd without singeing somebodys beard
there are countless people who read simply to prevent themselves from thinking. Please let me reiterate what you
wrote yourself: the highest level than can be reached by a mediocre but experienced mind is a talent for uncovering
the weaknesses of those greater than itself. Cicero once said, I would rather be wrong with Plato than be correct
with those men.
A sick thought can devour the bodys flesh more than fever or consumption. What a kiss-ass this woman is! At her age no shame
there. What is the world turning into! These writing skills are all telepathic. You cant have that more clinically proven than it is. Its
just been proved over and over again in literary trials with non-readers. Every day, average guy off the street is having telepathic abilities.
We couldnt even have a culture without telepathy. Understand that all these skills you need are inborn. Proceed from your strongest
emotion and make contact. There are things you can do that can enhance the experience, like creating sacred space. I give all those things
in detail in my book. Its quite easy. Thats the crazy part. Also to recognize how often youre already doing it. Its available on
Amazon.
Now I need your unswerving attention, Georgi. I need your forceful focus and luminous head. Once you cognize
this technique, it will elevate you writing skills to Zen clarity. You will realize what to do, when to do it, and how to
execute. Your thoughts, especially writing related ones, dont necessarily dissipate after you have them. If you
continually produce thoughts, consciously or unconsciously, that are alike in nature and clustered around the one
topic, these theme thoughts will coalesce into thought-forms, which can sometimes be so strong they can be
perceived. Thought-forms create electromagnetic imprints. When psychic energy is high, it thickens the
electromagnetic field to a point where it becomes a little like a screen on which the typically invisible stream, such as
thought-forms, becomes visible. Certain people can deliberately impress thoughts and images on tapes, unprocessed
film and the like. The imprints are impressed by strong bursts of concentrated energy. You are not capable of
performing an impress, at least not yet, and I dont think you need this technique to begin with. What you do need
is to transfer these outburst of energy into this interactive spot that we are communicating through right now, and
store it here. Given time, similar to process of aging wine, they will reorganize themselves into a pure masterpiece.
You just feed the raw material and wait. It never fails.
These thought-forms are also carried in your energy field, or aura, recognizable to others usually just below the
surface of conscious awareness. It is also the source where professional psychics mine information on their clients.
Thoughts of any nature live and grow. They resonate with other thoughts in the ether-spheres of mental activity,
often amassing into thought-forms. They not only continue to survive and grow after we think them, they go on to
develop a kind of consciousness of their own in your case, a literary mind. Mass consciousness is the result of
alike thoughts and beliefs aggregating with other alike thoughts and beliefs on a global or national scale. What is in it
for you? Once you form and cultivate your literary mind, you will open a path to minds of alike peers, editors,
readers, critics, which will in return boost your recognition as a writer and shortcut the publisher hunt. In a nutshell,
what I am explaining here is about speeding up your writing communication with yourself, as well as your
intercourse with the writing community.
Every medicine you buy in your local drugstore comes along with two instructs. The first one I already described to
you how to use it. The second one is highly important because of its fatal consequences if ignored how to avoid
side effects. You have to browse through your thought-forms routinely and discard the malignant ones, especially
those that are potentially damaging to your core persona. The more powerful a thought is, the more repetitive and
the more emotional, the more it will develop independently of the thinker and the stronger it will be. Obsessive-
compulsive thoughts which are always powered by strong emotion create dense thought-forms. This type of
thought-form could be regarded as a live entity. They are consciously alive composites of obsessive-compulsive
thought and concentrated emotional energy. Thought-forms created by obsessiveness are energy draining and
destructive to the core personality. They are often so entrenched that it takes a great deal of energy to discard them.
The core personality usually sloughs off these stubborn thought-forms at a critical turning point in a persons life,
when a high do-or-die kind of energy is available. Quite frequently people with deregulated consciousness, such as
Alzheimers also discard them. The core personality splits from the live entity in an attempt to heal itself, to redirect
itself onto a more constructive life path.
As I said, scroll through your thought-forms and themes routinely, make a habit out of it, and you will do fine. I
cannot describe them in more detail, its intuitive: you will recognize them once you spot them. Now, to eliminate
the vermin, you need to re-live them through a positive force. If it fails to work the first time, repeat the procedure
you cannot afford to leave them unattended.
Stay lucid, my godson, and best of luck in your endeavor. I kept my end of the bargain: the black scrying mirror is
clearly inside you court now.
Those who have laid claim to their postmodern writing in the past have done so with toll tickets, punched time clocks, gas receipts, and
logbooks. I took a far more precise approach to verification. Its in the form of a document, prepared by the GPS tracking firm I hired,
that lists my address, latitude, longitude, and speed every minute or so throughout the entire writing trip. Its 369 pages long. I looked
over the document from start to finish, and the evidence is, at the very least, comprehensive.
But its so much more than fuel tanks of inspiration. Theres a self-censoring scanner. There are two different Garmin GPS units
monitoring self-focused, rambling hodgepodge of preaching interspersed with bragging capabilities. There are two iPhone chargers and
cradles to run apps like Anti-Block Liquid Plumber and Skeptiko; an iPad charger and cradle for overseeing the restless, whacked-out
territory of my mind and prevent losing the plot completely; and three radar detectors for different writing speeds. And thats just the easy
stuff. Theres a switch to kill the rear lights when annoyed critics are after you waving their prophecies, a switch to activate the spare fuel
tanks unknown to you until then, and a professionally installed switch panel mounted in the center stack that controls all of these
goodies. Theres a CB radio, complete with a giant desk-mounted antenna and tweeting capabilities. There are also two laser jammers, to
confuse the sharp readers.
You might think the hardest part of setting the cross-mind writing trip is driving across the mind. You might think the hardest part is
staying awake for more than 24 hours, or constantly keeping your foot on the keypad, your lips on the coffee mug. You might think the
hardest part is around-the-clock search for publishing opportunity. Youd be wrong. The most difficult thing about writing is the decades-
long preparation.

Gary Sloboda

Extinctionist

Chin to the rafters. Candle wax at dawn. I dreamt of losing many jobs. With a nickel rod lodged in the lumbar. Soul
scrubbed raw. In the dank puddles. Hunted sky.

Pastoral is larceny. The hobbled crow repents. And petroleum derides the astringent scent. Of tubes shoved up
nostrils. Of the nations radiation. In the mothers milk.

Some want to feel good about this. Look at the spontaneous joy. Bursts of fireworks and flame. Nails like the pink
of contrails at sunset and dawn. They wave at me.

The stagnant trees. The motor homes. X that marks the spot in the heart of the suburbs. Where big rigs line up to
haul the waste away. I always felt the water was sacred. (No?)

Specimens on the tablecloth. Their stifling smell. Like jamming a shareholder down anothers throat. Chased by
ethylene glycol. All day swam in the river. Of lye.

Maybe you try. Perhaps think. Let the last trumpeter swan drift over the holding pond. For its sunny over the
generators. The bugs gone wild on their frequencies.

Sea of my cell phone parts. The hulls of mothballed ships cast vast shadows. Over the marshlands. Like repeating a
tiny hammer on a tooth. It depletes the cartography.

Promised land: Ive seen the zenith so Ill take us there. In horn-rimmed glasses that reflect the light from high-rise
buildings. To you I will return. My hearts not here.

These guns are the mouths of futility. Never had no issues. Until background levels were exceeded in the blood.
The guard dogs sleeping. In the fumes of old age.

Even the little ones know. In ripples of the mandolin. And weeping fiddle. Towns in the tour book. I show them.
Like explaining rare flowers. Driven deep underground.

Spring 2014

Localized

The streets were infested with botched operations. And brightly colored hairnets. I forgot the key to get back in.
Where the hologram noose swayed in the pixels. Between us.

Original Buffalo Wings and New Age Massage. Healed the faith. Of have not. Groomed like a governor. I slept on
the discarded couch. On the sidewalk. Cohered with mold.

The sheen of leather in the track lighting. The sound of knee and hip replacement patients. Moving towards their
pills. A demographic policy. Of tapping canes.

Sheared of the heart. Of revelations. Colonized by our appetites. As the bride vomits discounts on cruel words. Into
the hydrangea bouquet. Some try to grab it.

Absolved by offenses. Like aftershave applied in a splashing motion to the ugly mans face. The residual angst
gathers. The days pass on the storyboard. Of greasy foods.

Support cables shake on the pedestrian overpass full of commuters. That river runs blind. And white light beats on
deathless birds that linger there. Upon the unsent postcards.

We severed ties from old thoughts. Children offering chocolates were summoned back home. By tongues of dead
cardinals. The thrum of blood in the brain. Will fail.

The lovers lied. It felt like a theft. As swallows pinched harmonics from the heavy air. Police were called. Stitches in
the ears they tried to tear apart. Would not.

Bloviator

Partial sense: people are not property. Roommates failed at their erstwhile careers. Happy and alive. In workpants.
Wearing Buddha t-shirts. In the streets of home. Alternatingly intricate and bold. The cops patrol this sector.
Heavily. Sore from love. And assignation.

A boy hums. A cozier kind of hymn. How the cat invites the wind unto its mane. Watching shit go down. Or not.
Joint-ventured shale fields. A national tragedy. The fertile plains obscured. Portions of a rainbow. Drawn in heavy
chalk. Tracked on shoes.

Local goddesses sneer: drunks at a table. I am hopelessly afraid I will never come back. A luminous grief. On the
fruit vine. Crawling with aphids. Falling through air in a kind of slow motion infinity of the moment. The delicate
flower dance stored in the brain.

Through the passage of empty houses. In remade towns. No brethren. Water of life was last seen there. Not
knowing half of it. Stood on the rocks like a freak conception of media. Painted mauve against the combusted sky.
Populations histrionics. Were toast.

The sympathy machines have failed. Original thoughts: faked. (Necessarily.) A dignified messenger leans on the
gate. Saying. It was said. The liquor of light has consumed us. And thought declines each invitation. Of the rustling
trees. On avenues of acidic rain.

Theres a hacksaw lying in the shed. A kind of composition. It questions attribution of my words. How before the
war. Drank summer from a fruit jar. Lost eyetooth but found a personality. A divine autism. How I spit and spit.
Then purr. When I finally spit it out.

Sir Francis Drake

Before the amiable mental slaves called it home, there were stands of palm trees like tattered wigs along the shore
where the cold sea delineated the citys dusty bezel, and where carbuncled old men would think and smoke above
the bird shit constellations, assessing in the gathering clouds the sails of arrival.

Partly cloudy, 65 degrees, dreaming of carhops: who has not arrogated the laws of fate to the circumstances of ones
present hovel? Like a rationale for a universal tattoo or how the archaic but persistent math of despair is written on
a Ziploc bag of rainforest alliance produce, its certification being license to contain ones guilt.

Ideology of abundance results in a passive annihilation of this land so full of radiant flora and genuinely good
people that its map is buried in the mind as I wander with my destructions, feasting on pelican tacos and metallic
wine. Only here, in the inhospitable tundra of memory, smoking the resin of New Albion, will I do no harm.

Sunflower

Bell of the wind: I enter the daydreams of the bloated seagulls above the manmade sea that churns the lights of the
metropolis. The horizontal engines of blue and brown, vast and layered like a Rothko, turn the lens inward. On the
pergo of the doublewide, chatter percolates; laconic prophecies all thumbs around the fire. My hands crumbed with
party snacks, a buck drops dead in the eye of a hunter. And synchronous fowl signal the interpenetrations and
intentions of the fields. With the pacing of a monk, I wander out to where the sunflower stuns the black and bluish
hue of late night. There is no spiritual solution: kneel down or wither in banality.

Bluesy

Derma-braised air. Collapsed on Swedenborgian. Felt desolation of social context. Counted my fingers and her
hands were missing. Just out of reach. Doctor would not see her until she was blue with red splotches. Never
looked so bad. We touch. Cant rest.

For what good do we wander? Trails climb precipitously narrow. A leafy ovation stalls us. Were set up for taking
down. Dust of river in mind. And the poppies ambivalence. Wings grapple wings. Overhead. The continent starts
in on us with panoramic flavor.

Its not a ballad we hear. It swings with a trombone line innuendo of catastrophic sexual relationships in ! time. Id
love to hear it again in the house she burned down as we were born. Where weve been told. They all swear. Her
shadow was nailed to the wall.

Gabrielle Bills

Resistance

The fluorescent light is at it again:
Clicking, tapping, buzzing like the rainfall
That has been falling coldly for four days now,
Landing atop the turning leaves with the same
Distant drumroll.

Blank walls and empty corners.
Sleeplessness,
Stress,
And a light that cannot be silent.
A motor, it must be.

Last night I fetched a broom from the kitchen,
Hoisted it up,
Gave the incessant light a good knock or two.
It shut up for a time.

It does insist so.
I think it wants to rest, too.
Sick of feeling used.
I can accept that.
So I wont choose that battle tonight.

Spring 2014

Elizabeth Alexander

AT THE LAST

The dashboard doll recovered his voice on September 29, 1992, just as Leila
Comer Fitzhugh was merging from Lemon Avenue onto Stemmons Expressway.
Tenderlybe not impatient, said the doll. Strong is your hold O
Damn damn double damn! Leila narrowly averted a fatal collision with a
pickup truck, which sliced the side-view mirror off her ancient sedan. She fumbled
for the heart pills in her pocketbook. I know youre in there, she told the medication
as she fingered a coin purse, lipstick, tortoiseshell comb, and half-stick of chewing
gum.
The weather was damp and blistering, more like mid-July than late September,
so Leila had turned the cooling to Very High. The blunt dry air made her feel stiff and
old enough to remember when cotton was king. Leila did remember when the bottom
fell out of cotton and Inez Payne left high school to help her family make ends meet.
She remembered the attack on Pearl Harbor and, eighteen months afterward, the
Beaumont race riot. She remembered ration books; scrap iron drives; April 14, 1943
(when Travis shipped out); October 24, 1945 (when he returned); and the bittersweet
postwar era when the bomb was not banned after all and thousands of little children
were crippled by polio. She remembered ice cold Coca-Cola machines for white
customers only.

The car scarcely flinched when its mirror was amputated. As usual, its mind
was not on the road but in the garage of its former owners, Dr. and Mrs. Peter
Kurilecz, at 4464 Rheims Place. The car loved that garage, which smelled of potting
soil and newspapers and whose damp cement floor felt delicious on heat-swollen
tires.
Coolant trickled sadly onto the expressway as the car thought of the Kurilecz
children jostling against its doors, singing The Ants Go Marching One by One, and
whispering naughty jokes. Did Augusts front teeth come in straight? the car
wondered. Did the stitches in Sophies chin come out?
Easy! Leila yelped as the carburetor bucked, hurling her toward the steering
Spring 2014
wheel. Settle down.
The engine moaned.
Good car. Leila softened as she remembered the automobiles travail. Its
not your fault, that they got rid
Leila rubbed the horn with her thumb. We cant help getting old.

When she was young, Leila was widely regarded as the most glamorous
woman in Dallas. Not the prettiesther nose was too prominent and expressive. But
she walked like a model, her long slim legs preceding the rest of her, and her voice
had a low confidential timbre. At seventy-four, Leila had kept her face and figure, but
the years showed in her voice. It was smudged with a soft sad slur at dusk, and again
at dawn, when the veil between the worlds is frayed.

On the back floorboard were Whitmans Leaves of Grass and a cassette tape
with Randall Thompsons setting of The Last Invocation. The poem made Leila
weep, because of the stanza that the dashboard doll had quoted.

Tenderlybe not impatient [, soul, to leave the body],
(Strong is your hold O mortal flesh,
Strong is your hold O love.)

It always came down to love, which is not to say that loves hold is always
kind.

I warned you. Leila heard the voice of her nephew who, for months, had tried
to dissuade her from driving on the highway periodmuch less halfway to Fort
Worth. Wiona Jefferson, Leila reminded her nephew, worked thirty-one years for
the Fitzhugh family, the implication being that Leila would get to Wionas funeral if
it killed her.
As, she remarked to the dashboard doll after the brush with the pickup
truck, it very well might.
What Leila did not mention to the doll, her nephew, or anyone else was her
conviction that she and Wiona went way back, lifetimes beyond their most recent
incarnations. How else to explain Wiona's intuiting Leila's need for hospital corners,
her aversion to the color orange, and her allergy to eggs? How else to explain
why Leila had a maid and Wiona was one? A question that Wiona, who understood
her job as a maids but her self as something altogether different and vast, would not
have asked

When Leilas daughter Ann Elizabeth was growing up, all the mothers
employed a maid. The childrens lives unfolded against the backdrop of the maids
responsibilities. Her position in the household (evolving or devolvingnever static)
played a mute and dreadful role in their enculturation.
On the one hand, the children were taught to say please and thank you to the
maid, not to order her around, and not to traipse through the kitchen when she was
mopping. On the other hand, the maid entered and left through the kitchen door.
Everyone else used the front or garden door. The children called the maid Wiona or
Carmencita. Every other grownup had a title.
Leila wanted a different relationship with her maid, but at first she did not
know how to create one and as how began to present itself, she could not think of the
words or they came out strained.

What Wiona Knew Intimately and Leila Minimized
The cultivated hell the United States was for black Americans between 1900
and 1945
1

Shortly after World War I, when Wiona was still a baby, the Klan trained its
hollow eyes on residential areas that, due to a vagary in the zoning law, were not yet
segregated. Although Wionas granddaddy did not live in such a neighborhood, the
Klan targeted his home on North Haskell Avenue as arrogantly proximate to an all-white
block.
Wiona grew up with no conscious memory of the bombing, but images of it
slumbered in her mind. The half-frame of her granddaddys spectacles retrieved from
the storefront of the barbershop where the body had been dragged. His shattered
arms. In 1935, when the principal of Booker T. Washington High School fastened a
gold merit chain around the valedictorians neck, Wiona felt a flare against her own
chest and, looking down, saw a burning cross.

*

Never had Leila felt so excruciatingly white as when she entered the sanctuary
of Bethel AME Zion Church. Rarely had she felt white at all. From the stained glass
window above the baptistry, Jesus nostrils flared with exasperation, whether toward
Leila personally or toward Leila for insinuating herself into a black church or for a
different reason altogether, she could not say. In any case, Leila resonated with
churches, and the building sensed that, so it incorporated her, discomfiture and all,
into something vast.
I am the resurrection and the life! the pastor read from the Gospel of John as
he led Wionas son-in-law and daughter to their seats. He that believeth in me,
though he were DEAD, yet shall he LIVE.
Spacious as prayer, the pastor, ascended the pulpit. An asthma inhaler lay in
the inside pocket of his jacket. His breath smelled of fresh green mint. With an open
gaze and a weary heart, he took the white lady in. Holy God, he began, we are
gathered together to celebrate the life of thy servant Wiona Jefferson and commend
her soul unto thee.
You could hear the plinks of a passing rain shower on the roofs copper
flashing as the choir, their ivory robes billowing like sails against the soft blue walls,
swung side to side. There will be peace: peace in the val ley. For me. Someday.
There will be peace: peace in the valley. For me, they sang.
Lord have mercy. Leila squeezed her eyes shut, covered them with her
hands, peeked through her fingers, and repeated the processto no avail. There in the
tenor section stood the dashboard doll, clapping the syncopated rhythm. Peace:
peace in the valley, he beamed.

*

You wouldnt think, to look at him, that the dashboard doll was a poetry
aficionado. He had been modeled on Ralph Yarborough. Leila helped get out the vote
for the special election that sent Smilin Ralph to the Senate in 1957. She was never
so jubilant as when the returns showed his victory over George H.W. Bush in 1964.
Leilas mind got all tangled up when she thought of Yarborough. Going after
the oil companies. Speaking out against the Vietnam War. Voting for every civil rights
bill, when all the other Southern Senators pandered or caved. They dont make 'em
like that anymore, she thought.

With the key of softness, unlock the locks, the dashboard doll replied.

The dashboard doll had kept a home in Dallas since 1841, when John Neely
Bryan stood on the banks of the Trinity River, envisioned a city, and claimed 640
acres. The doll had a molar pulled by Doc Holliday, three weeks before the dentist
was invited to leave town. He introduced roller skating at Lake Cliff Park. He drove
the last spike in the Houston & Texas Central Railroad. He heard Blind Lemon
Jefferson play at the corner of Elm and Central and planted yellow cosmos on his
unmarked grave in the Wortham Negro Cemetery.
He didnt remember how he arrived in Texas or where he was before. He
didnt know why he and Senator Yarborough (b. 1903) looked alike. Occasionally,
seated in half lotus position, he pondered the question, What was Yarboroughs
original face before you were born?
In each generation, the dashboard doll was assigned one or two people to
emancipatefrom systems that injured them, religions that shamed them, or their
own harsh assessment of themselves. He mostly failed. Among the dolls
beneficiaries, some saw him as a daemon, others as a guardian angel. A few never
saw him at all. Leila believed that the dashboard doll had come to her through her
own initiative, when she bought him at the Five and Dime for $3.98 plus tax.

Attaching himself to the human in his charge was strictly against the rules, but
the doll loved Leila: the gurgle in her laugh; the beauty mark on her right cheek; the
way she pronounced vodka, with the od soft and plump like when a doctor says,
Open wide, and say Ahhh. He worried that Leila would lose her appetite, fall
down, sink into depression, or develop Alzheimers disease. That she would die.

*

Mrs. Jefferson is died, a little girl in a grey taffeta dress with a pink satin
bow announced from her grandmamas lap.
Thats right.
She was our friend. The little girl turned, scratching her legs on her
crinoline petticoat. She stroked the place on her grandmamas chest where the
pacemaker lay.
Thats right. Now, hush.
The pew behind them, where the white woman sat, trembled with muffled
sobs.

*

Wiona entered heaven through the Hall of Negro Life at the Texas Centennial
Exposition. It was an easy crossing; her mind had rested in the lobby for years,
alongside the nesting stars of Aaron Douglas Aspiration. As death approached, the
pastel stars in the mural shimmered. The people depicted below the mural stirred.
Dr. Dan Williams warmed his stethoscope. Benjamin Banneker, whom Wiona loved
for his numinous idiosyncrasies,
2
set his clock.
You are not going to die, Sojourner Truth reminded her. You are going
home.
Home, Wiona repeated, knowing the truth of it yet wondering how all Gods
children could be gathered up and reunited. The African ancestors and the sunken
souls of those who drowned in the Middle Passage. The men and boys lynched during
Wionas lifetime, all along the Brazos River from Waco to the Gulf of Mexico and in
Harrison and Shelby counties, on the Louisiana border. The civil rights icons whom
even white schoolchildren were taught to remember. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King,
Malcolm X. The angelic troublemakers.
3
James Baldwin, Bayard Rustin, Audre Lorde.

The poet Paul Laurence Dunbar removed Wionas mask. This took some
doing. It had been soldered on since Monday, September 16, 1963, when Wiona had
to go to work and pretend like nothing was wrong as she walked Ann Elizabeth
Fitzhugh to and from Oran M. Roberts Elementary School, fed her a snack, and
supervised her homework. As though four little girls had not been killed one day
before, in the racist bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.

Emerging as light from the stained glass window, Jesus himself closed the
casket on Wionas body.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, sang the choir.
Wiona heard a different song.
. . . I looked over Jordan, and what did I see (Com-in' for to carry me
home)?
Her spirit was wafted gently past the yellow gold stars on the periphery of the
celestial sphere toward the infinite blue deep.
A band of an-gels com-in' after me (Com-in' for to carry me home).
My babies, Wiona whispered. Charles Harlan. Clifford Nathaniel. Benjamin
Ray.
Ann Elizabeth? Leila asked, perceiving something but not quite.
The dashboard doll sighed. He had covered this ground so many times before.
Ann Elizabeth was your baby, not Mrs. Jeffersons.
But Wio Mrs. Jefferson and I were close.
The dashboard doll demurred. You were connected.
Leilas eyes teared with the realization that the doll spoke truth. To keep
herself from weeping aloud, she focused on the little girl in front of her, the child in
the gray taffeta dress.
Time had diminished Leilas recall, but at that little girls age she had a knack
for recitation and a ready audience at Shelbys First Christian Church. For by grace
are ye saved through faith and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God, not of
works, lest any man should boast, pronounced four year-old Leila, held up to the
pulpit by her adored Sunday School teacher, Miss Becky Martin. Miss Martin
promised the children that God would use each Bible verse they learned by heart to
talk with them personally whenever they were lonely or afraid.
If that had worked, Leila reflected, as the pallbearers positioned themselves
alongside Wionas casket, I would be hearing Jesus right about now, and he would
be saying something like, Come unto me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest. Instead Leila heard the protagonist of a contemporary novel.
I feel like an unfinished poem, Pelagia said.

*

Nine months after Wiona was buried, Leilas heart gave out. Strong is your
hold, O love, the dashboard doll implored her. But Leila could not take it in.

With her death, the dolls beloved Dallas became exsanguine. Unable to rest in
the wings of the Flying Red Horse on the Magnolia Building; to muddy Mayor
Thorntons reflection in the pool at the Hall of State; or to lose himself in the Spanish
Mass at the Cathedral Santuario de Guadalupe, the doll thumbed a ride to Ft. Worth
where he caught the Union Pacific to Chicago. In the fall of 1993, drawn farther east
by the Atlantic tides and an inexplicable craving for maple sugar candy, he boarded
the jet stream at Montrose Beach. The winds deposited him in the basement
apartment of an 1858 brownstone on Pembroke Street, in Bostons South End.
The crisp burnt yellow and orange leaves against the blue New England sky
made the doll feel pink and new, but the matching crispness of the humans unnerved
him. Their severely pleated skirts and trousers. Their curt remarks. Dallas, eh? You
killed my friend, Jack Kennedy.
Leilas battered sedan had itself towed to 4464 Rheims Place. No way, Jose,
Dr. Kurilecz said. Then he saw Augusts face. Alright, alright, he groused, but this
junk heap will remain in the garage and be used strictly as a . . . clubhouse or
something. When August turned sixteen, he rebuilt the engine.

At the Last

At that juncture between worlds when your life replays like a movie and you
see a bright white light or the face of God or the pantheon in the Negro Hall of Fame,
and you are rocked in the bosom of Abraham or embraced by infinite compassion or
you are reunited with your babies who died in infancyat that juncture, Leila
stiffened. The effect was like stiffening your arm before an injection: the shot hurts so
much more than if your muscle were relaxed, and you may repel the needle altogether
so that the serum cant get in.
She felt a rain of shattering glass. She saw the front end of a car entering hers,
a gap where the passenger door had been.
Against the advice of all who had preceded her, Leila chose at the gate of
heaven to act as her own judge.
The angels wept when she consigned herself to hell.

1 Jerry W. Ward, Jr.
In that period, Texas ranked third among the states in lynchings of black Americans. See John R.
Ross, "LYNCHING," Handbook of Texas Online (http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/
jgl01), accessed April 29, 2011. Published by the Texas State Historical Association. Also see Lynching,
Whites & Negroes, 1882 -1968 in the Tuskegee University Archives Repository (http://www.tuskegee.edu/
libraries/archives_museums.aspx).

2 On many nights, Banneker would wrap himself in a great cloak, lie under a pear tree, and meditate on the
revolutions of the heavenly bodies. He would remain there through the night and take to his bed at dawn.
Scott W. Williams, Benjamin Banneker 1731-1806,
http://www.math.buffalo.edu/mad/special/bannekerbenjamin.
html#bannekerletter (July 2001).

3 Every community needs a group of angelic troublemakers. - Bayard Rustin

Doug Draime

3:26

Sudden drops of
freezing

rain hitting
skylights and
roof. Temperature
29. Itll be
snow before

sun goes
down. Dark clouds,
inner-woven
shroud over

sky.

Spring 2014

One Connected And Disconnected
Fragment From The Animal Farm

Dismayed reassessing the off-centered

And offsides shaking the petal

Dew and cow paddies all over the meadow

Despite the plowing the brambles the dripping

Flowers keep busting out through shitty mud (& cud)

Confounded but vaguely reliable embarrassing the

Gray sun to big Big yellow hastening

Thought Police and bob wire fences

All the while is a very very long while

And the mourners and the witnesses

And the ghosts of nobodies

Rage and justify the impossible and nonexistent

And everywhere poetry shames itself for acceptance

Like beautiful muscular horses unable to sprint or even walk

To their own death down at the University of Glue Factory

(apologies to George Orwell)

Graftage
for G.B.

The chiseled
face of

the betrayer

the gun
you place

into your
own mouth.

You see
a difference

where there
is
none

your insanity

the only
compass

a mirror
of
yourself.

I Want To Create
Not See Or Do

Avoiding
the
heavy
burden
of
dullness

Perpetually instilling
the me
In now

Art As Purpose

So long the wait

To come to pointlessness

A fog of words

A movie of lies

A web of self delusion

Words of no meaning

No reality

Are always blown away

By just a flicker of truth

What

is

not

real

has

no

mean-

ing

can

not

have

a

pur-

pose

Thought Experiment #23

revolution ( spirit

evolution ( ego

Doug Bolling

Caesura

Look, theres no metaphysics on earth but chocolates,

Fernando Pessoa, Tobacco Shop

They left the seminar and
became naked

these two. two bodies. two minds.

(the souls they left fondly wrapped
in the Grecian urn for
further consideration)

It stormed. It was a slit in sky
A rumble among heavy things.

They swam in the pond of brine & toxic fish.
They were believers in the zero sum.

These two. Lovers of chocolate.

They ceased their eating only to pause.
Spring 2014

The mindless joy of being just what chocolate is.

They gave back the books
leather bound
precise
annotated

They lived in the chocolate kingdom
all their days
They were wise, multifold of non-being

The chocolate told their story,

each succulent bite an epic

sometimes a sonnet

all that Hamlet missed.

_____________________

Absence

Incurable sleep of being,
Vestige of what never was. . . .

Fernando Pessoa, Lightly, listlessly, my Thoughts

In air of empty rooms they
turned.

They became air.
They became the sleep
of themselves.

Ten shadows lined the walls.
Each shadow a text
of an unsayable condition.

The stranger entered there
to find himself,
to touch his own cogito

a candle flame in the shadows.

Stranger was wide & deep.
He was a figure of fashion
wearing the garments his febrile fingers
devised from the best of cloth.

Real/Unreal

Stranger lived until he died.
He was a fashionable man
of an assorted haberdashery.

0nce he crossed a sea
and never returned as himself.

He became the air within a shadow,
made poems of silken thread
that wound about his end.

The Bird of the Poem

Bird poem. Poem bird.

There was a bird in a web

of syntax
Feathered bodice dazzle beak wise among branches

If windswept wind veer sun blind

A solemnity among cloud slants
going west
or south.

Bird had no answers
no name
except itself

An un-nouning, a thrust of wing along a
linear compromised

Bird soared, dived, colluded in a swarm of
expectations.

No moral here
No teleo telling where an end

Bird became poem
a mlange of ink across a

whitened skyscape
unframed
feathered only

of words.

_____________

Dilip Mohapatra

ECLIPSE

The diamonds
dazzle
with borrowed
luminosity
and do not dare
to read
the epitaph
on light's
tombstone.

A forlorn
moon
is trapped
and scared
to step out
of the sun's
fragile
and fractured
shadow.
Spring 2014

DEMENTIA

I look for my reading glasses
can't find them
where I left them last.
I look under the folded newspaper
behind the dusty books
lazing on the table
and then you tell me
that I was holding it
in my left hand
all along.

I gently rest my head
on the soft and fluffy pillow
drenched with yesterday's
dreams
that exude a
familiar fragrance
which I cannot figure out.
May be it was the
scent of your silent smiles
or the jasmines that
you wore on your hair.

As I lie on the bed
with my eyes vaguely transfixed
on the shadows of the
window bars
fanning out on the white ceiling
and threatening to throttle me
I hear a faint and seemingly
intimate melody
wafting in from a far off land
and I try to recall
the name of the singer
I rack my brain
but all in vain.

I don't remember
how did your lips taste
and how did I
make sense of
the satiny touch
of your fingers
doodling nonsensical figures
on my bare back.
I don't recollect
when your tears
and mine
converged into a confluence
and our combustible breaths
combined to catch fire
and leap into flames.

I have ambled a long way
may be to the point
of no return
and as I try to look back
at the fuzzy and puzzling
chiaroscuro
of the wake left behind
I find my senses
numb and lobotomised
and my memories
maimed
mutilated
and mummified.

CELEBRATION TIME

As I stand
at the end of the day
at the end of the journey
and at the end
of myself
along with millions like me
with shining
shovels in hand
furiously
digging the pits
and blessing them with
the sweat off our brows
the hearses arrive
with the bodies
of the small deaths
that we died
many a times.

It's party time now
to celebrate
and rejoice
and raise the
cups filled
with ambrosia
say cheers
and sing in chorus
Auld Lang Syne.
For it's apocalyptic time
salvation time
and in our deliverance
from ecstasy and shame
we live on
and all the little
deaths are decimated
decapitated
and dead.

David Scheier

Excessive

NEWf ac e s :
MODEL OF THE WEEK: KLARA FACCHINO
(Last Shoot)

Klara stood beside a table of Svedka stirred with Lakewood Organic Cranberry Juice in blue-tint Bodum glasses that
sat aligned like stadium lights on a foldout table, two lit with red liquid light. On her other side, a fence of footless tights
(florescent blue, hot pink, Black Watch Tartan) and miniskirts (Pamela Mann in black and gold, the wet look, Ohne Titel
textured cotton-knit-banded skirt in both white and grey, the $549.00 tag still dangling on the waist, a red Herringbone
Jacquard skirt70% rayon and 25% nylon the envy of summer at $459.00, Euphemia, Apparel, Apsara, Bottega Veneta,
Brioni, Chorlotte Ronson, CX London and Elizabeth Charles) hung in alphabetical order. She pensively looked through the
gaps of cloth and fiber. She was searching for something controversial, something human, but all she saw was this tangle, this
dangling system of threaded fabric. Todays look: shapeless figures in the wardrobe room, the heat of the studio lights, feet on
a cold concrete floor, rolls of white back-drops, a metal rod holding outfits, more cotton shirts, more polyester dresses slung
on hangers, an Andrea Ponsi Solar Image Clock, time of the suns exact position on a black-line horizon, fallen S on a grid,
stuck on the mid-day rise. At some point, there would be a solar eclipse, or the representation of one, a Photoshopped moon,
digitized over yesterdays sun becoming an ancient well-bottom.
Spring 2014
Equally inhuman to the hung garments was the photographer, red-cheeked with red spiky hair, an impassive face with
blanched green eyes, behind which, somewhere, his thoughts floated critically and plaintively. Her world was reduced to
lighting modes, cold and warm, motionless poses, lips, slightly parted, face viewing for future ghosts, held in like the breath of
a thermos of coffee under its lid by the spell of winter. The chill of studio air weighed on her as an indigo lush-printed teal
dress by Aminaka Wilmont slipped down her shoulders, hips, and legs to the floor. She, a tower of fire inside, starting to grow
and grow and grow while the photographer toned lighting, and a kaftan by Mirco Giovannini pulled up and over her flesh,
sleeves like flags on her cinnamon skin, legs on the base of a stool, and her hands grasped her lip.
Her eyes met nothing human, a flash, a flash, changed pose, behind her a white paper wall that would be filled with
computerized backgroundsshe could see it more clearly, without him explaining the mood of an eclipsehis lips parted,
eyes looking through her, sheer intensity of his hands on a Cannon 5550D with a low-end telephoto lens.
Next pose: She lay mostly nude, a garment slung atop her breasts, skin on fur coats and a cold floor, a fading tingle of
the cameras flash lingering like a square ghost stuck behind her eyelids. Next came the meticulously clean words of his mouth,
I dont normally do this, and somewhere along the way, behind her, in his camera, was a moment: warm orange light, empty
space, her hands cupped on her breast, legs crossed on a unique posh round-design oak stool, chrome base, the skin of her
thigh curled against her calve on a padded leatherette seat. One leg rested on a footrest with a hydraulic pole and lever for
height, much unused.
Youre quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet. Give me a little pout and curl. His fingers caressed the tip of his nose. She lowered
her head, her spine curled, a contortionist act, neck almost breaking by bending where her arm and waist stayed mechanically
against her breast and pelvis, and with her head unnaturally looking up, she saw something that delighted her: the rain torn
weathering of the studio roof, scabs of mold and peeled paint. They were like the fine tracery of old skin rolling off the new,
delicate and yellow, and it seemed to her that they must be powerfully resistant to construction, those frail outlines of peeled
paint, all linked with each other, cracks, lines, they seemed to be opened-mouthed, a ceiling of smiles.
She rose up carefully reaching toward the splitting high-rise ceiling to pick one ceiling-skin flap of its pretty streak of
paint-wood drawn lightning. Holding her hand up above her head, she smiled, as if she could pull the whole room down by
one piece of removed chipped paint. She looked left, at the table of drinks and right, to the stool and blank backdrop, into the
emptiness of the studio. The momentary happiness in her hands and eyes evaporated: a strange surge of energy swelled up, for
here she saw innumerable emptiness and tracings of peeled skin and fabric worn by other women which, she gathered, must
go on until this moment, this now, this studio. She realized her trade for a being gazed at, the meaninglessness of it, how it
reflected in the hallow green shadows of the photographers eyes. Her pupils lost their dilation as if about to implode into a
place distant behind her skull, and there she cried deep inside herself, the thicket of her neurons. No D&G, Kenneth Cole,
Inglot, CoverGirl: LipPerfection, M.A.C., the runway shades from last years shelf, the embroidered sequins of dresses, flared
sleeves, frayed skirts, she became entangled in the pit-less bulbs of her brain. The more hesitantly she flailed like a fish on a
hook while it seemed his hands stroked her suffocating body, she felt her scales missing and the sound and flash of a camera,
his desire for her, enter her as she gasped for new air. She was still now, standing with her arms spread behind her, head
crooked back starring at a roof falling apart above them, her fingers stretching out, warm light, Cannon on standby, close to
the time shed wear the Beanpole Skinny Jeans and a sheer and the breezy Whyred Fonda Tee she came in with and forget
about this all.

Dave Migman

Blue Star Naxos Fading

they have given me a view through an alley to the ocean
a chinese maid watering plants below rooftop ariels
strapped to upturned tables, tumbled nature
barnacle architecture; part venetian, part modern, part ancient

from the waterfront - souvlaki and oil, rich red sauces, thyme and sage
the evening sun picks every facet of detail from plant and building
balcony, ariel, wire, skipping birds across rooftops, waves, coils on coils
the big ropes that bind the ferries firm against the quay

this is a kind of paradise, right now, here, at this moment,
palm fingers bowing by night gathered at the temple awaiting a pagan dusk

Spring 2014

Psychopathy

the night yielded images
of demons without faces
a whole chorus of old friends
grown with age singing out
a cloud of flies. a scent like
rotting fish, a crowded dream
of saffron stained alleyways
tiny grottoes of skeleton eyes
chattering of teeth like claws
scrabbling up walls. The mortar
oozed the black pus of history
every sewer choked every gutter
flowing and the smell, that rancid
smell, fish going off, left in the sun
by the side of the road. The glaring
poisoned heat, the utter wash
of the despaired painted into frescoes
while the living groped in frenzy
ouzo drunk gorged on the kill
caring not what they had done

They are marching

the spider crawled like a crab,
over ripples of shadows,
towards the pillbox of my eye.

in each black pearl I swear
your face reflected there,

scuttled off melting into the dark

to the night
to the cloud
to the revellers
like the spirits

the war dead chant rising
through each puppet mouth
bent back involuntarily

wo-ah woe wo-ah woe

a song that prickles hairs like
parting a cunt to find a face

a cat's nightmare
groan of bags

Fever

the great world night keeps swirling
round this lonely globe
passes with a cold flush
some beast eyes open with a flash
others close, fitful
for all the great night brings is fears
early am panic attacks
breathless tombs
sighting
that last gasp
night noise, night owl, feverish
dream your other worlds
conjure your gods
seek escape
those opiate faiths
that assuage the great world night
for you

Re-interpretation

the threads that
weave the helix of our time, the
webs of memory, fractal branches
of our great genetic tree
blooming like the neural network
housed in each reflection of
ourselves; in mangled limb on
a field that sings
a fresh crimson rain, or
the long arm, cupped
caressing, long around
the waist to lead a dance
long around the gut

how they rise, they perish
they articulate our dreams
and hours passing
in wondrous fronds, over, under
flowing round borders, binding
tree, beast, friendship, future
past into ever changing
loops of evolutionary reality.
Bind the sun a word
the moon the beast
the war within the lust
for peace, civility is such

Natures vice, a clutch
of spirals spinning
dual shades of creative
oscillations
machinations
calculations
our finest equations
describe a single facet
of a rough hewn gem
that multi-versal
thread that gleams
up at us from vellum
anoints the temple, has been
forced upon the rock
by unsigned matriculation

once their fingers traced
then sang in unison
at trembling emblems bespoken
above them

Daniel Morris

Art Pepper: Speechless Human

In days of punishment and humiliation I sold
Indulgence. Cynical, an unapproachable bull in
Picaresque swag. My blood covered mood, coated
Like a painted bird, fixed its attitude. Trill hues
Subdued lesser cats. (Id conned outsiders.)
It wasnt for my dented alto they flocked to enter
The privy rank. I was homo alalus. What late
19
th
C. pseudo facial theorists termed Missing Link.
After urbane procedure doc cut my tongue -- no surprise:
Inside excluded. Dont fear, I mumbled, dreamy under
Gas, crows wont come out. I got off imagining myself
A peregrine falcon. Unheeded and extremely single-minded.
Of Tod Versus Sterben I chose Sterben most every single time.

Spring 2014

Vault

I.
None of them shall be born in Florida, insisted Walt.

This is why the sundry who visit MY PARK
As I imagine it will be of the predatory kind.

2.
It will keep the children away.
Yes, Walt mused. Reassuring.
We must keep the children away for the safety
Of those with others and all reasonable men.

3.
We must locate an environment in which schools and other essential
Public services are modest.
It is like that, I have found, in Orlando, and must also be so
Elsewhere in any state worthy of the Magic Kingdom.

4.

There shall be no sidewalks in or near MY theme park!

I know, I know all about the landscape architects, Alfred.
I know how they will insist. Walter,
Walter, they will plead. We know
You are The Later 20
th
Century American Visionary around here, but please,
On some aesthetic issues you must submit your fragrant will to those
In possession of the gift of rational judgment.

I will have none of it!
You hear me? None of it. Sidewalks
Will remind them of Olmstead. And Olmstead will
Remind them of dirty memories. Dirt is obviously
Inadmissible anywhere near my Brand.

Nor in all of Orlando shall one find
A sidewalk.
Vut Vault! (they will mutter in bigoted
Bavarian brogue. Vut zir, zoo is no longer veeing
Zensible avout zuch a zagrid izzshoo).

Park Streets, Park Place, Parker Houses

They disremember. This is Disney World.
This is no game you play with kids on paper board
Of primary colors with dice and germs and tiny
Metal objects resembling impoverished memories of boots
And bugs. Think. The vat of mental stimulus my chefs prepare
On site. Sidewalks? Absolutely not. I just cant have it. I just cant
Tolerate the thoughts of their feet hurting me
Like that. It is simply too painful.
5.

Walt waited. Waiting
Was Walts wild animal.
Half a century. Before he merely
Recreated. Which was when
The little intimates came.
But that was not
When Walt Disney came. He came
Late. But O when he came, he did
Matriculate. No modifiers.
To say such things as he came so fast and so strong
Is to miss the hurricane behind the ratio. He came out.
He came out simply because he had nothing left
To give but glitzy epaulettes and a simple white
Moustache. And that, my friends, is why
He named His Theme Park: Orlando.
6.

And I Shall Further Divide My Kingdom
Into quadrants of roughly equal
Proportions to nominate the unruly
Measure of the American experience as follows:

Coney Island, Reservations Required,
Help I Need Thumbbody,
Unauthorized Persons Only Holding
Tank, Only the Lonely, William Howard Taft,
The Mirror Stage, Now and Later, Them,
Burnt heaven on a Stick, Leather
Cant Wait, Blame the Victim,
The Raft of Pleasure Drone,
You Moron, My son or daughter is an Honor
Student at Pinecrest Elementary, Blockade
At the Car Wash, My other car is a broom,
Correctional Facility
Maintenance Unit Brigade Number 8,
Area planning commission board meeting
Inner chamber, I-4 Premium Gold and Golf
Outlet, Defunct Dole Pineapple
Canning Facility of the Big Island Cloak
Room and Personnel Development Office.
7.

On the island of ordinary people
Cast members shall instruct
Guests on finding your husband,
On adjusting to right ear nausea,
On the ups and downs of drinking
From foreign wells and streams,
Laws of distribution versus individual
Usage of oxygen tents near
Golden Park safety matches, use of
Anadapur telegraphy, the subtle
Difference (in translation) of evidence
And probable cause.

For insurance purposes we shall make
Clear we operate by probable cause
In the Magic Kingdom.
8.

Walt: I have succeeded in what I set out to do,
Ye Mousketeers in Black.

And why is that, Walt Disney?

Why? Because I am a genus
Beyond the genus of the C.

And how does ye know tis true Vault Bisney?

Why, because I took the test.

What kind of test do measure
Dat extreme O tell us?
What kind of inheritance test?

O silly Mouskettoons!
Not an inheritance text,
An insurmountable task!

Annette to Frankie:
But he just said

Frankie to Annette (many
Years later): Shh, now, Shh
Put your head on my shoulder
Miles to Go

Devil, never pimped, kinked
Engine malfunction, nor never did complain
Of Chuck Mangione as white. Marianne
Moore played no trick on me. Nor did I
Drift into a political fall out with W.H. Auden, nor cut
My pretty wig over the Discipline of Romance.
Noticed things about our nature later in life I
Hadnt noticed as a child? No. Never sunk to weaving
My hair noticeably, never fired
Relatives. In fact, never did sell my antler or imply
Plastic form, never rented a buzz from
Art Farmer, never got hoot from a
Major corporation like SONY. How unlikely,
How unfair, compare Chettie White Cat to
Miles Dewey Davis. True, at funerals worried face looked like a
Girl in ash, but cared less my legs were thin because I knew
Things in general, very conventional.

All Art Is Quite Useless

As played (and directed) by uncanny Jackson Pollock double Ed Harris in the 2000 film that took him ten years
to produce and was the fulfillment of a life long dream, the artist, now famous, but already bearded, puffy, paranoid
after abandonment by Clement Greenberg for Clyfford Still at dinner parties on the Hamptons and in the pages of
The Partisan Review, and drunk following two years sober when he by chance kicked a can of white enamel on the
barn floor at Springs on the Island, mumbles to Lee Krasner (Academy Award winning co-star Marcia Gay Hardin)
that his co-ed girl friend, Ruth from Bennington, is his last chance and that I love her and that I owe her
something.
A tough Jewish broad from Brooklyn, Lee is going to Italy with him or without him. She will leave him for
good if he doesnt stop playing with the little girl, merely a privileged brat who is used to getting what she wants and
getting Jackson Pollock is merely another prized possession. Lee, as we, can see understands that Ruth is
unprepared to deal with a psychotic forty-three year old whom the movie shows has only reached his middle years
through Lees mothering, promotion, and feeding of eggs and milk. I realize Jackson has never gotten over the loss
of his mother at a very young age.
Curling his chest hair in bed, Ruth asks Jackson who he would like to be and he answers you. It is at this
point he cannot even conceal his own lies to himself that Ruth, the self-described last chance, will not save him.
After trying without success to rescue a dog -- a figure for himself -- hit by a car a figure for his moods -- Pollock
arrives late to the train station to pick up Ruth and her innocent girl friend Edith, whom Ruth has summoned from
Bennington to show off her Prize Pollock. Jackson is, like the care, in no mood.
Pollock is curled in the fetal position. He is on the bed in his overalls and work boots. He is weeping when
Ruth knocks on the bedroom door wearing her little black dress. She and Edith are ready to go to the party. They
are getting restless. Hadnt he promised they would be meeting Clyfford Still?
Oscar Wilde offers the following remarks about the relationship of life and art, ethics and aesthetics, in the
Preface to The Portrait of Dorian Gray (1890).
(A.) No artist desires to prove anything.
(B.) All art is at once surface and symbol.
(C.) Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
(D.) Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
(E.) It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

After viewing Pollock at age 49, I agree in most cases with A, cannot see I how can disagree with B., am unfamiliar
with the experience of C and D, but strongly agree with E. E, ironically, disproves the Wilde quotation I used as
the ironic title of this prose poem. For after renting Pollock it became painfully obvious even to me that my fantasy
of running off with the 23 year old black stripper from Kokomo named Tray with three kids (one ADD, one
Augsburgers, one PTSD), a record, a habit, an ex, a trailer without a.c., a 79 Mazda that needs a new clutch, and
half year of credits towards a dental assistants associate degree at Iyy Tech Fort Wayne isnt going to save me from
my life as a paunchy late middle aged, lower middle class midwestern English professor at a Land Grant
Engineering college through the long slide from insecurity to irrelevance to invisibility. Following the second of
the 12 steps (involving being restored to sanity) I make a rare good move by not making to Tray the kind of
declaration Jackson makes to Lee. Watching Pollock, I conclude, not only helped save my marriage, restored me to
sanity, and quite possibly saved my life, it also clarified my realization that not only am I not a Jackson Pollock
wannabe waiting to stumble over a can of something that will change my life, but I am also not a minor member of
Oscar Wildes camp.

Daniel Carbone

The Wishing Well

Her dads shitty little house smells of dog crap from across the street. The front lawn is littered with what looks like garage
sale paraphernalia, but all of the junk on the ground is meant to be decorative. There is a fake plastic dog sitting on a bench
swing, and something that looks like a bird feeder or water bath besides the fake dog, but I cant be sure which. Other little
decorations combine with the browning grass and salty ocean air to create the feeling of a retirement home. But this is her
dads house, and I tell myself this is a good idea.
She exits the two bedroom trailer disguised as a home and starts walking towards my car. She is average height, but her legs
and torso look long. I cant tell if this affect is created because of her short asymmetrical haircut falling over her square framed
glasses or because of her petite hourglass shaped body that projects energy into the atmosphere. She is pretty. I never end up
liking pretty girls. She opens the door and leans her head towards me, and I hear my heart beat forming a crescendo in my
ears.
Hey, you. Youre late, she says.
Sorry, I got lost, I say. Are you ready?
Yeah. Lets gowait! Let me grab my GPS. She hurries back towards the house and jumps over one of the random
benches in-between my car and the front door. After a moment, she jogs back to my car.
Spring 2014
Her name is Toni, and we were in the same creative writing class the previous semester. I remember her stumbling into
class drunk each morning as I was trying my hand at the perfect poker face, convincing my classmates that my depressing
poetry was about someone I used to know.
She sat next to me in class one day. She was late and one of the sober students had stolen her usual seat. She looked at me,
asked me something about what she had missed. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, and that was the extent of our
interaction at the time. We have met once outside of class. She came to a Fourth of July barbeque at the beginning of the
month, just a few days after I responded to her email about my roommate advertisement. But this is different. This isnt a
barbeque or an 11 a.m. creative writing class. Its just the two of us. This is still a good idea.
I dont say much of anything on the ride from North Jersey to Atlantic county. I turn the volume up on the radio and
drown out my thoughts, hoping the music can slow my pulse and keep her from running away from its rhythm. She doesnt
seem out of place, sitting there in the front passenger seat of my car. Eventually, we find an apartment we both like in
Brigantine. We need another roommate to afford the rent, but we agree that when we do, this is the place. I could see this
being a home, I say. She looks at me and smiles. Her glasses draw my attention back and forth between her eyes and lips.
I cant wait, she says, lightly hitting my shoulder. The first night we move in, Ill probably be rolling around on the floor,
drunk, or dancing in a sports bra. Its going to be great. It seems like her, from what I know, but the statement is open-ended.
You roll around on the floor when youre drunk? I ask.
Yeah, why not? You think you can handle that? I tell her I think I can manage. She knows a little bit about me already.
We talked at the barbeque before our original roommate backed out. Weve talked for the last few weeks online and sent little
flirtatious hearts back and forth by text message. She knows I am damaged. I know she is too. And I cant help thinking girls
like her are reason.

A few months ago, my old roommates and I, the ones who came before Toni, sat in a booth at J.D.s, trying to get out of
the sea of drunken people that occupy the bar every Thirsty Thursday during the Stockton school term. My female roommate,
Sarah, was dressed like a vampire, wearing a set of false teeth with fake blood running from the corners of her lips down to
below her chin. She was wearing a tight dress with embroidered white lace that made the gown look like one Madame Bovary
would have found appealing. She had on an improvised corset that my other roommate, Chris, helped me fashion for her out
of duct tape when she was wearing nothing but her underwear. It was just a few days before Halloween.
In the booth, the three of us were laughing until my roommates started talking about the costumes around the bar and all
the potential they saw in our peers as suitable boyfriends and girlfriends. Chris went outside to smoke a few cigarettes, and
then Sarah went to the bathroom. She must have returned to the sight of tears rolling down my face. I looked at Sarah and was
ashamed of myself.
Whats wrong? she asked. I looked at her for a minute and saw her eyes in a far off place. They looked blurred, as if the
focus in her lens was a few hundred yards behind me. If she was paying attention, she didnt want to be there.
You know, I whispered. You know whats wrong. You have to. I looked away, and she waited a few seconds to think
about it. The flow of salt down my cheeks increased, and I turned my gaze back to Sarah. More time passed. With each second
came a few more tears. I felt like I was submerged in a pool of my own urine with the sudden desire to urinate. I didnt want
to be with Sarah, and the fact that we werent together wasnt what bothered me. What bothered me was she didnt want to be
with me. I cried and cried because I couldnt even be with a girl I had no desire to be with.

On the way to drop Toni off, we stop to get drinks at a restaurant bar in her hometown. We are sitting at the bar and Toni
orders a third round of Long Island Ice Teas. Im open with her because I have to be, but it has nothing to do with the
alcohol. If Im going to be living with this girl, Im going to have to let her know everything that is wrong with me, so she can
avoid making her mistakes, and I can avoid making mine. I talk about my depression, my failure with girls, and she talks about
her boyfriend, her family problems, and about how much shes looking forward to the future. She doesnt believe me when I
tell her Ive never kissed a girl, and I dont believe her when she tells me that she didnt receive male attention in high school,
before she bulldozed through dozens of men like pebbles in a quarry in search of self-esteem. I tell her I dont know why girls
dont like me, or why they dont want to be with me. They just dont. I think youre awesome, she says, I dont get it.
I dont get it either, I say, I guess thats the problem. Maybe women always rejected me because of my weight. I was
obese for most of my life. Ive lost a lot of weight, and Toni seems to be into me. When she says she thinks Im awesome, I
believe her. I couldnt say that about anyone else.

When I was obese, my identity was always broken down into its basic parts: the skin, the flesh, the bones. I was nothing
but a byproduct of a product. It was like that each day. Waking up with three hundred and thirty pounds strapped to your
bones is a lot like paralysis. Move this arm, move this leg, breathe in this air; it all seems impossible. You exist at the center of
a black hole, constantly being crushed by its gravity. The intensity of every feeling is increased, as if each pound adds a
thousand layers of cells, each capable of registering nothing but pain, insecurity, and regret. I knew I wasnt living a healthy
lifestyle, but I didnt mind the thought of dying from heart failure.
I was obese when I met Sarah. I knew she didnt want to be with me. She dated fit, skinny guys. Countless other girls failed
to leave their names or personalities in my memory. I never had anything to say, so even if I was listening and they were
talking, they were speaking to themselves. I was overweight when I received the same repetitive rejection from every girl I ever
asked out, never really sure why I was asking them out to begin with, just sure that I didnt want to be alone. Its not surprising
that I thought there was a correlation between my weight and my celibacy. But I started to lose weight, and my perspective
was changing.

Tony asks, Have you ever tried to kill yourself? Im caught off guard, but Im not surprised by her boldness. Toni doesnt
run around an idea, however controversial, ridiculous, goofy, or personal it may be. I found out at the barbeque, if we were
going to be friends, she would know everything about me. Either that or Id have to make up lies.
Yes, I say. I thought I told you that already?
Yeah, I thought you did too. Sorry, thats kind of a big thing to forget, she says. She takes a sip of her drink and her short
bangs fall over her glasses and hide her brown eyes.
We talk about our individual experiences with suicide for a while, about both of our suicide attempts, and then she asks me
if I understand what she went through. I tell her I dont understand; I couldnt possibly understand, because our problems are
so different. I tell her she doesnt know what it is like to be alone, to never be wanted, to never feel desired.
You are wanted, she says. I genuinely want you as my friend.
Its not the same, I say. You know what I mean. I order us another round of drinks and cautiously eye the fifty in my
wallet, hoping it is enough to cover the bill. Its the same for you too, though. Ive never had serious family problems. Our
lives are too different to compare.
Then she asks me, But you understand the feeling of wanting to die? I tell her I do. The feeling. I understand it perfectly.

A few weeks after I broke down at J.D.s, Sarah had a boyfriend. His name was Brian. He wore baggy jeans that sagged
around his thighs, revealing his boxers, and he wore an oversized hat and a polo shirt almost every day. I could have fit into
his clothes, even though I weighed at least a hundred and fifty pounds more than he did. I despised him immediately.
Three or four nights a week he would sleep at the apartment. Sometimes I woke up to the sound of her shower running. I
knew they were in there together, doing something. She wouldnt stop laughing. Why would she be giggling in the shower?
Because shes a whore, maybe? Sarahs alarm clock in her bedroom connected to the shower was buzzing. It wouldnt stop.
The pressure was building in my mind, andlike the alarm clockthere was no one in the bedroom to reset it; Brian had to
be in the shower with her. I couldnt get the image of them naked and intertwined out of my head; his arms wrapped around
her warm flesh and his chest pressed against hers tightly, their mouths opening and closing over each other, like the kitchen
cabinets constantly slamming against their frames when I tried to drown out the sound of the water pouring over their skin. I
would never see or feel what they did then, but I had to imagine, because I couldnt control the thoughts bursting through the
seams of my skull, begging me to do anything to make the pressure go away, however violent, or permanent, that action may
have been. Shes been a whore this entire time. She just didnt tell me. Maybe there are millions of fish in the sea, but they
werent swimming my way. They were too busy fucking other fish.

I tell Toni, I never wanted to die. I dont think anyone ever does.
Suicide is never about a want; it is about a need. I tell her that, and she nods. She understands that there are no
immunizations for suicide. It is a disease; as violent and jarring as the problems that lead to it.
We continue the conversation and move past the seriousness to save ourselves from crying, and start to act like crazy
people in the bar. We are threatening to kill ourselves, to no one in particular. We say we are going to run into the street and
let the cars run us down, that Im going to kill myself with the spoon in my hand, but we are laughing too hard and no one in
the bar notices, even as alcohol drips down my nose.
Lets get out of here, she says, before they come to haul us away. I see Tonis teeth through her smile, and they reflect
all the light I need in the dimly lit bar.
Later in the night, Toni and I walk across the street to a local gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes. We chain smoke the
entire pack in front of the store. We are facing the highway. The entire scene, even in the stupor of a thick alcohol high, is
surreal. The cars move passed us quickly, and the warm summer air ignites my skin into millions of tiny fireflies as chills run
up and down my spine on repeat. I am reminded the night is ending, and my mind drifts.
I think about senior prom. I was too shy and never asked anyone to go. I think about how I dont know how to dance and
how there was never a reason to learn, but that maybe that would change, someday, in the near future. Toni passes her
cigarette to me so that I can ignite the fresh one I am holding in my hand, and then I hand hers back into the space between
her index finger and thumb. She says she thinks we were going to become best friends and that she cant wait to move into
our apartment. I agree. This semester is going to be great. This semester things are going to be different. She puts her cigarette
on the ground and stomps it out under her shoe. She looks at me and says, Dont get a crush on me.

A few weeks after Brian started dating Sarah, I was in the bathroom, grasping the counters of the sink to keep myself from
falling and staring at two unopened bottles of Advil. I opened one of the containers and tossed two pills into the back of my
throat. They rolled around, trying to stay on the surface of my tongue, but I forced them into my stomach with a large gulp of
dirty tap water. Then I took two more, but I stopped after that. I tried overdosing before. It didnt work. And it was painful. I
assumed it would be painless the first time. I mean, they were painkillers. But it wasnt. Its a pain I could never describe, and I
knew I couldnt do that again.
I drove to Trump Marina and walked around the casino floor, watching the nervousness of some of the people as they
played blackjack, poker, roulette, and other popular casino games. They were playing a losing game; everyone in the casino was
playing a losing game, and they knew it, but they continued to play. They threw down hundreds of chips that represented
thousands of dollars and countless hours of hard work; chips that represented something deeper. Defeat. Hopelessness. Lost
time. They were playing a losing game. It seemed foolish.
I returned to my car on the fifth floor of the parking garage and stared out over the edge and towards the pavement below.
I stood there, leaning against the concrete, looking towards the pavement until it became hazy, wondering why so many people
would play a losing game.
Before I went to Trump Marina, but after I snapped shut the bottle of Advil, I searched the internet for the most effective
and pain-free ways to end a life. How not to traumatize your loved ones. How to find an excuse for your excuses. Morbid
how-to guides for the clinically depressed looking for a one-way ticket into the afterlife. Youd be amazed about how much
advice you can find about killing yourself on the internet. Youll find you have lots of supporters. But staring down, towards
the pavement a few stories below me, I knew I wouldnt do it. And it had nothing to do with my hopes for a Hollywood
ending. I just couldnt force my leg over that first step. I wanted to be with Sarah, and then I didnt. Then I wanted to be with
anybody. I wanted to meet a girl, to make out with a bunch of random girls, maybe even sleep with a few of them, but I didnt
want any of them to be Sarah. Maybe then, I could have saved our friendship. Maybe then the pavement below wouldnt have
seemed so appealing.

Toni says it again. She says, Dont get a crush on me, because I dont respond when she says it the first time. I am
flooded with thoughts of rejection. When I realize she isnt joking, I look away and hide my eyes. I round my shoulders, trying
to protect my face from her breath. I have a boyfriend. The boyfriend I am probably going to marry, she says, and I nod my
head.
A few minutes pass and we remain relatively quiet. I rise from the curb I am sitting on and reach for her hand to lift her off
of the pavement. I feel the weight of her small frame dragging me somewhere far away from our conversation. I am talking,
but I dont know what I am saying, and I cant hear her either. Her hand is soft, but there is nothing there but empty flesh. But
still, when I let go, I long for the opportunity to touch her again.
We walk back to my car across the street, and Im thinking of the threat we made earlier in the nighttelling the patrons of
the bar that we were going to jump into the bumpers of the oncoming cars on the highway. The air is as still as the inanimate
objects it surrounds; as still as the voices of hope and desire in my head. I tell Toni I am sober enough to drive. She throws her
arm around my shoulder and when we arrive at my car, she pushes me off to the driver side and herself towards the passenger
door. I get in and drive her home, but the trees are doubled in numbers and the lights from the businesses on the highway are
divided and reflected into abstraction. I know this was a bad idea.
That was fun. This night feels like one of those nostalgic moments we will remember forever, she says, and I wonder
how long forever will be.
Yeah, youre right. I had a good time, I say, and my focus returns to the road.
When I drop her off, I get out of my car and she gives me a hug. The heat of her body translates lust and desire into my
mind, and I try to keep my attention away from the fake dog and the smell that compliments it. Her hair and the skin of her
ear brushes my cheek as she pulls her head away from my shoulder, and I realize that this is the first time a girl I truly wanted
to be with has touched my skin, so directly, so close to where I want it to be. Be careful on the ride home, she says, and
text me when you get there? I tell her I am fine. I am sober. But Im not. I become more intoxicated with each touch of her
skin. I dont think Ive ever been more drunk.
She looks at me and changes her mind when she is about to turn towards home. We feeling goodhappy? she asks,
referring to our conversation about depression earlier in the evening. She warned me not to cry in the bar. She said if I cried,
she would too, and that she would hit me if I did. I think she must now notice how distant Ive been.
Yeah, of course. It was a great night, I say, monotone. Im sure well have more like this. I cant wait. I fake a smile and
she smiles back, says goodnight, goes inside, and I hear the door lock shut.
Dont get a crush on me. She is right; there is something that shouldnt have developed. She has a boyfriend. We are going
to be living together. She is out of my league. Dont get a crush on me. Something in my head says that maybe this time it will
be different. I am losing weight. By the end of our lease, after all my hard work, Ill be thin. Then maybe a girl like that will
want to be with me. Dont get a crush on me. Why? Why the fuck not? Why am I not allowed to fall in love and be loved in
return? Dont get a crush on me. Because we will be living together, and I cant let things happen on repeat. I have to get over
it and add one more girl to list of girls who dont want to be with me. Dont get a crush on me. Losing weight isnt changing
anything. Toni isnt changing anything. If she wont change things, who will?

Live or die. The choice is simple when youre happy. But you can only live life in the in-between for so long. At least the
gamblers at the casino had made a clear-cut decision. Maybe they were living with hope in the pursuit of random chance, but
they were doing something. It was more than just dumb luck, because they had to be there, physically, and they had to act for
there to be any opportunity for reward. They may not always win, but it would have been more foolish if they threw in all their
chips and walked away before the cards were turned, or if they wanted to play but never played at all and went home
wondering what if? They drove there, they walked to the table, and they tossed their bets into the pot. Its a lot of effort, but
everyone gets lucky at least sometimes. And even the losers usually walk away with a smile on their faces and their heads held
high when they know they played every hand right, and that they played with a positive outcome in mind.

When I get home after dropping Toni off, I walk down my street, placing my feet in front of each other until I reach Salem
Hill, walking in the wrong direction, stumbling but never falling, about three miles away from my house. I am sober by the
time I arrive. And I have arrived wherever Im going. I could keep walking, but it would just take me further away.
I sit down in front of a church on Salem Hill next to a pile of wet tiny rocks that must have been cleaned by the sprinklers
watering the grass and flowers shortly before I arrived. I dont care that my pants become soaked. Im not going to stand any
longer. Dont get a crush on me. I pick up one of the rocks that is shaped like a tootsie roll with abnormally smooth edges
and toss it across the pavement of the street in front of me as if it is water, hoping to see the stone skip. I hear the rock
ricocheting off of the dense dark tar of the street and think of lakes and of the ripples I could have been creating.
I continue to throw rocks into the dead street until my arm hurts and the urge to go to the bathroom overtakes my desire
to remain seated. I walk behind the church and find a tree. I think about what Toni had said. Dont get a crush on me. In my
mind, they were never crushes, but thats how she interpreted my relationship with Sarah. Thats how Sarah interpreted it too.
Tonis afraid that will happen with her. I dont want to fall in love with someone that doesnt love me. Not again. I want to be
in control. I want to make a decision and start walking towards it, until its finally within my reach. Im tired of sitting down.
Im tired of standing up. I just want to go home and get a good night sleep.
On my way back to my perch to grab the bottle of water I brought, I notice all the rocks I threw into the intersection from
the light the street posts scatter below. The intersection is usually crowded during the day. I wonder if any drivers will notice
what I have created; a field full of harmless land mines.
I start towards home, placing my feet in front of each other like I have never done it before. Walking is much simpler when
you arent thinking about it. But I want to be home. I need to be home. I want to wrap my wet flesh under warm blankets and
breathe in the dry air of a home where the humidity has been removed. There, I can sleep, and then a new day will begin. I
know, eventually, Ill get there, but only by putting one foot in front of the other.

Coop Lee

Babysitters on Acid (Eat, Pray, Love, Conjure Satan)

they emerge from deep wooded neighborhoods, breadth
of lawn & limb.
ghetto ass witches.
teen dreamers with dark magick spit strands & minions. their
wayward boyfriends in that street pink cloud,
spinning wheel.
stoned on bitchcraft & hawking bile, they
wipe then smile then carry on
in ritual.

house, is child.
is death with a younger grip. the kid
thrills on carnage, on
murder videogames & murder tv-shows & murder music.
televised bucket slime ceremonials.

this is the video age.
the modern dead dreams of a holy we. these
daughters of delphi,
watching our kids.
tending to them.
trending them.

a palace of teeth.
& twigs
the pretty girls with drugs, with
snacks & time & fun dead things.
the demon version is grave & cruel.
the aeon version is adventure-door & vision.
to conjure
at the cliff jumping. it was fun.

Spring 2014

Son Drunk

no midnight free-thinking.
only regret/s
& tobacco by christs hustle.
hallelujah.

his old skull is growing
flowers from where eyes once were. from
see you soon buddy -
tipped hat, tipped sunshades,
drink surely finished.

mic check: 1, 2,
1, 2.
her naked legs
cast shadows like stud chrome.
like lace panty tattoos of girlfriends
past, their breasts
in a circle
as they face eachother/&
mirrors. she
appears in daylight
rattling keys & cut denim, toward her vehicle & night.

the show is this wonder;
this song of wet haired youth,
young empire dogs
with dipped teeth
& applications sporting all control, all answers
to the high anxiety of modern electric.
first born,
first world,
first black shadows.

she appears sexy & drunk.
tree-forms superimposed upon her chest & belly.
tanlines buried
in strange light. light like rhythm/pattern
on the palms of her hands.

Afghanistan

in future-afghanistan wild poppy fields will carpet all valley floors.
a horse will die on the moon.
the river fish will unite in vast chants.
& mice will build bombs beneath babylon.

comets \\
from the corner of the sky.

cnn reports this:
a sun god will shit,
& on the shitter he is reading good books.
the ages in story of men.
men of high treason & cavalier i-love-yous.
americans.

bubblegum chewing white men /\ china men /\ money men
will stand at the edges of pashtun lithium claims with diamond-leashed piglets,
dreaming of the old-day iraqi petro-wells
shooting black flame 50 feet high.
now lick the village huts with fire.
now trample their temple and teens.
for our helicopters will swoop us up, luxury-class with all types and tastes
of milkshake.
bloodshake.
wet work &
constant war.
afghanistan, i love you.

minerals and opium.
a splinter of your backbone protrudes,
just enough for me to hang my coat. my cunt. or c.i.a.
your traditions, your rituals,
your notebooks //
ancient &
nothing.

me. my homeland. my west.
circa: year of the first boom.
bank accounts amount to handfuls of glitter.
next-gen housewife-modules malfunction in massive clusters. [china made]
all children panic, when the optimal orange hue of their food is offset by three degrees of yellow 5.
all indigenous populations buy lazers and take to the hills,
to regroup
& seize back their earth birth.

allah once mentioned, all is right
once bathed in good water.

Tazer Dream

prepare for the high gates to fall.
for the great bowl of us
to sink under waves
& atomic guts.

the seven year tribes; or
fissure of states.
the brother against brother.
end drenched in whisky blood,
& desperado.

activist kids with sling-shots
get their throats-cut in the open street.
all first-born hearts plucked from atop
the great pyramid.
preserved;
in frosted time-capsules.

& the leopard will remain healthy.
while cities submerge under putrefaction
&/or radioactive dust.
the tomahawk will remain a fighting-mans favored
skull note.

beaten back to the parking-lot of a best western;
the battle of sacramento;
an ammo-less infantry drummer,
& a bleeding medic.
they laugh & snap morphine tips
in the revelry of their final moments.

moon crescent
slowing & all the woods liven with flocks of
small children.
they live on plant sugars, wild
mushroom, & boiled water.
they hide in caves of ancient etch;
ancient man & woman & buffalo.

they hunt owls with homemade crossbows
& cook the meat on holy spits.
grinding the little bones
into tincture to rub beneath their eyes
& exhume an astral essence.

Chieftains

a suit of leaves will bring forth the fancy bitches.
& a fist full of wormed-dirt dabbed to our chins
will bunch up the young before us
to pray and water.
they will crouch and paint eachothers faces
with golden sugar glaze.
& curl up at night by the stars,
in their huts.

we will feast:
one iguana, two iguana, three iguana, four,
guatemalan hotdogs for everyone.

generations of buffet and sport.
the moon, the sun, the moon
outshines the bonfires where we roast fish in hazy spring.
party & hitchhike from the lakes.
trail back into the cities.

sidewalks:
we align to die from reversal-spells cast on stepped-cracks aimed to break our mothers backs.
our corpses are painted in graffiti by the metropolis children
& buried
with sawdust & the blessed sundried worms,
to decompose into a putrefied gas & condense wet
against satellite dishes.
thus by transmittals & otherworldly gush (aka, spiritus) our essences will broadcast
across all galactic wavelengths,
onto adverts of martian biscuits & smoothies.

15 Questions with Chuck Richardson on his latest book Trust Me [and other Fictions]

Chuck Richardson is the author of three novels, Smoke, So It Seams, Does t he Moon Ever Shi ne In Heaven?
A Tal e of t he Bardo Pl ane, the collections Dreaml ands: 3 Fi c t i ons and Trust Me [& ot her f i c t i ons], all from
BlazeVox[books]. His short-fiction, poetry, socio-political-economic rantings, etc., have appeared in Thieves Jargon,
eccolinguistics, Reconfigurations, Atticus Review, Blood Lotus Journal, Crisis Chronicles, Countercurrents, The
Kafka Project and elsewhere. Follow him at his blog: http://chuckrichardson.blogspot.com.
Spring 2014

1. Tell me about your work.

I write fiction to see what I think and poetry to articulate my feelings and make them more precise. I explore my
thought-feelings by getting out of their way. For instance, I try very hard to plumb those areas where there's a voice
inside my head screaming you can't write that. Because that voice is the mind's gatekeeper. If I feel embarrassed, I
must be on to something. Being adopted, I need to un-cover myself and see what's actually therewho and/or
what I might really beI can't help it. And having PTSD has forced many re-discoveries and re-cognitions. As
soon as I think I really know myself, I know I actually don't. Writing is my effort to peg this wildness and corner the
terror of it all.

2. What influenced Trust Me and ot her Fi c t i ons ?

An inability to attain the acceptance stage of grief. I get there briefly once in a while, then something else always
occurs to me. Having an overactive imagination doesn't help. I think another, rather obvious influence on this book
are my biological and adopted mothers. Each haunt and agitate the narrative voice into expressionthe difficulty of
the male-female coupling when the psychic connections don't match where they shouldresulting in a sense of
profound alienation, both on the part of the man and womanthe inability to truly connectto get throughthe
fundamental fact of aloneness.

3. Where does this book fit into your career as a writer?

It's the end of the first of three phases or stages if I'm lucky enough to live long and well enough to get the work
done. It's likely the last work by Chuck Richardson. Ziggy Fumar narrates phase two, which is poetry. Chuck
Richardson explores what he thinks through fiction. Ziggy Fumar explores his feelings via poetry. Phase three will
be narrated by John Andrew Blake, my birth name, the person I otherwise might have been. Blake will blend
thought-feelings with fiction-poetry. Blake and Fumar are already hard at work on their projects. Chuck's wrapping
up his work and ready to further dissociate himself from their reading-writing. Hopefully, Chuck will now be free to
meet a woman he can live, work and play with to make their final years livable. As you can tell, my identity isn't a
solid one. I'm not sure, but I think Chuck might be my superego, Ziggy my ego, and Blake my id. Or maybe
Chuck's animus, Ziggy's anima, and John's syzygy. Ziggy was originally intended as a play on syzygy, but it's not in
the proper evolutionary position to attain the necessary mindful capacity to function on that levelSo believe me,
in many ways Trust Me represents the best of my thinkingI know Chuck just shot Ziggy in the foot, but John
won't realize It until much later. Maybe this is what Kathy Acker meant when she said she was "fascinated by the
Situationists" and had assumed as her primary goal the "exploding of duality." I think a tripartite psyche might
demonstrate such a situation if it makes dualism impossible. No more questions on thatwe'll just have to wait and
see

4. If you had to convince a friend or colleague to read this book, what might you tell them?

If you want to read things from an alien perspective, this book and my others will interest you. Human beings aren't
the center of the universe. The universe exists to its own ends on its scale[s]. So do we. Of course, this is all
between the lines, but that's how my friends and colleagues read anyway. Basically, I'd just say this is fresh material.
You won't read anything else anywhere remotely like it. It hails from parts unknown.

5. Tell me about the last literary reading you attended.

I recently read, along with you and several other BV writers at 100,000 Poets for Change at a certain location. I cant
name that location because the Buffalo International Film Festival told me to cease and desist using the name of
that place on FB because they own the name [if not the place itself]. Also, the Big Night readings have ended for
some reason at WNYBAC. It seems that theres some encroachment into the local literary scene of a certain
capitalist, ownership mindset that forms cliques and divides things up in order to control, or keep down, any kind of
revolutionary or counter-cultural happenings that might begin to gain steam and cause serious problems for the
political-economic status quo. All Im saying is that I sense things are getting a bit frayed on the local lit scene as
certain changes appear to have taken place. I miss Mike Kellehers cohesiveness, the way he brought people
together. Id like to see a big party where all the major and minor people get drunk together and decide to party on a
regular basis. And if they feel like reading to each other along the way, great! Thats the way to grow things, not
saying this is mine and thats yours so you better watch out, cease and desist, etc. Good god. Love your brothers
and sisters. Share. I mean, why can't you walk into Talking Leaves or Rust Belt Books and see prominent displays of
Starcherone and BlazeVox? Why don't these stores and others do more to promote the local literary scene? Why are
they so hepped up on the Capitalist top-down regime of marketing and sales? Let the corporations hawk their stars.
The locally owned stores and lit groups, libraries, colleges, universities, et al, should show much more support for
the local scene, which is more and more also part of a global scene, thanks to media these dinosaur outlets and
organizations seem rather slow to, er, capitalize onThat said, readings too often seem geared toward self-
promotion and the hope of selling a book or two in a top-down modelthis motivation too often defines the social
framework of the readingI just can't get excited about such things. Most readings are boring as hell. That said, I'd
go see Kent Johnson or Michael Basinski perform their work anytime. They're anything but boring.

6. When did you realize you were a writer?

When certain people started introducing me to strangers that way.

7. Tell us about your process: Pen and paper, computer, notebookshow do you write?

I'm constantly trying to figure that out. I use all the above media and more. The main thing is to throw everything
you got onto the page, get say, a hundred-thousand words, then begin carving out the 30,000 that seem to make
their points most succinctly. And then once I discover those points I try to find an appropriate way of placing them
or ordering them to construct a text that precisely states whatever it's saying, exactly performs what it does. The
main thing is nothing happens if you don't show up. I write four hours a day, six days a week. I read four hours six
days and eight on Sunday. I keep notes that become points, refined constantly by re-writing them. And it's all
intuitive. Whatever I think feels right [whereas Ziggy's poetry is whatever he feels thinks right]. Each book requires
a different method. Each book must express its truth its own way. Each project is its own dot, being comprised of
many dots, etc., scaling up and down and all around. I have no agenda regarding the truth, only a method stabbing
at various forms of discovery.

8. How do you handle a bad review of your work?

I don't care. It's to be expected. Oscar Wilde said "criticism's the best form of autobiography." The critic reveals
more about herself than the texts she readsI don't expect anybody to get it. I know I don't, and that's the
motiveto find out what It is, and what It's actually doing. In fact, I think if I had a work that answered its own
questions I wouldn't publish it. The only reason to publish is to possibly hear other, equally or more plausible
answers to the hopefully unanswerable questions it raises. A bad review would be written by someone unable or
unwilling to figure something out about it, but then again, that bad review might actually be a good one.

9. Which writer would you most like to have a drink with and why?

Melville, because I think he was a rather lonely guy hungry for contact with other writers. I can imagine sitting by a
bonfire on a cool autumn night, getting ripped with Herm and playing devil's advocate, hopefully getting him to riff
on all the mysteries in his workOh man, the mind's beginning to swirl round the savage spirits. This may become
somethingI should say more, but would prefer

10. Whats the biggest mistake youve made as a writer?

Thinking there was even just a tiny bit of money to possibly ever be made anywhere writing necessary things. There
isn't. Nothing is necessary.

11. Whats the worst advice you hear authors give writers?

How to get published and market yourself. Who cares? If you do what the work itself requires, things will happen.
Otherwise, you're just adding more shit to a giant heap of crap.

12. What scares you the most?

The fact I can't protect my loved ones from death foreverthat we won't be together foreverthat this time we
share is finite. It's why I write fiction and poetry, The Fact scares the shit out of me. Fiction helps me think about it,
poetry helps me feel the best way I can about iteach re-cognizes the situation, hopefully transforming the dying
into something survivableand the fact we're all Quixote saddens me mostperhaps.

13. Where do you buy your books?

SPD, directly from the publisher, Rust Belt and Talking Leaves. Also at readings, whenever I go I buy the reader's
book. I try not to put a nickel in a corporation's pocket, but of course that's impossible these days. It seems my life's
filled with impossible dreams and tasks.

14. Who are you reading now?

The Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt, From Absinthe to Abyssinia by Rimbaud/Spitzer, North
by Celine, re-reading Dante's Inferno, Tyrant Banderas by Ramon Del Valle-Inclan, Europeana: A Brief History of the
Twentieth Century by Patrik Ourednik, A Question Mark Above the Sun by Kent Johnson, My Body in Nine Parts by
Raymond Federman, [[there]] by Lance Olsen, and my vocabulary did this to me: the collected poems of Jack Spicer. Right now,
most of my other reading of articles, essays, etc., are part of the necessary research for a future novel, tentatively
called Rapture of the Ziggies Fumar, which I envision as the story of Earth's most heinous invasive speciesthe human
being.

15. What do you want the world to know about you? Make it juicy.

I want the world to believe the lie about me. I am not the voice on the page.

Christien Gholson

Lying in a flea-infested apartment while youre in LA

They have a music:
a violin string
reverberating inside an empty eye socket.

The music of torture
before the idea of torture (an unnamed fear
just outside the light in the caves
where we painted the ibex, the woolly rhino,
the horses curious face).

I hear their music enter history: black hands, black feet.

With nothing
to light my way except a string of white lights
draped over the windows facing the street
I pick one off my sock, flick it
into soap-water, turn the page
of a book about American Indian sacred places...

Cars pass.

They are the future: this music of shadows
inside sandstone cupoles
dug out by anonymous fingers on the last day. Dots,
telling the time

Woodstock, New York
Spring 2014

Dia de los Muertos,
Gower Peninsula

1.
A white egret
banks against the wind.
Sand flies.
Bottle of whiskey as offering, we wait
for a word

2.
Start with a stone,
fallen from a wall

No, start
with the imprint of fish bones in that stone

Better yet,
start with the death of the fish, sinking

No, no, you have to go further back,
to the beginning, the face
beneath the face...

The puzzle of the dead,
the poem

3.
Wild horses eat dune grass
(matted tails, salted bones).

We watch a grey mother,
her brown foal.

They stop grazing, stare back.

Whitford Beach, Gower, Wales

Lions at the MGM Grand

after Rilkes The Panther

Tourists swarm the glass,
cameras raised, waiting
for a cat to move.

An image enters in,
rushes down palm-lined streets,
through klieg-lit fountains, evaporates

into the open black mouth
of the desert night.

Las Vegas, Nevada

Song of the Raven Lover

A petrified tree broke open and you emerged,
black as carbon; cobalt sheen
your only weapon against the sun.

When did you forget where you put your saxophone?
Theres nothing left inside you but the song of crushed stone.

We can pretend we are the spirits of this place,
but we know better, dont we?
We dont belong.
(I do a pointless two-step with my own shadow in the dust)

I remember your endless taunt:
If wood rings can transmogrify into swirled quartz,
why isnt anything possible?

How many Sunday mornings ago was it, lying in bed,
reading the Times together, that we realized
all things are NOT possible,
and our fury was red manganese; a dangling
black claw?

Where did we go wrong?

Now all you can do is hop along a crumbled pueblo wall,
desperate for me to take your picture

Petrified Wood National Park, Arizona

Spiral

1.
The missing will return.

The train horn scythes the sky in half,
leaves a door for them to leap through.

They swing down the sickle moon,
ride the back of a grey and white humped-back mosquito
through an over-ripe jasmine vine.

2.
The dead will return.

They poke their heads up from the sea,
eyeing the shoreline, moon burning
their scales clean.

From a train window
I saw the glistening roll across the black surface of the bay.

3.
The frenzied legs of a mosquito-catcher
jangles across the lampshade,
across the center panel of a Bosch print,
settles at the foot of St. Anthony.

Every flame is searching for an altar.

At the furthest edge of the night
a wall of white noise hides the first word. Bones
in red dust begin their journey back

4.
Where the bones used to be, tracks in dust:
a solitary seed-husk
blown in ever-widening circles

San Francisco, California;
Mesa near Moab, Utah

bruno neiva

Well

Spring 2014

Bob Stringer

Black

I am very black,
like a charcoal shaq
dumping on a pretty rack.
I love her blossom,
because she makes me
black
But her crack,
snapped black
in action, reaction
Her chores reminds
me of purity.
she cannot resist
her insecurities
but she
keeps hooking up
with her priorities.
I can't stand
being around minorities
because she is the only
sorry pineapple,
in the universe,
whose verse I
cannot choose.
Then, I hear it all again.
and my mind goes black,
to charcoal Shaq.

Spring 2014
Crying crime

You look like a crime.
you smell like a crime
and you have no crime.
I committed a crime,
and now you owe me
multiple dimes.
I live in my spleen,
but i love in my
crummy tummy,
and you just made
friends with my
aortic valve.
What are bodies
but floating waves
on an ocean?
And so we claim
our pretty remorse
while we roast our
snores and this
utterly foul prune,
privately,
and you're who I see.
When I'm a crime,
you cannot exceed.
Hug me,
like the wind.

Heartshaped Box

Kurt Cobain was my idol,
when he jabbered,
his songs
smelled like incense.
no, He never appeared
on american idol,
but never would he stand
there, and leave me idle.
People think,
he was an infestation
of pandemonium
but he was not,
he was erotica,
in women glazing
hearts.
He was a riot,
that the world
couldn't contain,
and thats why he died,
in pain.
because he came,
over - our lives
to listen to fathers
cries.
Who is it you see
in heart shaped box,
Is it Mr. Cox
my librarian
who condemned me
for listening to
his music in 1992?
Who knew?
how much
his songs flew
across the state.
Now, hes up
in heaven

Billy Cancel

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Bethany Price

Shakti - the Life Dancer

I slipped between time-light
& time-dark I am wearing
the glass skin of a new
friend I touch & scalp
your fruits
simultaneously
I have many hands I let loose
all the names I know let them
in between
through a strange new eye

I am an egg baking a meal
with a planet we make
a separate whole I am
with my mother in law
she laughs at my skillet I am a skillet
rusted from drunken use a woman
filled with beer a star trail
with no permanent tracks

Spring 2014

Two of Cups - Whirlpool

Can I climb the mountains
can I pierce your ridges
with cloud I am red
facing grief
completely unmastered
I am loved
by this shore the sand
& shells completely
at war in me

All else caught
in stillness
downbeats collected
from rain

You are a crest
of the sea I cant
reach or taste

Mother of Blades - Libra, Skadi - the North Wind

I move as blood in its throat
this beast youll name
but wont sum up the courage to kill
I wear your belt & follow
the idea weathermongering
on a path in the night

I opened a door in the field
& your comfort followed me
on all fours a pet I could
depend on

Every essence is worth its own trouble
I am teaching you how to love
but I cant trust youll treat it properly
in the end
its a gamble with earth

Next time I find your bird
Ill ink it with my lips
hoist it up & hope it comes
back foreign

Aviva Englander Cristy

In Conflict Conserve

in bondage banked and covered with passage hands purpose formed to earn
to serve harmonic evidence and render marked attestations of being accumulated to
reduced and running hands abiding home the touch onset or condition to objects
of slender possession an organ a bizarre foundation in evidence conflict to will
delight accord partial to part and hoard hands of slender shock and senses apparent

Spring 2014

This Sight

this slate; a slackening rain; a lacquer; a checker to bouncing; of asphalt; of filmed mist; as he
said, a rise to nothing; a bob, a faux; a lack of ocean; backless and ringed; something too
much in feminine; a lift; a point; a paler thigh; this trace; this lane; this loss of vision; as he
said, a fall and mule; a random exit; a wool; a wrapping and vest.

The Book of Forms
from Turco

1.

Once again, the prosodic
number to line, repetitions

reasoned to scheme and
position. And the altered

quantity will consist. To
keep from slipping, denote

a handled well depends for.
These various acquired another

elision. Alternated. Return.
It has been said a handled well
a will not seem dissonant.

2. Some notes on metrics

Nothing more monotonous than a regular
beat carried over. There s a stake that is used

to indicate. The vigil. Schematic diagrams,
a division between verses, designed to present

visually. For those reasons will become schematic
themselves. You turn. Become immediately clear

3. Some notes on sonics

this is not irrelevant
some impression
the unlike psychological effects
hieroglyphic at a glance
depends for its rationale
sonic
sonorol sequence
ideation level
fissional level
primary analyzable methods
variation in the length
the norm of a line
coincides
euphony and dissonance
burden

4.

The strict the stave
in order to follow

first. This ending this
accuracy the fist

a name a note perhaps
a practical purpose is

a variation. The systems
are almost impossible
in the western world.

5.

The bob and wheel. Appears twice.
Somewhere must be lived. Or secondary.
This scheme. By means stands for.
The number. Burden. Fixed form.
Meant to be sung. Be defined. Stand
for the number. The metrical tail.
Primary. Leap and Linger. Manifest.
Which is tradition. Which is anonymous.
Rhymed with the burden. Or they echo
and repeat. The former. The envoy
is optional. Joyous. At intervals.

6. Free Verse

Inapplicable. Misleading.
Without stress. We can hear.

That is, an ear for cadence.
We can hear our words, sprung.

Wrenched. Vocal phrase.
The clouded issue. The years

of breath. Of pause. The logical.
Might be called grammatics.
Synthetic consequence.

Andrew Baron

Division St.

Walk where theyve put metal
arms rests in the middle
of the benches

and tell me were not what we are

You cant just have a bench
people might try and sleep there...

and then
and then
imagine

sit where theyve planted nothing
the place where everything grows
and tell me youre not bolted
from that weed

given fire and set loose
to go forge metal
and burn the benches
down around it

Spring 2014

Petal Pusher

Waited here for days and nothing
rose

no blossom forcing petals
from inside

or drowned animal bloats from bottom
to surface

if this is spring
for blossoming or dead

then nothing sprung
and all things wait

in their various
taut

coils

Flight

Michael Jordan lives in your shoes
and if there was wind youd
be gone

whatever happened to
is really just code
for all the times thats happened

the great liftoffs
your skinny older sisters in
the album years

the wind picked up and they
were gone

Natives

of where the lake by the time
I die will be knee-deep

and that scatters its own
just to pull them back in

with the lake tide
we camped once

at what had been its edge
we spoke in terms

of millions
of years

of cans of beer
exploding in a campfire we

can say only
that it matters to us

that instant in a ball
of fire

our precious fraction
of the universe

Grateful

as one is for words
as one likes to imagine
the dead

having used so many and having
given all of them
back

a Grateful Dead song
in a Chinese restaurant

I will get by

today, Friday
June 14th 2013
the day

one dies
the day

another gets by

Amy Thomas

I walked downtown and stepped on a pornochanchada.

earlier in the day Id bought a pumpkin. placed it deliberately on the corner of my coffee table. cradled the stem in
my mouth like I loved it. an unnerving dust refuses to settle. instead it wraps me all up from the inside. my pores are
a smoky mess in the swan light. when I see his stigmata breasts I make a little hole in my own lung and string a
thread through it. tied a sailors knot in it. painted the ends a murky yellow. cackle with the know-how. my do it
yourself attitude.
Spring 2014

pity for a non-storm. find me ankle deep in the guts.

when there was a lion a single ruby jammed between in its teeth, you croaked a wet one. I went out and he was
obtuse. tiny wires a breath from his eye nearly punctured the dull blue. I stared demurely at my hands. my hands
were slicing each other open, sinew, sinew sparkly fresh in the light. one tendon I snapped out and hummed fried
fish? somewhere beneath the softened ground, my father makes a three quarters turn for the camera. a snarl in
profile. hair matted, never mattered. the tendon rests against my cheek and rouges there.

my own spotted face slick with it.

melted a penny in the craggy mess of it. deft hands made a room for it, frame of little teeth, whittled down to
squared raw. shadow box, a jaw wired shut. the wire a length of honeyed antlers. he pulled from the deer one hair
at a time, one tawny eye plucked as a cherry pit. swam there minted and coiled. placed between my lips like a sweet
thing. his lung heaved out like a cello string, bass sigh. wed constellate there. trade lengths of ribbon. every inch a
clot hung there. the stream, blubbering tributary, leaking knots. left once a glimmering bonesaw. id crack open a
bone there, knuckles deep in the marrow. like a sweet thing.

Spring 2014
!"

THE ELECTRIC AFFINITIES

WADE STEVENSON
A NOVEL

Buffalo, New York

The Electric Affinities
by Wade Stevenson
Copyright 2014


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written
permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance
of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


Interior design, Cover Design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza
Cover Photo by Charles Marks

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-148-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013942420

BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217

Editor@blazevox.org

publ i sher of wei rd l i t t l e books

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21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

13

CHAPTER I

m

It was the fourth of July, the first official weekend of summer, and the
broad lawn at Ben Steinbergs house in Sag Harbor was crowded with
editors, artists, writers, architects, decorators, models, and movie and
theatre people. Andre Cordier, a film director, was speaking. He was a
burly, rather aggressive young man in his late twenties. The fireworks
ought to form a pattern like, lets say, the American flag, red, white and
blue, unfurled, exploding against the night sky. I see the image lasting for
an instant, and then being torn apart by a rocket shooting through the
center of the stars.
Ben moved about his guests, his arms around the shoulders of
Robert Lord and his girlfriend, Carolina Cook. He introduced them to his
friends, saying, Theyre just back from California and are going to spend
a few days with me. Theyre the most charming couple I know!
Over the bay, the sun was about to drop into the slot of the
horizon like a flaming coin. The light floated, fine, superb. Guests talked
loudly, confidently, gaily, discussing new projects, plans, and mutual
friends with the faint arrogance of those who have earned their holidays.
There was no hint of anything wrong, of anything that could possibly go
wrong.

14
Satisfied, yet seeking more pleasure, the guests swarmed around
the food on the buffet table like hungry birds. Laid across the table were
plates of tiny meatballs, Virginia ham, and several varieties of pat. One of
the guests commented wryly, Americans dont like their innards; they sell
them to the French who sell them back to us as pat!
The arms of the handsome, young caterers rose up and down as
they pumped drink after drink out of endless bottles. Under the shadows
of the century-old trees beyond, people were sitting in a circle on the
lawn, quietly talking. A curious American tree with some of its limbs
lopped off towered above them. There was an abundance of pretty girls,
their faces masked by sunglasses, all perhaps desiring to meet that man
who could unmask them or take away that slight edge of superiority their
dark glasses gave them.
Cars streamed up the long driveway that wound through bushes
and trees. All those who could afford it and many, who could not, had left
the city and found their way here. They greeted each other with quiet,
formal gestures of welcome. There were many quiet, friendly, young men,
wearing colorful clothes, with a vaguely hippyish appearance. Small, well-
toned, pretty women talked eagerly and enthusiastically. Ben did his best
to point out his friends to Robert and Carolina.
There, he said, is Irving Salzman, the decorator. That lovely
Japanese woman putting a drink to her lips is Fumi-Fuigi Tofuiji,
Buckminster Fullers assistant. Blonde, fragile, bubbling with her airy
laughter, Carolina teased, Fuigi or not to fuigi Robert helped himself
to another vodka. He noticed that everyone had the rather modish
appearance of watered down, slightly stylized hippies.
Ben steered Robert and Carolina toward a particularly stylish
couple, Do you see that tall, lean man with the serious but friendly face
speaking French with Louise? Hes one of the editors of Vogue. He has

15
thirty people working for him and lives alone near the Creek. Robert was
about to ask which one was Louise, when Ben divulged, Shes a French
woman from Paris, spending the summer here with the most interesting
woman on the island. Before Robert had a chance to find out who the
most interesting woman on the island was, Ben was talking to Louise,
telling her that she ought to find herself a guy.
Louise, apparently, was very excited. She had put on a see-
through knit dress. Her hips, thighs, breasts could be seen without any
difficulty. Although her proportions were modest, she was very well
shaped, curvaceous and compact. After Ben had introduced them, Louise
asked if her costume flattered her? Before Robert could answer, she
added, But the shawl isnt mine, it belongs to Maya.
For the first time since he had come back from California a few
days ago, Robert felt excited, free, tuned in. The lovely Fourth of July
party on the lawn, the sun sinking over the bay, the presence of the flashy
guests, the kindness of Ben, the fact that it was the beginning of summer,
the Polish vodka - all had gone to his head. He forgot the horrors of the
Vietnam War. He forgot Carolina and the difficulties he had with her. It
was as if he had jumped out of his skin and mind and begun to live.
Standing nearby, Ellen, the editor of Architecture Today, was
getting quite drunk, wobbly and tough. Her woman friend, who lived with
her, had grown even tougher and smarter with her tongue and was telling
Louise how much she hated the French.
But, oui, I agree, said Louise, astonishing everyone. You
know, I much prefer ze Americans to ze French. I came to America in
search of a new life.
As the old sun set, the bay shone with light atomized in the
evening vapors. The party drifted, flowed; groups broke apart, reformed.
People permutated. Ice clinked in glasses. Upon the porch two well-

16
known pianists began to play a duet. The air, breezing over the water was
cool and refreshing. Jack Mandel, head of the Vietnam desk in
Washington, was trying to defend the disaster of Hamburger Hill,
where 241 Americans were recently killed, to some of his weekend
friends. More and more liquor flowed as the lights over the bridge to Sag
Harbor flickered.
Carolina took in the extravagance of her surroundings. Swinging
her bag absentmindedly she watched as Norman Mailer engaged Jack
Mandel in a vigorous debate about the war and whether the U.S. was right
to bomb Laos. Suddenly the chain handle broke and her purse fell to the
ground. Oh no, she exclaimed. Robbie, look, its broken. He grabbed
for the bag before its contents could spill out. A screw came loose. Ill fix
it. You stay with the guests. He headed off across the broad lawn to the
house. In the kitchen he used a knife to replace the screw. He was just
finishing the job when it slipped and cut his finger. It came so quickly, the
blood, he thought, as he hurried to the bathroom for a band aid. He
hoped it wasnt an omen for the summer.
He came back outside, down the porch past Bens bronze
Giacometti-like sculptures, past the gay piano players, into the deep,
exotic evening that, as a bough with fruit, seemed to be laden with
promises and expectancies to be plucked for the simple asking. Fruit with
selections of French cheese was being served for desert. As he walked
past various guests, he overheard bits of their conversations.
Where should we put our plates?
Why doesnt someone bring out something for the garbage?
A stunning, serpentine girl approached Robert and asked, But
what do you think of God?

17
If Hes there at all, Hes probably laughing it up with some
woman right now, Robert responded and watched with pleasure as the
discomfited lady slithered away.
Carolina, her funny Turkish pants flapping in the breeze, stood
out on the edge of the grass near the fence where the apple trees grew,
eagerly scanning the horizon that glowed with darkness, as if looking for
some sign. No matter what she did, Carolina always managed to be like a
sentinel on the outpost, the frontier of things. She never let herself be
assimilated to any group. Carolina wasnt even her given name. She had
chosen it because she said it sounded free.
Nearby, in the illumined waters of the swimming pool, a few
daring girls, anxious for publicity, had stripped and were leaping nakedly
around, giggling.
Ben grabbed Robert. There, take a look. Have you ever seen a
woman with green eyes and six bracelets on her arm? I damn sure never
have. Come, I want you to meet Maya. Aside from you and Carolina, she
and Andre are my favorite couple.
Maya was wearing a white lace vintage dress that accentuated her
willowy, elegant figure. On the stem of her neck, she wore a black velvet
cameo choker. The moment Robert saw her, from the very first glance, he
felt troubled by her in a way that he had never felt before. She did indeed
have gorgeous green eyes and wore a kind of extravagant, curly wig that
crowned her head and gave her an imperial look. She had a way of
constantly inventing herself with a fantastic allure that had the effect of a
bomb upon those who saw her for the first time.
Robert would later learn more about her incredible sense of
theatre, of disguise, combined with the airs of an empress, something
regal and superb that mocked itself through play, that delighted in creating
a series of illusions and sleight-of-hand appearances, so that you could

18
never tell where she began and where she ended, what was her and what
was not her, or if she even existed at all. But Maya did exist. Behind all her
lacy camouflage, there was something precise, joyous and powerful.
Robert hesitated, hung back; it looked as if they were interrupting
a scene. Maya, the girl with the green eyes and the exuberant wig, was
saying, Andre, I beg of you, will you please be quiet!
The film director, using his fingers like claws, raked his nails into
her flesh above her stacked bracelets. His angry mouth blasted words into
her ear, Suicide, despair, luxury of the rich, you say! You know damn
well were all just wolves prowling around the fire, looking for something
to warm us. Now that weve got the summer ahead of us, why not be
free?
Superb, without moving, with a proud and savage serenity, Maya
answered, If you think Im going to be your sheep ---!
Seeing the others approach, Andre stopped. They both stood in
an uneasy truce, fiercely glaring at each other like animals at bay.
Radiant spokes reflected from under Mayas lashes. She sneezed,
held her nose so that the sneeze was choked through her mouth. Pardon
me, all the flowers, scents in the air
Ben introduced Robert; Carolina appeared; Andre drained his
glass, trying to muffle his rage. Maya said, Would you excuse me, please,
I would like to wash my hands. There was a droplet of blood on her
arms. Her eyes glistened with moisture, the radiant spokes of the fake
eyelashes becoming undone.
Do you have a repair kit with you? asked Ben. She laughed.
No, absolutely nothing! Eluding the encounter, anxious to be alone
with her own feelings, Maya bounded away, stooping to pick up some
lavender flowers.

19
She struck Robert with the impact of a revelation. He had never
seen a woman who united within her such grace, extravagance and
dignity. He had already decided: I must have this woman; it is absolutely
necessary to my life that I have her and make her mine.
The dark pool waters hid the dangerous nudity of the girls.
Tirelessly they swam back and forth, as if celebrating some forgotten
ceremony. Maya came back out, turning her head sideways. She looked
washed, refreshed. Her long Nefertiti neck rose up. Was it possible that
she loved Andre?
Ben was conversing with some famous writer who summered in
the Hamptons when Carolina snapped, For goodness sake, lets stop
talking about the meaning of art and literature. Weve been stuffed with
that fare for more than two thousand years. Lets just enjoy the air, the
sparkling water, the evening, and the delicious company of ourselves. No
need to go any further. We are here, we are it, we are whats happening,
baby. The summer of 1969 had begun; the people around them were
chattering a lot about revolution and discontent and Vietnam and the
unliveableness of the cities.
Gradually the evening settled and the first fireworks were arched
up in lovely, incandescent, multicolored expanding parabolas. Over and
over again, above their upturned heads, far out over the bay, burst
parachutes of convulsive color. Carolina kissed Robert; she hugged him
and sighed and whispered into his ear, What a sexual thing, just think of
a man bursting like that inside a woman! Detonated mushrooms of
diamond and emerald glitter deployed, floated and crashed into infinity.
Snugging her warm little nose into his neck, Carolina murmured, When
the world blows up, which I think will be soon, I hope it happens like
that.

20

CHAPTER II

m

After the party was over, the last lights blossomed in the sky and
the cars disappeared down the driveway. Ben took them all to the local
clam bar in Sag Harbor. Luckily the jukebox was broken so that it was
quieter than usual. Eight or nine fat, solitary men, squatting on bar stools
looked up as they entered, laughing loudly. Immediately, Andre said in a
provocative tone Look at all those asses dripping over the stools. What
an image for the Fourth of July! Think of all those fat, lonely asses on the
stools stretching onward, expanding like tombstones into infinity.
You bore me, said Maya.
Andre was already quite drunk. When drunk he resembled a blind
bull. He turned round and round upon himself and never stopped talking.
Once I was working in a garage in Detroit. Id just come to the States
and needed to make a little bread. One night I took some girls out and
they asked me what religion I was and I said I was an atheist. The next day
the boss called me into his office and said, Look, I know youre from
France, but stop teasing these girls. I know youre not an atheist. It was a
joke, wasnt it? Crazy! A week later, you know what? My boss went home
to dinner one night and his wife was undressing in front of the window
and across the street another guy was watching her and jerking off. The
boss picked up a gun and shot him dead! He went to court and was

21
acquitted! Public opinion was for him. Of course this was in 1958 Still,
Id be happy if Maya inspired someone to amuse himself.
Contradiction! Bells should have rung. Maya did repeat, You
bore me!
Andre didnt seem at all jealous of the electricity that had begun
to crackle and flow between Maya and Robert.
On the wall behind the door Ben stopped to inspect a painting of
an old whaling ship, rendered with acute detail. Theres somebody home
there, said Maya. And that coat rack in the corner is quite lovely too,
she remarked. Its like a Brancusi sculpture. So much better than all
those modern minimalist sculptures you see.
In the back of the room there was a billiard table; the year before,
Ben said, there had been a bowling machine. Ben had been drinking quite
a lot and hadnt eaten anything at his party earlier. It was impossible to
know how much liquor he absorbed during the day but it was a
substantial quantity. Although he had had undergone several detox cures,
often drinking nothing but water for six months, Ben had a way of falling
abruptly back into alcohol. At such times he would say, I heard yesterday
that Bunuel, the famous Spanish film-maker, is alcoholic too. But he does
pretty good stuff, dont you think? All the more reason, I tell myself, to go
on drinking!
Upon that particular night, Ben already had a good head start. He
kept talking back and forth with Maya and had obviously fallen under the
influence of her extraordinary, high-pitched charm. You know what,
youre my little sister! he kept trying to convince her.
At the same time, in front of both Ben and Andre, Maya was
engaging Robert ---who was not slow to respond ---- openly, without
reserve, as if to show her independence, flaunting her liberty. It wasnt

22
certain whether Ben knew what was happening. Andre did. Vexed, he
stomped, stalked and fumed. Quit playing these games, he demanded.
What for? came her quick retort. I want to live everything.
You better leave now if you want to live.
Again her ironic, savage, What for? Its the Fourth of July
festival. Once a year, you know, everything is permitted. Im having a
good time; Im amusing myself. If youre not, youre free to leave.
Was it the presence of Ben, of the others, that kept Andre from
slugging Robert, attacking Maya? Or did he feel that his control of her
was such that he didnt need to worry about physical possessiveness? As
masters sometimes allow their dog off the leash, was he condescending to
give Maya a moment of unleashed liberty?
Carolina hadnt wanted to come, but had finally let herself be
persuaded by Ben. She would often say, I dont like cocktail parties;
people are always so self-promoting. If they had a good relationship with
their dog, they wouldnt have to go there. Now she was managing to
make the best she could of Roberts antics. She was all too willing to give
him this liberty and had often encouraged it; she was totally against the
kind of jealousy and possessiveness that pushes a man and woman to
devour each other. Carolina felt there was complicity between them that
went beyond whatever he might do. Still, it did hurt her to see him
cavorting so openly in public. Did he have to use her presence as an arena
in which to prove his independence?
Louise sat next to Ben. She had become very quiet and demure,
playing a humble, defensive role. The atmosphere of the evening, the
bright gaiety of the party, the fireworks that for a moment had cut the sky
to ribbons, had triggered something deeply in all of them. The summer
had begun with a bang and already it seemed that this evening would
serve as a launching pad for everything that was to come later.

23
Robert too, felt a terrible need to go outward, to expand himself.
The volatile moods of protean Carolina, their constant oscillations, all
encouraged him now into a great openness. There was a moment when
life had to be seized, when a man, like a trapeze artist, had to leap without
knowing whether his outstretched hands would catch a bar or fall through
the nothingness of space.
What did it matter anyway? He was sure they were all so drunk
and delirious that by tomorrow everything would be forgotten.
Ben, ebullient as a godfather surrounded by his adopted family,
ordered another White Label and soda, followed by a round of clams on
the half shell and clam chowder for all of them.
The clams were small and exquisitely fresh. They ate them before
the clam chowder and then again afterwards; it was a little like having
desert. How pleasant it was, after the hot chowder, to have the clams
return; Robert said they tasted like ice cream from the sea.
Lets have some more, Andre urged.
Ben called the waitress over and asked her to bring another round
of clams. How long have you been working in this joint? he wanted to
know.
Ive worked here all my life. Im the fishermans daughter.
That puts you in your place, Ben, Maya said. Stay there!
Right, right, muttered Ben, and became quiet for a moment.
How can anyone know what their place is if they have to stay
in it all the time? Carolina wondered, glancing at Robert.
Robert paid no attention. He felt a rare spark had flashed
between Maya and himself. Some sign had identified them as belonging to
the same nervous family. Maya stretched her body out sideways on the
seat, like a panther exercising. Robert moved against her. He was mad for

24
her. Under the table he tried to play hide and go-seek with her hands. She
moved them away.
Theyre like children; theyre just playing, Carolina said to Ben.
Ben made a movement with his hands as if brushing flies away
from his head and announced he was going to have another drink and
then go home; he had just driven out from New York City that morning.
Leaning over Roberts shoulder, Maya announced to no one in
particular how much she loved this local bar. Its wonderful, she said.
Its classic Americana.
Andre then jumped up on his chair and, his voice half-drowned
in the din, amusingly crooned:

This is America, America, America,
Land of highways, hotdogs and lights,
Of cash, commotion and chaos,
Motels, churches and communist fears,
Kids touch-footballing on the White House lawn,
Salesmen groaning in front of empty doors,
Fantastic sounds breaking through space,
Waw jaw faw caw cat cool man dig hip yeah super wow!!!

Everyone in the clam bar laughed and clapped.
At the end of the bar a squat, sturdy blonde woman stood up and
jeered raucously. In my country, in certain bars in Marseille, you can see
the same thing, Louise remarked.
This aint nothing but a local bar in Sag Harbor, said Ben, and
you gotta keep the proportions right.
Hey, baby, dont forget this was a whaling town, Maya
answered quickly. Thats what Im looking for, the great, white whale!

25
Funny to hear you say that, Ben laughed. I always had you
pegged for an Egyptian sphinx.
Seeing how the delirium was spreading everywhere, Carolina
began to laugh; her laughter spread out like a Japanese fan, cool, soft and
gracious.
Bored with the nonsense, Maya knocked her head against
Roberts.
He realized what he hadnt wanted to admit: like a car going
faster and faster, the evening was escaping their control. They were no
longer acting so much as being acted upon by other forces and atomic
states of mind. All this is a test, Robert thought, nothing but a test, and
you must somehow endure it and move into the space beyond.
Ben, by now infected too, was looking up at Maya and imitating
her gestures, her bright laughter and the swift, lively movements of her
hands. Putting his own hands to the side of his face, he let out a loud
squawk.
Ben poured himself another drink and mumbled something; he
clearly had had too much. But his lapses only seemed to stimulate Maya.
Quite superbly, she kept slashing at him with her brilliance. Robert was
stunned; this was a side of her that he hadnt seen.
At the end of the bar, next to the raucous blonde woman, Andre
skulked. Carolina rose and joined him. Every now and then Andre shook
his head in disgust.
Louise broke her silence to announce, It is very crazy, no, how
busy this bar is tonight?
True, it was the Fourth of July, but in such a small town as Sag
Harbor, at past two in the morning? The door didnt stop opening and
shutting; brawny, boisterous men swaggered in and out.

26
Its because of all the activity down at the fishing port, Maya
answered. The fishing boats going in and out and the fishermen coming
in for a drink. She paused. Ben and Robert both knew the port was
closed down during the night; there was absolutely no fishing activity at
all. But Louise was so curious that Maya continued, putting her on, Its
on account of the whaling activity, too, you know.
It wasnt clear whether Louise had understood, but Robert and
Ben broke up laughing.
Thats not bad, Ben kept saying. Admiringly, he glanced across
the table at Maya.
Maya blinked her eyes and hid her head for a moment behind
Roberts shoulders, squeezing his arms as she did so. Robert felt full of
her light, of her energy, but fearful of the consequences --- certain acts
being irretrievable --- and suddenly became aware how he must be hurting
Carolina.
Something felt twisted and broken inside his stomach. He
withdrew slightly.
Ben must have sensed something too, for he stopped drinking,
and looked up solemnly long enough to say, Its a little bit late for you to
be coming on with such charm, isnt it, baby?
Maya smiled but said nothing. She turned and started whispering
rapidly to Louise. Ben sank back, a little resigned. All right, Maya, he
murmured. All right, youre not too bad.
Something in this family reunion of exiled souls that had adopted
each other was going sour.
Too late, Ben realized what was happening. My god, youre a
pretty intelligent girl, he said to Maya. His tone changed, became somber.
Dont be stupid. I dont think you and Robert should be so close

27
together: your heads are too strong. And you and Andre are such a good
two-headed animal.
What do I care for your morality? countered Maya,
impetuously bumping her head against Roberts.
Robert felt a new emotion stir inside him. He knew he had
entered the danger zone.
Maya could do whatever she pleased. She had won the night for
herself. In this game, she had triumphed. Like a beast in a labyrinth, lured
now here, now there, Robert struck out at melting mirages, fantasies that
faded as soon as they were formed. Carolina was far away, watching them
with amused, ironical indifference. She thought: if he truly belongs to me,
hell be with me. If not, he wont.
The bar began to spin like a merry-go-round. The walls shrank
and Mayas head was enlarged as if projected upon a screen.
Although Louise tried to restrain her, Maya got up suddenly,
pulling Robert with her. Lets go and see the billiards.
Only too happy to leave the tables oppressively ambiguous
atmosphere, Robert rushed to the smoky rear room with her. Maya
pranced up and down with excitement. For her the night was just
beginning to unfold and its hidden possibilities emerge.
The moment they were safely away from the table, Maya stood
on her tiptoes, threw herself against him, almost collapsing Robert with
her embraces. Of course, he responded; how could he get himself to say
no at such a moment? Even if he had had the willpower, he couldnt
have done it. After the cool arabesques and oriental harmonies of
Carolina, he was recklessly overjoyed to abandon himself to this hysteria.
It didnt matter that they were both giddy. It didnt matter that
everyone was looking at them. It didnt matter that Andre was
murderously smashing the billiard balls. It didnt matter that another night

28
would come and another and another and anotherHow could their fury
be contained? Or sustained? At bottom, Robert was as desirous of losing
himself in Maya as she was of losing herself in him. Together could they
vanish?
The old theme in Roberts head surfaced: throw yourself away;
fling yourself like a match into the barn of a woman. Lifes nothing,
particularly today, so hard to have a dignity. nothing but a grain of
sand, pouring away along with all the other lost grains Good. Who
cares? What difference did it make? He kissed her, enjoyed the feeling of
letting that part of himself flow into her.
Carolina herself once said, Throw yourself like a knife into the
trunk of a springtime tree. If you dont vibrate, youre other than youre
supposed to be!
Andre stood with his cue raised, poised menacingly in his hand
like a spear. An obese, sloppy-shouldered youth slouched over the tattered
green table and racked the bright-colored balls. They jumped together
with a military clack. Effaced in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows,
Carolina laughed. You all look like soldiers. Why dont you challenge
each other to a duel?
Then it happened. Robert shot first. The white ball burst into the
fixed triangle, exploding it. Balls scattered in every direction; a red one
dropped in a pocket. Maya squealed with excitement. Andre was serious
and enraged. Robert stroked the cue again. Maya cried out. There was a
bewildering whirl of aimless motion. Andre lurched over the edge, drew
the cue carefully, painstakingly back between his arched fingers, and let
loose.
Wow! Maya cried.
The spinning balls disintegrated in a profusion of bright, cool
color. Mayas body careened into Roberts. On that crazy evening, were

29
they not all like billiard balls, ricocheting off the slightest impulse of their
feelings into each other? Maya pressed against him, dancing, her face and
eyes lit up. Robert let his lips run across her cheeks, trying to convey to
her quickly, as in a telegram, how wonderful she was. He didnt have
much time, when, his cue held up like a sword, Andre lunged at him.
Robert leaped aside. There was a brief, intense scuffle. At the back of the
room, Ben and Louise sat observing them. She didnt know what to say or
do. Bens face had changed. It grimaced with discomfort as he pleaded
with them to stop it all.
The few blows Andre had thrown didnt satisfy him. Curiously,
he didnt seem angry with Robert anymore. All his fury was directed at
Maya.
Snappily, she spun on her feet as Robert grabbed her by the arm,
and they strolled back to the table. They sat down. Ben didnt say
anything. He got up, ordered a beer. Carolina hung back in the shadows,
feeling a stranger to everything. She couldnt understand what was
happening or why Robert was deserting her like that.
When the waitress came over with the check, Maya told her how
wonderful the clams had been. Noticing her accent, the fishermans
daughter looked at her curiously and asked, Where are you from?
Maya hesitated, hating to be put on the spot by such a typically
direct American question. Over the hills, she answered.
It was a fine reply. Even Louise laughed. The waitress was
perplexed. Where? Over there? What hills?
As if nothing could be simpler, Maya repeated, Over the hills!
The waitress turned away, perplexed but seemingly resigned to
her confusion.
The tension dropped. At four in the morning, people start
thinking of going to bed, even in the Hamptons. Carolina yawned. She

30
took Roberts hand. Ben passed his beer around. For a moment, it was
almost as if nothing had happened.
But Maya leaned over and whispered to Robert, You know,
when I was talking about the whale, I just meant: the search for the
impossible!
How well he knew that! The impossible, the absolute! Totality of
a passion, unity of two minds, harmony of a love or a life! The forever
inaccessible. What had they been doing all evening long but searching,
each in his own way, for that absolute?
Softly, with an agonizing sweetness, Carolina kissed Robert. Ben
put his arm around Louise, who stiffened uncomfortably. Maya told her
to stop acting like that. Louise retaliated by rolling up two white fangs out
of paper, putting them in her mouth, and grinning with them like Dracula
at Ben and Maya.
Maya, overcome with laughter, rested her lovely head on Andres
shoulder, and Ben said they looked so well together.
Dont lie to me, said Andre. Tell me what kind of game you
were playing.
Dont bother to forgive me: it wasnt a mistake.
Louise whispered into Roberts ear, Shes so strong, so terribly
and dangerously strong. Why is it then that the only thing she puts any
value on is succumbing?
Bitch, Andre snarled as Louise gripped Maya protectively. Ben
paid the bill. The bar was being closed, an iron grill lowered over the lines
of whiskey bottles. Fantastic, said Carolina. Its as if theyre putting the
alcohol animals back in their cages.
They walked out onto Sag Harbors deserted main street. In the
diagonal parking strips, there were only a few white police cars. All the

31
fireworks had long been buried in the deep beckoning majesty of that
early July night.
Like a little puppy, Louise trotted behind while Andre dragged
Maya off. She was too weak to protest as Andre pulled her by the arm,
but she managed to murmur to Robert, I felt so comfortable with you,
for a moment
But thats marvelous, he began to say, but she walked off with
Andre, and he cut himself short with a rebuke, Idiot he muttered. What
a fool he was to have let himself get so excited for such an illusory spark
of feeling.
In the Volvo station wagon driving back over the bridge, Ben
said, But things are simple, arent they?
I dont know, said Robert, shaking his head.
Carolina hugged him. I hope you found the truth this evening.
Whats the truth? he asked, more out of weariness than a
desire to hear anything about the truth, whatever that might be.
The truth, said Carolina. You dont have to look for it. Its
inside you. Its THAT. Its a laughing cow!

THE COMPLETE DARK SHADOWS
(OF MY CHILDHOOD)

BOOK 1

TONY TRIGILIO

Buffalo, New York

The Complete Dark Shadows (of My Childhood) Book 1
by Tony Trigilio

Copyright 2014




Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza
Cover Design by Michael Trigilio

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-143-6

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21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

1.

Night is drawing nearer and nearer to Collinwood.
Another man has comea stranger who is not a stranger.

19
Everyone pushes Willie Loomis around,
like a scarecrow, and he only makes it worse

busting Barnabas Collins from his casket.
Thats Barnabas, looking as if he were

alive, posing next to his ancient portrait
at the foot of the stairs. Barnabas Collins,

source of my childhood nightmares, rolls
the r in Victoria with a lilt, a graceful excess,

prim and courtly and swallowing blood.
_________________________

Over drinks at The Blue Whale, Burke spends
half an episode apologizing to Carolyn,

who walks out when the samba music starts.
Two great houses in Collinwood, Barnabas

compares one to the pyramids of Egypt:
The plaster walls were made from crushed

clamshells and horsehair. Joe, distracted
at The Blue Whale, keeps seeing that little calf

drained of his blood (but doesnt seem to notice
the half-shell ashtrays). Dont bring Willie

back to Collinwood to apologize to Carolyn,
Jason, unless you want him to faint when he

sees the 207-year-old vampires portrait.
_________________________

Watching three straight episodes with Liz
but Barnabas doesnt appear, and tonight

Jason said Willie 33 times (if the writers
dont start giving Barnabas more scenes,

how can I expect her to understand I slept
with my shoulders hunched to ward off

20

vampires as a child?). Yet another scene
begins with Roger pouring sherry from

the parlor decanter; swishing his lowball glass,
he calls Jason and Willie sea tramps.

Who on earth writes Victorias tortured
introductions: here comes a dawn that

slowly creeps toward Collinwood
and a man (Willie?) who emerges from

the darkest pit the night can know
who, through the mists, brings with him

the torments of the night into the day.
_________________________

Ill lose everything if I stick with you, kid,
Jason says with a straight face to Willie,

who disappears into the cemetery at night
and lies in bed tossing and sighing all day

like a nineteenth-century neurasthenic.
Stroking the wolfs-head cane he used

to shatter my bedroom window
in a recurring nightmare, Barnabas jokes

with Maggie about night-time loneliness
and apologizes for striking up a conversation:

flirting, youre doing it wrong, old man.
_________________________

Standing before a wavy portrait of a man
holding a baby or hugging himself

each time I rewind, its something different
Barnabas asks Maggies father, Sam,

to paint him by candlelight after sundown

21
. . . and they can start right now, tonight.

Episode 223, in which Little David,
the psychic child, fumbles his lines

four times in one scene and Elizabeth
Stoddard calls a painting a photograph.

Why is David so scared of the Old House
he faced down his mothers ghost there,

after all, in a circle of flame, long before
Barnabas rose from the grave.

Maggie doesnt have to make sense
all the time, especially when she dreams

she opened a coffin on a misty plain
and found herself, dead, inside

(Serenity is my favorite emotion, Barnabas
confesses to Sam over drinks at The Blue Whale,

after quitting tonights portrait-sitting early).
_________________________

Those things in that room in the basement
the locked roomdont mention them

again, Carolyn. Dont trust a doctor
who says, Ive taken some blood tests

and Ill run tests on them to see
what the corpuscles are up to.

Maggie wanders off into the graveyard
on Eagle Hill the way the elderly

walk away from nursing homes
and stumble into traffic.

The episode impossible to fit into
one sentence: howling dogs getting closer

22
and the doctor asks Maggie if she stuck
a pin in her neck right before he begins

the only blood-transfusion house call
in the history of American soap opera.

Maybe Maggies just a sleepwalker.
_________________________

Victoria tells it the only way she knows,
another dark and tragic introduction:

out of the tempestuous blackness
comes a horror that cant be explained

(blame scriptwriter Malcolm Marmorstein,
who did 15 episodes of Peyton Place

the next year, 1968, and in 1993 wrote
and directed Love Bites, which starred

Adam Ant as vampire Zachary Simms).
_________________________

I understand, MaggieI, too, expected
Barnabas would break into my bedroom

in the middle of the night. My jugular
was yours in close-up, moist bite marks

throbbing double-time. That room
the nurse had left open just a crack,

the doctor says, pointing to the window
where Maggie disappeared, was wide open.

Poor Willie, everyones sado-masochistic
toy, beaten by Barnabas with his wolfs-

head cane and, now, slapped bloody
by Jason who claims, Im prepared

to go all the way, my boy.
_________________________

23

Wearing Josettes wedding dress
the love of Barnabass eighteenth-

century lifeMaggie walks down
the staircase in time with the catatonic

music box in her left hand. Willie pretends
hes matre d: remembers to call Maggie

Josette, adjusts the candlesticks
originally part of Josettes dowry

(bought in France, where a silversmith
made them from Josettes own design

You always had impeccable taste,
Barnabas says, then asks her to play

that wretched music box again.)
_________________________

Roger, put down your third glass of sherry
and hire a psychic governess for your son

Little David sitting next to Barnabas,
his clairvoyant antennae unable to detect

this is a dead man who sleeps all day
in a coffin. This must be how I spent

Memorial Day, 1967: watching Episode 241
with my mother (later, many nightmares

of Barnabass reproving and predatory
glare at Little David). I agree, Burke,

its not a skirmish between corpuscles;
when you examine a blood sample under

a microphone, its not mysterious at all.
_________________________

24
Watching an episode with Liz, Michael, Trish,
winter vacation in San Diego, the four of us

sharing weed-spiked Rice Krispies Treats
and chocolate covered almonds, unraveling

the mysterious Theremin in the Dark Shadows
theme musicIts like the first synthesizer,

Michael says, imitating the instruments
science-fiction whistle; its in the Beach Boys,

Good Vibrations, and Radiohead uses it, too.
I promised them Mrs. Stoddard would botch

her lines, but her performance was flawless
(tonight, though, she blundered again,

an episode I saw alone, back in Chicago).
_________________________

I guess some of the most beautiful sights
Ive ever seen have been microscopic views

of hideous malignancies, says Dr. Woodard,
who nevertheless is terrified of Maggies blood.

An entire episode without a vampire
at least I got to see Roger toss back

two more glasses of sherry. Signs that Sam
is an artist: rolls up only one of his shirt sleeves,

smokes a pipe whose bowl is carved to look
like Ben Franklin, forgets to eat, paints

a vampire in the middle of the night,
cant control his temper, paces his studio

with brush in hand (and hes a purist
Burke invites Sam to dinner and promises,

We can knock your pet hate, pop art).
_________________________

25

David (Trinidad, not Little David, the psychic
child), sent an Amazon link this morning

for Dark Shadows: The Complete Original Series,
1,225 episodes (I will compose one sentence

for each), priced $539.99hes written
300 Peyton Place haiku over three years,

understands Ill find a way to afford it
and I noticed a customer review anticipating

a soon-to-be-released Dark Shadows film
starring Johnny Depp (who would require

several coats of Barnabass eye shadow just
to resemble a vampire); I worried all day

the film could rob my poem of relevance,
as if Im writing star-fuck verse instead

of excavating childhood night terrors,
though I really tried to feel gratitude

for Depp: as David reminded me,
Dark Shadows: The Complete Original Series

exists only because of the new movie,
as a promo vehiclein a coffin-shaped

DVD box I want, badly, to own, even if
the medium is obsolete by the time I write

this poems 1,225th and final sentence
and after pre-ordering the complete series

tonight, I witnessed the most terrifying
episode thus far: down went the coffin lid

on screaming Maggie, the scene shot
first-person POV, an utterly psychotic way

for director Lela Swift to tell this story

26
(what compelled Swift, who also

directed the first and last episodes
of Dark Shadows, to decide that all of us

watching on 6/7/67, especially my mother
and me, her toddler son, should feel

as if Barnabas just buried us alive?).
_________________________

Theres something about that room
in the basement: keeping it under

lock and key for 18 years is bound
to invite a certain amount of curiosity

especially for those of us who cant shake
the image from our heads of Maggie

buried alive for a night in the Collins tomb.
Its taken 40 episodes to hear the echo

of my mothers name, Margaret, in Maggie,
who sits at the Victorian gothic mirror

in her bedroom prison, locked inside
by Barnabas, and tries fitfully to remember

who she isMaggie, yes, Maggie, thats
your name, she says, thats my name,

I must remember that, Maggie for Margaret,
I am Maggie Evansthe night after I dream

my mother, Margaret, now 10 years dead,
appeared in the kitchen of an abandoned

house where I squatted in Chicagos
Logan Square neighborhood, wanted

to hear about my new writing projects
as I made her a grilled cheese sandwich;

27
and if she were alive tonight, Id ask:
back in 1967, when we watched this episode

together (10 days before my first birthday),
was she angry like I am now, in my living room,

that Maggie opened her shameless music box
once more and inflicted its merry-go-round

melody on us, over and over and over.

Scholarship

POEMS BY }OE SAFDIE

B L A Z E V O X | B O O K S j
Buffolo, New York

Sclolaislip
by }oe Safdie

Copyiigli :oi(

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Inieiioi design and iypeseiiing by Geoffiey Gaiza
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Fiisi Ediiion
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Tlen can you sing
a song of a woman
accompanied by ilai
youi luie wlicl ilis
company iool io be a guiiai
in ileii inaiieniion.
Yes I can, bui
an Absolute I lave
leie in my land.
Al yes, ile Gunslingei exlaled
Ii's been a long iime.

---Gunslinqer, Book l

12
The Story of O

Tlus le would possess lei as a god possesses lis cieaiuies, wlom
le lays lold of in ile guise of a monsiei oi a biid, of an invisible
spiiii oi a siaie of ecsiasy. He did noi wisl io leave lei. Tle moie
le suiiendeied lei, ile moie le would lold lei deai.
Tbe Story of O, Pauline Reage

:4);&.<-<&%.

Tle sioiy of Oipleus
is a sioiy of pieposiiions

in foi wiil iliougl

ilen

afiei above belind befoie

fiom induciion io deduciion
fiom diawing a line

io diawing conclusions

wben bere is olso nowbere
______________________________________________________
Blancloi: ile boundless and impiudeni foice of lis impulse,
wlicl does noi demand Euiydice in lei diuinal iiuil and lei
eveiyday claim, bui in lei nociuinal dailness (cf Cocieau)

= = =

13
/04)) ><+?4). @"% 2(* A)(<)1B

Heimes on ile lefi, weaiing
lis invisible lai (wlicl cleaily
isnt workinq) lools sombei,
cooling lis winged leels,
laying down some law io Euiydice,
wlo can'i believe lei eais:
sle las io siay in ilis pii foievei
jusi because Oipleus looled bacl?
Tle lug (sle's ioucling lis slouldei
now) isn'i quick, by any means
(wandeiing foiloin ai lei meie
disappeaiance inio anoilei woild,
wlai used io be lnown as women's
pieiogaiive), bui le is solid, even
diveiiing in a way, ile music . . .
So wlai's in ii foi me, Heim?
lei laige eyes flasl con-
spiiaioiily, bui He's ile God
of messages, lady, ile liglesi
possibiliiy of same, and He's saying
No way, sisiei, ileie's Oilei Foices
ai woil leie (alieady moie
ilan mosi messages convey).
Sex, deail and aii says ile
laiesi Rille bio, i.e., ileie aie
alieinaie ieadings, bui none
ilai male Oipleus lool smort -
of couise le iuins aiound,
lis impaiience pusling lei
bacl inio viiginiiy,
a liiile ioo mucl in love
wiil lis own music . . .

14
soiiy, singei, bui you goi
ile wiong message: ii wasn'i youi song
ilai made ile fuiies siop iaging,
Sisyplus lie bacl on lis sione.
Even in lell's glosily slades
iley iemembeied low ii feli:
ile lasi faini ioucl a lovei leaves
befoie leaving us belind . . .

a liiile ioo mucl in love
wiil lis own music

le'd goiien used
io ile eyes closing,
bodies swaying in iiance,

ilougli no one could iesisi
ilose melodies, sweeping
iliougl ile bloodsiieam,

swifiei ilan any diug . . .
so clallenged ile deail gods,
offeied limself as well, and

tbe blooJless qbosts, too,
were in teors. Tiiumplani,
le siaiied bacl up,

bui couldn'i siop ilinling aboui
ile audience le'd jusi lefi,
command peifoimance,

15
and looled bacl io see if ileie weie
any moie langeis-on . . .
someone slould lave iold lim:

you can'i see ile dead
by looling foi ilem.
Soon ile ciiiics goi iesiless,

dissing lim lile a pop siai
wlose second album sells
less ilan ile fiisi. Tley wondeied

if le'd losi ii, ilai unique sound,
ilai voice . . . le iool io ile lills,
becoming tbe first of Tbroce

to prefer younq boys . . . iley
nevei looled bacl . . .
____________________________
Ovid's Metomorpboses, io., iiq-i:i

16
>4&, C%*?#-<&% -& 8)*?#-<&%

deduciion - a cleap subsiiiuie
wlen you've losi ile iiail
and lave io imagine wleie
ii's leading, as opposed io

induciion, inducemeni,
le pievailed upon me
(ile peiiiion befoie Hades)
le made me see ii lis way . . .

deduciion - "io iiace
ile couise of," io JeJuce
one's desceni (Pluiaicl said
le only weni lalfway down,

ilen came bacl up
and wioie a song aboui ii)

17
Oi, ile oai of discoveiy,
we weie ile fiisi ilai evei
buisi inio ilai sileni sea

Euiydice, low sle falls,
silenily, uniedeemed, you'ie
iid of me now ai lasi

Fee, ile piice le paid
foi all of us (Ficino said
le wos }esus) oi fey

aiclaic, Scoiiisl,
faied io die, laving ile aii
of one undei a doom oi spell

Eai, low we leaid ile woid,
by eai le said, oi sense meiely
tbe obeJient Jouqbter of music

Red, ease, ile blood spuiiing
fiom ile Maenads' iocls
ewe iid a see

oai fee us
eai ied ease
oi fey
____________________________
Zulofsly, Non Ti FiJor

18
ile look bacl (as opposed
io jusi leaiing, oi sensing)
was ioo aggiessive - an invasion -
Hades always iepiesenied

wiil lis face iuined away -
ile disiupiions
ile Undeiwoild males
aie locunoe -

siumbles acioss ile ciacls
of language - ile dead
wlispei - you can'i see ilem -
iley'ie noi tbere
__________________________________________________________
Keienyi: Saciifice io ile deiiies of ile dead was made wiil aveiied face;
no looling, only ile voice was allowed in ile iealm of ile depaiied.

20
Oipleus sings: l qot rbytbm

Vbo coulJ osk for onytbinq more?

dueling banjos wiil ile Siiens
on ile Aigonauis' boai
bui also a spui

io leep ile oaismen
in ilyilm mortiol ilyilms
(ile fleece lung on a sliine

dedicaied io Aies)
subdued by sofiei siiains
Pipei, pipe ilai song again

siium siium
Orpbeus consistently sonq.
tbere is no suqqestion

tbot be ever reolly spoke -
but if be JiJ,
it wos surely poetry.
________________________
}oan Eiiclson (Eiic's wife)

21
24;0)?. D;)7$.

I don'i iiusi ilese animals,
yellow eyes gleaming in ile dail.
Tley'd jusi as soon iip me apaii.

I don'i lnow wly I iuined aiound --
I couldn'i even see lei face
in ile dail. Tle villageis say

ii was love, bui Apliodiie
is noi my god. Sle lnows
I seive a diffeieni masiei:

oidei, laimony. Wlai would lappen
if I siopped playing ilis iune?
In ile dail iley'd iip me apaii.

Tle diunlen sailois on ile slip --
all iley iemembeied weie ile biids.
Did iley evei find ilai fleece?

I was waicling ile biids. Oidei,
laimony. Tle dead liled ii ioo,
ileii sladows weie dancing.

Diunlen sailois. Animals.
Apliodiie is noi my god.
I didn'i even see lei face.

22
music, ileie's always
l Jont wont you to lose
ilis music eveiywleie,
yourself, listen for
a man can'i leai limself ilinl
wbots not sounJinq
diums pounding, bodies swaying
beneotb your minJ, tbe
music's wlai diove lei away
river, flowinq, quiet
diumbeais, pounding,
tbe musicions of Jeotb
siiens, ile scieam
moke tbe coolest sounJ

SAILING THIS NAMELESS SHIP

JUSTIN EVANS

Buffalo, New York

Sailing This Nameless Ship
By Justin Evans

Copyright 2014





ISBN Number: 978-1-60964-149-8
LOC number: 2013942428
First Edition

BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217

Editor@blazevox.org


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21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

15
New Kind of Epic

It begins with a hero
just the same as always
but this time he never learns.

His lesson walks by over and over
but he pays it no mind
while he counts again and again
the ever dwindling number
of his crew, each taking their turn
at death.

This parts the same, too:
Soon enough the hero
will be all alone, no one left
to watch him perform
his courageous deeds.

Whats different you ask?

This time the hero
dies alone.

He never comes home!
no deity protects him
or returns the corpse
to his family.

This time we all forget
his name.

16
My Sins

are many. Small and hard
they rival stars at night,
sink like cherry pits
what my grandfather
used to call stones.

At night I work them up
from my stomach, keep them
beneath my tongue where
the underside turns black,
spoils my breath.

I perform each sin
like some perverse litany,
feel how it rolls
to the front of my mouth,
becoming the only thing
I ever want to taste.

17
Lost At Sea

When I think of night I never think sky
burning black.

I consider sleep, family, brief
moments I am awake at odd

intervals. I never look for the moon
at night. Sooner or later it always appears

and I am forgiven. Instead, I try
to find the moon when it is still day,

predict where it will meet the horizon, guess
how many days I have walked oblivious

to its pale form
in the pale blue sky.

18
Autobiography [10]

When I think back to November
which only ended last week, I cannot
remember at all where I put the checkbook
after buying you a birthday present. But
if I go back to 1974, the year you were born
I can remember starting school. I can see
the leaves turn yellow, feel the years
first chill, see myself sitting atop
my fathers shoulders for the last time.

* * *

Each eulogy spoken is a calyx
on deaths yellow poem
where loved ones and strangers alike
turn gently along a river, cutting the hips
of ancient, sloping mountains.

19
Shock

This emptiness is normal, they tell you
how you float inside your own mind
like a buoy cut from its line,
wandering in a sea of darkness, unable
to perceive current or tide.
This is normal, the way it should be.
Whats moreyou will never know different
or recognize change until after
the fact. Nothing of you will remain,
so there is no sense in remembering
who you were before. All thats left is to
keep moving until your feet touch land,
pull yourself safely to shore.

20
Calypso with Odysseus

She hardly needed to lift her cheek
to say her piece. Instead
she used her energy to brush aside
the soft dark curls from his ear,
where her fingers paused
for one brief moment before
coming to rest on his scarred shoulders.

It was there in the dark shadows
she whispered as he slept, her lips
warming the cartilage beneath his skin
where she erased the sound of Penelope
giving birth to his son.

21
Just This

Whenever I think of faraway places
it's always Beethoven who comes
to crowd my ears with music his
insistence that I pay attention to him
that scowl always appearing
whenever I close my eyes
picturing some distant tropic isle
or a snowy mountain top in The Alps
as if he's about to beat me over the head
with that little baton of his tell me
imagination is a poor substitute
for what his music can make me know

And This

Stopped moving in my middle age
going only as far as I am forced
to get the mail or buy milk. Fought
my war & made my way home.

REQUITED

KRISTINA MARIE DARLING

Buffalo, New York

Requited
by Kristina Marie Darling
Copyright 2014




Cover Art by Carly Trosclair

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-177-1
Library of Congress Control Number: incoming

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REQUITED

"The sky we bear on our shoulders, heaven-height
and livid firmament, delineated dream
sounding distance, when distant spaces seem
silence, absence, unconsummated sight..."

Karen Volkman, Nomina

THE STORY

!

15
*
We walk to a rose garden in the dead of winter. You're sorry for
"needing time." There are always so many things that can go
wrong in a conversation. Above us, fallen branches cover the
fountains. A car pulls off the road. You ask for directions, but the
driver has already turned away.

16
*
Around us, dead ivy sprawls from a display of marble cherubs.
You kick some leaves with the steel toe of your boot. How did we
get lost when the garden seemed so small. On every statue,
plaster doves have cracked from the cold. Their colorless eyes ask
why we're still here.

17
*
The way out of the garden is simple. I let go of your hand and
climb over a chain link fence. Traffic rushing on the other side of
a steel partition. What does it mean to cross a threshold. Near
the road, an injured deer has been left to die. Its dark brown eyes
seem to wonder why we've left the roses behind.

18
*
Now we're driving to your sister's house. You apologize for the
flowers, their iced-over stems. I watch your breath turn to frost
as it touches the window. If I left for another unremarkable city,
would the air between us begin to thaw. You gesture at the
freeway, its marble faade covered in salt.

19
*
Tonight you tell me about girls from Midwestern cities. The
subtle difference between Ann Arbor and Bloomington. I wrap
your scarf around my neck. When did conversations become
difficult. In the distance, strip malls have begun to glow. At the
end of your story is another small town.

20
*
Browsing shop windows we're never alone. Your friend buys
discounted chocolate as clerks dismantle holiday wreaths. Where
would we go if you were willing to follow me. Around us,
strangers admire the display of lights. A pill dropped in cold
water loses some of its bitter taste.

ONE YEAR IN A PAPER CINEMA

TRAVIS CEBULA

Buffalo, New York

One Year In A Paper Cinema By Travis Cebula Copyright 2014


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written
permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America

Cover Art by Travis Cebula

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-151-1

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17

June 21.

purple.
the impact on Nora.
the secondhand night
chronicles her darkness
darkness as friend,
as memory keeper,
as waiting lust.

the dark I want
mimics the ocean,
that little beautiful.
I want a harbor stick
in a cool, rocky place.

18

June 22.

once upon a distinguished gentleman
in Mexico this was, in the sun
Carlito stood waiting
by the waters edge.

I had a run
with the wild girl.
I had a run.

19

June 23.

in the beginning
we made monsters.
in that measured hell
around the corner,
the widow prayed
for grace and money.

20

June 24.

whats love got to do with Lolita?
she wears Prada like the girl next door
wears her mothers diary:
alone.

21

June 25.

Juliet believes in dark chance.
she believes this
is no world for cradles
where the spirits
of old men rise
in a crimson tide,
and the grave
is but a sequel.

22

June 26.

meet the Glimmer Man,
with his trophy balls.
the champ
on the roof he calls
till dawn. live free
or die sudden.
shall we resurrect America?
shall we dance
a redline dance
into wild extinction?

23

June 27.

how quickly he knew too much.
40-year-old Dave
sings the blues as flirting
waves from the rear window.
a Tokyo bus drifts away.

its just Dave
and his decisions now.
all those candles die
that cant hardly wait
that get married
or sin tryin

and then the fast line
of exit ultimatum.
no family waits at home
for the postman.

his plainsong wedding
is a dead mutant reef
of incredible expectations.

24

June 28.

Matilda, beware
an outbreak of saving
from righteous kings.
beware the patriot
dog soldiers in black;
the good witch in the castle
twitches, too. she hears
meaning as a hammer
of protection,
protection as a measure
of national life larger than
kings or even fair gods.

25

June 29.

the grand fools made a life of
shouting fire inside holes.
in the heat,
in the dead serious,
he pledges the greatest
show on okie noodling
the last chance to witness
his very own meltdown caf.

26

June 30.

once upon a time
in Moulin Dewey,

the blonde action opens
on a hostile bunny
her unthinkable hair
happens in 3-D.

who is running
this hybrid city
Dr. Seuss or Beethoven?

Paris on pills.

27

July 1.

theres no way out.
a predator hunted
this gang of 13
high school strangers
to the fog of a lake house.

they are shouting
guns!
blood!
pretty!
and baby! from the chest,
from the belly
of the fever beast.

28

July 2.

midway to the center of the matrix,
Troy (the erotic traveler)
finds the object
of his desire his heaven
The Wizard of Oz and Carrie
caught in a game of frantic twister.

29

July 3.

dude, wheres my bunny?

analyze that.

30

July 4.

the patriot returns, broken.
it is a long journey,
far from crimson,
far from fire and ruins
to the more intimate
and stranger underworld
that is New York, and home.

31

July 5.

I now pronounce the breakup.
recall independence?
recall calm friends?
between love and the shaft
we learn a death sentence goodbye
cursed with a sweetheart voice
to cellular apocalypto,
anywhere but here.

are we a mess yet?
no, we are the wolf.
this mask is cut
from the road.
it is a mockery
of ice and sand.

32

July 6.

dear diary
I am the click
of ice and shots.
enchanted by streets,
I own night.
I step into a ghost town
Manhattan.

NESTED DOLLS

CLAYTON ESHLEMAN

Buffalo, New York
NESTED DOLLS by Clayton Eshleman
Copyright 2014




Cover Art by Peter Blegvad

Acknowledgment: This poem appeared, in a different version, in the 2013 summer issue of House Organ

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-163-4

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9

NESTED DOLLS
For Kenneth Warren

Inside Mitt Romney: Paul Ryan.
Inside Paul Ryan: Ayn Rand.
Inside Ayn Rand: William Edward Hickman.
Inside William Edward Hickman:
the dismembered body of Marion Parker.

Coatlicue within Coatlicue again & again.

10

Lady Xoc pulling a thorn-studded rope through her perforated tongue
as a spider transforms its netted prey into liquid
(one might say the spider drinks its witness)
so did the Maya burn blood-spotted fig bark strips to hallucinate double-headed
Vision Serpents in order to glimpse in twining fumes
the blood reciprocity between gods & humankind.

The Irish Sheela-na-gig with grotesque lower abdomen, cavernous oval-shaped
vulva, held-open, so big as to reach the ground.
Sheelas genital areas were rubbed (like the yonis of Hindu goddesses).
Birthing stones may have been placed in their genitals.
Sheelas were drilled, head & body, with holes, portrayed in vertical birth-giving
posture.
Some have protruding amniotic sacs or vertical channels cut below the vulva,
egg-shaped objects lying between their open legs.
Hanging between the open legs of the Romsey Sheela:
a babys head with eyes, nose, and mouth.

11

There are bodies within Hans Bellmers body raising
ocellated hoods.
What do they wish to say?
We are fused in semen saliva seas,
earliest forms rising as protozoa pullets,
vulva bubble breaths.
And the Muse?
Ball-jointed causation rowing buttock skiffs,
Madame Minotaurs proto-loa smile,
her apparition in a sink holes
ink flow
seeping migration.

Wandering disappearance I scratch my rascal & draw ink.
Krazy Kat my amanuensis.

So, what is image? The mage in I?
An imago charged with pupa karma?

12

Image is the reality of the invisible world.

Reflected in every image:
the labyrinth underlying the poem,
the web underlying the labyrinth.

Buried in every image: Minotaur & spider

At Abri Cellier: the neck & head of a blowing horse
crudely engraved in a stone block.
Across the neck a vulva a bit bigger than the horse head
has been gouged.
The original sentence, the original metaphor: Tat Tvam Asi,
Thou art that.

Update: Blondies vulva embedded in Sea Biscuits neck.

13

There has only been one real change: the appearance of being.

As if the night itself is sarcophagus
& we the sleepers in pause between closed-eye vision
& primordial remove.

Absence, the weightless boulder upon which I broods.

Because of nothingness we desire to bloom.

When I view a Munch painting,
I am facing Edvards soul. Morbid, but it is Edvards,
& compared to America in the world
it is lividly affirmative. The courage of this forlorn Norwegian
a hundred years ago to confront the lineaments of melancholia.

O deep good blackness in the heart!

Music for another life.

A COLLABORATIVE TEXT BY

Kristina Marie Darling & Max Avi Kaplan

____________________________________

A COLLABORATIVE TEXT BY

Kristina Marie Darling & Max Avi Kaplan

Music for another life by Kristina Marie Darling & Max Avi Kaplan
Copyright 2014




Interior design and typesetting by Kristina Marie Darling & Max Avi Kaplan
Cover Art by Max Avi Kaplan

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-166-5

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B l a z e V O X


ADELLE

11

ADELLE EXPLAINS LONGING TO THE POLICE

White icing surrounds the happy couple: a bride and groom drowning in
confectioner's sugar. How did I get replaced so quickly? Don't I have the
bluest eyes you've ever seen? And, since you asked, I've always been the one
who held the dessert knife, the one who carved the cake. They met in a
gentlemen's clothing storeat least that's what I heardbut she was a lioness
on the prowl. She kept her secret until they went to dinner a few days later. A
widow with a diamond ring on every finger. He looked right through her,
toward the steak platter, until she said his name. No matter what they tell you, I
did it for his own good.

13

MOTHER'S CHILDREN DON'T COME WHEN SHE CALLS

Your new wife licks salt off the rim of a bright yellow drink. Who gets the little
house in the suburbs if a marriage dissolves? When we first met, on a silver
beach at the end of summer, it was easy to build a life together: dishes rimmed
with green flowers, matching spoons, and dark red napkins. But now you're
asleep on the sofa, wearing the shirt she bought for you at some Memorial Day
sale. If I close my eyes, I can see you all pale blue in another woman's tirelessly
scrubbed kitchen. I've unfastened the clasp on my sandals, now I'm here to
stay. Darling, the new Adelle will iron your pants for work. The man I
remember wouldn't notice the smell of starch, or the tiny burns along her
perfect white wrist.

LIZARD
OR
EASY ANSWERS: THEY ARE NONE
BEING A NOVEL TRACING OF THE YI JING/ I CHING

SEEN TO BY
THOMAS MEYER

Buffalo, New York

LIZARD or EASY ANSWERS: They Are None
Being a Novel Tracing of the Yi Jing/ I Ching
Seen to by Thomas Meyer

Copyright 2013





First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-127-6

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19
1

FULFILLED PROMISE

Implies:

What matters. And lasts.
The Time. Is right. Now.

Imagine:

Every day follows.
An order.

Endlessly.
Attend it.

Unique opportunities. Inspired times. Energy, will. Significant action. Success.
Strength, fruitful, going forward. Avoid pride. Exercise care. Detailed attention. The
potency of light. Creativity. Time to do. Firmness. Knowing.

The ancient carriage: to roll along; to revolve. Curling
vapors rising from the ground and forming clouds
above. The continual movement that creates the
heavens.

Top: Arrogance. Dragon. There is a darkness.

Next to Top: Flying dragon. Across the sky. Good
to see. Someone influential.

20

Fourth: A chance. Leaping across a deep pool. Okay.

Third: Someone. Until the end of day. Busy. Busy. In the evening. Somewhat
worried. Problems. Nothing wrong.

Next: Visible dragon. In a field. Worthwhile to meet with. An important person.

Bottom: Hidden dragon. No use.

Standing Still: Right away. From now on.
[ALL CHANGING LINES: Visible. A crowd. Dragons. Without heads.
Happiness.]

Comment Top: Too much ambition or rigidity has sucked all the life from energies
present. Pride prevents anything from really happening.

Comment Next to Top: Mastery is at hand. Everything is lined up. And possible.
Inspiration and respect.

Comment Fourth: Its now possible to take some chances.

Comment Third: The ability to accomplish the task is now at hand. There will be
some sleepless nights until this energy becomes second nature.

Comment Next: Things are developing. Someone accomplished who perhaps has
no real power, but can advise.

Comment Bottom: The onset of strength or creative energy. But it is just
developing. Do not rely or count on it yet. Though if there seems to be strength
evident, then it must not be used openly.

Comment Unchanging: Deeply significant. What is created now is the basis and
inspiration of everything to come. Any action at this time seals fate. The beginning
can be traced, but what is about to be set into motion will never end.

21
2

RAW MATERIAL

Implies:

Important matters.
Improvement comes.
The mares pace. Steady.

Someone important.
Somewhere to go.

Confusion at first.
A leader is found.

Things improve.

In the West. In the South.
Friends to be made.

In the East. In the North.
Friends are lost.

Quiet. Steady. Happy.

Imagine:

Earths strength is weakness.
Repay this kindness.

22
Take into account.
All that encompasses.

Open, appropriate nature. Adaptation, evolution. Healing and balance. Nurturing,
forgiving. Reticent and complicated. Peace. Like earth, be receptive. Mothering.
Obedient. Flexible.

Earth; soil; ground. The two parallel lines = the
earth that produces & the single upright line = all
things. Two hands extending a rope; the idea of
extension; of expansion. The unfolding of the
material world.

Top: Dragons. Fighting in the wild. Their blood.
Azure. Terra cotta.

Next to Top: Dressed in yellow. From the waist
down. The height of well-being.

Fourth: Tied purse strings. Not well known. Blameless.

Third: Something withheld. A section. Possibilities of a lasting effect. If the starting
point is a public matter. Nothing is accomplished. An end in store.

Next: Direct. Lined up. Extensive. No preparation. Nothing without an advantage.

Bottom: Tracks. Frost. Solid ice. Coming.

Standing Still: Open up.
[ALL LINES CHANGE: An advantage. Unending. Steadfast.]

Comment Top: Aggressive attempts. Self-promotion. Things off kilter. A change is
about to take place.

Comment Next to Top: Modest acts are best. What is presented without fanfare is
recognized more clearly and valued more dearly.

Comment Fourth: Nothing should be done. Keep low and out of sight. Theres
nothing wrong here, though.

23
Comment Third: Keep at it. Avoid attention. Do not seek recognition. Then
development will be natural, following its own pace. The time will come for a public
presence.

Comment Next: Be open and simple, direct. Discard all pretension, protection or
presumptions.

Comment Bottom: A major change is just about to take place. Some hardship.

Comment Unchanging: More refined receptivity to the environment is needed.
Growth and change are checked by subjective opinion. More open an embrace of
the world.

24
3

HARD START

Implies:

Things work out.
For the best.

No use planning anything.

Best.
To get in touch.

With those who can help.

Imagine:

Clouds gather.
Thunder.

Hard going.

Tie up.
Loose ends.

The confusion that attends first moves. A storm to weather.
Little going ahead. Wait. Get help. Everything new born.
That fragility. Congestion at the commencement of any

25
venture. Trouble making progress. Obscurity. Something held in check.

The underground germination. The two cotyledons part from each other; the
curved line represents the struggles of the young plant in order to take root; the
plumule rises above the earth and is brought to light. The initial struggle to bring
anything forth.

Top: Riding a horse. A routine circuit. Tears. Blood. Flowing. Alike.

Next to Top: A hard time keeping a sense of largesse. Details result in well-being.
Major plans bring disaster.

Fourth: Riding a horse. A routine circuit. Or resembling one. Seeking a marriage
contract. Then everything turns out well. Nothing is without an advantage now.

Third: Hunting deer. Without a guide. Wandering in circles. The middle of the
woods. A sensible person understands this. Not giving up now leads to
embarrassment.

Next: A hard going. It seems. Slow. Apparently. Someone riding a horse. A roan. It
looks like. An outlaw? He comes to marry. Or proposes it. The woman is
determined not to answer. Ten years. And it is. Yes.

Bottom: Thing in general. Undecided. Worthwhile to keep at it. Worthwhile
establishing support.

Standing Still: Stick to it.

Comment Top: A due share of responsibility is necessary; otherwise there is worry
about getting nowhere.

Comment Next to Top: the right behavior in small matters. Self-righteousness is
out of place in major situations.

Comment Fourth: Making no headway despite having the means, find friends to
help and everyone will benefit.

Comment Third: A lack of direction and preparation means losing the way. Going
ahead results in regret.

Comment Next: The means may be there, but not the progress. Though it seems
aloof, this may be a wise move, making no premature judgments.

26

Comment Bottom: Hold to correct behavior. Stabilize things. Control.

Comment Unchanging: An unsurmounted obstacle. An unresolved, initial
difficulty. Perhaps unrecognized or unheeded. Progress is blocked. Reorganized
priorities will overcome it.

JANUARY FOUND

MICHAEL SIKKEMA

Buffalo, New York

January Found by Michael Sikkema

Copyright 2014




Cover Art by Michael Dunn

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-170-2

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13

Wander-Rooms and Outside Noise

The animal ghosts have jewelry

in their shit

and experts spent a century trying

to confuse an apple tree

Say some day full

of the eros of thanatos

of fish hinge and reverb

camouflage irony

Will the owners of the cattle

mutilations, cubicle attention

the through shot and blood trail

of the product named naked

please step forward?

14
The Keeper Makes Eye Contact

We range
the field for a lost
sea note

bottled or
otherwise
your stolen bees

won't prosper

15
How to Understand Evolution

Left over like a tailbone

the wind stole the notes

for this section

Whole ones & sharp quarters

with those sweet hats

Try to think more

like a kite on fire

We're halfway there

16
Penned In Perennial

anyone acrobatic enough

in the social box

tethered

to an engine faking

the wind

we all owe ourselves money

17
Wander-Rooms and Outside Noise

More than ready to animal

to hero through the praise

delivered as blame. That tea

bag figure zeroes and zeroes

And that pallet of missing money?

Its in the hiberallucinatory

whiteness with the interactive

penguin toys. Go, give it a go

18
Penned in Perennial

we're on both ends of the pitchfork

each morning every street

we all noticed the sky at once

19
The Keeper Pulls Back the Daily Level

The first fern is
food
musical, add oil
give

a little anthem
gristle
all through
Wyandot

20
Whiskey Nice

unicorn on the cob

FANTASIAS IN COUNTING

SOPHIE SEITA

Buffalo, New York
Fantasias in Counting by Sophie Seita
Copyright 2014

Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without

Cover Art by Anna Moser

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-172-6

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publ i sher of wei rd l i ttl e books

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3, 4

3,4

13
1. 1. Di ctator-Pl aymobi l .

[Speaker(s), without irony]

Jede Frau mit einer Erektion spielt einen Despoten. Dictaphone.

Ticktickjahkshsgffnsaaaa. [typewritersound]

Everything fake because nobody no longer typewriter.

More like:

Yes here. Das Keyboard ficken.

Bear it.

Is not funny, is anxious.

[Plays a melody on the piano. Swing or something. Or something that makes the toes tap.]
[heckling: Distraction! Self-flagellation!]

Disputable out, ultimate off, interfering play with timid bias.
Always just births.

Everything top-secret.

Gaze: searchingly benign very well very well yes most probably gracious. [Sigh]

[Ommm]

14
1. 2. What i ts Use: A Conversati on / A Pasti me.

[Enter a French philosopher F as referee and another French philosopher D dressed as Pirate
Jenny from Brechts Three-Penny Opera.]

F: Self-realisation.
D: Mmh.
F: William Burroughs after hypnosis.
D: William Burroughs after hes read Johannes Mario Simmels Love is Just a Word.
F: Hasnt read it.

[Street organ plays the first bars of The Ballad of Mack the Knife.]

D: Wrong song / dummy song.
F: You promised me a rabbit.
D: Never being finished / never halting Did I switch off the cooker?
F: Come, Ill hold you a little. [lifts a porcelain ballerina figurine off the floor, holds her.]
D: Enclosed. Everywhere. Permanently. [feigned panic]
F: Like a boxing glove.
D: ?
F: Forgotten on the parquet. When are you giving me the fur?
D: Forgotten.
F: OK.

15
1. 3. The Theatri cal i ty and Functi onal i ty of Categori es: The Ref ormul ati on of
Gesture.

The subversive subject has lost. Now only irrational measures.

[Begins to play a rhythm on or with scattered sounding-materialwhatever is available. Ideally,
this is a polyrhythm or cross-rhythm, either 4:3 or 5:3, or even better 4/4 : 4/3 or 2/5 : 2/3 or
something of that kind; over the repeatedly spoken phrases: no I cannot; no you cannot (ad lib
with pleasure)]

16
1. 4. OK. And Now.

[Reads text from paper]

Listen up to discontinue/halting
You will think
slow
works too
itself like

feels

[Last look at audience]

[From now on no longer speak for the audience but also not to the audience]

Not for the little anecdote.

Bye angst. / Adieu angst.

17
1. 5. Ei nes.

[Possibly speaker from 1.1.]

a craving a hankering just one even if countable is not a door neither open nor closed.
analogies being uncountable. and yet what is one as if it was only one as if it was recountable.

stand up and speak with me.
do you see me?

a craving and a film and an account are capable they can. could me. dear dear so
simple/modest // oh-so-so plainly. do something. if not then something must. on on on.
why, yes, one can, yes. if one wants. if one cracks it open, sallies out / if one cracks open the,
if one starts for

Honey
Patty
Pudding
Pie.

a craving so little as that like as if it (then) would be then it would be simple.
simple and countable. more simply countable. a slice please. much cream. here on the belly
button. like this it works so-so / it works like this too / same here it goes that way, too. cannot
be counted, only done.

to gainsay / object tothe perfect splodge of creamthe perfect caveatis more
pithy/meaty/densely and borrows itself and probably can be practised, not counted, but clever
and like a tea-set pretty to look at. porcelain. multiple parts/portions. firm for the dishwasher.
well then.

18
and still. / continuing still. / still continues. better. more tender(ly) / gentler. white and many
many more. and many many many they are not one if it was one that would be better. and
whiter. but it pitches/raises/institutes and yanks itself/wrests itself up to a landing/touchdown
yes almost unwatched/quite unobserved/under the radar just just without any truly without any.
in observance one can regard this provisional(ly). floating. thinks yes expedient / conveniently
usable and mixes/mingles (itself) quite queerly/peculiar.

modest/simple and mixed you hold it in parts/portions because as you name it it is
parts/portions even if you think Unity it isnt youre holding the hip arent you there you go a
part. entangled and thorny/shaky and hunterly such a coincidence yes one just one just is
enough. one pudding. makes full.

not every forage/flurry/fossicking makes hungry.

an exceedingly odd holding. / a most peculiar holding.

19
1. 6. Just / Onl y.

[Speaker, and D and F from 1.2.]

What are these womens voices
And moose
Monsieur F did you hear that
She was mistaken there / She was off base
Monsieur D says she was misplaced / She laid herself off (base)
Ah
Irksome/bothersome
Shoulder or hip
Monsieur D whispers in my ear bygone / elapsed / departed
Monsieur F equally uncurbed / unchecked / off the bat
D: The best decisions.
F: The best preambles.
D: Predominantly delivered / recited.
I ask: Back?
F: Ah yes this is silver.
D: No-no its porcelain.
F: Why do you always
D: Yes-yes good old times. Somewhere you write you once bit on a tiny cherry pit.
F: Yes in the pudding.
D: Well, I never! just fancy!
I ask: What exactly?
F: You said/thought youd heard something I think you want to slip me the fake rabbit again /
palm it off on me.
D: Its not (a) rabbit, its (a) moose. Real and very gentle/tame for putting/laying round ones
shoulder.

20
F: Or the hip.
D: Or the hip.
F: What did you say
I: I said something
F: Many things that were said to me I didnt understand. They didnt seem to me to be quite
French. / I didnt deem them to be quite French. / I didnt seem to be quite French.
D: They were masked.
F: When they raided the village. And always they take the women with them. And honey.
D: She sings so beautifully. Why dont you listen come on listen cant you hear
F: This name I know! This title
D: Do they have enough dots spots enough colour for your taste? / Are they dotted enough are
they coloured enough? The parts do they

Yes they can listen/hear and concuss/shake because one can really and the adequate/the
sufficing/the enough can be heard very tame in every centre is the most normal of the normal
believe me.
But I did stand up.
Im rubbing the one little shoe sole. Lets suppose it was a could.
Once hurrumph briefly yes helps doesnt it mmh it is is it probable or probable that it

21
1. 7. Counti ng.

[Fs ballerina appears again. Also Ds Pirate Jenny apron. Also the person who drummed the
rhythm in 1.3. The scene completely without anything loud to be heard.]

[The same sits on a chair / table / floor / cupboardimmaterialwaits, counts inwardly the
same rhythms from before but unhearable. Then wraps the apron gently around the ballerina.

And holds her.]

22
[Part I I . Positions are held from the last scene, still, no movement, no speaking. A pre-
recorded German version of the piece starts playing through loudspeakers.]

1. 1. Di ktator-Pl aymobi l .

[Sprecher, ohne Ironie]

Every woman with an erection plays a despot. Diktiergert.

Ticktickjahkshsgffnsaaaa. [Schreibmaschinengerusch]

[Kleiner Orgasmus, aber leise]

Alles fake da niemand mehr Schreibmaschine.

Mehr so:

Ah genau. Mmmh. Genau so. Genau hier. Fucking the keyboard.

[Spielt eine Note auf dem E-Piano, 80er Synthesizer Stil, den Halte-Bogen haltendwenn zu
affektiert, dann weglassen oder erst recht machen.]

Aushalten.

Is nicht witzig, is ngstlich.

23
[Spielt eine kleine Melodie. Swing oder so. Oder irgendwas, das die Fe zum Wippen bringt]
[Zwischenrufe: Ablenkung! Selbst-Geielung!]

anfechtbares Auen, ultimatives fair play, besorgtes befangenes, gab noch nie Zeit // Immer
Geburten.

Meine Mutter heit Hannah. Arendt.

Alles top-secret.

Blick: prfend mild wohl ja wohl huldvoll. [seufz]
Jetzt: Gedanken zgeln und prfen.
Prfen und zgeln.
[Ommm]

DEAR DARWISH

MORANI KORNBERG-WEISS

Buffalo, New York

DEAR DARWISH
by Morani Kornberg-Weiss

Copyright 2014 Morani Kornberg-Weiss




Book Design by Geoffrey Gatza
Cover Art by Know Hope

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-150-4

BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
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21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

17
Dear Mahmoud Darwish,

I want to write poems about Israel and Palestine but I am
at loss. What language can I use?
Jack Spicer wrote letters to the late Federico Garcia
Lorca and explained that their correspondence would enable
them to use up their rhetoric so it would not appear in their
poetry. He writes, Let it be consumed paragraph by paragraph,
day by day, until nothing of it is left in it. I write to you in hopes
of leaving it aside.
Mahmoud, I recently encountered these lines in a poem:
how many Arabs for each
Israeli
Mahmoud, there was another prisoner swap. An Israeli
soldier held captive for five years was released in exchange for
1,027 prisoners. There were images of Palestinians who had
blood on their hands and then I met J.H. and he asked me if
Gilad Shalit also had blood on his hands and I wonder how
many Palestinians died while he was serving in a tank. I imagine
a frightened young Gilad in a deafening tank following dumb
orders dumbly. We all saw photos of Aziz Salha with blood on
his hands but nobody thought about the blood on Gilads hands,
myself included.
That marks one difference between Israelis and
Palestinians: so many Israelis walk around with blood on their
hands, hands soaked in red, red hands shaking, exchanging
blood, patting a bloody hand on ones shoulder, leaving a trace of
a hand, a hand running through ones hair, scratching a nose,
leaving creases of liquid clotted and dried up on the cheekbones,
taking a bath and then running a hand over ones arms, arm pits,
breasts then thighs, genitals, feet all covered with blood, blood
trying to wash itself but its a blood so ordinary you cannot even
see it.
I write this letter.
Red fingerprints smear on the page.
Mahmoud, the IDF prefers that women keep their gentle
hands clean, but we are dirty.
Mahmoud, Spicer spoke of tradition as generations of
different poets in different countries patiently telling the same
story, writing the same poem, gaining and losing something with

18
each transformation but, of course, never really losing
anything.
Mahmoud, if I am an Israeli woman living in Buffalo and
you reside in IsraelPalestine on my bookshelf and I read and
transform your poems, are we still telling the same story?
Mahmoud, do I have the right to use your words? Mahmoud,
would you grant me permission to do this? Can we work
together to define it and its possibilities?

?

Should we use English?

!"#$%&'( ")*'( +,-./0 12 30045# 67

Let me try:

You ask: Who Am I, Without Exile?
(This is the title of my transformation.)

You are a stranger on the riverbank,
like the water river
binds me to your name.
Nothing carries me or makes me carry an idea.
Water
binds me
to your name...
Theres nothing left of you but me
(I tried stealing this from you.)

Let me try again:

In Time of Plague
(I am now borrowing from Spicer.)

It took us and the land from under us
it soiled our hands like water:
Red stained cracks leaving
fingerprints layered with handshakes.
Red stained handles on the door

19
of a bus designed from the ground
upwards. Red stained water
escalating like the bricks
of demolished houses.

We have been planting
signs on the side of the road
like one thousand
bulbs under fresh earth stolen
by neighborhood squirrels.
They eat our red-stained seeds digest
the preborn and run up trees.

You ask, Who Am I, Without Exile? I
answer: You are the bulb of the pregrown
plant carried in the stomach
of a squirrel. You ask: Who Are You,
Without Exile? I answer: I am
wandering exile seeping my roots
in our land. You are now
the squirrel eating our bulbs snapping
water lines lifting sidewalks and we both
share the blood on our hands while I
wash them use soap and water
soap and bleach I scrub I
scrub I scrub hard until my
skin peels until I scratch the skin off
I am scrubbing my muscles and I
scrub I scrub I scrub and scrub my
bones and I scrub peel the red
peel the red peel the red until this body
becomes nothing.

I am a skeleton walking among poets.

Mahmoud,
Please teach me how to li(v)e with these stains.

Love,

M

20
God dressed up like a soldier today
and yelled at the top of Gods lungs:
Kid, get the fuck out of there or
Ill smash your face.

There was video footage too.
A stone. A junction. A car.

One doesnt calculate the toss.

It isnt mapped out.
Or planned.

It requires a certain spontaneity.
A reaction to circumstance.

21
Dear Mahmoud,

I often feel like a hostage
confined to my own history.

The world is a dark room and
I am chained to the wall.

My body pressed against
cold brick loses
trace of itself.

It is stifling in here.
I can barely breathe.
The air is thick.
I taste it.

Lips damp.
Smell of excrement
and blood. Fluorescent
blubs. Electrical discharge
turned into heat. Then
the ice. Toes numb.

I starve.
I am exhausted. And when
I let my imagination
go there
I hear others.

I feel eyes on me.
The sound of smugness scorn
of satisfaction
in the corner.

Thighs attempt to remain stable.
Feet covered in urine.
Cuts burn. I try to
think
of something else.
But a voice yells.

22
Asks questions. And
more questions and
repeats the questions.
Demands confessions.

I can only commit to my birth:
to encountering life
at a certain point in time.

I am not responsible for this.

I try to raise a hand
to crease the limbs
lines according to their design.

A hand enters the stomach
pressing through the intestines
pushing up towards the throat
opening the mouth
moving the lips. They say:
I did it. It was me.

Every time I fight it
the heavy metal pushed in
dictates
every move and gesture.

The hand remains in the throat
mimicking a discourse.
I did it. I say.
It was me.

They hang
by shackles.
Low concrete wall.
Strengthen the hood.
Kick. Push. Burn. Beat
with the butt of a rifle.

The voice yells.
Asks. Questions.

23
The room
windowless
barely the size
of the mattress.

I say:
I am your amnesia.
The blind spot of the mid-century.

The metal confirmed on wrists
eroding into the skin
cold and cumbersome.

A body toyed with.
A pile of limbs.

Something entered here.
It hurts. I cant tell
them to stop.

This is the story
I could have told
had you unsealed my mouth.

I was born on that day.
Life, initially, is about unintention.
Possibility is frightening.

I am here because
my freedom
is terrifying and
when people do not
want to see something
they get mad at
the one who shows them.

They kill the messenger.

24
Mahmoud,

because doing this
is exceedingly difficult

and I should try

to allow myself

to feel less distracted.

CRUELTY

JEFFERSON HANSEN

Buffalo, New York

CRUELTY
by Jefferson Hansen

Copyright 2014




Interior design, cover art and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-157-3

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21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

11
Raccoon

The interior of my skin sags. My finger and toenails grow
yellow and crack and split. Time is the slow, weak pulse in
my kidney, the effort to raise a single finger. The tick-tock is
for another world, the one of cares and concerns, the one I
left and long for, the one from which I have been banished.

The raccoon has grey fur.
The raccoon has a facial mask of black and white.
The raccoons front paws scratch the outside of my skin. They
scratch the underside of my skin, too.
A mask never smiles, is frozen as a corpse.

In the afternoon block clouds risegrey and dense as rage.
I cannot tell if they are outside me or inside. The animals all
grow quiet, waiting and wondering, I guess. Like me.

I went animal before I knew it. In my mothers womb. And
I fled from that reality, as we all do, in the distractions
distractions lasting a lifetime. Oh, the stories. Oh, the
poems. Oh, the songs. Oh, the promotions, the brilliance,
the one-of-a-kind deal, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity
that all means bunk, now.

Those eyes I wanted so much to fall on me

I laugh.

12
Yesterday I saw a butterfly flit and fly, scoop and lift its way
about the crevices of a window. I may have imagined, but
none of that matters, not anymore.

Some say decaying neurons create the image of butterflies.

Some say a lot of things. No matter. I saw a butterfly: pick
the significance.

Raccoons may be intelligent, according to some studies.
Raccoons may remember tasks for up to three years after first
figuring them out.
Raccoons sink their claws into the skin of my ankle, crawl up
my leg, and I stop caring.
A live raccoon rests on my head, sniffing, coalescing a world
for itself, indifferent to me, to me, to me.
My concerns no longer hit any others sensation, perception,
radar.

To sag is to stretch; to stretch is to accept time, real time,
not the time clock, not the punching or the tick-tocking. We
are all sagging fruit, growing moldy, and by the time we cave
we are no longer fun to eat.

I am overripe and stink like apples and cheese left in a
warm, small apartment.

People hover aroundI used to love and be lovedand I
feel obligated and dutiful even though I stopped caring
more than an eternity ago.

Some boundaries are absolute. Or so I think.

Raccoons have a voluminous braincase.

13
Their front paws are protected by a bone-like layer that
becomes pliable when wet.
The raccoons on the outside want in, and the raccoons on the
inside want out.

(We humans all have a totemic animal whether we
acknowledge it or not. It is the life of us. It will be the death
of us.)

I see the butterfly again. I idly watch it flit around, in and
out of the sunbeam. Raccoons sit in each corner, itching
their snout or twitching their eyes, watching me as just
another object.

To decay is to live; to live is to decay.

I always said I would go with no regrets. (Clouds block and
bank white, deep grey, charcoal.) I always said I would go
with no regrets. (In that distant, other world, that I can see
glinting at the horizon, I could have been more and now it
doesnt matter.)

No regrets. (I hear a slight breeze and imagine a few
dandelion spores tumbling away.)

No regrets. (I stink as my room did in 6th grade when I
missed school for over a week, and my mother grew tired of
cleaning out my bucket.)

No regrets, I say. No regrets. That is another world, another
world.

Stay away, please.

No regrets.

14

I say.

I ground my teeth until they ached. I forgot everything
but white.

(This is the
this is the
this is the
raccoon speaking.
We are all of us
all of us
all of us
omnivores.)

15
Alice

Go ask Alice, when shes 10 feet tall.
The Jefferson Airplane

On that strange day my 15-year-old daughter grew
six inches, then lost back five by sundown, for a total of a
plus one gain.

It was snowing and the windshield wipers didnt
work. Instead, they caked the snow into a thin patch of ice
layering the outside of the glass. This hampered visibility. So
we pulled off the highway and into a convenience store. My
daughter told me she didnt like the place because it was too
antiseptically clean. I said that we needed to do what we
needed to do. A clerk got the manager. A portly, cheerful
man waddled out of a back office and in an upbeat voice
told us that he couldnt help us, but some fellows down the
street could. Now, theyre not too professional looking, I
got to tell you. But theyre good guys. He told us where to
go.
Outside, the snow came thicker. From the
windshield, I picked it and the ice off with a brush and
scraper. Then we headed to the service station.
It was a weather-beaten shack. Inside, it stank of oil.
An old man in a thick flannel shirt sat on a wooden rocker
in front of a gas furnace. He had a greasy afghan on his lap.
A younger, hairy manlong beard and long haircame out
and greeted me. The only clean thing about him was an
immaculately polished silver Christian cross that hung
around his neck. I told him our difficulties, and he took one

16
step out, saw our car, and disappeared into a back room. I
asked the old man where the toilet was. He grinned
toothless and directed me to a place that was lit only by a
slit of a window, but it was enough to tell me I wanted to
touch nothing. There was a bowl of what looked to be stale
pretzels in there. I didnt touch them.
When I walked out of the bathroom, the hairy man
was walking back into the shack carrying a wrench. Nice
daughter, he said. Its done. I asked him how much, and
he just said, Merry Christmas. Some nuts just needed
tightening. Saturns are like that. Have a good trip. I
mentioned to the old guy how nice the hairy guy was. He
said that oh yeah, he was.
As I walked toward the car, I noticed an average-
sized guy in a three-piece suit leaning against the shack. As I
began to get in the car, he grew enormous and walked up to
me. I stood facing his enormous chest. Back inside, he
said. I told him that we needed to get back on the road. I
dont have all day. Inside. He took three long strides in
alligator skin cowboy boots back into the shack. I slowly
followed. He stood in the middle of the room, next to the
old man, who seemed to be squirming deep into the rocking
chair.
Nothing is done pro bono in this fine facility.
Aw, come on, Dad. Its Christmas, said the greasy,
hairy guy.
Butt out, Junior, he said out of the corner of his
mouth. I said there is nothing pro bono. That will cost you
$100 for the repair and $10 interest per minute that you
didnt pay. Thats $150. Pay up. No checks. He cracked his
enormous knuckles. I noticed that he was cricking his neck
so that his head wouldnt rub against the low ceiling. His
face was square and not unhandsome.
Now its $160. Another minute has gone by. I was
paralyzed. Living a movie moment will do that to you.

17
$170, he said. I noticed the old man, now like a little dog
under the afghan, shoot me a look of pity and fear from the
corners of his sunken eyes.
A short old woman hobbled through the door using
a cane. She complained about how hard it was not to slip in
such weather. She took one look at the behemoth and
pulled up. Now what on earth is going on here, junior?
There was a little bustle behind the behemoth. Dont you
skulk away! she shot at the hairy guy.
Gramms, he whined.
I get it. Junior! The behemoth seemed to lose
about a foot in height. Are you messing with Arthur? The
old man squeaked that all was fine. He now looked like a
beetle under an afghan. Then youre messin with this guy.
She pointed her cane at me. Whats he doin to you? The
hairy guy snuck away into the shop. Speak up!
I dont rightly know.
That your daughter out there in the car?
Yeah.
Then you best be a good daddy and get the hell out
of here.
By the love of Jesus Christ nobody is leaving here
without paying me, said the shrinking behemoth.
Put that gosh darn thing away. The behemoth was
now shorter than me. He also held a Glock. Put it away,
fool. She looked at me. Its not even loaded. The short
behemoth put a shot into the ceiling. Fool, you put a hole
in my ceiling! She pointed her cane at me. Move! she
shouted. I ran back to my car. I heard another shot. As we
drove toward the freeway, I called 911 and reported the
shooting. Im getting out of here, though.
Daddy, Im stuck, said my daughter. I glanced
back to see her head touching the ceiling in the backseat of
the car. I told her to just hang on and, after getting back on
the highway, stopped at the first rest stop. I checked on her.

18
Had she grown! I yanked the drivers seat into a forward
position and eased her out of the car. I expected her to be a
little woozy from the spurt, but she was spry as could be.
Im thirsty, she said.
We went inside to get a soda pop for her. It was
strange to now only come up to my daughters jawbone.
Once inside, my daughter complained about the
immaculately clean rest stop house. It makes me
claustrophobic, she whined.
A short woman walked up to me and ignored my
daughter. Thats one big kid you got there. Were you at
that redneck garage up Faribault way? Thats where I shrank
a couple hours ago. Im waiting to grow back up. I hate
being short. It just reminds me of that Randy Newman
song. I cant get the stupid thing out of my head. The
womans torso was almost square, and her face sat atop it
like a misshapen pumpkin.
Im sorry.
Dont be, sweetie, she shrugged. Time heals
everything, especially what happens at that weirdo service
station. Bizarre place, I tell you. One time, I saw a guy get
shot there, and the bullet went straight through him, then
stopped in mid-air behind him, reversed tracks and, on the
way through backwards, repaired the damage. Incredible.
The guy was good as new. She paused and shook her head.
Yep, its taking a little longer with me. She giggledher
little mouth widening in the middle of the pumpkin. Youd
never guess Im actually cute, would you sweetie?
Daddy, I got my pop. I pivoted and left the
woman alone. My daughter had seemed to shrink a little
alreadyI was now up to her cheekbut thought it best to
mention nothing. You know how teenagers can get. I told
her to drive, for practice, because she had a permit and was
working toward her license. Ah, Daddy, do I have to? I
wont know how far back to put the seat?

19
Itll be good practice, I said. It will help you get
used to weird situations. She rolled her eyes and got
behind the wheel. As she entered the freeway she drove
over a sign that had fallen over the right part of the ramp
and blew a tire.
Oh my God! What should I do? We had a BLOW
OUT.
Drive over to the shoulder, honey, and stop. It will
be okay. This happens all the time. She kept saying, Oh
my God! but handled it perfectly. I jumped out and
retrieved the jack. But a piece was missing. I couldnt get the
car in the air to put the spare on. I called AAA.
My daughter and I sat in the car and debated the
best kinds of appleswhile she shrunk. She held out for
Granny Smith while I argued for delicious. I emphasized
sweetness, she snappiness. She thought consistency was
more important. The AAA driver finally arrived and told us
that even the wheel had gotten a massive dent. Not
drivable. I will tow you to the service station in Fairbault.
No, I said. They shoot each other there and
grow and stuff.
Thats true, he said. But nobody really gets hurt.
Hop in. You have no choice, buddy. My daughter and I
jumped into the tow truck. I put my arm around her. There
was a lug wrench at our feet. The driver lit up a fat cigar.
Excuse the cigar, but I drive like shit if Im not smoking.
He rolled down the window and puffed away as we made
our way back to the cursed place. My heart throbbed.

We arrived back to find a structure that was the
same shape but was no longer a shack: it was immaculate.
Hey, I liked it the way it was before. Clean sucks, said my
daughter. The driver assured my daughter that it would
change back soon enough. Oh, she said. Good.

20
I trembled as I walked toward the door, my
daughter at my heels. I started as I opened it: it was the
same ragamuffin place inside as before. The grease. The old
man sitting under an afghan. The hairy guy just said, Hey,
and ignored me. I said, Straw, as a rejoinder just to be
silly. Something smacked my Adams apple and I looked up
to see granny holding her cane right at my neck.
You sassin my grandson? she asked, her eyes
fierce.
No. I paused. I was just here.
Impossible. I am a devotee of Heraclitus, among
other early Greek philosophers. You can never step in the
same river twice. Therefore, you are not the you that came
here whenever you were here before. And I am not the
same I you saw before. All is radical, absolute change. Do
you want to see me naked?
Uh
I asked you a question, fool. Do you want to see
me naked?
I figured I should say, yes, so as not to offend
what could be her female vanity, and did so. Sorry, buster,
only the mirror sees this happy vagina. Ha-ha, she said.
Would you like to see my wide assortment of vibrators?
No.
Here you go. She was suddenly a naked, young,
somewhat large woman. She threw the cane at my throat. It
connected, but hurt not at all. She reached behind the
greasy couch and brought out a huge box of multi-colored
vibrators and dildos, which she dropped on the floor in
front of the couch. Then she sat down. I like to sit on this
greasy thing and get off. Once in a while Arthur comes over
and makes glorious love to me, but I only let him do it
when he is in one of his young phases. Old men gross me
out, especially ones with no teeth. Aint that right, Art, ol
boy?

21
Thats right, mumbled Arthur through his bare
gums, as he pulled the Afghan all the way up to his chin, so
that it covered his entire body, and he looked like a talking
old man head. Thats right. And I makes love good.
Oh, youre all right. Youll do.
Thats all I ask for, baby.
Im not your baby, now. Youre old. The young
old woman now sat on the greasy couch. I feel like
shooting someone, she said. She pulled a six-shooting
revolver out of the skin right above her hip bone and shot
my daughter, who gulped, in the stomach. As the woman at
the rest stop described, the bullet quickly stopped about two
feet beyond my daughter, then went straight back and
repaired all the damage it had done.
Daddy, that was weird, but it was kind of fun. Like
a roller coaster. I like this place. She turned to the granny.
You look good naked.
Thanks, dearie. I like the way I look, too, in spite
of the fashion industry that would have me think Im fat.
Would you like to talk philosophical intricacies? My
daughter plopped down next to the young old granny and
said she would. It was quite a sight: an unashamed heavier
woman naked in all her glory sitting on a greasy couch next
to my rail-thin daughter who wore diaper safety pins as
earrings and dressed all in black.
To begin, with Thales one must always be careful,
since all we know of him comes in fragments, many of
which were reported by others in dialogues. Poor Thales!
But what we know is that he believed all is water.
Philosophers, bless their sorry souls, like to point out that
the importance of this claim was that he was attempting to
find an ultimate principle. They say this is the start of
philosophy, which then got off to a bang with Plato and his
Forms, which were an attempt to account for the many and
the one. However, Plato is a punk. A mere punk. Because

22
philosophy is ultimately, my dear one, poetic. Thales knew
this because he preceded Plato and therefore did not live in
the 4,000 year Platonic hangover called Western philosophy.
Water is a metaphor, my dear.
I thought this was going to be a discussion, like,
where we both get to talk. This seems like a lecture.
Sit back, dear, youre being lectured by one of the
great ones!
Oh, okay, said my daughter. She dutifully looked
the naked woman in the face. Could this be my rebellious
daughter?
Water is a metaphor, springing from the ubiquity
of moisture. The earth sits on a bed of water, and is itself
moist. How else can the flora and fauna draw the nutrient
of water from it? The earth is fairly frozen water, but not
absolutely. The air is water in its vapor form. The streams
and oceans and lakes are water in its fluid form. But this is
all interchangeable.
And that is where Heraclitus comes in. For he
extended the metaphor by emphasizing fluidity. For
Heraclitus, nothing subsists; there is no substance. All
changes all the time absolutely. Think about heating an ice
cube: it goes from solidearthto fluidwater itselfto
airvaporin the course of a few short minutes. We, my
dear, are water.
In my biology class the teacher said we are about
85% water.
Thats science, which is bunk. I have proven that
with my service station here, which is itself an ode to water,
to Heraclitus and Thales, to prove the poetry of their
assertions on an empirical basis. I consider it the return of
the repressed in Western thought: and I am demonstrating
it in Faribault rather than New York City because I believe
in radical democracy and its twindecentering.

23
Kinda like a work of art in nowhere to show that
everywhere is nothing.
Sweetie, you have it going on, said the naked
granny. Would you care for some scrambled eggs?
Yes, with Tobasco sauce.
Thats stuffs bad for your stomach. Will Heinz
ketchup do?
Yes. The hairy guy walked in from the garage. His
long beard was no longer smooth, but composed of sizable
triangles, cut right out of the mange, from the tip to the
cheek and chin.
Granny, get dressed. You will alienate customers.
This service station is not dedicated to the
Mammon of profits, but to learningthrough the empirical
demonstration of metaphorical principles. Buzz off, Junior.
Junior rolled his eyes.
I got your new wheel on. It will be about $320
parts and labor. I also rotated the tires.
Im so sorry, Daddy, that I drove over that sign.
Nothing to worry about, honey. It was an
accident.
You have a good daddy, sweetie, said the granny.
Ill get those eggs started. You want some, daddy?
Why not.
The granny disappeared into a back room and
reappeared within a minute with three plates, one balanced
on her forearm like a waitress, of perfect scrambled eggs
and a plastic bottle of Heinz. She gave one to Junior and
commanded him to eat it because it would be good for his
indigestion.
As she turned to us with the remaining plates she
became old again, her sagging skin translucent in places,
revealing capillaries, wrinkles everywhere. She limped over
and handed us the plates and the bottle. You dont get any,

24
Art, because you need to lose weight, she said to the tiny
old man.
Grannies dont need to eat, she said. She watched
my daughter gobble down the eggs.
These are the best eggs I ever had, she exclaimed.
Of course. I made them, didnt I? Do not think I
am a Narcissist or have an undue expansive view of my
abilities. My construction of self comes from the sober
assessment of an old lady: I am one who simply kicks butt
in everything I do.
Oh, said my daughter.

After cleaning the dishes, the naked granny kissed
my daughter long on the lips, punched me hard in the
shoulder, and told us to buzz off. I gave my daughter the
keys, and as she worked her way toward the freeway, I
looked back at the immaculate-on-the-outside service
station. I saw it melt into a puddle of aluminum, then billow
round and up in a vapor cloud, only to be dissipated forever
by the winds. I saw that in the rear view mirror, said my
daughter. Its sad that we cant see granny on the way
home. But I get her. Shes now moving through the whole
atmosphere. And we all breathe her. Shes in us, and shes
our best part.

CELLULOID SALUTATIONS

(AN OXYMORONIC ODE TO LESLIE SCALAPINO)

0R: A POEM FOR THE EMPTINESS IN ANIMALS BELLY

ELIZABETH BLOCK

Buffalo, New York
CELLULOID SALUTATIONS
by Elizabeth Block

Copyright 2014




Cover image: Amanda Hughen, Electroembryonic, acrylic paint, ink, and pencil on mylar, 6x6 inches, 2009

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-122-1

BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217

Editor@blazevox.org


BlazeVOX [ books ]

blazevox.org

21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

15

Make Haste, Slowly

After night

night, winter and summer storms of torment, the like-arrow stillness of weather fine, their
court, without, held interference. Had (listening there any been to listen one), the, from
rooms upper empty, the only house chaos gigantic lighting streaked with have, could, heard,
been tossing and tumbling: the wind as the waves themselves disported, amorphous,

like the bulks whose leviathans are brows pierced by light no reason of; mounted and on one
another top and plunged, lunged darkness in the daylight or (night for day and, month year
and shapelessly together ran) in games idiot, it, until seemed if as universethe battling
were tumbling confusion, in brute want and lust

itself aimlessly by.

16

The shadows,

only of trees. The flourishing wind in obeisance made the wall, on, for, and darkened moment
in the pool, which reflected and suspected light itself. Birds, or flying a made spot soft, slowly
flutter, across floor bedroom of night dreams fumbling mumble of whatleft their heads
across the way.

To the going, light, what but does one send?
Alone, green-gray, faltering the house, light the wall on opposite. The places empty. Were
such parts of the somehow, fan.

But them together, bring.

17

She wants to whirl

out of nowhere

she gets up, it is dark.

The buzzing of the little head she thought she knew,
she thought maybe it was another day not to begin, but to sing,
she wanted it out of her mouth, the taste waiting into the, who is it that calls her

18

perhaps nobody can tell you about the dizzy dance; she moves through layers of noise, what
kind of noise, we dont know yet, the person bad that her took away is not now dead, but in
her head, she tells that one is out of sight,

now mind out of
too.

It-was-it tentative, gradual, one as goes a shelving down beach sea into deepening, with and
knowledge lying dangers ofthat path? For the lozenges, often-times pulmonary relief,
efficacy on affectations, opium within contained, disavowing clamorously an alliance,
suspicious.

19

Back to the ultraviolet burst, the lighthouse retrieved, centrifuge
a tittle.

(Not present, no)

20

It-was-it tentative, gradual, one as goes a shelving down beach sea into deepening, with and
knowledge lying dangers ofthat path? For the lozenges, oftentimes pulmonary relief,
efficacy on affectations, opium within contained, disavowing clamorously an

alliance, suspicious.

21

Procrastination dreadful.

Mad, idiosyncratic in ways, they go. Lurching, and through cloudbanks, high flying and ether.
But inconstant colors ravishing.
Aspirationfitful, fragmentedfunny. Respiration. Ice across crystal fields.

Moon me to the fly.

Moon pallid,
wheel.

22

Moon pallid,
wheel.

Animal Animal Animal
Forgive me
You came at me, staggering,

Projective, wailing attack

23

My breasts aflame
Sucking
Pumping
Sucking
Pumping my way out of this

The tear of this is my birth story what is yours?

I mean, I cannot pump my way out of this
And time has passed
Animal

Not just now, forever, and yesterday, and tomorrow
This is my birth story
Not the placenta I dragged behind

Moon me to the fly.

II: Like Automatic

27

Seeing Automatic (like Automatic Writing)

1.

Sounds inarticulate
recognizable without
uttered vigorously meaning rigorous
vociferation as discern
objectively ecstatic or
Tongues
in speaking; the utterance-when feeble
perception
subjective noise
confused
voices many same time of talking
same made up

Automatic in action, the, of, apparatus-seeing muscular.

2.

The hand same the sentence or word again and over over (writing-mirror, seeing, etc.,
anagrams).

Perception subjective again: sentence the same or over-heard, e.g.,

28

eat, do not
or strange words, non-dictionariable words: grak-lolch, rorrim.

3.

Perception again
subjective
strange voices Im hearing
you hear
made are thoughts up for me (develops this case out of sometimes former the)
perception
objective/not
prophecy sonambulate

Often long the write hands, complicated, the to consciousness, sublime
belonging.

4.

: perception, the subject:
thinking double audible thinking
attacks of chattering chit chat
spasms-mime-y

coordinated

The write hands consciously what the thinking is person, but person the not does
intention write the influence.

5.

voices directed, pleasure

Writes the hand (automatically), the train conscious of thought, the of, part on the
communication influences place where the:

29

Instinct
Never waiting to see
A fancy neighborhood
Dog
Mean

Mauls a 13 year old girl
My 1 year-old
A witness

Trapped in the car

30

She never forgets the past

Gone:

31

Are we not?

ATBOALGFPOPASASBIFL: Irritations, Excrement & Wipes

JARED SCHICKLING

Buffalo, New York

atboalgfpopasasbifl: Irritations, Excrement & Wipes
by JARED SCHICKLING

Copyright 2014




Interior design, cover and typesetting by Jared Schickling
Photography by Alec Maslowski
Mise en page by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-161-0
Library of Congress Control Number: incoming

BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217

Editor@blazevox.org


BlazeVOX [ books ]

blazevox.org

21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

11

against the background of a likely global future population of parasites a
small androgynous swelling between its fetal legs
(ATBOALGFPOPASASBIFL)

12

M:

While the King sitteth at his table,
my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.

13
The utility of sexual reproduction at the level of the gene
The role of sex is to preserve genes especially

What may become but is currently
not advantageous

Against the background of a likely
Future population of parasites

Two consecutive generations might face
Different selective pressures if

This change is rapid enough
It might explain the persistence of sex for

An evolutionary system continuing development
Is needed just in order to maintain its

Fitness relative to what
It is co-evolving with

This march of morphology and species compositions
Through time

By random perturbations to the physical environment
Such as climate change, tectonic events

Rather than biotic interactions by
14
events random
With respect to them occasionally

Changed the ground rules on the biotic
Playing field

All living things are overcome
When they go extinct

The random intervention
Of an abiotic outsider who

Is not a party to their struggles, upsetting
The old status quo

Opening the door
A spurt of rapid adaptive macro

networking
15

Prospectus for a Stage

18

Critical Document

37

imprimis A human was experiencing the birth process, writing his knowledge of minor weight
gain, fits of nausea, new hormones, disturbed sleep, traveling pains, nosebleeds, depression,
which is to say, as its expecting father the human had sought to write himself into a relation
with its expecting mother. It was of the moment so, in the process, the human looked, for
example, at the ethnographic accounts of couvade syndrome and male fertility rites among
certain pastoralists; the clinical language of modern medical practice; the luscious,
etymologically motivated language of biology; meaty, socioeconomic, spectacular slapstick; the
foundation of adult rhythms and diction in nursery rhymes (foregoing the felicitous
childishness of their content); et al. The impossible one had seemed no mother (Mom.). The
mythos and news of our literal stories entered, in order to sparkle the muddy water of a
prenatal innocence. To worry that the slightest aspect of this substance of creation could, as if
assuming its reflection in any scale, have seemed a whole universehere doing somersaults in
bellies out of practice. (As if.) It was a love poem, a book, to more than one being, finding
something beneath that which would otherwise never get written. In time, in the course of this
project, perhaps the ultimate questions to emerge concerned the pronominal life of its
emerging, superficial participants, as Ramonas Private Jest was a poem about trying to
become, all the while becoming, something else.

44

17
Foreword.

: The author sought here to sacrifice itself in the cause of science, to collect some of those less
coherent thoughts over those last years (hypotheses would appear at a later place). It was fond
of saying the collection had appeared to it inside the paper. Everything about it was printed,
inked, of course, as it thought to present the readers, simultaneously, any number of
secondhand engagemebnts with, among other things, the scratch from its release of its second
wave video game system (DoD:): This year was 1984; their first attempts had, in 1889, consisted
of hanafuda cards [which, in English, reads, Leave luck to Heaven]; by 1970 Nintendo had been
a love hotel chain, taxi company, instant noodle, the Love Tester . (Hi Strunk:) Later itd
dodge the heroic Armed Service and, quite differently, its father, in anthropology, quite
formative yearshistorical facts joined by their verb, that first sentence, should in no
significant terms preclude the readers sense here of the manner in which these may, at times,
and actually always had crossed tolerable levels of filial decency in not fulfilling what either one
has otherwise really asked for or required. Rather itd expressed no doubt that this occurred
while humbly thanking mom for purchasing this wonderful booc , inoculated with a dose of
this mysterious illness.

September, 2011
18

bolide impacts that changed the ground rules for the biota

I

19
Prospectus for a stage, Westward a Desert, Mother Hens

In conclusion, then, there is no God, but a profound nothing: ponds and streams. And this
nothingness must appear to us like a godas if we were gods. If there could be no death, no
exit, only change, it would follow, no birthhumans fear thiswhat weve been exploring
herewe pretend we dont see it ahead, compounding our problem back there (legend has it
that if you meet your doppleganger, you die). Therefore, and this is the point I wish to make, as
this nothingness must nurture what isbecause it had not existed otherwiselanguage, terra
firma, and not confusion, should guide our thinking. Weve seen tonight how we are charged
with our own care and, just so, being blessed is a choice. There is nothing fixed or essential in
adopting this premise (its a choice), the fear of which is no different than fearing eternitythis
is merely an obstacle. Ponds and streams.

Onramp; they passed under the green go arrow of a green light, turning left. He reclines
upholstered seats, hair and crumbs, sighing gentle sighs. Words; a different language all
together. They successfully merge into the bleak motionless dusk of the zone. Squared blocks
of inhabited or vacant (static) ducts, the intestinal rooftops (backward) straw exhaust,
stairwells as few of them ever reach this gravel refracted like dust in atmospheres lighting the
craggy peaks groaning this time, this inflamed eggs shadow in the valley of drought
silhouetted; a motion passed over the teeth.

Mouth-breather. A radio that remembers.

20
Magda is a name with deep roots. Magdas name for the lost dog, Buffalo Bisons
baseball, a detriment to society you, chase it, i.e. the Homer

Something was going somewhere. As this morning I heard it. Show how

As without shows nothing comes hence paroxyism

without a lawn to hold me in slush

I lie here. Dont move me. Through a windshield. Neighbors cursed me

as cold morning broke I myself (come Spring, I carried eggs

shriek, a trifle

Sprays me clean, as invincible as they are. Presently rubbery inside the run

over) would arrive late:

Going backward in time. Labor was shed and wasted, forging steel.

Blazed away, making way for things. It was sense to the things.

Round a fire, Im re-told at its annual romp.

21
Stomach it. Braze it. Dye feathers to indicate the loins. (braise

it.) Render the fat too. The squirm of the nest required. Dole it out, come down from the hills.
Spring.

Some important device. Training or not, yet. Propagated and clothed from its loins.

Weve been here all summer.

I remember things, sliced and imbibed. Stamping it down, and in. Stampede.

They remembered it better that way, by figuring me out. The original bursts of the communal
grammar were, very likely, not just lists, but inventory for this event.

Therefore, as one of its skins, and a zipper for its mouth, as I like to wear, I must drop my antlers,
wash my face, for to range more widely. Because a map of every step, since birth, was grafted in
my brain.

Pass me that boa. In the fall we disbanded.

Every taste has been familiar to me. Feathered I am not yet ready swing

I am responsible; I will go with them. When we return, I may be born again.

22
The dead dog was upstairs

or all the way downstairs. Where according to a poster of the Madonnas charity and my
neighbors with the television, some of the kids today had the chance of helping the rural poor
of Malawi during a summer break. It would have taken place between the junior and senior
years in preparation of some version of later adulthood and citizenry. As Id doubt they could
learn too much, the student could have more effectually spent what significant sum is required
to get and keep them there, which someone must be paying for later, as parents, on a safe and
fun and even more informative trip

but this more efficacious person already discovered, even knew, who is the more fortunate

its difficult to say what would be gleaned from the goatherds of Malawi

23
A physical presence. The piet.

If you ask any organisms with or without a central nervous system capable of having registered
their conversation, they will all indicate, in one way or another, their lack of care beyond little
more than self or group gratifications, while the whole of this being seems remarkably two
dimensional, when seen from above, given over to its succeeding generation: city lights.
Experience, those emotional centers, is important, and all there is worth living for, perhaps,
this is true; but I speak here of the outcomes; purposes. That that would dislodge it from this
simple (though by no means simplistic) notion must be one who lives a life of neither
consequence nor value to the greater reason and quality of things. A thing dead already,
though it eats and breathes and enjoys itself, though possibly not. The mountainside of
ponderosa went up and, whether prepared or not, was prepared for a great conflagration which,
one day, would ruin all it had built without

knowing or expecting it, a painful shower (one can only assume) to finally hatch the
predestinated, biologically programmed, though by no means guaranteed, seeds of the future it
otherwise had

to disperse
to the diets of sparrows and rabbits

Torched. And so it seemed at the times I have scribbled this, incidentally, in back of a book by
Thoreau, and it is worthwhile to consider, without any quibbling, grating reaching after fact or
reason, that nature of a human experience, for a man may say with the regularity of his
bowels that he was motivated by what is commonly understood to be a greater good. I am
using this masculine form, but from what I have seen, the feminine was little different in this
24
respect. In fact, if my wife was any indication, a woman is better at this than any man like me
could ever

hope to be; as the Red Queen, she is responsible for protecting our genetic imperfection, to
include her seductive parts. My wife I should add was the most perfect example of that reason
why certain animals commit themselves to monogamy and things even less completely
understood like

a conclusive start of pursuits, with sentiments crucial to natures future being arriving. This
was how I loved her. On my dry erase board shes a mess.

Spring 2014
!"

Acta Biographia - Author Bios

Elizabeth Alexander's "Transpositions" appeared in BlazeVOX13. Additional short stories, poems, and essays
have been published in many strange and wonderful publications, including Gargoyle, Monkeybicycle, Mobius,
Archives of Neurology, Prick of the Spindle, and The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion.

Marcia Arrieta lives on the canyon in Pasadena, California. Her work appears in Otoliths, Melusine, Web
Conjunctions, and is forthcoming in Eratio, Inkscrawl, The Milo Review, and Catch & Release. She edits and
publishes the poetry/art journal Indefinite Space www.indefinitespace.net

Andrew Baron is Distinguished Poet in Residence at several defunct laundromats in Portland, Oregon. When it's
not raining, his work can be found in chalk out in the parking lot.

Peter Beckstrom:
-currently living in Northern Minnesota in the rural community of Canyon
-graduating May 10th from The College of Saint Scholastica with a B.A. in Communications
-married to my wife Autumn
-two kids; Alexander James (5 y.o.) and Delilah Gloria (2 y.o.)
-wonderful cat; Annabell (3 y.o.)
-Moving to Florida in the fall for Law School
-Former active-duty Marine (2006-2010) with Golf Battery, 2nd Battalion, 10th Marine Regiment (Artillery)
deployed twice in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom
-started creative writing this past fall with short fiction and now studying/writing poetry
-Favorite poets; Pablo Neruda, Stephyn Dobyns, Dobbie Gibson, the list goes on...

Spring 2014

Jesi Bender is a writer and artist living in upstate New York. She is a librarian at a local university whose interests
include inevitable tragedies, the grey scale, dissonance, and books. For her bibliography and creative CV, please
visit www.jesibender.com <http://www.jesibender.com/about.html>

Michael Berton is the author of a collection of poems "Man! You Script The Mic." (New Mitote Press). He has
had poems published in Volt, REM Magazine, Snow Monkey, Otoliths, Indefinite Space, Yellow Medicine Review,
Venereal Kittens, Hinchas de Poesia, And/Or, Pacific Review among others. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

Gabrielle Bills is a native Vermonter who has been swept away to Santiago, Chile, where she teaches, runs, and
lives a constant stream of Splanglishy nonsense. If you're interested in that type of nonsense, you can check out her
blog: http://gabriellebills.wordpress.com/

Doug Bolling's poetry has appeared widely in literary reviews including Blueline, Water-Stone Review, Eratio,
Indefinite Space, Italian Americana, Basalt and Hamilton Stone Review, recently online in The Missing Slate with
Poet of the Month and interview. New work is forthcoming in and/or, Redactions, Visions International and The
Lowdown among others. He has received five Pushcart nominations and currently lives in the outer fringes of
Chicago.

Katie Brunero received her Masters in Creative writing, and now compiles her stories in the slanted attic of a
Victorian known as Murder Haus. When she isnt knotting fishing nets with sailors, or greeting mourners at her
local funeral home, she likes to drink pails of weak tea and sit quietly in the sun. Her most recent work has been
published in Shoreline Literary Journal, and Interrobang Magazine.

John F. Buckley is a recent graduate of the Helen Zell Writers' Program at the University of Michigan. His second
collaboration with Los Angeles writer Martin Ott, Yankee Broadcast Network, will be published on Brooklyn Arts
Press in late 2014.

Billy Cancel has recently appeared in Futures Trading, Cricket Online Review & Counterexample Poetics. His
latest body of work INNOCENT TEETH was published in January by Hidden House Press. Sound poems, visual
shorts and other aberrations can be found at www.billycancelpoetry.com

Trudy Carpenter has published about a dozen short stories over the past several years, two of which have been
nominated for Pushcart inclusion. Her style ranges from Bambi to Deliverance, and she lives in a small green house
on the rocky shore of Lake Michigan.

Daniel Carbone was born in 1988 and grew up in his hometown of Howell, New Jersey. He works for a property
preservation company processing and researching work bids to ensure high quality and error free work. He
graduated with an academic standing of magna cum laude in 2012 from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey
and accepted a scholarship to Rutgers University School of Law shortly thereafter. He served as an editor for
Stocktons Stockpot literary magazine and published his first short story under the same title in 2011. While studying
law and working full-time, he still continues to find time to write and submit to readers of realist fiction, non-
fiction, and poetry to satisfy his insatiable desire to tell a thought provoking story. He currently still resides in his
hometown with his newly engaged and soon to be married Fianc, Stephanie.

Rebecca Cook writes poetry and prose and was a Bread Loaf Scholar in Fiction in 2009. Her essay,
Flame,(Southeast Review), was a notable essay in the 2013 Best American Essays. In 2013 her work was published in
The Georgia Review, Antioch Review, Massachusetts Review, Atticus Review, and The Rumpus. A series of love poems was
published recently in the Romanian Anthology, The Mood At Noon. Her book of poems, I Will Not Give Over, was
published in 2013 (Aldrich Press).

BlazeVOX has put out two books by Mark Cunningham: 71 Leaves (e-book) and specimens (print). Helicotremors
(from Otoliths) is a recent book.

H.V. Cramond is the Poetry Editor for and a Co-founder of Requited Journal and a Writing Instructor at Loyola
University Chicago. Her poem War of Attrition was a finalist in the 2013 Split This Rock Poetry Festival Contest
judged by Mark Doty. Some recent and forthcoming work can be found in Soundless Poetry, Keep Going,
Wunderkammer, Ignavia, death hums, Matter Monthly, Crack the Spine and Pandoras Box (Southport Press, 2011).

Henry Crawford lives and writes in the Washington, DC area. A native New Yorker, Henry received a BA in
Philosophy from Queens College and a JD from the George Washington University. For the last 12 years he has
worked as a software engineer. These poems are from his collection: American Software.

Aviva Englander Cristy is a teacher and writer living in Milwaukee, WI. Her chapbook, The Interior Structure, was
published in 2013 with dancing girl press. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, Arsenic
Lobster, Best New Poets 2012, The Spoon River Poetry Review, So To Speak, Prick of the Spindle, The Hollins Critic, and Salt
Hill, among others.

Doug Draime emerged as a presence in the underground literary movement in Los Angeles in the late 1960s.
Most recent full-length book is More Than The Alley, released in 2012 by Interior Noise Press. Author of fourteen
chapbooks, most recent of which is Dusk With Carol (Kendra Steiner Editions). Published in hundreds, if not
thousands of magazines, newspapers, broadsides, and online journals over the years. Two online chapbooks are
available, Speed of Light (Right Hand Pointing): http://www.righthandpointing.com/draime/ and Stoned On A Pogo
Stick (Zygote In My Coffee): http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/100s/issue130chapbookcover.html Awarded
small PEN grants in 1987, 1991, and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart Prizes in the last few years. He currently
lives with his wife and family in the foothills of the Cascade mountain range in Oregon.
Mandee Marie Driggers: Mandee Marie is a twenty-something poet and flash-fiction writer. Located in the
Midwest, this queer-semi-surreal-imagist has a passion for coffee and complicated identities. This is her first
publication.

Lucy Falco: I am a queer poet living in the woods of Oregon. I have an unnatural love for film and tall women. My
writing can be found at lucille-berkowitz.tumblr.com.

Julie Finch lives in Houston, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin where she majored in
communications, minored in English.. Her work has been published by BlazeVOX, Beatdom Books, the Bitchin
Kitsch, Impact magazine and Black Cat Poems.

Yvette Flis has published under different names, each hers, but gave up spare vowels when she took up snow drifts
and dark winds. Yvette Flis reads to remember and writes to forget. Her recent works have be seen in The Linnets
Wings, and under the names Yvette Managan and Yvette Wielhouwer, in The Prose Poetry Project, Winamop,
Every Day Fiction, and under Yve Wildflower in Nefarious Ballerina.

Christien Gholson is the author of the novel, A Fish Trapped inside the Wind (Parthian, 2011), and a book of
linked prose poems, On the Side of the Crow (Hanging Loose Press, 2006; Parthian re-issue, 2011). He has been
many shapes before he attained congenial form: union organizer, bookseller, farm hand, grocery store wage-slave,
editor, a black feather falling into a blue dumpster, a cellophane wrapper skipping across the desert floor...the usual.

Meg Griffitts is a child of the military but calls Colorado her home. Her work has appeared in Evening Will Come
and The Colorado Independent. She currently lives in Denver with her husband and two cats.

Zachary Scott Hamilton articles appear in: The Portland Review, Trigger Fish and HOUSEFIRE. you can follow
him in these places darlings: infii.weebly.com, www.zachabstract.blogspot.com

William Scott Harkey is a writing coordinator and adjunct English instructor for the University of Houston-
Victoria. He is also a freelance creative, business, and academic writing consultant. More information on William
Scott Harkey can be found at www.williamscottharkey.com.
Sandee Harris is a death metal enthusiast who writes from Manhattan. Her book of "mean-spirited tales" is
available on Amazon.com. She was born in Harlem Hospital, wrote her first story when she was nine, and studied
writing at Columbia University. Her collection of work includes a novel, several short stories, and a screenplay. The
screenplay is one of three of her homages to the death metal genre. "Sometimes I Want to Die," the story that she
wrote when she was nine, reveals the morbid essence in her youth that eventually lead her to the dark genre of
music. Her short story "Night Terrors" is her first published piece featured in the Mensa literary magazine, Calliope.
Sandee Harris works in an art gallery, and at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

Peter Hayes is living out the American Joke in Southeastern Pennsylvania. At 29 years of age, he enjoys pursuits
such as hiking, photography, writing and escapism. Currently, he is reading Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K.
Jerome and highly recommends it. His current ambition is to disappear into the Amazon Rainforest and spend a
year living and learning from indigenous tribes.

Josephe Jackson is a 40 year old year old writer. Born in Indiana but raised in Michigan until recently moving to
Seattle, Washington, Josephe Jackson spends much of his life writing fiction and poetry for leisure. His style of
writing can be best described as whimsical, playfully articulate, and cathartic. Though highly unorthodox, He
continues to write poetry that tends to teeter on the cusp of hilarity. Aside from writing, he engages
in philanthropic activities to assist his nearby community, admires the legendary cartoonist Walt Disney, chronically
plays NBA 2k14, his favorite video game, and occasionally plays instruments. His reverence for the artist Kurt
Cobain is noted to be a primary influence for his writing.

Matthew Kirshman lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two daughters. He is an English teacher, but
before that has had a varied career--telephone repairman, bartender, and cook, to name a few. Writing since the
early 1980s, his publication credits include: Altpoetics, Charter Oak Poets, Dirigible: Journal of Language Arts, Futures
Trading, Helix, Indefinite Space, Key Satch(el), Mad Hatters Review, Phoebe: The George Mason Review, posthumous papers
(NothingNew Press), Vangarde Magazine, The Wayfarer, Xenarts, and Z-Composition.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetzs work appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-
Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists,
Postmodern Fiction, Webster's Dictionary of American Writers, Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians,
Directory of American Scholars, Who's Who in America, NNDB.com <http://NNDB.com> , Wikipedia.com
<http://Wikipedia.com> , and Britannica.com <http://Britannica.com> , among other distinguished directories.

John C. Mannone has work in Tupelo Press, Poetica Magazine, Agave, Trickster Journal, Raven Chronicles, Mobius, The
Baltimore Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Rose Red Review, Star*Line and others. Hes the poetry editor for Silver Blade and
Abyss & Apex, and an adjunct professor of physics in east TN. His work has been nominated three times for the
Pushcart Prize. Visit The Art of Poetry: http://jcmannone.wordpress.com <http://jcmannone.wordpress.com/>
Zachary McCoy was born in a Jewish Hospital but that is as far as he ever got to being one of Gods chosen
people. Born on October 26
th
1992 he has recently turned 21 despite having been drunk for years. He studies
English at the College of Mount St. Joseph in Cincinnati, Ohio. When he is not reading he is drinking heavily and
writing lightly.

Nigel McLoughlin is the author of five collections of poetry, the latest of which is Chora: New and Selected Poems
(Templar Poetry, 2009). He is Professor of Creativity and Poetics at the University of Gloucestershire and edits the
journal Iota.

Ian McPhail practices poem in Buffalo, NY where the time is and was. His friends know him. You should write to
him at filetofrubbersoul@yahoo.com. He has self published two chapbooks, 'You're Confused Because It's A Lie'
and 'It's Great To Be Fine'. Gram Parsons.

Jacqueline Michauds poems have appeared in New England Review and Breadloaf Quarterly, The Florida Review, US1
Worksheets, American Letters and Commentary, and the anthology, Voices from the Robert Frost Place. A member of the
American Literary Translators Association, she has had her translations of Francophone poets published in Per
Contra, The Lascaux Review, Poems for the Millennium: University of California Book of North African Literature (2013), and
Chicago Quarterly Review, forthcoming in 2014. Her poetry collections include, The Waking Hours: Poems & Translations,
and White Clouds.
Dave Migman is a writer, artist and stone carver from Scotland. His work has been published on and off-line and
he maintains a prolific Soundcloud page, where he combines music/soundscapes with spoken word, often in
collusion with other artists. He even has a couple of downloadable albums of work out there in hyperspace
google him, you'll be surprised!

Dilip Mohapatra, a Navy Veteran started writing poems since the seventies and his poems have appeared in
various international and national literary journals like the Muse India, Helix Magazine, Chiaroscuro Magazine, the
Missing Slate, etc. His poems have also featured in the International Poetry Yearbook 2013. He did his Masters in
Physics at Ravenshaw College, Cuttack. Post Navy, he held senior leadership positions with the Tata and Suzlon
groups of companies. Currently he is the Chief Mentor and Strategic Advisor to KIIT University, Bhubaneswar. He
lives with his wife in Pune.

Daniel Morris is Professor of English at Purdue University, USA. He is author of The Writings of William Carlos
Williams: Publicity for the Self (University of Missouri Press, 1995), Remarkable Modernisms: Contemporary
American Authors on Modern Art (University of Massachusetts Press, 2002), The Poetry of Louise Glck: A
Thematic Introduction (University of Missouri Press, 2006), After Weegee: Essays on Contemporary Jewish
American Photographers (Syracuse University Press, 2011), and Lyric Encounters (Bloomsbury, 2013). He has also
published two volumes of poetry, Bryce Passage (Marsh Hawk Press, 2004) and If Not for the Courage (Marsh
Hawk, 2010). He is former coeditor of Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies.

Robin Morrissey has an MFA in Poetry, is currently in the Master's of Literature program at NU, and teaches
occasional courses at Columbia College. Her work includes collaboration, site action, poetry review, literary
criticism, and non-profit administration. You can find her text work in online journals such as The Rumpus and
Requited.

Keith Moul: My poems and photos appear widely. Three books are recently published: The Grammar of Mind from
Blue & Yellow Dog; Beautiful Agitation from Red Ochre Press; and Reconsidered Light, a collection of my poems
written to accompany my photos, from Broken Publications. A fourth collection, To Take and Have Not, is now in
production, also with Broken Publications.

bruno neiva
http://www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk/averbaldraftsone.html
http://umaestruturaassimsempudor.blogspot.com/
http://umaestruturaassimsempudor.tumblr.com/
http://issuu.com/umaestruturaassimsempudor

Sergio A. Ortiz is an educator, poet, photographer, and painter living in San Juan Puerto Rico. He is a four-time
nominee for the 2010-2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology, and a two-time 2010 Pushcart nominee.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The
New Yorker, and elsewhere. His latest collection Almost Rain was published by River Otter Press (2013).
For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled Magic, Illusion and Other Realities please
visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Josefine Petersn hails from beautiful Stockholm, Sweden. Her writing comprises mainly poetry and short stories.
Poems previously published include: "The Man With No Name" on The UK Poetry Library, "The Storm" on
Poetry Super Highway and Silk on The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly. Original poems by Josefine are also featured in
the film Women, directed by Bart Vandever. More of her work can be found on her blog:
beingjosefine.wordpress.com. Josefine currently lives in Los Angeles with her cats, Cactus and Weeza.

Bethany Price graduated from UW Milwaukee in 2012, with a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing. Her work has
appeared in 2River, Shepherd Express, and Great Lakes Review. Her chapbook All I Wanna Do was published in
the summer of 2013 by pity milk press. She lives in Milwaukee and works full time at a used bookstore. You can
contact her at essajetticks.price@gmail.com.

Stephanie Sears, Ph.D in social anthropology- Polynesian Studies, from the University of Paris/ Ecole des Hautes
Etudes en Sciences Sociales. Lived and worked in Paris, Hong Kong, New York, the Marquesas islands, Boston,
Barcelona, Verona. She writes as a free-lance journalist and essayist. Her poetry has been published in, among
others, California Quarterly, The Amherst Review, ArtWord Quarterly, The Hudson View (2009 Pushcart Prize
nominee), Poetry Salzburg, Aoifes Kiss, Third Wednesday, Born Free Foundation, Nimrod, Cha.

David Scheier is a writer & illustrator. He has an MFA in writing from the School of Art Institute of Chicago and
he currently works at Harold Washington Community College in Chicago, IL. His written and illustrated work has
appeared in Pacific Review, Gather Kindling, Petrichor Machine, Rio Grande Review, Meekling Press, Dum Dum
Magazine, Front Porch, among other publications. His birth flower is the Larkspur. Visit him online:
davidscheier.com <http://davidscheier.com> .

Jon Simmons is a writer from coastal Maine. He graduated from Emerson College with a BFA in fiction, where he
won the Academy of American Poets Prize. He currently works in Boston, Massachusetts at an education
management firm. His stories and poems have been published or are forthcoming in Drunken Boat, Digital Americana,
Litro, and Snail Mail Review among other literary magazines. He enjoys ping pong and nineties hip hop.

Gary Sloboda is a lawyer, writer and musician, but not necessarily in that order. His writing has recently appeared
or is forthcoming in such places as Blackbox Manifold, Blue Fifth Review, decomP, Nerve Lantern and Thrush.
He's currently writing a collection of poems entitled Tremor Philosophies. He lives in San Francisco.

Josh Sterlin is a twenty-two year old post-university student, graduated in June from McGill University with a B.A.
in Anthropology, his final minor being Jewish Studies (literature). He'll be spending next year at the Wilderness
Awareness School in Washington State mixing the spirit and the flesh. He has been writing poetry since 2006.

Find Nat Sufrin's recent poems in TINGE Magazine, DIALOGIST, and Jellyfish Magazine. Look for upcoming work
in The Antioch Review. Say hi if you're in Chicago.

M. K. Sukach is the author of the debut poetry collection, Something Impossible Happens (Big Wonderful Press) His
fiction and poetry appear in a number of journals to include JMWW, The Hamilton Stone Review, Connotation Press,
Spoon River Poetry Review, Construction Magazine, Yemassee, and others. He is a retired veteran of the wars in Iraq and
Afghanistan, about to enter his third term as an MFA student at Vermont College of Fine Arts, and currently lives
in Colorado with his wife, Chris, and dog, Scribble. http://www.poemsbymksukach.com/

Jake Syersak is an MFA Candidate in Poetry at the University of Arizona. His poems have most recently appeared
or are forthcoming in Phoebe, Ninth Letter, H_ngm_n,and Timber. He is the author of the chapbook Notes to Wed No
Toward from Plan B Press. He edits Sonora Review and Cloud Rodeo.

Amy Thomas is a native Detroiter currently living in northern Indiana. She holds an MFA in creative writing from
the University of Notre Dame (2011) and a BA in history and English from the University of Detroit Mercy (2009).
She currently works in a project management position in healthcare analytics. Her interests include horror, lineages,
lusophonic history and literature, and other gruesome, lovely things.

Sidney Thompson is the author of the short story collection Sideshow. His fiction, twice nominated for the
Pushcart Prize, has appeared or is forthcoming in 2 Bridges Review, Atticus Review, The Carolina Quarterly,
Clapboard House, The Cortland Review, Danse Macabre, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine,
Grey Sparrow Journal, NANO Fiction, theNewerYorks Electric Encyclopedia of Experimental Literature, Ostrich
Review, Prick of the Spindle, Ragazine.CC, The Southern Review, storySouth, and elsewhere. He lives in Denton,
Texas, where he teaches creative writing at Texas Womans University and is the Assistant Fiction Editor for the
American Literary Review.

John Emil Vincent is currently finishing a book of prose sonnets called A certain noisy relaxed quality. He is
editor-at-large of The Massachusetts Review and recently edited a book of essays entitled: AFTER SPICER.

Mark Young's most recent books are the e-book Asemic Colon from The Red Ceilings Press, & The Codicils, a 600-
page selection of poems written in the past four years, out from Otoliths.

BlazeVOX 14: An Online Journal of Voice. Spring 2014

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an online journal of voice

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