Winter 2011

An online Journal of Voice

BlazeVOX [books] Buffalo, NY

BlazeVOX11 Winter 2011 Copyright 2011 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 Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition

BlazeVOX [books] 76 Inwood Place Buffalo, NY 14209 Editor@blazevox.org

p ublisher of weird little books

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BlazeVOX

Table of Contents
Poetry
Sean Borodale Alison Lyons Andrew Baron bruno neiva Charles Wilkinson Simon Perchik Aviva Englander Cristy David McAleavey Terry van Vliet Dennis Etzel Jr. Ed Makowski Enola Mirao Dave Migman Ivan Jenson Heller Levinson Jim Bennett Julie Ellinger Hunt Sarah Kosch minko terez Margot Block Marthe Reed Nils Norelius Pattabi Seshadri Richard Fox Richard Cronshey Thomas Cochran Adam Fagin Abigale Louise LeCavalier Ambrielle Army Avery Zaduk Changming Yuan Curt Hopkins Dave Migman Deanna Rusek Matt Higdon Don Cozzette Emily Ho Gonzalo Salesky Iain Britton Jacqueline L. Jiang Chieu Jen Besemer Julie Kovacs Karlanna Lewis Kristi Nimmo Michael Kerszewsky Mattia Marino Marcia Chicca Purdey M. Kreiden rob mclennan SPLV Shinwell Johnson W. M. Rivera Robin F. Brox Matthew Walz

Fiction:
Philip Kobylarz Fishing for Television Michael Quinlan October 31, 2003 Michael C. Thompson Shadowless Jim Meirose Friendship Dolan Morgan A Spiders Faith in Webs Anthony Johnson Outlast Abbi Nguyen The Foreign Dream Acta Biographia Winter 2011 Author Bios

IntroductionIntroduction
Occupy BlazeVOX Welcome to Winter! The snow is falling, finally, now in Buffalo. It is a beautiful scene of December. And so with the late date of publishing this issue, we are titling our Late Fall issue the more apt, Winter 2011. It has been a wonderful year and so to cap it off, it is with great honor and pleasure we present great selections from writers from around America and the world. As the snow falls we writers persist, keep on working our poetry and our stories and continue to read our poems and it is all rather exciting. There is a lot of work out there for poetry and in this issue we present a glimmering sliver of that shining potential. So get ready we have 60 authors from around the globe, including fifty-three poets and seven prose pieces. So hurray! Get Reading Also in BlazeVOX [books] news: On November 10th 2011 we held an extravagant BlazeVOX [books] event at a new large art gallery in Buffalo, The Burchfield Penny. We were unable to record the reading, so we decided to put together a small packet that captured the fun of the whole event. Featuring the work of Michael Basinski, Wade Stevenson, Robin Brox, Geoffrey Gatza and Michael Kelleher. Portrait Drawings by artist Peter Fowler, Self Portraits of Poets and Book People (As a fund raising idea, we asked local and international poets and book people to send us a self-portrait) We received work from all around North America, including National Book Award winner Keith Waldrop and the first Canadian Poet Laureate, George Bowering. In total we received 30 pieces of artwork, and we sold a great deal of it at the show. We also have an online shop where we will have for sale, the remaining pieces. So if you want to help out the press while taking home a self-portrait of a favorite poet, here is your chance! Again, thank you for all of your kind support and allowing BlazeVOX [books] to continue on! Also, this years Thanksgiving Menu-Poem, a book length poetry dinner, now in it's tenth year, celebrates Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop. Do stop on by the page to share in a moment of poetry.

BlazeVOX @ Burchfield Penney 2011 http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/blazevox-@-burchfield-penney/ Thanksgiving Menu Poem http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/thanksgiving-poems/ Self Portraits of Poets Fundraiser online shop! http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/Shop/self-portraits-of-poets-fundraiser/

Rockets, Geoffrey Geoffrey Gatza Editor & Publisher ------------------------------------BlazeVOX [ books ] Publisher of weird little books -------------------------------------editor@blazevox.org http://www.blazevox.org

Winter 2011
An online Journal of Voice

Winter 2011
W.M. Rivera

Song bubbles in the universe

You said: Ill go to some other place, some other sea, C.P. Cavfy

Yes, Cavfy, Im indebted to you; you say the ruined life in one place stays ruined elsewhere. Its true. Ive gone other places and this mornings silence gnaws no different other seas, other indefinites, lemniscate wanderings; in the scratch of blackboard sentences much is erased, forgotten, ruined. But the dictums limited. Lifes beyond I or me or any other wastrel. Life wastes life place after place, greed, hate. Meanwhile Sun sings; song bubbles in the universe; slow sounds explode. Space filters down; even now dust settles pound by soft accumulating pound.

Triolet Men call it mystery the origins opening: Courbet conceives the face as covered All else nude. For Rodin Iris goes flying Headless, the messenger spread-eagle, daring to show all, the thing itself, gaping, hairless, no deception; nothing covered. Known, yet unknown, desires opening. Men call it mystery even uncovered.

Sweat for tears I am tired of nature. Not the one outside, the one in poem after poem, Sun, rain. Seems emotions run to meet seasonal recyclings after rot, buds and hungry deer observed, poet-roads untraveled yet happy if images fit to catch the eye, seeing waters flow and earth spins on until the well runs dry and crickets sing. Who knows the truth of times next step? Where is that crystal-gaze, that sage who turns the truth into a wisp of wind or into storms to make word-makers weep. But must it be natures note again?wet outdoors to replicate the sweat for tears.

Preparing There was a beginning I remember vaguely, the mouth moving demanding drops of liquid bliss and then the standing, on my own the broomstick a stud rider, wind for sails, the moments miracle. And now habitually I prepare for the next minute, problem, day, event, month, next-to-nothing-left is the feeling. The future floats face down, a dead world peaceful, puffy. I prepare to follow whos next in time, who is no longer waiting, who lined up dutifully, now done performing the mature thing, next in time whose vanishment is the end for each who walks from anteroom into the final next. Where were we then, some ask, before this present, before that birth: before dirt, flame and waters depth? Prepared or not, the only hope dear Lucretius, as you counseled, is no dread.

Only that Lets be clear; nobody cares; your struggle, gloom, glory, once written down what matters is only that it should be beautiful. Trumpeter, truth teller, music minstrel, the best-dressed mogul, the man in tatters hardly differ in depicting struggle. Whether at hand are history and form, allegories that launch ancient answers, the clue is that it should be beautiful. The works value, its radical alarm, its fight to right wrongs, spread joy, tell terrors, depends on how one sees the struggle. Or maybe craft is paramount, the charm the author radiates, clever features-just as long as it should be beautiful. The trick is to strike deep, avoid lukewarm keep uppermost sage words of teachers, the issue is not to end the struggle, only that it should be beautiful.

Incorporates the idea of the various ways of looking at a poem: as a historical entity, as declaration of purpose, and as method and theory.

Winter 2011
Thomas Cochran

12. He could have had my head on a spit with a word. I knew his father, saw him on the side of a canyon beneath an influential exhibition of 94-foot blue-whale models. You will recall, all these years later, a street in late morning, the three of us, arms extended, urging our horses up stairways and across balconies, the old routine. Where is he when I think of this now? Always, of course, the goatherd appears to remind him that he did not act.

13. In a recent survey conducted for release on St. Patricks Day, the Irish countryside was named by 14 percent of all respondents as their ideal dramatic locale. That being said, who knew the cost of doing business with a herd of cows? The motorized assemblage of androids rotating under a tie-dyed blanket proved less acrobatic than expected. Perhaps the great finish made clear the necessity of appreciating dusk or at least the distinction of peat fires.

Winter 2011
Terry van Vliet

EUCHARIST
poets words why from where who knows or expects them to come unbidden thunder lightning when they come confront from nowhere to shake me shock me waken me make me see grasp real presence mystery welcome embrace the jolt slice of light that bursts rolls away the stone that undoes reverses consecrates the every day confects bestows communion tangible food blessed sacrament poetry

5 RUE DE VERNUEIL
when Im in Paris I always go to 5 rue de Vernueil to see Serge Gainsbourgs house because I like it as well as the Louvre or the Pompidou and anyone can touch its great graffiti thats as good as a Franz Kline in Technicolor and his house is Paris full of surprises like the rusting faucet on the rue Visconti thats been transformed into a penis with mossy pubic hair thats dripped on the paving stones for at least forty years iron fine hard-on Giacometti might have wrought and last Friday Tosh said hed give anything to get inside that house Charlotte closed for good in 1991 where the cheese in the fridge has ripened for over twenty years rich as the riches Serge has stashed at 5 rue de Verneuil and isnt it sad no ones going to ever see what hes stuffed in his Birkin bag tant pis
for Tosh Berman

THREE FOR FRANK OHARA

March 27, 1926-July 25, 1966

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRANK

I hey its your birthday Frank 85 today and I went to the symphony where I couldnt get you out of my mind or heart never forget or push aside your sharp rhapsodies major minor every note you sang wrote down rocky as the Hebrides the LA Phil played today so there you were crescendo in my head louder than drumming tympani brighter than brassy trumpets blazing fresher now than a hundred piccolos and I thought how Id like to have a Coke with you smoke a Camel hear your nasal twang that sang sings on Frank younger today than yesterday

SCHERZO
II your birthday still hangs around days after and I think how great it would have been to have hung out with you bumped into you had a chance to fiddle with you caress your corduroys hold your hand fleece a poem or two from your deep pockets tickle your pink Irish prick feel the bristle of red gold nettles crotchy field lust for you at a matinee watch Merle Oberon and Cornel Wilde in A Song to Remember piano keys coughing up blood Chopin dying in Technicolor and Id have gone to that lousy movie any day just to sit with you scarf your Milky Way divertissement not to be because you came too soon I too late but I dont care because Ive got you every word hot breath of you next to me where I can have you any time yes all there is to want of you hard in my hand Frank very bone of you

DNOUEMENT
thanks to Joe LeSueur

III apropos birthdays Joe said the birthday poem for Rachmaninoff you wrote in July whose birthday is in April made me think Frank of you and the poem I wrote for you the last day of April and we know what they say about April and its Monday night and on the radio I hear The Red Shoes reeling in my head see Boris Lermontov make Vicky Page dance a spectral pas de deux you as her tragic prince poems in your hands that fall like lilies in the last act of Giselle hear church bells toll faster than variations by Paganini fast as a car crash skittering on sand and I weep for you for that fatal misstep in the Pines weep for Vicky Page under a train at Nice final tours en lair for you for her pas despoir the doctor said

Winter 2011

SPLV

\\\ poetry: titles without poems

SPLV Poems Oct 19

1
You could be bouncing off the walls just now, Aquarius! Planetary energies could be propelling you out of your body. Welcome to A&W, may I take your order? We now call on our Star Alliance Super Elite and Gold Elite passengers for priority boarding. Please press 5 for more options. The mission of Western University College is to provide post-secondary education and training fundamental to the social and economic development of Western Manitoba in a culturally sensitive and collaborative manner. Product may contain traces of pork and animal f our. Sent from my BlackBerry smartphone on the MTS High Speed Mobility Network. Possible sideeffects may include peripheral neuropathy, cardiac arrhythmias, urinary incontinence, racing thoughts, increased appetite, bruxism, and involuntary muscle spasms. You have entered an invalid PIN. Western University College employees will adhere to the professional code of conduct of each profession.Would you like fries with that? 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Please advise one of our staff if you have any cultural, religious, or special need. Available in stores December 12, 2010. To elaborate on the situation, Professor Weissmann and student Manitoba have entered in a romantic relationship. Fats: Saturated: 1.02g; trans: 0..1gPoly-unsaturated: 2g; Omega3: 4g. Our businesses are now closed. Please stand behind yellow line. Clubcard and Airmiles? BY-LAW # 16042004. Your browser is not connected to the Internet. 80% acrylic; 17% Cotton; 3% Spandex. Your account is now past due. Jewelryshould be conservative with no visible tattoos or body piercing other than pierced ears (women only). Would you like a bag? As a student enrolled in the Manitoba program, I cannot believe Western University College is allowing Dr. Weissmann's unethical behaviour to continue. Contains no wheat, soy, or gluten. Muscle growth rests of three pillars: diet, exercise, and rest. Paper or plastic? Mathematical propositions express no thoughts. 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The people of Manitoba have a right to know that Dr. Weissmann has a history of dating his students. Designated non-smoking entrance. URGENT ACTION REQUESTED. The current Dietary Guidelines for Americans recommend not to exceed 1 alcoholic drink per day for women or 2 drinks per day for men. Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is. Sales Associate in Training. Have you declared bankruptcy in the past 7 years? Caf Second Cup Coffee. Your email account is intended to be used for company business. As such, your account is not private. Source of 7 essential nutrients. Dr. Weissmann should be held accountable for his discreditable actions at WUC and the unsafe environment he has created for all of us. Cuts through grease faster. Is that everything? $35.99 at the next window. Hydro Disconnection Notice. Recommended daily intake: 4g. Printed on recycled paper. I am taking this stand for the sake of my fellow students. Tim Horton's Always Fresh. Be ready for winter driving. There is nothing to be learnt from bees. Best fore July 2013. This notice is being sent as a reminder that your monthly student loan payment was due yesterday. Smoking causes sexual impotence. THIS COURT ORDERS THAT P. L. Weissmann is prohibited from making contact, interfering with, or coming within 100 feet of Manitoba and M domicile until further order. 12h anti-bacterial protection. Notice of termination due to non-payment of rent. Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent (Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darber mu man schweigen). Your tenancy agreement is terminated effective March, 1 st, 2010. Insert straw here. Due back Friday before midnight.

Possible-side-effect-may.include@PostHuman.tv

SPLV Poems Oct 19

Titles Without Poems

ho ut Tit Poe les ms Wit

The Time of No Flowers right-eye and/or lower eyelid numbness & tingling Complete Absence of Eyeballs My Father's House it Was Yellow In Malaysia the Room it Was Blue Like the Devil How my Grandmother She Sang Lullabies in Yiddish Except I Made Her Up Sometimes i Can't Breathe (me faltaba el aire) Stag With Head Buried Under Rock Inside the Ears of a Cat Bomfim in the end the Brdr@Dwn He Could Have Written Something Like Primo Levi The Boarding School Will You Treat Me Like One of Your Whores? Not a Golem A Litter of Eyeless Pigs

SPLV Poems Oct 19 txt

Traum Sophie Calle, the French artist, remember? In the morning the memories. [] & [...] closed with The one who followed strangers &who got a job as [...] & you [] your [...]. I had a dream the same one a chambermaid how you were back [...] & I had to know [...] know & who stole little things of everyday how many men you fucked after you left me & [] intimacies. of these men there had been six. Friends mostly you You read about her in that book about said you fucked them once mostly just friends. Johannesburg & portraits with keys. The other story about Sophie Calle, is her heartbreak how sun-dogs she was walking in the street in Prague, or Budapest, or Berlin or Brussels sun-dogs they are called & she got this email on her phone, from her the rings around the sun boyfriend (or a text) & once in breaking up with her (the email, or the text). guyana the savannah & (she was heartbroken) she had the email the earth in red the night reviewed i saw them & analyzed by 107 experts (all of then women) in: copy-editing & psychiatry & talmudic scriptures & the moon-dogs etiquette-consulting & also judges actresses lawyers balarinas a philologist philosophers grammarians her mother singers & she turned it into art & an exhibit & a book the break-upthe lettersthe whole thing. (take care of yourself, it ended, the email or the text) You, me: your break-up text it said: ur a piece of shit dont u ever and I mean NEVER come near me & later to my fourth or fifth goodbye email or maybe it was the one before last you said: i can't read on, your pathetic clichs I should send them my clichs, the pathetic ones to journals & magazines & I should collect them the rejection letters for a story or an installation

SPLV Poems Oct 19 txt k be there in 5. OMG ur crazy!!! mmmmh baking cupcakes lol. Jumping in shower. Hey sweetie, did you eat yet? I miss ur cock. Loooove my new shoes lol. Putting the little one in bed:) I miss you already. Look I just wanna know what really happened. No, with the hand-holding girl in Brazil. How'd the dentist go? I am not me without you. k leaving now:) Want me to order for you? Sweetie, please rest, ok :) happiest. girl. ever!!! working on essay, then workout vid, then bed. Sweetie I miss you I cant sleep. Will bring wine. Tanning in backyard. Tell me a story. Going commando lol. Fuck you're psycho!!!! I love you to the point of stupidity. Please just let me be. Just havarti and multigrain crackers lol. I want you to hurt me. Ur amazing! Painting my toenails lol. Cute. What are you thinking?I cant deal with the whore-thing that's all. You're silly. I miss your mouth. I need some ME time!!!! fuck you're hot. Sweetie I am still sore from last night. Give the munchkin a kiss for me. You keep enabling her and I can't deal with it anymore. Can't wait for Tahiti, SO excited! k. i'll send u an interac money transfer. Reading John Donne. Sweetie, don't be mad, but I cut my hair. Just had a killer workout! Send me a pic of your cock. No I have my waxing appt, remember? What r u doing sweetie? PING!!! How did the meeting go? Thanks for breakfast ur so sweet! Ya I know, she's pyscho. Your arms look big, I like it. Fuck you are SUCH a hypochondriac!! Just fucked myself five times in a row. I love your back. Sorry about last night sweetie. I like it when you're rough. You're a lying piece of shit. Mmmmh movies and cuddles? Want me to grab you a diet pepsi? Thank god ur safe! Battery dying. I was in class!!!! Phone was on silent!!! I am so done with you. I like black on you. OMG ur so dramatic. Clit piercing back in :) Sorry sweetie, just woke. How's your shoulder?

the topography

SPLV Poems Oct 19 clauses without sentences of Saint John of the i repainted the blue you Cross, and Sor Ins Juana de la Cruz, their name bite-mark in the exact yelled socorro & how the shape of military police had shame and the massage on my left hand, tattooed but the with his blazers of many 'No, no!', she said, 'those buttons who quoted were gifts from Arturo Rimbaud Bandini'. to the dogs, in the words drinking with his suitcase until the to please please wire her money Mozambique, and she could play the Goldberg Variations. I the tundra, my restlessness my wrist the bleeding one in the butterfly thong and peach and plum flowers, yes', she had once a shepherd? I liked that. Not a everything she turn yellow you against the tree that same one where the cop had pulled the -who-brings-love, tattooed where it must be, on that made you walk like a whore in your zebra dress & hid in the En desert algn the lugar in del somewhere a place desierto in

5 Poems without titles

and yelled at the cars and banged on their hoods in C, and Messiaen at the organ and with the birds, on facebook, the black and Arvo Prt when it snowed, heart <3 de lis', or 'yes, a cross', is what

1 (except of course fucking paulo coelho, he had to write about the Aleph) (and Room Full of Mirrors, it was called, the piece for interactive orchestra or whatever, by the hipster composer with the long hair, in Dublin, the one who studied with Stockhausen)

Winter 2011
Simon Perchik

* Despair has taken on the shape each cloud leaves afterwards you reach across the hole one hand crazed a moon rising from the other as if there were crossroads and the sky winds down into evenings that are not yours an unbearable headwind weakened past sorrow, past drift past sleep and your breath lies down where nothing holds on you don't save the pieces, it's useless you look up and the air little by little is led past emptiness :the no lips that are not a face, not a voice and from your arms.

* The bay backs down once you begin by counting the dead --your mouth wider and wider with gnats half plankton, half step by step that will live on as beach grass and undertow, dragging you the way these gulls make pass after pass circle the dying afternoon in endless sorrow you walk till you're no longer hungry though no sand flea last for long by itself and every evening, by the millions stars will drown so the sun can feed one day more from your lips left open to weigh down the sky you throw the Earth against it holding it off stone by stone that seep through your shadow as if tears would close your eyes with eyes and no one come near or remember the numbers just as they are.

* You sense it knows, the road narrows, picking up speed and off in the distance its curve can't escape, plays music from the 40s you are somewhere in England listening to rain on a runway had it guessed then how its years would end, here in Nevada, four lanes not caring where the winds come from or the radio half airborne half static, half already too far though the station is still on the look-out and clouds are overdue even in the desert it must know, it has to, the hill constantly turning its head and you slow, begin to sing along have one day less to worry.

* It takes both faucets and each night you fill the sink the way mourners set up camp --one alongside the other swaying and your legs half open wait till it's dark, kneel down as if it was not your own and it's safe to drink from the rim beside the zebras. the leopards this lake won't freeze or dig up your footprints from the falling snow calling for help and in the cold you wipe your lips on the wall.

* These petals taking command, the flower pinned down and the work stops your breath dragged back where it's safe and in your lungs hides the way each sky is named after the word for stone for this small grave each Spring the dirt adds to till suddenly you are full height, your lips defending you against the cold waiting it out in your mouth they too want you to talk to call them by name say what they sound like turning away, alone, alone and alone.

Winter 2011
Shinwell Johnson

Oberon, crush crush

Oblivion, onion, open crushing Dying on St Patrick Day, hold a parade A carnation of green tissue papers Are you crying? Crush, crush. I hear annoying trumpets, Call the police on Christmas. Tell them a rabbit has been reborn. Are you crying? Crush, crush. Open onions and cry for Balder the golden, He died as a mistletoe arrow pierced his heart. Trick, trick, another trick, crush, crush. Break the walls and cry out for Oberon. Crush, crush; are you crying? Open and closed; trampled. Only wealth ensured warmth can you not cry, even at that?

Love Song of a Dinner Table. I will swing my plank, branch, pine Hover and slide, hide tablecloth fringe Open that plank fork knife spoon Chair opens table; table wins again. Nail pins table, chair with wide asses Farting, foulth, filthy slime Horses are better behaved. Open doors, they are planes Diminutions of wood patterns. Skulks of foxes, fuax fur throws Cut crystal gobbles of the starving. I alone know Those other chairs despise you I look like them, but they do not look like me. We are of the same tree, a forest of death. Preservations of tree carcasses line the walls Oak leaves whither in turpentines oil fumes. Preserve, preserve, make room for the new Make room for the new preserve, the old. I cannot take it anymore, I shall go shopping. Buying makes me feel good. I consume; consummate. Ben Franklin with his kite in the storm, key in hand, Elocution, electrocution, diction, dickhead, spray paint my stencil face on the Tate Modern and call me soup.

Antonio Salieri

Invisible revenge, a merciful parliament of owl strings. Take under your wing a long spear and a concubine. Flourish in stagnant garbage, ringworms, heartening. Shine above alone, recoil, two fine fellows, musically. I am killing you. The hour arrives. I will eat your brain And gain those ideas you once owned. It is mine little King, I find no courtesy in your ears, they are my ears. I will go about in your business as in my own propriety. Haranguing, open, splendid, sounds vibrate in extremes. I envy my own suffering martyrdoms as visions of evil. I mercy, commit. Doubt as doubt paradoxes mastery.

Winter 2011
Sean Borodale

17th July: Killing Drones

Raised tails when the box lid is lifted Anger and the footstep of the waggle dance below. Our statue shadows: they catch the omen of us now. Song careless to our hearts. Exclaim, Three stings at once. Through gloves This race I learn is vicious, and why not? I am a thief myself. Inside this house are rows of brood below the honey stacks: the Super All work, create, defend.

Today cut comb with drone cells from the lower frame Too many drones, one tenth of all here this month, they eat the stores. Capped brood in ancient pots. (Suspect no queen present. She with clipped wings, gone) Respect the unborn dead. Hatched heads waggle. They are trapped. Perhaps a slogan: Feed They understand the pageant of the mating flight will come. And yet not born yet these fated. Two queen cells ripen fat with burden. Evolve same plan. Winding sound increased. Which queen will wake first? This game we hold and do not possess but use. This farm is cities. Good health; wing sheen like threshold stones. Kneel eyes: note no graffiti of foul brood or mould. Comb dark with capped brood is pixels. Wings good, not ragged. The honey clear. Will not take yet. Took one board of comb with hatching drones heads chewing out their caps. Threw the buoyant tarry dark wax into the river. Barge of ballast, heads a trout may seize. Slow flows, away it goes. Twelve-headed river-hearse of the emergent. No flame for them. Just jeopardies for sweetness made from flowers.

20th July
One thought, the queen of the past year whose wings were clipped; she might have tried to swarm All this cessation of eggs, lack of grub, like opals in dark pouches of wax comb She may have simply failed to take flight Queen cells are merely present No guarantee theyll work. Percentage of drones is high, eating the honey. The excising of our short-frame in the brood chamber beneath which drone cups were built by the workers was meant to curtail varroa. Those small mites drink our bee blood, hemolymph One theory like any other, tested here

23rd July: Noise & Waste

Today the hive is trying out its harmonics A weepy low fugue I think to burning sun The loss of flowers is overwhelming dry sheaths and packets stapled onto brown skulls The nagging air swings gibbets of drought Some clumps of the world are barred The dump stinks in flowerbeds, weedbeds and the rivers clogged two miles of hemlock rots Mangled carapaces fall out of air skinny in their little traps of make-up A chimera of scrap parts Grass-blade emerald twisted Glitter paste of bumps & grazes The airs ears are traumatised And on the flames of the hour just a whiff of decline just a whiff more The white dry heat jangles Its like a kiln is shaking at the corners Tomorrow, must search the dawns damp ash for broken mirrors

29th July
5pm Bees in other hives out there are dying in droves Now but now Now the wind drags bleakly and other horizons paw at our premise, edge, dregs of far points. Anemophilous noise which shifts and lifts ... a tambourine of black black news Tree flapping noise guitar-like string-scrape signatures the winds bee chanting scores potential potential collapses This is an uncertain very uncertain tragic time of ours Look Rocks sunk in the field like old stone hives

11.58pm My bed here say four hundred yards southeast of the hive my bed here Awake in the zoo-dead-of-night I listen in on the cages of the days hours There is that question, trapped and circling a hole in the floor a slurry of collapsed swarm agitates in there like the very black bowl of a dead stare into itching solid And there in that bludgeoned hole is the idea of a calf not broken but fully bruised and blocked up with clay plugs Mistaken bees blackly weep from its ears The colony has one time. Its like a gas dispersing towards the lowest of pressures

30th July: Bee Landed

The small incandescence of the one on the single stone where the stream cracks light My own eye hangs I go back to its stopped stopped sight & contain this oracle of its aspect, auspicious all quiet crystal & of its hair dark and wax and bristle the universe has shrunk to a stone, holds on its tablet the image of lagging fire, curing light Hearth prowled by secretions of moment at the stopped woods edge, foxglove and hover fly sounds & whines suspensions pierce the skep of this head and that its like a foil wrapper crushed into a ball all still

Winter 2011
Sean Borodale

17th July: Killing Drones

Raised tails when the box lid is lifted Anger and the footstep of the waggle dance below. Our statue shadows: they catch the omen of us now. Song careless to our hearts. Exclaim, Three stings at once. Through gloves This race I learn is vicious, and why not? I am a thief myself. Inside this house are rows of brood below the honey stacks: the Super All work, create, defend.

Today cut comb with drone cells from the lower frame Too many drones, one tenth of all here this month, they eat the stores. Capped brood in ancient pots. (Suspect no queen present. She with clipped wings, gone) Respect the unborn dead. Hatched heads waggle. They are trapped. Perhaps a slogan: Feed They understand the pageant of the mating flight will come. And yet not born yet these fated. Two queen cells ripen fat with burden. Evolve same plan. Winding sound increased. Which queen will wake first? This game we hold and do not possess but use. This farm is cities. Good health; wing sheen like threshold stones. Kneel eyes: note no graffiti of foul brood or mould. Comb dark with capped brood is pixels. Wings good, not ragged. The honey clear. Will not take yet. Took one board of comb with hatching drones heads chewing out their caps. Threw the buoyant tarry dark wax into the river. Barge of ballast, heads a trout may seize. Slow flows, away it goes. Twelve-headed river-hearse of the emergent. No flame for them. Just jeopardies for sweetness made from flowers.

20th July
One thought, the queen of the past year whose wings were clipped; she might have tried to swarm All this cessation of eggs, lack of grub, like opals in dark pouches of wax comb She may have simply failed to take flight Queen cells are merely present No guarantee theyll work. Percentage of drones is high, eating the honey. The excising of our short-frame in the brood chamber beneath which drone cups were built by the workers was meant to curtail varroa. Those small mites drink our bee blood, hemolymph One theory like any other, tested here

23rd July: Noise & Waste

Today the hive is trying out its harmonics A weepy low fugue I think to burning sun The loss of flowers is overwhelming dry sheaths and packets stapled onto brown skulls The nagging air swings gibbets of drought Some clumps of the world are barred The dump stinks in flowerbeds, weedbeds and the rivers clogged two miles of hemlock rots Mangled carapaces fall out of air skinny in their little traps of make-up A chimera of scrap parts Grass-blade emerald twisted Glitter paste of bumps & grazes The airs ears are traumatised And on the flames of the hour just a whiff of decline just a whiff more The white dry heat jangles Its like a kiln is shaking at the corners Tomorrow, must search the dawns damp ash for broken mirrors

29th July
5pm Bees in other hives out there are dying in droves Now but now Now the wind drags bleakly and other horizons paw at our premise, edge, dregs of far points. Anemophilous noise which shifts and lifts ... a tambourine of black black news Tree flapping noise guitar-like string-scrape signatures the winds bee chanting scores potential potential collapses This is an uncertain very uncertain tragic time of ours Look Rocks sunk in the field like old stone hives

11.58pm My bed here say four hundred yards southeast of the hive my bed here Awake in the zoo-dead-of-night I listen in on the cages of the days hours There is that question, trapped and circling a hole in the floor a slurry of collapsed swarm agitates in there like the very black bowl of a dead stare into itching solid And there in that bludgeoned hole is the idea of a calf not broken but fully bruised and blocked up with clay plugs Mistaken bees blackly weep from its ears The colony has one time. Its like a gas dispersing towards the lowest of pressures

30th July: Bee Landed

The small incandescence of the one on the single stone where the stream cracks light My own eye hangs I go back to its stopped stopped sight & contain this oracle of its aspect, auspicious all quiet crystal & of its hair dark and wax and bristle the universe has shrunk to a stone, holds on its tablet the image of lagging fire, curing light Hearth prowled by secretions of moment at the stopped woods edge, foxglove and hover fly sounds & whines suspensions pierce the skep of this head and that its like a foil wrapper crushed into a ball all still

Winter 2011
Sarah Levine

Loud Shoulders

I did not know the last time I saw my mother was the last time I would see my mother. It was morning and she kept opening and closing the medicine cabinet just to hear the hinges creek. Open close, close open each time catching her eyes in the reflection. Examining the most recent version of herself. I watched her put on mascara, eye lashes curving like a whip mid thrash. My mothers eyes always reflected the weather, color channeling a days temper. She caught me watching her in the mirror and blushed. My mother embarrassed easily and slid out of the bathroom, soundlessly in wool stockings. She stopped at the top of the stairs and I felt her eyes on my feet. When I was six she cut herself with a butcher knife while chopping lettuce heads. She bled through my captain planet beach towel and I cried because I thought she was dying and I didnt know how to work the laundry machine and I didnt want to wash my shoulders with bloody chested captain planet and that was my only towel and then I felt guilty for only thinking about captain planet instead of my mother and her leaking capillaries but she kept chopping heads, spraying blood onto the wooden counter, captain planet dangling, all the while laughing at me and my wetness.

Serious Weather In storms I dream of dresses flying up. Thin girls sucked into the sky. Feet still as apples. The world is so loud. A skirts parachute warm with wind. Each breath, thin as rice. The stillness between screams. In storms I like the window open. For birds to fly through. Try to speak and a spoon bill builds a nest in your throat. Mother says before bed. Mouth a burned down dance hall. Sweet and dumb. I ache for her hands, when they unbutton. I know her fingers. Dirty carrots. Red from too much wind. Worms rolling all over themselves. Baby fugitives. Buttoning my night shirt. A womans hands should always be serious.

Herman at the Circus I fantasize about setting mothers hair on fire. At the circus, in summer when the air is sweet, peanut shells in pocket, watching the elephant flick flies off her ears. Aprons in wind. She creates a great wind just by breathing. Gentle soldier with thoughts of the sea and how it doesnt matter like kissing someone when theyre asleep. I wish I could take it back. But awe is too big for my body and no one seems to notice for somewhere a child is being shot from a cannon and a field mouse is caught in the teeth of the three legged mutt.

Questions to ask Begonia on our second date 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. What is the scent of your heart? Do you have a pet? Does your pet like you? Has your pet ever seen you naked? Where have you stood all night listening to rain? Was your first haircut performed by a mother? Did boxers always wear gloves? Do you like zippers or buttons better? Could you wear more dresses with pockets? Did you keep the bumper car tokens? Are they in your pocket? Are you difficult to hold when you cry? Do you ever wish you were made of bark? Or clay or milk or light? Wheres your least favorite place to get a mosquito bite? How many days have you never spoken? Whats the cruelest thing youve ever done? Is your skin always the color of egg whites? Where do you keep your grandmothers knick knacks? Has your grandmother died? What were your parents like as children? Where do you go to be alone? Could we ride cross county, in a canoe? With life jackets the color of cherry life savers? Have you ever had any misfortunes with glue? What do you remember? What is the scent of your heart?

For Begonia 1) My God is dead. My furious big veined puppy. Dressed in field. Quiet as soap. Soap mothers use to soap mothers. Beside river where ant buries sister and childrens knees grow thinner than apple stems. I am a terrible swimmer. All elbows and lungs. But you, forearms swifter than slide trombones, are song. Sweet boned Begonia. Wet yellow braid caught in wind. I know your noise. Belly full of fish. I feel sorry for my shirts. Mother sewed my name into each one. On the tag. Herman. Herman. Her man. Could I be? Could I sew my name into your pocket? Let my fingers brood and gasp. I am jealous of the air between your knees. The dropped stitch on your hem. The geese squawk like donkeys and you turn toward them and their bugle throats, mesmerized by the unrehearsed choir of wings. 2) I will pluck geese from the sky. Knock kneed in fields of mint and pepper. In rain when bones become spoons, a throb song. When the wings are quiet and smell of blown out candles. And you will kneel, feet bare, a wet prayer folding from your lips. What is worth opening a mouth for? My cruel reminder of need. The honeydew, the flame. Enough breath to rustle flags. Let the shoe nearly sit. Let my lips listen into the shell of your ear. Bony roads scattered with elms and white churches. 3) It is still raining and the geese are still silent and mother here is Begonia. A beginning, a beckoning. Hair in knots, world in mouth. A river cold full of stubborn fish.

Winter 2011
Sarah Kosch

TracksTaking The First Great Western Train to Oxford, February 26, 2011 The window is a whirl, a whirl-dow, a world doe , wide-eyed and raw, spin me faster. A line, a stripe of layered greentree tops stationary above a green tangle homea brick of roof, a shelter dissolved into color and past, left behind to blow away in the breeze. Listen, the water rises up We slow. The dust settles, and it is cold industry and train tracks and waiting in a gray room where billboards tell me what to read. Im ready so dont stop. Dont look up or you will share with a stranger. Im ready so dont stop. The next stop is in thirteen minutes time. Now we rush again, we fly and sway and clack, clack-a-lack-a-lack-a-lack, the lack lack of luck, with luck we will join the queue soon. Just a moment. Resting the back of your head in the crook of the glass elbow forces a pause. Dark blue crowded room. Nails red. They drum. Krispy Kreme coffee cup on a wooden tray and a boy takes pictures out the window. The catching is unlikely but the blur is soft and melts like tufts of cotton candy sugar. Maybe he will smear sticky handprints on the wall and stroke out a green field of open and some still water. I waited in the rain for you. This is my favorite sweater, being poor was never better, and its buttons are just the right sun. Twist your head back and fast forward with your nose against the glass. The clouds move slowly because they can.

If I look at the reflection instead of the refraction, half the time I see a woman. She rests her chin on her hand and stares. Her red fingernails square dance on the table topDosey doe , here we go. Youre next. Her eyes look tired and her lips are. Time to refract. New billboard = ESCAPE. Its now that easy. That girl on the bench did it. The boy in the green jacket sits close and she is glad he smells like soap and folds his hands between his knees.

I Am FindingGetting to and exploring Tate Modern, March 8, 2011 I. It (has to be somewhere around here) Lost is last worry and comfort when time goes undaunted, uncantered, uncatered, but the tick tock march makes me gulp in hurry and flies and try to stick composure to my sweaty forehead with some relaxed shoulders and a straight spine. I raise, raise the crown and walk like I mean it, and hope so desperately in my armpits that no one can tell I dont. Circles in circles there I am again again the windows show my steps to men in business suits and they laugh, maybe at a joke or maybe because my face is pale and theyve seen it before. I follow faint recollections of a road in a faint direction that I think is faintly south. Or maybe in between. I ask the map, but it doesnt answer. It is mad at me because I dont take it to dinner and only acknowledge it in dark corners where no one can see me looking. Hush, hush, I am not a tourist. Where the fuck am I? I am following a general amble. I like him just fine, but it is his Salvation Army that Im really after. When I see it on the corner up ahead, I give Jesus an air high-five and follow a couple of Death Eaters across a bridge that makes me feel like Im in the movies. I poise on my tiptoes with my arms in the air and swirl, whirl, furl out and look at the river and wonder why time can tick when I dont look at the clock. I guess the lapping of the waves counts too. II. Inside (the museum) Here are building blocks that do not stay still but rearrange into a man with a folded handkerchief then a bot then a kneipp and a floating hand holds a metal tin of ice cubes. I am convinced in this one I see the Hulks green butt cheeks and his fart has caused a police state to fall. In Chile yet in France, in the mind yet in the dark. Roberto Matta Echaurren paints what I see sometimes at night and dont talk about. It has warm touches and the hope of green purples and rainbows making roses out of my belly button. And here is a piece that is better than Keats Urn for at least their lips touch even if thats as close as they will ever get.

What happens when you throw books at the wall and they stick? Do they change colors and trim their mustaches with wire scissors so they can look more like art? Or do they look across the room and see their spines in a mirror that swears to them they are beautiful and that they belong in a museum. She is pretty, he is not. But she looks so sad. The bow waits propped, but she gazes out the canvas at autumn leaves and remembers when she dies the silence will be like now. His ribs point out and distortbrokenbut he doesnt even notice. His organs have punctured and oozed into silly-putty-molded lungs and he will just breathe deeper and unstrap her bra. This is an artist, she says and points to red paper on the wall and wooden stakes and gorilla glue with a sign that says DO NOT TOUCH. Art. The sculpted maze leads to a near empty room with a table that buzzes and metal tools that wait to be floured and rolled. Why doesnt the noise stop and why does the light fade? All there are are rooms and more rooms and rooms in rooms with rooms reflected in television screens and hung on walls. How do we get in this maze and where does it end if we are just reflections in a lensphotographic typologiesa series of skin and arms that scrape their elbows and bleed and cry. States of flux, the history of nothing. I sit on a leather bench and watch four black scratches wiggle over metal buttons without pushing them. III. A Memory (cemented) This one was here last time. A box of half crosses and wood with receipts for sales I did not make. In my head it is quiet except for a click and a rustle, and there is no one to block my view. I think it is a time machine and each time-traveler has a time card to fill before they clock out and go home. A slip floats past the fence and into my palm. It is in Spanish and I dont know what it says, so I smile and put it back. I think it must mean beautiful things. Then I read the sign on the wall. I wish Brutalismo wasnt so easy to translate. Architecture and dictatorships can both be stark and cause disappearances. I hope the time-travelers escaped unscathed.

Ear (/eye) Ration, All a TeaseObservations in Automatic at the British Library, February 16, 2011 First: Stop thinking. Lets go sailing. There is an old man with green rain boots halfway up his calves. His pants are tucked into said boots and said boots match his sweater. I could die from the cuteness. I like the way he walks. I like the way my shoe taps to my own beat. Two friends talk, laugh, one speaks so fast is it English? I cant even tell. I love the way it vibes Up and down. Vibrations in a tin can, a fruit syrup, a peach fuzz yellow jell-o on Grandmas table, a red and white squared cloth, a heart, a doily valentine cut-out with a smiley cartoon face. What faces were on our hearts? No one would have a nose. The eyes would see just red and inhale ketchup without the fries. No crispy chips, no laughing halibut. No tap tap. if our

Walk faster, Hands-in-Pockets-Boy. Tip tap, tap, tip, no unison, out of sync. Nsync = non sync = lip-syncing pilgrims. What: A white haired wig, plaid flower. Clean halls and a plant. I wonder if theyre real. A bag with gingerbread men and flowers painted on. A girl standing and putting on her coat. Dont mind me watching. Dont mind the cracks of break your mothers back and blue tiles with pink sunsets starting to creep from the edges like sand off the dune. The green boot man has returned. He walks forward, back, back slow. Walk slow, walk and talk and tell telephone missus you love her. I hope she has the same rain boots in yellow. I hope they are dry with a little dirt from the garden. Mud and a slug squelching and slimy on the windowsill. Hold her, hold her. It is warm.

Winter 2011

Samuel P. L. Veissire

\\\ poetry: titles without poems

Possible-side-effect-may.include@PostHuman.tv
You could be bouncing off the walls just now, Aquarius! Planetary energies could be propelling you out of your body. Welcome to A&W, may I take your order? We now call on our Star Alliance Super Elite and Gold Elite passengers for priority boarding. Please press 5 for more options. The mission of Western University College is to provide post-secondary education and training fundamental to the social and economic development of Western Manitoba in a culturally sensitive and collaborative manner. Product may contain traces of pork and animal f our. Sent from my BlackBerry smartphone on the MTS High Speed Mobility Network. Possible sideeffects may include peripheral neuropathy, cardiac arrhythmias, urinary incontinence, racing thoughts, increased appetite, bruxism, and involuntary muscle spasms. You have entered an invalid PIN. Western University College employees will adhere to the professional code of conduct of each profession.Would you like fries with that? 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Insert straw here. Due back Friday before midnight.

En desert algn the lugar in del somewhere a place desierto in

right-eye and/or lower eyelid numbness & tingling

ut Tit Poe les ms Wi tho

Complete Absence of Eyeballs: A Litter of Eyeless Pigs My Father's House it Was Yellow en algn lugar del desierto in somewhere a place in the desert In Malaysia the Room it Was Blue Like the Devil How my Grandmother She Sang Lullabies in Yiddish Except I Made Her Up the dandelions, les pissenlits, the piss-in-beds how they make me cry (with the mouth of a dog). Stag With Head Buried Under Rock In the Amazon the Devil a Room in Blue Inside the Ears of a Cat Bomfim in the end the Brdr@Dwn He Could Have Written Something Like Primo Levi Between Keewatin & El Paso The Boarding School it Was Grey Fifty-Four Degrees of Latitude South With the Mbuti the Pygmies My Friend & With His Contrabass How the Footage From One Year the Sound He Is Just Sitting With It Will You Treat Me Like One of Your Whores? From Up Here To Wherever

The Time of No Flowers

Broken Ducks Everywhere how u taste & how u breathe when i Washington in Red

txt

Traum

In the morning the memories. [] & [...] closed Sophie Calle, the French artist. with [...] & your lips [...]. I had a dream the same The one who followed strangers & who got a job one how you were back how [...] & I had to know as a chambermaid & who stole little things of to know how many men you fucked after you left everyday me & of these men there had been six. Friends intimacies. mostly you said you fucked them once mostly just How she had this project about mural paintings & friends. memory in Johannesburg. How Sophie Calle, she was walking in the street in Prague, or Budapest, or Berlin or Brussels & how she got a email on her phone, from her boyfriend breaking up with her how she was heartbroken sun-dogs & how she had the email reviewed and analyzed by 107 experts in copy-editing & psychiatry & talmudic scriptures & sun-dogs they are called etiquette-consulting & how the rings around the sun she turned it into art the email & how your break-up text how it said: ur a piece of shit dont u ever and I mean NEVER come near me how later I deleted it & how I wont show it to 107 experts & how later to my fourth or fifth goodbye email or maybe it was the one before last you said i can't read on, your pathetic clichs & how I should send them my pathetic clichs to journals & magazines & how I should collect them the rejection letters & once in guyana the savannah the for a story or an installation. earth in red the night
i saw them the moon-dogs

txt k be there in 5. OMG ur crazy!!! mmmmh baking cupcakes lol. Jumping in shower. Hey sweetie, did you eat yet? I miss ur cock. Loooove my new shoes lol. Putting the little one in bed. I miss you already. Sweetie? What really happened with the handholding girl in Brazil? How did the dentist go? I am not me without you. Leaving now. Want me to order for you? k. will bring wine. Sweetie, please rest, ok :) happiest girl ever!!! working on essay, then workout vid, then bed. Sweetie I miss you I cant sleep. Tanning in backyard. Tell me a story. What are you thinking? Going commando lol. Fuck you're psycho!!!! I love you to the point of stupidity. Please just let me be. Just havarti and multigrain crackers lol. I want you to hurt me. Ur amazing! Painting my toenails lol. Cute. You're silly. I miss your mouth. I need some ME time!!!! fuck you're hot. Sweetie I am still sore from last night. Give the munchkin a kiss for me. You keep enabling her and I can't deal with it anymore. Can't wait for Tahiti, SO excited! k. i'll send u an interac money transfer. Sweetie, don't be mad, but I cut my hair. Just had a killer workout! Send me a pic of your cock. No I have my waxing appt, remember? How did the meeting go? Thanks for breakfast sweetie. Your arms look big, I like it. I love your back. I like it when you're rough. You're a lying piece of shit. Mmmmh movies and cuddles. Want me to grab you a diet pepsi? Thank god ur safe! Battery dying. I was in class!!!! Phone was on silent!!! I am so done with you. I like black on you. OMG ur so dramatic. Clit piercing back in :) Sorry sweetie, just woke. How's your shoulder?

the topography

clauses without sentences Poems without titles of Saint John of the Cross, and Sor Ins Juana de la Cruz, their name as a walker and a lover and Ego Eggo Echo-Echo. I didn't want to hear about the ox-cart again shame and the massage but everything on my left hand, tattooed the with his blazers of many buttons who quoted Rimbaud 'No, no!', she said, 'those were gifts from Arturo Bandini'. drinking with his suitcase until the to the dogs, in the words visa in Malay, and he would meet me there, in to please please wire her money Mozambique, and she could play the Goldberg Variations. I the tundra, my restlessness no trails, I usually and peach and plum flowers, yes', she had -who-brings-love, tattooed where it must be, on that weren't my kind of girls, and I would take those once a shepherd? I liked that. Not a in C, and Messiaen at the organ and with the birds, and Arvo Prt when it snowed, de lis', or 'yes, a cross', is what she turn yellow

(except of course fucking paulo

coelho he had to write about the aleph) (and Room Full of Mirrors, it was called, the piece for interactive orchestra or whatever by the guy with the long hair in Dublin the one who studied with Stockhausen)

roses red & (the) violets (they) blue the kitchen she is blue but it was Debbie Travis emo, RD (n.i.): lap E. Mord, Nil-AP E.M. Ord Nila (p) Em, or Dn, Ila!P

Fucking Nonante ecus...Elle nia, malin! Et ta palindrome ne mord ni la patte ni la main. Elle sue, et na! non!

Winter 2011
Robin F. Brox

after action for another library (inspired by Tom Nicholson) I wore anger like a uniform, pulling on the gas mask of order, stepping across hot piles of ex-tradition I released my fear, a flamethrower spitting fire from one rectangular shelf to another, chronicle of crinkling charred spines, dust choking my senses with disintegration blasting the past away, burning dangerous imaginations to ground pepper, no one afraid of a sneeze or chipped paint or cracked shelves library reduced to whispers of sour breath soft ash and my temper is riled, drilled to believe, be lied to, danger, the curled remains, labored breath, worker bee stings history, erase evidence replace intellect with absence, create and un-make out of rage

A.) Concoct Key Gush Run 1. Things said in the heat of passion should be about passion itself. Pulse on the memory of the ruins, including lunch, is an economic downturn in light, disadd fragrance for two nights shell colour of eggs wasted no racing pulse, signs of sexual exploitation of a second DNA sample from God, the word earthquake & Roy's team reports that the biggest threat for the surprise appearance, residential flex ice shell credit. Bright interference table conference hotel wing one loop-wed hole, starting point bar stool line pedal power has a negative effect to limit dust stealing dinner, little hope that the expectation under the different forms of plastic bag dispend pleasure, slope shadow rebellion, but the man-bag, earrings. On the front of the box with fake plastic eyes and a yellow oil in the nervous sweats, full confidence in the modeling of flow, too much emphasis, on the screen over his shoulder in a blanket, blue eight squared, that has no off street trick is how to protect sunflare crisis of confidence on the red carpet on a line drive to use ink, mist blindered.

Manager button from the point of fire in, both variables are calculated based on the oil slick into the pronunciation of light wood unprecedented in danger of salt, we reported that headaches are difficult to understand the silence and reduce the curve of your body, to promote natural elm means to delay the separation of soft mobility, chin railroad, it is important that they re-examined the evidence. Scorpio is Iris honest, magneto-caloric, off the edge of the attic of the house to play the basic structure of activities of serious infectious dream upshift, cold winter vegetables, Palm Square, so greedy that the digital memory again the level of reliability of the barbarian language kite-motorized vertical press. Unsatisfied with the head in, primates carry heavy river flooding was granted, complete his desire mild sugar water fuel complex, ice cold for five pages, O.K., riling my fears tired of waiting waiting for a chance to put the interest, the Government support is crucial to the sunset provision in the budget of barley grass.

The text of the birds singing at night unimaginable, a gravel area in front of the crack density, Mao Board of Knowledge can be unpredictable, man-hour casual hook now established as a negative reflection on the groaning error, torture movies after crushing a kiss on the table, sad old specialty chemicals stored in a singular career, private lunch. Interpreted want to, know how to breed colonies cannot be postponed accidentally, disk space is perfect for claims incurred in the mining sector in local red thigh, so that an abnormal termination of a narrow cuff, stupid call.

2. White, white, you just might brown, brown run aground. Reduced incidence of tartar, traced back Mexican loan and secondary sexual characteristics of waste shells, which are easy to use, as shown at noon on unstable poles DNA missing pulse in ruins, he said, the file can be found safer than a child, Lord, for foreign snails crouch, improve housing condition for settlement. Limited environmental mapping, table leg dust butterfly wings with a margin of theft of blank optical ring-loop, latency of property loss of surface area, guide trap catalyst was not obvious, distorted Big Bear Presidents nylon bag full of sound by the close coupling harsh shadows against accidental leisure. Harm street sun flare, blind trust tapes therapy, do not believe that the whore stigma crisis frosts re-display, the current tension in the eyes of my heart of stone, plastic weapons, octagon Magic Ink blue blanket, shoulders looking for food use despite the fog.

Official seal of the significant opportunities to reduce changes in check, wood fuels, supports the Salt Festival, dangerous position is ready to increase its nothing-to-worry-about wave form of meat, nice and quiet street only, degum peace, full return to idle chink is urgent review. Diversity is a structure interchange, Scorpios magnetic wave, mechanics value upshift in the kitchen of your dream house in winter temperatures, lack of green roof, broach Palm Beach, accident investigation wide angle digital power bait right behind the cool lotus show time. Blessed are usually part of the money, from the next wave saw the kilometer, river odor information on land use in China, in the first place if they try to escape the edge of the area mending ink, anima producing a deep great interest in the status quo or, the extent of cash flows in a spirit of dawn to wait.

Birds stop for inclusion in the brutal taste of the game, now is the lack of education, the content of the skin cracks in winter, and kiss the sand removed from, the track does not expect crazy rooms beyond pain and unfortunately kohl, imbed kin swords, the dream of freedom, even months he was a chemical company. Long legs and small income from abroad, the bright red version, before-call setup, the best solution, 'I think' the most impotent pressure.

3. When in doubt, cowboy out. On the ruins of memory and click, the global financial crisis, losing in the second night of dining high pulse day, colour skin sensual, please do not forget the egg, sexual exploitation and other DNA samples, God, team earthquake, the biggest threat to the ice, they used a credit card and life seems to be flexible. Accommodation Office Suite 1, activities in light of the loop, divorce and body-piercing electrical tape at the beginning of the cycle has a negative impact on border, powdered dinar, steal the hope that the expectations of various types of plastic bags happy slope, shadow breath rising, but many earrings. If other lamp, rote, beside confidences in the plastic yellow seat, focus on oil more nervous when modeling flow to the screen, shoulders, blue, eight square kilometers of land to protect the crisis-of-confidence tricks, street cloud of ink car sampler, blinded online red carpet.

Two variables are first, calculated headache and gemmed delusion, hard to relax and your body naturally turns to the preparation of reports held in rooms as a risk, managers soft button on the oil slick on fire, as offhand R&R dumb overtrading, important new elements, to explore the dynamics of funding reduce the shine. I play the basic structure of serious skin disease in March, President Magnetokalorik, iris standing on the corner of the roof of the house, winter vegetables, upshift greedy security, digital media pause ovule sleep, keep pets in the median vertical, electric. Monkey does not meet the massive bleeding in the head office, ice, sugar, hot oil, cold water, the possibility of a complex retiling, five pages, a chance to represent the interests of the public afraid of getting tired of waiting for cawing budget for wheat grass, sunset. Text information on sand, man could not control breaking the peace, while the bird sleeps negative prediction error density, now movies rock torturedark picture of the old shop specializing in one content, player is set to be broken by a kiss, private dining.

Interpretation, want to know how the colony is not randomized, airy shave embedded hard disk space, the best area, claim to believe in adding and removing local deviations, sheaf narrow red.

4. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, just like the Russians. Mexico bans DNA, secondary sexual characteristics in the frequency of finance in the government of dust, soil removed, but simply reduce the signal to the South Pole in the volatile find documents, and more secure for a child of God in improving management forms of housing, Kurd arch anemia. The legs have limited environmental mapping table, butterfly property empty command line, the catalytic surfaces do not mean to disturb the present, a clear bag nylon bag, cross for pleasure of a combination of strong noise full shadows, dust and air edge of the ringwing identity theft. Al-Hamra Street unfair treatment and superstition, I do not think the mind's eye stone, the current recovery is a prostitute frost, pressure situations, plastic weapons, blue magic carpet, octagonal root crops though the fog arms. Dim pittance of an official seal to minimize potential change control, wood hit the craft festival is a place of salt increases more than in his matter-wave treatment of food, the roads are quiet and beautiful, in return for

peace Dems market changes, quickly nap. Scorpions interchange, winter temperatures in Palm Beach go magnetic, structure of the diversity of mechanical cooling in enough money for food and a green roof Lotus, skiing accident investigation, sudden loss of the digital home to raise. Mend engine mania areas to secede from the edge of a blessing when trying to make money in a spirit of waiting, for the morning or substantial interest in this situation at first the river used China, buck iron country, money is part of a new wave of information to smell. Is the presence of wild birds, play in prisoners currently low level of education, preservation of the skin, remove the sand, kissing the cold numbers to describe the pain and crazy key in lieu, Ibiza, unfortunately, is not expected, and a dream for free even months, the company's chemical. Long and low, income from abroad, the version is the best solution in the red first leg I think, the main pressure.

Winter 2011
rob mclennan

A manifesto on the poetics of North Stormont 1. snow again, the rain applies , the cold this February thaw, & freeze if it is, in time, to act , all things considered Christine, a corrugated cough, of medical this, enough, the fates, constellation on her ceiling, Circulus, meaning mass, a mess of stars, the smell of first prize

2. I have tried to understand each question before formulating response, we have so much to talk about a winters chill caress; water melts my fathers ancient bones quality of fingers sequence, show yourself the rusty fabrics of the living room, dishes dont themselves,

3. a cancer line; my father, a correction line says, cancer, I hate you, vacate his colon, in 1969 his father in 1984 his mother akin to patient days, week razer-sharp & thin, the jagged border, have tried to understand death a step dying isnt,

4. matching inner logic of recycled tires, water filters slowly, through waste to soil mark, smoke is less a less incinerator return the heart to shutter speed, loose lips in sync, sink ships water rolls and crumbles we know not how to love if even,

a song for sleep: loves fractured narrative A song hears her trees in its sleep. Eric Baus clear point a line, begin the gardiner expressway if taste the end of day, think thirsty ; in which terrifying pop songs cars & sounds of trucks there is no safety in it * demanding, a blue can enter, mess of sentences an impact statement there, Im working up choreography, the body , the middle of your one-way, fields of what & former streams

* sleep, a gesture rather a young woman returned, a permanence that doesnt scan vertical, a blind of spots & cars, she looked around , or far away a table or a turkey dreamed stops speaking then she closed her eyes

Escarpment pages, A sidewalk always relative to the body, street, schoolhouse avenue bereft, lost lots of stretch, gone copper-green, I address you in age, much of the time the snow fell, lingered, secure-breath, rare mornings made of light,

Linden lea, Betrayed itself a claimant, once a village, as were all, escarpment; store-stretch, lolling clouds; a stream of flags, step, one step, swans once, ; said, louder, do you know history, a river ran, utterance a dead , split upward, past the stones of our assembling,

Doctors without borders, An allied craft, , dependant , no such thing, a neighbourhood breathes & breeds, waiting, standing on the corner; uniforms, plates license-red, the piercings of barrista nose & navel, what do you see against suspicion; red wheelbarrows, chickens & a fatal wound, the boy will live; he has to,

An impulse of weather, Such great heights; nocturnal, this creaking century , rattles on; abound, , direction, this and miss, hit and turn; a simple drive, tells the hour mark; the eldest, tin type page , a meditation long on glass in waves; spells only water out, alight in sheets through windowshine, , directing opposition,

Winter 2011
Richard Fox

M ouths of lilies com e after root;

come after stem: proof that the world is round falls pretty out of them. To what do the leaves owe their days grammared by breezes tagged to treetops where gnat-flags stammer? Howd the deer drown? By getting down into spring flood, silted down to raise both bed of river & of codger? Mountain rangemachine & woundbe deep & bloody ravine; be leap, be unbound, be long-division of salt lick, tip of deer tongue at rivers rung, thoughtless as pocket change. Receive receive receive

Explaining Pictures to a D ead H are (after Joseph Beuys)

Human laborhuman error like Jack or Jill: what goes up must come down. Hill as sine wave; has peaks & valleys. Here is Jack. Here is Jill. Here are woods. Here is stream & well. Here is hole for rabbit hare & Jack (in tumble) come before Jill. Sky-parts fall & here comes hare from his eye-like hole on fur-lucky legs his leap; his pin-up; his wife-beater & his amazing slacks.

The Suicide
Pain is the marvelous purifier. James Dobson

The Owl of Minerva flies at the moon. Headless body of shirtless man, you thumb your nose at the air or the ocean; the devil will find no workshop there. Its hard to be effete & stylish with a pinch between your cheek & gum. You love elevators. You can now be made into different things: statues kindling.

The Lam entations

I can introduce myself to others & can ask & answer questions about personal details such as where I live, people I know & things I have I want to sleep, but when I try, I remember all the times I have humiliated myself: tongue be instrument of torture. I can describe experiences & events, dreams, hopes & ambitions & briefly give reasons & explanations for my opinions & plans I want my father to be a cop so I can masturbate with his nightstick; doesnt matter which hole. I can deal with most situations likely to arise while traveling in an area where English is spoken I want to have a canopy of happiness; I want to inspire someone. I can understand with ease virtually everything heard or read Everything you see is in a distance; everything is slow & silent. The sky has come down to earth or the grass raised up, fretful & collusive; the forest is a lesson in birch. I want to kill rodeo clowns.

Jane, in Flam es
When I was one hour old, I smiled at my father; when I was eighty-nine years old, I died.

Who knows why Jane burst into flames: there was that frank stare, quiet as an egg. The air does not stop at nightthe horsemen ride through the house like fire. What could be worse than to be mad with fear? Oh what a shame for poor wee Jane. Why dont you pour me a glass of that sweet, light crude: it comes with a large lapse in faith, the pitch & yaw of shrift & shrive.

Translation

Adenoma is somebodys word for hello. A gesture goes with it, but its a joke kindling for a laugh. Now splendid with moon, the lake is all busy with waves. Translation: hello goodbye aloha

Winter 2011
Richard Cronshey

LOS ANGELES, AN ESSAY ON POETICS For longing to know itself, and that ,in itself, it is enough. The poem goes unconsoled because it is a poem. Something happens to remind me I am nothing like this. Love is when you're playing Russian Roulette with Lucifer and it's your third turn and you hit an empty chamber and you discover the universe has always belonged to you and a scent of singed ozone follows you everywhere you go for the rest of your life. Smoke pouring from your empty pockets you walk and walk through blue cities, ornamental futures with girls like imaginary saints whose whole lives ride on them and are as salt on wounds as they sing to you Oh Angelica get the fuck off it would you. There is an emergency here for you it's face in its hands at some red door Still certainly there will be worse things to come for us

In Las Vegas and Alabama Some things Angelica some things are best pissed on from whatever heights grace may lend us My grandmother's house in San Marino with the smell of dusty kleenexes through the cool shaded rooms, the glowing colonial furnishings and the silence folded in the silence folded in the silence. Her sad eyes and smile something she wanted to caution me about. Los Angeles out there past the concussed and dreaming palms a subsonic whistling in the nerves Los Angeles luxuriating in its polymorphous thirsts forever under the unearthly saffron dusk that lasts all night.

THE DISCIPLINE Chain smoking in the waiting rooms of your orphan universe Stare at it until the bones show through Stare at it until everything of it falls * Like a giraffe in the garage that opulence

BEWARE OF COPS HIDDEN IN VENTRILOQUISTS DUMMIES Sawed in two And pulled out of a hat Everything is true For a long time Cold wind whips up the street And I remember I am missing A spell Uncasting itself The words died first In my mouth For a long time Everything is true

WHATS BEEN KEEPING ME For years now I keep going back to the same nameless Asian city when I sleep as if a part of me has been living there all this time turned perpetually away from the sun

VOICE Your voice where an orphan lily burns for everyone Its true face is heartbreak My body reflected in your body My life in your life I want to talk to the wound that wears your pale blue thirst as its shell Bruised universe so small it fits in my palm This is the fist in which a vast space embraces itself and weeps Gentle conflagration Iconic transparency Everyday ghost Fall for everyone Follow everyone down every street You are the salt dissolving on its tongue

THE LONG NIGHT LOST IN ITS HAIR This veil for rent. Extraordinarily rendered unto heavenly forgetting. Out of this bodily dark it emerges look a word and its melancholy halo the long night lost in its hair. Condemned to live in paradises of our own invention, our faces lit by hope's bright fallout. The fierce exigencies, the labyrinths all in bloom. There is a child on my shoulders. I have a beard. I am the parent of the child. There is snow. Keep faith only with what I cannot destroy because it is indestructible. Give back to space what belongs to space, our lives and bright ideas, back to the mother of the sun. The future is a bruise, a view without a country.

Welcome to a million years of school Angelica. To be free of everything as good as true even love. A thing's extinguishing can be its crown the rest on a shadowed upper landing of the breath the long night lost in its hair.

Winter 2011
Purdey M. Kreiden

From: The Testimony of my Sister

no a yadseut

the next day we slapped her harder don't paint me yellow ! she cried don't cry yellow she was thoroughly bleached her neck her face and then they came, small animals small small small small animals (we do love bleach too) if we ever find our way out of the wood, then we'll die sperm is a colour, kids are perched RUN FASTER !!! YOU ARE NOT A BIRD ANY LONGER don't die there in the woods (he took the dog for a walk and now he is dead) pink paint would encircle my left wrist, all this blood emoc ot el eht elttil seon i esimorp emoc tuo dna yalp i t'now kool i t'now kool sselnu ouy eid these love bites your family jewelries my son;

i remember you know his hair his hair was sometimes grey (we enjoy your face crushed against the wall) there was another cage this one is empty 'we lied to you my child this bear isn't your father' then the walls moved to be near us to be near us we never said we knew the alphabet 'us muslims we never say the name of God' he said saying it hung above the strawberries field before night break maybe it was me me me ew reven dias ew wenk eht tebahpla a discret walk to the park... it was closed on monday they said now this they stole oranges from me they stole oranges from me sometimes i urinate rain even though i am not a catholic; 'when he devoted himself to the bleach...' o lord, give us back our pants pieces of my head enclosed in the good old baker's bread then he said, 'i beg your pardon King Salomon' then he died. (she smiled when they undug me) the jar opened slightly, something RED something borrowed something DEAD (we did not steal that they said it was in the bread) this apple pie is baked for GOD, a jaw wrapped in plastic the land was near and yet we couldn't speak, open your hands so i can see your pearls 'this is the bell you shall ring when you'll be buried alive in a pet cemetery' insanely nice people offer me an apple before they slit my throat; are we alone he asked did we lock the door 'we won't let you go if you stay pretty' i pity my brothers i pity their ankles, always twisted and if we were not there who would slap the sailors; you see me now as i was in your garden twenty years ago, as long as it is pretty he said (the end was near and yet we couldn't speak) 'don't lie to me you don't recognize the sea' LIZARDS LIZARDS THEY PAINTED MY FACE she is always with you in heaven, your twin sister (my sister is still DEAD)

salt ends, deer friend (i think they sucked up a fish) you know my boy we don't need you to have toes, ti swa a erem yadseut 'i see. the limits of your body' watching those kids on a merry go round, to choose one careful my child don't sneeze before you pass the river i frowned to the melon our redemption won't be golden at all; they were rehearsing christmas eve i choked with a candy before they undressed me eyelids glued with pure light BITE THE NURSE ! BITE THE NURSE ! 'i will not last forever.' a rock glowing birds humping our lips, repeatedly. you would hear this voice every time you dive 'someone waiting for you by the bed' the sun won't boil it take it i plucked it for you the moon won't boil it take it i boiled it for you she pictured the blade in her hand that's when she remembered, ' the sky is not above anymore' (he said he could never get hard with barbel) my hairs were hung above the lavenders at noon it is my lady o it is my worm 'mingle the bottles. now. do it.' both of them blue; (that's when they discovered my wife wasn't edible) he opened the bedroom door my tail was well hidden; he unwrapped his christmas presents I was hard. she was my only daughter and now she's dead after the deer nothing appears (when i asked his name the boy fell dead) hongrians would swallow raw eggs the night of their weddings 'we won't scratch the green wall' the skull nodded; your sister. the wind took her away (i thought i would blow the astronaut) 'you will be slapped to death if you don't glow in the dark'

(and now there is a cure against gravity) they said i ate an orange my beloved is there, under this rock; 'can you spell your names kids' we didn't know what to answer we thought we saw the moon we closed the door; open your eyes you're a young girl now put on your dress old man put the candy in the sleeping child's mouth. 'if you don't swallow it you will be considered as a betrayer' (our beds on the stairs were no beds at all) i didn't mean to drink it they mingled the bottles the color they injected in my eyelids, it itches; someone is beaten to death with a handful of honeysuckles (and for some of us the island did not appear at all) 'no one made the drawing' the drawing was torn this dog this dog didn't die of natural death - silence. when we saw the purple scarf for the second time we knew we would be taken away 'you would be missed.' he put the lid back on the pan when he grew older he died. in a dream we were told we didn't need to breath our hands are on your eyes, we tied branches around our necks we didn't sleep at all (we were not afraid of the animals appearing beyond our eyelids) i lay down in front of you, salty. a quiete leaf wrap around you wrist we exhale dim light, look under the rock the virgin eye body fractaled on the surface of our lips, (we bit through a jellyfish our daughters appearing in the middle of the lake) we saw our faces on a piece of soap and sliced it and spread it and remember the valleys, they move so fast he was my sister when he fell asleep i wrote his name reversed on his back 'your ship wrecked many years ago' he smiled and walked away; they were hung here yesterday and now they're gone (he told everyone the tree was his father) pass the mountains there they grew, the missing kids; our horse knew someday the night would come he paused. fingers were sucked we were bleeding pure gold, we went on; (the bride knew all the season's names) the fishes were on me they were sometimes keeping me company the sea the silence were not worth dying for; you were my beautiful sissster we took a nap a long nap and woke up on a tuesday

we celebrated our hair our necks the woods would envy us 'and if i don't die for my sister i'll die for a lonely sailor' we believed sleep was the dust of the sea and when the rain stopped we did not believe in God any longer (a grasshopper in each hand we drink the death of spring) we caught the snails they threw off from the cliffs then vomiting gold on the bench, someone or something dancing on the outskirts of the green planet; i can't recall the colours of my mother her eye her thigh our ears are there, well kept then they found their way to my bed, the reptiles; a leak on the roof, sperms drops RUN MY DEERS ! HUNT STARTS NOW ! squatted in the hollow trunk i waited and waited but nothing appears (when we run in the woods we are invisible to God) KIDS, FUCKING - to be sanctified when i touched him he looked like a cat, only smaller (with a hole in your head you'll be able to control the rotation of the sun) there's nothing there, after the river i see a yellow dog, and two vines 'say anything that comes to your mind' said the tv, my skin is peeling the boy said oblivion was right there, in this very puddle he lied; the surface of the walls was the skin of my mother the islands were infected by the pork; soon or later kids you will embrace this octopus 'i love pudding' - me too, he cum; those noises are insects tickling the mold on your tits vinegar was injected in the cells, then a foxtrot; we removed the heavy skull and cleaned the area with lemonade a citrus would be placed in the dead part of the brain, sharpening our teeth on ivory drops then i promised not to bite the muscles; a lonely nap tangles my father's hair the red woman spat sun semens on our hands; are you sure that's what you want you won't depend on gravity anymore 'he left his lipstick on the bench and now he's dead' (my breath was somehow mingled with glass) i spat the milk on his scar the milk (jar was full of blue sunday) 'i trust the insects they'll lead us the way to the cabin' our pockets filled with apricots we take off our faces; (we didn't know the cure was in the shell) on a mouthful of plastic my sister choked to death black bird black bird they sung;

(they were drawing vines on our chests) we pissed rays of light on the violet hay the divine child spread himself all over my face shall we really trust the villagers? it wasn't violent so i went back to sleep suddenly the neighbours dissembled me; this wasn't there when we locked up our fiancs are yellow dust under the blankets, we inhale 'those kids got married in a pet cemetery they killed our dog and ate his eye' (war is declared)

shirley is pretty in agony my neigbours' throats are very red at night it's something i like to look at from the street we would see them glitter like vipers; our pray is there behind the window, a gold leaf on the edge of the roof believe me there is nothing really worth dying for behind those veils someone went missing after dinner my brothers made a pile of birds on the table; we painted our fingertips with lipstick before going to bed and dreamt we were licking a ball of blue light take that with you and go chase the sun he said and poured mud in our ears; now we take the indian knife and slice the guinea pig until it shines like a rainbow or something like that our father is a raven he has raven's memories under our nails the guinea pig's breath; we would dance on the roof with red pearls in our mouths our veins were wrapped around versicolored ribbons and ran on the walls like water spiders then again mother was baking a honeypie, singing i want to sit here and watch the pile of birds the pile of birds (we did not hang ourselves to the beams of the sun) it was a tuesday morning shirley sat at the end of the table where our father used to sit, i don't believe in solar system anymore (he danced upon my face he wasn't salomon at all) it was at that moment one of us came sitting on top of the bird pile on the table; i ran to the lake with my knees uselessly wet people with torn eyes mostly walk around at night shirley spat rain under my skirt;

we could make a real ceremony, with empty glasses and golden knives shirley laughed and said he drank the lemonade blood our father hid himself behind the violet bushes; dancing on the roof with mud on our faces we were scared of opening our palms scared of discovering what we were hiding in our hands then i let the guinea pig devour my face.

tillykke med bryllupet

i died in a dream last night and it did not wake me up said shirley we pass the little church, we used to spit glitters on this bench kids whistling like snakes at the corner of the street a smelly paw gently lower my eyelids, our tongues are winter peaches; we all went out tiptoe that night our faces crossed by colour pencil stripes the moon reversed twice, shirley sat next to me and said eventually your cat will grow old you'll see they left me alone near the lake and i stayed there a while, flickering thinking about the sharpen tooth secretly placed in a matchbox on my sister's dressing table a girl sucked the tip of her ice cream cone and slapped my two cheeks with her yellow voice; the fire with a sent of moon we untie our shoelaces to offer our toes to Jupiter, none of them moved when the rocks hit their necks maybe they're having a conversation on the stairs i've picked the echo of their languid hair off my tongue and folded their ankles like coloured almond dough their legs were wolves legs without a doubt; shirley poured blue light in juan carlos ear and sucked his eyes soaked with precocious summer whispering we shall sacrifice ourselves to penetrate the bestiary thin thin mulberry tree branches to intermingle our hair we are nymphs in sodomy. and to spit glitters on the church's bench in your kid mouth; my father wakes us up in the middle of the night he turns on the lamp and says they rest in peace they didn't suffer

Venice, 316

the venitian slave was raised here lay down hold the lizard near your face we are all watching you (this very day they had made an important discovery about the colour green) we're dragonflies the children cried, and jumped out the pylon; they would preach the green colour all across the cities they would walk along with the shepherds sometimes sharing their beds the tip of the noses, the fingertips of the newborns were painted by the young men of faith green spots glittering on the surface of the lake at nightfall; the weeks had nineteen days back then and each of them was named after a plant's name and the citizen would cut the tail of their dogs on rudbeckia; why did you hide his birth? speak the citizen's kids were all taught how to speak backward they said they never heard about Venice my hometown before and each of them would have to carry around his dog's tail to prove his identity the gold coins were all destroyed and green was the money; i came all the way down there from my home town Venice to know more about this discovery 'the young preachers they are on their way now' he taught his slaves all he knew about plants, and they would teach it to their sons and the son of their sons; we saw this dog lick the green stain on the slave's corpse and now his tail is growing back on the nineteenth day she sliced my fingertips and they were shared out among my brothers for them to eat our noses would be rubbed with fresh handfuls of primroses; i am an old man now and i look forward to dying the venetian lord dictated (sometimes the young preachers would hypnotize the shepherds and inject the green colours in their iris) 'maybe if we stop watching it will stop' she said it is called triplocoria hail was falling on the day of my birth the shepherds were praying Jupiter; what colour were your son's eyes i don't remember for ninety days and ninety nights they went hunting for salamanders, they barely slept hail was falling and the shepherds were scared o they were terrified she began to doubt the existence of her child. they gave her another green injection (somehow the green lights were slowly moving and would almost reach the mountains) one of the slave's son began to speak backward, too; sometimes he would make dreams where a green green hail was gently covering his body on the ground 'please spare him take one of my others sons' the young preacher applied the colour; on the surface of the lake i saw my nose my fingers vanish away

(suddenly the slave's son was able to understand the language of the shepherds) lactuca, nelumbo, fragaria, gladiolus, tussilago, gypsophila, salix, medeola, callistephus, anthurium, oxalis, lobelia, digitalis, echinops, lythrum, hesperis, wisteria, epictatis, rudbeckia 'come to me, brothers of mine' the young preacher opened his arms, we sung; we were scared of turning around scared of discovering the salamanders had been following us, we walked faster who gave you that dog tail you gave it to me no i didn't 'lizards, herbs, grasshoppers, dragonflies, salamanders, plants' he listed them he wrote their names on his chest what else do you know how did the green happened the needle was near her face now, SAY (the son of the venetian lord he his the one who gave me the dog's tail) 'this is not how we spell this word' he thought his master had been tricking him; the slave's sons would cover their ears with their hands but they would still hear the singing of the citizens' kids we found her here her pupils green o so green (their tongues would progressively change colour) 'your son is nowhere to be found my lord' the slave was a little taller than his master and had to bend his knees when they walked together so remember children if you find grass under your sheets you shall go and tell the lord on a green alley they died, the dragonflies; do you know the name of this root? (the slave's son was nowhere to be found) 'give us back the dog' the venetian kids laughed, they opened the scissors; how would i recognize my son now that he has nor finger or nose (the mothers would carve the names of their sons on the back of the salamanders) he spat green spit in his hands, 'see' and the slave's son would sometimes imitate their singing, and his mother would hide the dogs; hail was falling the day i was born and now they're looking for me, the shepherds (golden grass was secretly kept in the venetian lord's chest) none of my brothers recognized me when i came back from the lake, show us your dog's tail (it didn't affected my sight at first but then i started to have visions where the shepherds would all have my face) what is this plant doing in your belongings young man you know it isn't allowed by our lord someone must have put it in there we've never heard about your home town Venice

Winter 2011
Pattabi Seshadri

Our Fathers

* Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth This continent of sand Peeking out from prairie grass, Where all men are created equal But the deer mouse Peromyscus maniculatus Is the most populous mammal. Our fathers truly believed that all men Are dark mice on pale sand, Testing whether mutation can lighten their fur.

* Four score and seven years ago Our fathers brought forth on this continent A supermassive black hole From which magnetic fields squeezed Life, liberty, and property Out into space like toothpaste.

We have come to dedicate this galaxy And its tiny, heavy heart, a resting place From which history cannot escape.

* After collecting the tears of women Watching four score and seven Sad movies in a lab, Our fathers smelled the tears and found the women Less sexually attractive. This depressed their testosterone to such levels That they locked themselves in a room In downtown Philadelphia And cried forth a new nation.

* Years ago our fathers brought forth A handwritten recipe of 11 herbs and spices Dedicated to the proposition Of coating the Original Recipe chicken. We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate this recipe. It will be slid into a briefcase And handcuffed to a policeman, It will be tucked away in a vault With vials of herbs and spices for the dead.

* When our fathers finally cracked their eggs The whites formed a skin of protein Conceived in a bowl and dedicated to the proposition That any trace of fatty yolk Ruins a souffl. Now we are engaged in a tremendous beating, Testing whether these towering peaks, Or any whites so hand-whipped, Can long endure.

* We are met on the great battlefield Of Black Friday's price wars. The shoppers who bravely struggled here Have consecrated the retail blitzkrieg With their bleeding cuticles. They will no longer finger the sample chocolates Nor remember the cinnamon smell Of these retail interludes, This buttery soft leather.

* Four score and seven pounds later Oprah looks back at her thinner self and thinks `How did I let this happen?'" She remembers how she once brought forth A wagon of fat to represent her weight loss And dedicated her body to liquid protein. Now she is testing whether The seams of her inauguration dress Can long endure.

* We the People of the United States, In order to reduce our carbon footprint, Do unplug the family refrigerator And build a composting toilet. We do establish this reusable bamboo flatware And acquire three chickens To secure the blessings of their ordure. We spill these bags of cut hair On the lawn for the crows.

* We the People of late night television, In Order to form a more perfect Erection Are watching an unidentified woman Get mortgaged to the hilt And have her bubble popped. In Order to establish justice among Dicks And weather this period of emasculation We do sign this informed consent form And maintain this Boner Diary.

* We hold this local cocaine Which comes in a straw to be Self-evidently shitty. Remember how we said that someday Wed move to Colorado and raise horses and shit? That Governments would be instituted among Men To tell us what to do With our precocious baby Standing up in his crib saying me, me, me?

* We hold these truths to be self-evident, That if you look around the table And cant tell who the sucker is, its you, That were here to get drunk, fuck bitches, and get paid. Weve been well-endowed by our Creator. If you havent been, well, Try to weep softly while you think about your life decisions. Bundle that fucker up, put it in a garbage bag, And sing good night Irene.

The Comedy of George Bush After Dante

1. This is my last maiden voyage as President, I said. I put my arms around My spirit guide, George Washington. I smelled his smell, the fatherly smell of jet fuel. Mujahideen in the backs of pickup trucks Were shooting into the air, Singing songs and slaughtering a sheep. But in those cavernous depths It sounded peaceful, Like the tinkling of a teaspoon. Then Washington gripped Saddams shaggy flank And from tuft to tuft we climbed Through all the hair and sand, Until I could see light coming down Through the spider hole.

2. Above us, I could smell the fields of Tikrit. Now I knew what Laura meant When she used to say she loved the world. Ill never know how she managed To make such good use of me, How she extracted me like tar from the sand. Love is lighter than rock or water, she used to say. It has bubbled forever upward, darkly, silently From the jawbones of great beasts And the teeth of mice, Gathering beneath the desert So that we may discover it now, A million years later, She softly whispered to me, As if her mouth was full of crushed seashells.

3. Laura was a self-sufficient child, Immersing herself in books. Her favorite story Was the story of Sinbad. She liked to play make-believe That she would travel to Baghdad And dine in his house. Thin glasses would be brought out, Filled with sugar and dark tea. She would plunge her fist Into the greasy rice, just like an Arab, Tearing shreds of meat And eating them from her fingertips. Then Sinbad would laugh good-naturedly And push her back into the bottle.

4. Laura pulled me by the hand And flew like a rocket over the water. In the air I could smell sweet cardamom, Coffee, ballistic copper, the sea spray At Kennebunkport, gunpowder. When we neared Guantanamo I heard the words Purge Me sung so sweetly That the gates began to swing open. It was a voice like those summer mornings When Laura would put on Marvin Gaye And we would sit together on the porch Reading the newspaper. It was a voice like thin steel, Like a spring-loaded safety lever That keeps a grenade from exploding.

5. I floated in her arms. My soul no longer needed to hide In an animal carcass By the side of the road, Waiting to be lit from afar. At last I had been sent to her, A molten bolt of metal propelled by love Across a no-mans land. She reminded me that once long ago She had asked me to decide Whether I wanted to drink Or be a productive citizen. Then she embraced my head And drew me under the river Lethe Until I was forced to swallow.

Winter 2011
Nils Norelius

REVISITING YOUR FACEBOOK PROFILE just saw your facebook profile pic guess that's how pretty you were on new year's eve very pretty what is that fluid of dark emotions that rises fast from my chest, strikes hard against the inside of the top of my cranium and splashes to sting like acid throughout my entire brain, face and head is it "i miss you, why are you not with me, i'm in your city now, just call me, alright, stop being difficult, stop playing games" or is it "why couldn't i control you, why can't i control you, you are a random factor i can't petrify, a person who is like a force of nature, it scares me, makes me feel ugly and useless, but i thought of you so much i can't stop" or is it "i've put too damn much into you by thinking constantly of you for more than a year, i'd be better off spitting on the volumes of diaries with your name scribbled in them with notes like 'had sex with y, thought of you', 'had sex with x, thought of you', 'i'm hollow and i've had it, wonder what you're thinking' and 'if i don't write back now, but wait a few days, you'll write me' to 'i want to write you, but i know you'll write me if i just wait three weeks, or more, i've held out before' or is it time to face it, i put too damn much into you, you're just a cute girl with fantastic lips, charms and wits you won't make me happy, if i can't be happy on my own i'll still be me inside a relationship i'll still feel blindfolded, weighed down and anchored to myself, to confusion, to laziness, to bad planning, to lack of planning, to lack of courage, to lack of goals, to lack of trust in others, to slowly thinning teenage hubris did i put too much into you? i should've only put into you what i put into others, what i'll put into future you's six erect inches

BAND PHOTO POEM my nephew is almost two he pointed to an old photo of my old band that's hanging on the wall in a guest room at my parent's house "ins", he said, (which is as close to saying my name he gets) happy, giggling it's me almost ten years ago not so terribly broken hearted not so desillusioned. in the picture i'm smiling in that picture we're all smiling out partying yesterday met my high school sweetheart we started hanging out, at parties with mutual friends, the last few years a couple of times a year or so noticed for the first time yesterday i had reached the point of not feeling anything old, not anything of all the years of heartache i carried with me when she left that awkward teen relationship. i told her she was pretty, she told me i was too. we were talking by the wardrobe at this bar, i had my hands placed at her hips, when i noticed i held them, moved them around a little, flirtatiously, i remarked on it out loud, removing my hands. not sure if she minded, difficult to say, she's always been prone to being physical, and maybe a bit too shy for her own best, maybe she just didn't react to me semi-groping, rather forgetting it than mentioning it. so over her, i came around on the other side, ready to start hitting on her again (casually, not with any intentions what so ever) on that promising spring day we had that photoshoot, she was behind the camera somewhere, smiling with the rest of us, i guess i'm trying to think of anything good i've learnt during the decade that's between these two points on time i think i was maybe better off creatively then, having experienced so little, my imagination was free, and didn't need to be based off reality, like it's now then again, i believed one got what one deserved back then, in the sense that talent in itself would come through, that success was always attached to talent, like a tail now i know success is the sum of hard work, networking. being limited, focusing, becoming very good at one single thing

i was pretty depressed when that picture was taken, that smile's just a facade it was an awkward teenage thing, first serious relationship for both of us, with some good laughs, some good sex and some supposed higher understanding and appreciation of each others real personas, in there too i had high hopes for all my friends then, their promising future now i have high hopes for working hard to achieve something that hopefully can pay some bills i think it's also that when i meet her now, i don't have to put up a facade to her, trying to sound more happy or successful, i'm just comfortable about knowing she knows me, probably better than most people, still now, after a decade apart maybe that's sad that either means relationships cant go deeper than two feet or so down into the soil, like ours did, or that we actually had some kind of working mental connection, on the same wavelength she was a good high school student, hanging out with some creatively active, cute guys with nerdy tendencies now she's a well-educated workaholic, rich enough to be right wing, living in a posh area of stockholm, successful, physically fit and easy-going, having set sunday dinners with her workaholic boyfriend, the same guy's she's been with since we broke up i was a great high school student, got a descent scholarship, had a descent band, had some creative talents and facial acne now i'm an octopus with many weak arms, my talents are the same, as unpolished as they were ten years ago, didn't focus enough on any of them to have achieved anything worth noting. my greatest failure however, is the failure to attain an acceptable level of feeling good, and maybe even worse, i did "follow my heart" at every turn, or at least i always assumed i did, and it could never make me happy my nephew is euphoric: i'm smiling, squinting at him from an old photo i'm smiling, right next to him, holding his little slip-proof socked feet in my hands he likes my funny faces he can almost say my name

HOW IT WENT DOWN WHEN I INITIATED AN INTERNET CONVERSATION WITH HIS INTELLIGENT/FUNNY/PRETTY LITTLE SISTER First, the meat on my right big toe was soft and very loose around my nail then the entire toe just fell off I sat close to, holding two girls, initiated sex, but it fell through I wrote about it to my friends little sister She suggested I came by to do her laundry, get her breakfast by 9 am tomorrow She's a five hour train ride away, so I wasn't gonna make it I wrote her brother, asking him to leave a package with breakfast for her, just before nine He wrote back that he wouldn't, actually he just wrote "What, you muppet monkey" I replied: "But that would make her happy" The conclusion is there are some things potential lovers would do that brothers wouldn't

Winter 2011
minko terez

The Trilling Ducks Have Long Shanks & Hourglasses

The trilling ducks have long shanks & hourglasses, & are very gregarious. They impregnate the plants & make the marijuana juicy by their minimal grazing. The body itself is genuinely droll, possessing multitudinous musical extracts. The rest is grizzly brown with a shining green reflector. Despite the isle's developed industrial scenery, southward & west strands are left latent. He is a beaming physiognomy peering at the employment about to collapse. Within the group they tell with bird-like titter & high whistles, they fly to & from darkness-time perches in large flocks. Asunder from their melody, they are noted for their ever cadaverous cover art. These open as fears, which violate his dreams, his cravings, & his feelings. They trill, they whistle. They habitat rocky borders around food sources. They impregnate the plants with a shiny green reflector. They confirm his life, & his loneliness vanishes.

Report to the Stockholders

It is the complete time, including the inauguration time. Many pedagogues & collectors know this to be saucy to the company's great repute. Their location at high elevations, where there is more air & lower temperatures, shield their contents against decline. In large abundance they run far upriver, especially in the open streams of the southeast. Supposedly speaking, the second that corner comes off the clasp its history begins. However, this kind of forecast is the omission rather than the rule. The modern version of recovery is more entangled & includes more elements. It provides aid for outpatients & a diversity of services for ramming the health of waiting mothers. When the child enlarged up out of the den she became aghast at what she saw. I too saw, with mine own eyes. These small forms could be particulars of art or of playthings. This list would be calm if it was full, but will it ever be? I hear her voice when I clean the giblets out of a chicken.

The Green Man

Installed a windmill that pumps air into the pond via a diffuser, started cutting fringe grass around the pond to allow for airflow across the top & added a colorant that blocks the sun & inhibits bottom growth. Heat during the day causes the cobweb to expand & gain height, thereby losing helium. These windlasses can travel with suspended burdens & hold level even on a lofty track. The solvent goes up the paper by filiform action, which appears as an outcome. All exterior joints & sutures are soaked to give an unseamed appearance. Errors in construction produced a set of renewed sails that whirled counterclockwise. He is certainly real in his beliefs. These open as fears, which violate his dreams, his cravings, & his feelings. Rhassoul clay is then painted on his skin, drawing out even the deepest toxins. It's stronger, but also quite handsome as well. The final factor is the quotidian cycle of the sun, resurrection & setting.

Your Submission Contained an Error

And will not be accepted. Depending on the type of error your submission contained, you may or may not need to resubmit. When I try to post an offsite link within an anchor tag I get a message saying that my post is suspected of being spam. Maybe my brittle brains and "just mainly" migraines will protect me from such wonder. I am not the onle one, it says. "Your Submission contained an error. Please try again (+ some code). It is going over and over again, like, your submission triggered the spam filter. Please try again. I claim no exemption from error incident to humanity, and shall never make a clone of Chinese. Or, youre stupid, very stupid. This is your first error. You are flattered into vanity and self-esteem. Your duty is submission. Notwithstanding anything to the contrary contained herein your submission is not canonical, and will not be accepted.

Freedom in the Middle East

Newspapers dont really number, as they say whats entertaining not whats accurate, & joyfully report gossips. You want the horse to lead into the turn with his nose, not tip his head to the outside. In some cases misprints were righted before anyone said anything. Because of the young time of the inhabitants normally affected there is an outward swell to the southeast where the inner has slumped. Jewish penmen previously employed an electrotype of a repressing matron, but its hearth had never truly been the female, rather the vain man she swayed. The road of an evil providence will be one of trepidation, agony, reduction & destruction, using poem armies & building fearsome sites, such as a cavity of anguish, such as a tower growing inward, the singer receding.

Westport Liquors

When you see a movie star shopping it is so shocking, the store suddenly packed, the elbow jostle to stare at the star. Once, Paul Newman ducked into Westport Liquors, & sure enough the rest of us ducked in behind. Paul was just regular folk. Sure enough. Except, when regular folk stood beside him for photos their faces looked like shit, sure enoughlike a kids drawing of faces. But oh, how the bronze bottles glittered!

Welcome to the Family

A wolf is a dog with all the bells and whistles. Wolves that didnt know they were human raised me. Welcome. Time & love should break bread, work out their differences, I said. Mother said: they argue because they are so alike. Father said nothing, licking his paw, his fur, his iron filings. Such gravity, even in death! Lastly, meet my sister, pornographer for the blind. She places a thought in your hand, then closes each finger. I just want to tell you things, things so wrapped in flesh neither sword Nor Rolfing can reach them. Show me your teeth.

The Fisher Cat

Not far, the fishing boy I was caught himself, nervous then because he did not know the rule about catching oneself. Then shush the self, for talk itself might release a shadow, & hold him under. His flashlight spotlights the Fisher Cat, fur matted toothy grin. Boy, why you hiding? Answer me. Doesnt move. Bless me Father. I only wanted to walk the dirt road home.

Hurricane Donna

Jacks at random, red ball wander grass. Well, stalled at the edge of green. Slats of the rail fence laid out for mowing. From the roof, the boy with crutches, who sent a cereal lid off for a jet pack. At such height the ants look like, well. Ants. The eye is vanilla & still, an ice cream interior. A gray bar looms, erasing the horizon lawn by lawn. Jump now. Before mist absorbs, & lilac and hyacinth stain. Jump you, well. O Donna, what in the world must this world be? Completes checklist. Hits the switch.

Winter 2011
Michael Kerszewsky

Selections from The Adjunct

1. How did I get here, sorting out the voices and names of people whose histories I will forget, or not care to remember. They gave me leave or more correctly I asked for a leave and it was granted. I didnt have to show up for one year. I would be asked next Spring if I would like to teach in the Fall. The preference form would be mailed because I asked for my email account to be shut down. They said they could do this, but it seemed like I was asking a lot, so I reminded them of my accomplishments as a teacher, and they said it will shut off by the start of next week.

2. At the bank in the drive-thru lane a teller appears on a screen. I came through the drive-thru so I didnt have to see a teller. I dont even need to hear their voice. Dont need the fucking how was your weekend, and any plans for the next weekend. Ill tell them next time what my plans are.

3. Im often in the car. I think about the failed documentary about the unfair wages of adjunct workers. There was going to be a collaborator on this project. Then there was going to be another collaborator to score the project. I cant seem to contact these collaborators. Ive decided to go on without them. The two schools wont know what Im doing. There are rumors of my leave (recreational drug use, breakdown, habitual drug use, lack of understanding, and political).

4. Im writing from a place where they cant recognize me. There is an apartment building in a city I know little about. They say it is best to return to your birthplace after so many years. When I first started teaching I prided myself on my oration. Over the years I developed new ways to teach. The classroom became more hostile, or more lackadaisical. Sometimes I didnt know there intent when they looked at me. I had a solution, I walked to my neighbors house.

5. My neighbor made objects from wood and metal. I walked up his porch steps. He was smoking and looking at his orders. So you going to add to my list of objects. Sure am, can I put on rush on it. It depends, how fast, and how much you want to pay. How about next Monday. Thats fast, what do you want again. A podium with these dimensions. I show him a sketch of it. You think you can get away with it. Nothing in the rulebook. Ok I can do it for 300. Alright.

6. The Educational Integrity Committee contacted me about a year ago. This was one of their many duties. Not only were they in charge of making sure teachers stayed for the exact time their class met, they were also responsible for monitoring how teachers behaved while on campus property. The Educational Methods and Curriculum Committee was in charge for everything that takes place in the classroom. I was in the parking lot standing and thinking about how I would shot a hypothetical short film. A committee member passed me and asked what I was doing. I said I cant tell you it would ruin my entire process. A process for what he said. I cant tell you, Im going to be late for my class.

7. I would often go to the church on campus. The janitor was there sometimes. He would mop in another section and tell me what part of the floor to avoid. I let the stain glass talk for me. I pray. And then sit and put the kneeler back. There are images Im contemplating.

8. Relatives asked me how I was going to live without working. I said the money saved and some of the inheritance. Do you think that is wise they all seemed to say. I said it is important to get away from all the voices and people. That is what is concerning us, how you keep saying voices and people. I dont have anything against anyone, I just dont want to interact with them anymore.

9. There was an exhibit that caused some problems before I left. One screen of a teacher. The second screen of his boss. When the tour comes through the room they are stopped by two big screens. The two screens are so large that the men on the screen are actually behind them facing away from each other looking at their camera. The tour then goes out the door and after a brief walk has a decision to make. Do they want to meet the men behind the screens. They will be entertained with a lengthy discussion about how to write a thesis statement.

10. My boss enjoyed being part of the exhibit. I asked if I could do another one in the future. When I have the plans for a new piece I will call you. Dont you need your time away. Time away from here, but not time away from working. I understand, I took a year off in 1998. I have a diary of it, if you ever. Sure not this year, but when I come back in Fall.

11. I stayed in my car too long. He came up to my window. You waiting for someone. No. Then what you doing up here. Im waiting. For what. I cant tell you. Have you been drinking. No. I would advise you to go somewhere else in a few minutes. Why. Because it doesnt look good when teachers are out here in parked cars, it looks like. What I said. Just hurry up and get out of here.

Winter 2011
Mattia Marino

multiplexias

restful rubbish damn dim dusk dirt drawn in multiple pentacles streams blows flows off shores of bones skin on crosses stained with diamonds shining murkily through truculent tree tears succulence stripped of stiff lines encircled round spheres exhaling lust purple room of stench sealed by bloody intents so light hollow shelters down caves of shells flat with demons smiles sublime up hills down outside

low chords gore galore in awe void ranks soothingly smoothened through cruel grime greedy crime tainting moist hardness manifold sunsets down hidden slopes unlit waste of flows over enclosures fluorescent with plums prints pots tight span of yearning querulously quenched feathery colliding between bare brooms ridden with beetles off board below

envies unforeseen filthy spite across tense distances profuse fright multilaterally burying blame guilty spears still bleeding ravaged incandescences of harmful sinlessness to the ground round fluffs in soft gloom dry ravens singing back against low lights burned with cravings unutterable in disguise emptily unfilled of loads and burdens from planks unearthed in deep secret mysteries through folds up high with great grey green smoke alone

multiplex warp ceaseless scathing swathing between warped warts advice as vice and adverse accord across trite fights resonances sublime abashed abhorred adored through terse and shapeless moods and moves absurd members amidst dismembering remembrances bereft of grafts upheld away elsewhere supple gifts bringing forth strange silences with gilt fissures encrusted underneath multiplexia now and then and near and far along murky paths way beyond aloft

goat unholy jumps round fires disclosed in secrecy burnt reflections over pulsating translucences burying relics of pleasures occult along iridescent traces left by toes unseen flies entwined together in dances of dirt blessed with profuse stenches cinching tight rough waists excretions protruding off skins covered with wasps sucking honey out of twisted maimed limbs

Winter 2011
Matthew Walz

Cloudiness in Mind and Manner Cloudiness in mind and manner, A fisherman catches my focus with a line and bait, The more I struggle, the less I succeed. On the borderline, the brink of trying, Something capitulates the fringes, And reality is teased with a feather by this mission. The clattering of keys in breezy holes, Frightens a mouse looking for his own piece of mind. Do you ever sing when youre alone? Do you ever long to call home? Attention at ease for no one is coming. Theyre all riding the tidal wave of life, And Im still stuck in this mind cloud.

A Scratch on the Surface of the Sun

Wintertime blooms the onslaught of our significance; We rip and tear our mark in lifea scratch on the surface of the sun. We rush up the hill, dodging salty bullets, Evaporating in the sultry heat, and crumbling at the feet of the Almighty. Nothing in a world of nothing in a universe of nothing.

The human spirit declines in a boiling potevaporating into the encapsulating atmosphere, Abundant with souls far and wide, numerous and plenty. All as insignificant as I.

Forget About Those Days

Forget about those days, those subtle old days, where the rain would gently fall from clefts of eyes, and children would splash around in it all day. Forget about those days when mothers would crawl and daughters would encircle by coarse hands and mouth. Forget about those days when happiness wasnt a rainbow in the sky, but rather just a pale shade, of green or blue. Just forget about the stars and the nights in the stars, and forget about Rome, forever burning.

Winter 2011
Matt Higdon

Alana

The front door swings open: I am greeted by a lovely seraph, Her face countenanced with beauty, Sunlight sparkling in her eyes, Her seductive dark hair and baby-soft skin All the while luring me inside. Kindness graces her demeanor; Wisdom sharpens her thoughts. She carries more than she realizes, With traits unspoken, yet refined. She possesses a fortress of faith, A heart of compassion, The sweet voice of an angel, A captivatingly radiant smile She is my song and dance; She is Alana always.

Winter 2011
Marthe Reed

After Swann

36 so irresistible that lady such a very great pleasure anywhere as good as his own way memory come to a standsill take any not this glass a little bigger man of the world flung at her some excuse the unconscious silence emptied her face her half-opened lips

so common she was now a retractation the least ridiculous a rejuvenation lost in thought the brilliant tournament so little to be desired indubitably and exquisitely funny she's a woman a little woman specimen of the female form a mouthful of smoke

37 against the seeming form of a woman too late such eloquence she dared not refuse trying to run with the hare like the other the most rosy light an ornament taken at once he had his influence could rely on advantages sight of the sea an iridescent passage his collections, his room, his old money offering her that gratitude implied by 'keeping' a woman a familiar and domestic object intermittent and providential a switch in the darkness to give her pleasure

38 the same peculiar charm he might take if he had tasted a momentary sense of that calm supremacy which he wielded the distinctly inferior attraction her body glimmering like a wine-press over his heart the stranger almost an agreeable pain the delicate attraction her activities, her environment, her projects nobler than his desire that translucent page so beautiful too late the excess of his own wandering course not to think the gravity of her head tendered like the schemes of regret every new caress a sudden expression

unnoticed any time no one came to the door

39 the other little street knocking at the window those fragments the whole secret place obliged to lie paralysed she wished to conceal the gaps which she had forgotten illegible and divine traces other men countless other women unreasonable to separate habits and passions a margin among the crowd of gestures we stop to examine a matter of water into a trough a lie at once humble and culpable seemed to falter she was forcing a suspicion the last letter the paper he could not decipher the sound of a carriage

so little ceremony precisely your heart also

40 there had been nothing at that moment and yet happy an incident gluttonous of the whole those moments inventing his memory a few days to the south the happy, passionate month two-fold desire overlaid by despair, as though a little corner hung open and he could not think of such manners the same obscure need to walk a fanciful picture sublime amused him a creature made incapable of understanding his body has its limits the paths and avenues of

intoxication exhilarated the false intonation their failings better than perfect

41 in her a fundamental felony a vast gulf and an old hag an artificial and rhetorical anger a way across the face of insincerity to reproach pleasure a fish against a wall of glass her familiarity enabled her a fond smile any universal system and contingent order voluntarily endured the most brutally intoxicating object the exact spot her suddenly appearing would fail he was not afraid everything in feeling a map of the forest opened

her departure rang out the window the incessant rumble bearing away sleep

42 that state of painful agitation case filled with jewels escaped the grasp of the external world his absent mistress quite simply arrived by the morning train the contradictory thing no opposition anticipatory suspicion pleasures which seemed to hint at her appearance a disguise any mysterious pleasurethese tender words of predilection bestowed an artificial hour, invented precisely that real universe permitted, now, to taste a walk her cloak in the evening indifferent to him solitary the same glance the terms of her letter

Winter 2011
Margot Block

Mermaid Love this scar whispers to me the tear in an unknown fabric the zig zag stitch of all time and a black out moving through the storm spitting out the mermaid like sin her shelled bra vanishes on the canvas of our veiled imagination her blond hair muddied with seawood I think of you her lover escaping the hard rush concrete to find solace in a myth

Messiah you are leaving or coming back each song is draw and blank I pause each word, the magician and sweet talk to whisper straight Messiah where your gospel was directed edge it was Magdalene the Virgin Mary pregnant with sin and I believed Joseph

Misunderstood she feels the boy man he breathes a million novellas and premature through smoke and mirrors she knows it is too late for the recoil for the step backward nothing at all can erase this century we were so fearless wearing prolonged shock for fun in the interlude there is no such thing as sadness all we have left is a painted hurt when she wants is truth delivered on a solid ray of light so in the thin moonlight in the streetlight's shadow she whispers I'm misunderstood and I don't know how to tell you any secret of mine they both know the softest place in the world is here on the heart pumping up for the great unforgettable fall and so in these interludes she plays the angel soft white feathers in tow muddied trading in running shoes for the trademark wings treating the world like every backyard they met in an elaborate dream and she asked him so did you want to play ball

Untitled sensing doubt was a magical enterprise and because I loved you I went to the river naked so I went blue to the sun party waiting for a sign you had left for one of the other summer girls you measure my emptiness in teaspoons and watched me disassemble myself piece by piece to this day you never quite abandoned me the passion of every sixteen years we never quite matched up your longing and my despair telling stories like a legend like you were irreplaceable when I left you were tired my youth was out of your grasp it would have been cruel of me to lead you on or pass you by with some fair weather freak to the truth these gray skies will last forever with my eyes closed I could never love to join the throng of past rejections and you still think this is about cool I can only suggest that you hibernate in winter to never take my father's friendship for granted in the cruel ways that you have done

Untitled the love you shatter trying to hold you shuffle through a final chapter the end lingering in a confusion baba baking jewish love to feed us with desparate to find the joy she missed halfway infatuated with the dream a housewife reading the forerunner of the harlequin never to forget your fear or the loneliness is this how we end cold alone waiting for the sunrise

Winter 2011
Marcia Chicca

Wild Grey Birds He imagines his lungs as iron cages housing a flock of wild grey birds whose rattling keeps him up at night, clutching tightly at his wrinkled sheet, or wakes him in the dim light of dawn with the stench of mucus on his tongue. Manuela sends him cartons from Brazil. He imagines his lungs as blue orbs, cell-spangled and dotted with stars. The stars we can see are already dead, checked off, defunct, sleeping with the fishes because he never learned Portuguese. The grey bird of death is a young girl, Brazilian, with lips soft as iron cages. She carves little notes in his throat ("Manuelita sente falta de voc") which he will never understand. Pet cells divide in his lungs. Manuela is Portuguese for cancer. He imagines his lungs as iron cages, cells stroking the feathers of a wild grey bird.

How can they see him smile How can they see him smile but not hear my bones snapping in his teeth? Maybe they hear it, but its soft like a prayer and all they can do is fall silent and wait, the way I listen for God in every man I meet.

Winter 2011
Kristi Nimmo

WEARING OTHER PARTS OF ME Silence reaches me. They come out of their hiding places In the fields of cotton, Mules hauling and pushing In yokes. Listless notes play upon The wind chimes Heard in the concavity Of the moon Bearded, with iris And small rabbits, the grasshoppers Chewing, oozing tobacco stains, The rivulets of sweat sinking Holes in the fields, like heavy Raindrops in summer storms.

A BIT OF EDGE On Monday the summer Behind one book, To us this them But one of woods

HE LONGED MOONLIGHT I daylight, I sunlight, I paper dreaming A flowering eye This fence. For beach once turned, For beached I turned, The plaza facing The sea, he feeds. I daylight, I sunlight, I paper dreaming A flowering eye.

WOODEN MARY MAGDALENE Tits bare and sinewy Hair roping Twining In ecstasy

Winter 2011
Karlanna Lewis

Ode to My Fathers Hairstyles At eight he is the Yankee Doodle cowboy, hair buzzed and buried beneath a grey brim coupled with a jaunty toothpick and sprig of wheat. Decorated with barbers shears at ten he bestows each of his sisters with a bowl of hair, and his fop stands tall, a top with whistling, groomed down sides, a look he punted to sixteen, heightened and grinning in a varsity jacket. In a few years hair sprawled over the lid jutting from his yellow car, the outgrowth of Kal-El, Superman the hermit collecting leaping peace frogs. The country football martinet cropped his locks clean as his newborn and nimble wife, who ran a razor over his beard and mustache, defining features for Professor Plum. But father was Colonel Mustard, querulous as Sophocles, abandoning any plan to reminisce on who was what, which explains said philosophers beard, unkempt and ragged like tubby and hibernating Mr. Kringle, like under-the-bridge and hungry, god bless, while his voluble voice parted mustache hairs that curled wispy over lip. He wasnt a comb-over guy wrapping a few explicit hairs over a bald headhe wore a curly, youthful pony, juxtaposed with grey, until he shaved, zipped his look to Ghandi. The beard twirls alone.

Elegy for the Romantic Criminals If he had kissed me on my eyelashes they would have regrown; my face would have kept color and not had to shrink up and hide. We hide in mountains, we are the romantic criminals, caped and caked, and crafting hidden bright spots. If everyones stepmother had a handle on the face of the moon, theyd have stripped his smoky eczema down, flattened his crevices, zipped his dry patches, until he shone like a plain white punch-hole, while we held a tiny card with a tinier hole to the eye because its supposed to be like seeing your own inner lining, which is unmistakable and thats why we cant talk. They would have flattened him too and because they didnt, thats why he stayed charming while the world used beetle droppings to make up for its flaws. String mandolins with the other arrangement of strings were something no one else in this huge white universe had ever heard, except for him and anyone like him, and for me, I could have listened and listened, but for him, his fretless ears closed up, prepared for an over-peppered sforzando of toy pianolas.

For Charles, Who We Chase Charles with the candle eyes I can see ghosts in, Charles with eyes of blue lightning that flew in and out of midnight rain, with eyes of a vanishing Jesus. He treks between streamers of midnight rain and stands to hum on a cigarette with feet of crumbling ash, that never quite breaks, with feet of elves who cobbled behind the fireplace and battled in go-karts at five a.m. Charles, startle us with breath of a matchstick striking, that is an almost perfect chord on the mandolin. Charles with his hair of shredded gold, with his heartbeat of a vein inside the purplest mountain, with his heartbeat of shifting smoke, that lets go and our fingers let go of our aprons, but Charles with the lips of parting glass curtains, with hands of a blanketing wind, but Charles with the voice of palmetto leaves, whispering in my palms is Charles with the voice of the moons hands, with a voice that blows away & we chase it in mute.

Card in Papis Bard-Sleeve When my foot fell off I tightened onto the stick of nothing in my hand and said adieu. Dad, Papi, my teacher told me dont call you father, and everyone else who used to think was at Park Kulturi when the birds became bombs. Americans have so few words for winged things, and to a Russian eagles and dragons are an exchange made on a flat terrace, where I dont have the kopeeks but the bus nul-nul-vosem is stalling on my eyes. Oh Papa, oh Papi nothings formal now, except attire at the ballet. Ive seen Shelkunchik a thousand times but only one had a qualified seal to bark for, and Papa, oh Papi, ponyatna ili nyet? I speak a very different syllable and my jaw needs grease on its accent, and I dont have anything true from you except the story of the time when you were six and the neighborhood bullies brought matches and pocketknifes and swindled you from youth, and I was there too, a yellow card in your fathers undeniable pocket, and when he sent you back out to pull up the beast inside your bitty six-year-old chest, I wanted to throw myself down, because I know you and I

want to show you how not to be a man, but Ive been a card all my life, Papi, and never a bard or a bird. And the guitar with Tolstoy in the painting came at a price but Papi youre worth it. Im not sure if mandolin is a better word but thats you Papi, the sitar in the lap of Tolstoy, who is also you, and thats me, the sip of wine ignored in the goblet, but someone paid pretty money so please drink me and then become another song. Im old from waiting, Father Lion, twirl me on a G flat into your Polish gut.

Post-Performance (A Sestina) Youve hinged in half. Humans dont fly, so how can you? Your dance pulse is weak; sores are colossal tonight. And this is your dream: to dance, you remind yourself. You say These sequins, sauts, scabs, are all I want, but at night you have secrets. Projected onstage you rip hearts, hatch loveits no secret. And there is no tinted magic as a fly settles on your calluses and you want a fresh body. You half-heartedly slap balms, anoint sores. But the stagehand is calling, They say please repeat the performance. It was a dream. Are the red vessels in your eyes a dream? You want more moonlit glissades. You want the secret that is beneath gossamer wrap skirts and tights. You say What do I have to do everyday? Make the body fly, is the answer, and everything will soar. You will leap into Gods arms like you want and waltz with him. He knows how. I want this dance, he will command and not ask. In the dream he does not have a face, but who knows? The sore comes when a boy whines and you dont hear. Its no secret youre whirling light-years away. But your eyes fly back to your dreamyou spin twenty times. Witnesses say That was silk ribbon dangling from a kite. Who can say there was ever anything better? But doesnt she want to use her brain, to stop releving up and down, a fly pretending to rise like the sun? Its your dream and you know you are the Russian princess secret. Anastasia is still alive, taking bubble baths to dull the sore.

She has no room for the rubber duck, you none for a shorebound duck boy. Choreographers direct, Say everything with your limbs but keep your head secret so the audience will wonder and want and pay, like they were paying for the dream of a world they vandalized. A boy in the bathroom zips his fly after the show. Backstage on sores, you tiptoe out. You want powdered faces to say lives changed. You go to dream in secret you are a real dancer, one of the birds that can fly.

Winter 2011
Julie Kovacs

Night Traveler /// slowly creeping through the flesh 45 degrees angle toward the wall finally upright ready to leap through the empty window like Superman full moon enraptured by the Perseids ^into the sky^ no physical body exposed to the elements \\\ { predictions of Uranus not on a permanent side free dominance to live live not just breathe eat talk robotoid society on a script of life burnt up as it fell into the gravity of the sun. in dreams }

In a Dream <Start ------ !

Italian Operetta
kink in the antiquated telephone cord winding itself around and around and around & a yellow flax woven basket full of silk chrysanthemums red rust pink magenta !------End> The basket of flowers by the fireplace twirled in the cosmic dance of the sun moon and stars Pavarotti in the background a cat sleeping soundly, smiling with whiskers twitching #dream on the hunt for a family of mice underground nibbling on the stolen cheddar slice left in the kitchen trash can

Mr. Lepus at Night Hopping around the mulberry bush boing boing late in the day after spending 8 hours at the office room 951 cubicle of shoji walls and non-tatami flooring staring up at the bright full moon soundless midnight. Having no place to go in the morning and a visit to the garden in the afternoons parsley carrots kale and red lettuce reading Edwin Arlington Robinson at 2:18 in the morning. essentials of life

Going in Order Hecht order alphabetical in {*xxx - - //Repeat after me ODEE ODEE - - - xxx*} 0123 in alphabetical order Hecht ODEE 3210

Winter 2011
Julie Ellinger Hunt

Leading Up Theres an old gallon of paint and the footprint of your carburetor looks like a silhouette of your mother. The fake pumpkin sits next to a fading box of pamphlets about investment properties. You liked me, you once said, in your old faded tees and my hair a little disheveled. No make-up. Just me. The ladder leaning on the sheet rock leads up to the loft I had my first time and you took the lead. Its only now I see life leading up to you.

Time Clusters Up and Away in a yellow field. You arent just here but attached to the breeze that enters me. Far enough away, were not corresponding shapes. Our skin mismatched from different breeding. Hues blend then melt on alcohol tongue. Im punch drunk on less than. We rise and fall as time clusters verge ending up where we began.

Landscapes Oh how the scenery could change, adjust, move, take hold of me and place me somewhere near, and like a shape-shifter, I change too, now out of myself, and into someone better adapted for weather, banter, drivel, heartache. Miscommunication turned ugly. The landscapes move and fold in on themselves and I just peel my skin and unfold onto them.

Not Together Sitting under the air vent, my hair slightly disheveled, unruly on the edges, theres a glimmer in your eye from the water glass reflection and Im taken to our last encounter, unclothed, unruly on the edges, your eyes closed, mine rolled back, distant song. Even though Im not there, my back, in arc from habit, faces him, while he fingers a menu. The condiments closer than we will ever be again. Or so it feels that way right now.

Winter 2011
Jim Bennett

st f, f a dfn()n thoroughly scrutinizing in a disconcerting way affecting, with regard to, or in respect of to; towards exact statement or description of the nature, scope, or meaning of something take the urinal from the wall place it on the floor an advert, a brochure a piece of text discover or perceive by chance or unexpectedly the expression of feelings and ideas given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm

erasing Wordsworth, Strongin and civilisation I was happy drafting in a notebook when I saw daffodils driftless despite Hubble captured twinkle on the Milky Way radioactive. never-ending margin but now I host daffodils others brought to our ward I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought the land swallowed the sound of death is a shake and a rush and the rolling wooden cart of book and orderlies fairytale flame waves beside them danced doctors white lab coat blown open lift my grammar to the high blue mark my margins with despair the bliss of solitude rescue after search then pleasure and dance and the daffodils the looseness of life at the end of civilisation

Subliminal instructions received when taking tabs in London 1968 tab 1 fire instruction fire alarm fire escape mind your head way out watch the gap vehicles at work road slippy underfoot mind your head way out fire the person who paints the instructions fire is alarming at the best of times fire escapes through the smallest gaps mind your head and find the way out watch the credibility gap vehicles only work sometimes watch the road when you are wearing slippers and mind your head in case you fall you are having too much fun I am sure it must be illeagle now leave yourself a way out always leave yourself a way out

Tab 3 fire alarming escape gap watch the tarmac walking nude except for slippers through green park at midnight too much mind your head way out way way out Tab 4 f......i......r.....e......

Winter 2011
Jen Besemer

shoot them both legendary push-button brass official in a parade-dress helmet makes the rounds pigeons follow in her wake she sheds seeds and marabou feathers lip-gloss crickets we cross paths often she tells me I am appallingly organic I cough and she covers her eyes I wish to lodge a complaint with her superfluous arm: dear sir or melodrama, please be aware your star and clockwork cop are working too hard shoot them both

aligning with the stars in the realm of false concern King Tradeable Futures wields his tazer specializing in weak signatures the mare of his awakening has bolted now he'll never find her or his belt-holster and the tiny grains of salt-substitute spill themselves along the tablecloth seams aligning with the stars until the table hums and the king taken aback demands the gravy-boat and the lance

certain birds the return of certain birds that's a start. how much stink bug per blackberry bush and all that tinker with a car in the dusk cornhusk terrible demon squash in undergrowth. nobody's varmint fence works. the old lust for mud daft container garden not yet enough: no lightning bug.

a sort of machine fever makes my day a sort of machine for counting droplets and shark's teeth north winds blow the molars from my mouth oh danny boy your boss, your boss must hate you and Picasso's bicycle on the wall heat has a sound and light too I could dance to them all day

Winter 2011
Jacqueline L. Jiang Chieu

manifest Destiny walked down the same street times a million r h y t h m s . my two feet are getting tired of all the false attempts to reach happiness. my voice breaks with desperation [tragedy] Can I go back to the hurricane? life was so Beautiful then. rain hit the windowpane & the Only enemy was Electricity. THEN! humanity became a technology. our faces focused on touch. our hands became fast in communication. our lips adjusted to autocorrect. Now we never say what we mean. love is tortured under cables of misunderstanding

& with a movement, you can pass on the disease. my soul is not Strong enough to hear your calls; your messages that come in at different times you & I become unknown. to think i once knew the world so well. with a dozen drum beats & seven seas of guitar rifts, i miss the calls of the common. get lost for a while. so i can listen to the rain hit my windowpane. No rush. there are no malfunctions in this touch. we will never be perfect again. Mar-13-2011

Aesthetics Aesthetics. Barbie. I see a blonde. And glossed lips. In your world, That is what we are. Clean and ignorant To puberty. Perfect-sized breasts. But without the stress. And you can undress us Cuz we wont complain. All the women you love Can take turn in Your playhouse; You want giggles, Not control. Well Ill be Eve. I wanna keep my cloth Over my privates. I want to eat from that Tree of Knowledge. And Ill eat. Keep eating. Til I know more than you. Youve had fun Playing with Barbie dolls, Not your G.I. Joes. Playin around with broken holes, I keep mine closed. Im not looking for myself On the back of the Village Voice. Lingerie with stains Because this has been done So many times before. Do you find me unattractive? Because I evolve?

You want my glory! But you haven touched me yet. Well, thats what makes me beautiful, Man! Im not looking for Adam. Or Ken. Im looking to love myself. And maybe thats too much for you To understand, Because we all know where you men go. You want me to love you? I wont waste my time Lookin under cracks For an ounce of your Sandpaper tongue. And no. I dont need you To please me. I please myself. November 2, 2010

Young Timers This little body, toxic has seen broken bones & veins too many times. I dont know any better than to reject help theres no cure for what youve done to my free will was free and now im stuck behind you on the line to get my pills. we used to play together. hide and seek or simon says. simon asked me for a kiss, but our lips never touched and i got lost in the funhouse while you searched for me, looking for romance without knowing what it was . we used to love love going down down to the ferris wheel wheel where wed play solitaire or truth or dare then you dared me to go where the ringmaster had drank too much whiskey this small town remembered him as if it happened yes i went. anything you could do, i could do better beautiful boy. werent we happy? we. were. id sit on a pony and youd tell me there was no way I could catch you. Now theres no way I can catch you. Bernie Boston1 in my bellbottom pants you told me i was beautiful. and that november day of 65 when Ginsberg released his street theater spectacle [How to Make a March/Spectacle] we put flowers in their guns and you kissed me. hells angels never seemed so far away. flower power lived in our love-making as we tangled our arms, legs, bodies with the sheets and i prayed for rain.
1

ter

day

The famed Flower Power photographer of the 60s and 70s era.

i wore daisies in my hair that day we went to mass jesus body was lsd the doors of perception were opened. bernie boston took our picture that day. jimi asked us i remember it was august 18. hey joe, where you gonna run to, now where you gonna run to now? your eyes let me in and we were safe. happy? we. were. Portable Motor we got Older. traveled away from Milk and purple haze far away from Haight Ashbury and we grazed like cows

alone. but in our solitude, you found your miss December and i cried myself to sleep in our bustlin minivan. peace died. inside of me. i hitchhiked my way back to our tiny town as you went and you carried this girl down took her to Vegas and you hid in her eyes. you had 3 kids. i married bobby from next door. never happy, but i didnt have much else to live for and i conformed to his touch though it was never enough. out the window, i waited. you never came . i was ruined. and to think that once we were so ha ha ha ppy.

Madhouse

before i knew what Hurt was the grass could never cut open my feet. id follow you into Darkness no matter the monsters that we had to face. innocence, you were my friend. the ferris wheel let us play king & Queen. but reality hurts. my hands were slain while on the hunt for happiness it wasnt supposed to be hard. i cried dirt rivers mascara drops. children smile. they yell, laugh they love. but im not a Child anymore. This little body, old. remembers when blood ran like a flood . when the heart skips beats. the circus is over. This body forgot how to Breathe. . .

Winter 2011
Ivan Jenson

Weekend Bender If you believe in Karma or what goes around comes around then be careful about what you say or do but if you feel sure that there is no truth in consequences then put some extra salt on your margarita tell that dirty joke to hell with hell and Viva Las Vegas

Free Advice Of course you shouldnt put stalk in what is smooth because it is sure to become coarse nor should you invest in youth because that gets old quickly and why believe in tomorrow because that is so yesterday and never listen to the old because they just say there is nothing new under the sunset and so just take everything for what it is: a drop in some cosmic quantum bucket wish

Overnight Expression Make me feel like the world revolves around me and merrily I will go round self centered as a Yogi who cannot bear or comprehend the sheer number of people who experience a global warming in their heart when someone makes them feel like their birth was the most special delivery ever made by the FedEx force that bubble wraps us priceless packages

Sensual harassment Taken out of context it might seem that I was throwing stones at your sinfully delicious qualities the ones you use to seduce so successfully everything that you want out of me or anybody else but what I really meant to give you was an underhand compliment and a ten percent tip and thank you for being my server and for wearing that low cut blouse at this family restaurant

Forget me not Last impressions are everything after all you want to leave someone you will never see again with the indelible ink of your image tattooed on the most intimate part of their memory and there you will be a skull and cross that cant be scrubbed off no matter how hard they try

The Real Deal Dont you get it they want to take your hard work and alter it for the market place then they want to make you over until you are consumer friendly then send you out on a whirlwind tour with a heavily scripted message designed to maximize profits and minimize the initial originality that first sparked their interest and then when the enterprise falls flat on its bottom line they will take advantage of the gaping loophole in your agreement and leave you with nothing but your name which is now box office poison

Winter 2011
Iain Britton

[and] 1 and you a huge egg playing with blocks by lunchtime a hill has fallen a yellow-yolked pigeon

craps on the souls classroom the whole episode fails to inspire a vigorous debate fails to excite a 5 year old dropping off the pace pushing off the lady

with the white leather gloves / who smokes filter tips / reads The Peoples Friend / lives with the smell of a fibrous plasterer / with the last local snake holed up under Ben Atholl 2 and you practising to be an ovarian experience sent into the countryside green blood in your streams / your gullies / in your hastily erected lexicon of bones / skin grafts / tubeless thoughts you milk the occasion for all its worth how to farm animals which do as you want them to do which hurt as you want them to hurt which bleat bleed blow / / hot n cold

a female amongst paddock slime and river song a fact-finder knee-deep in scriptural monologues 3 unfazed glorymen for the feed of all feeds the lame hang back charge at the suns belly

and scrap over the remains of dishevelled brides the streets are greased by brylcreem brothers haunted insomniacs amputees counting their cuts / their raw contusions / their mental welts the terrible exquisiteness of wars 4 in this Nordic saga played out Downunder a small confusion of multiple identities of being who I want I dig the garden stab at the birthing holes of plants bury my fathers badges his past exploits of godzone labour destroyed survives

I hide his workforce grandeur his razzle dazzle his flair for skyscraping

amongst furrows sod-turning horse shit the world war carcases of looking at himself in my fathers house are many mansions and I mix them in like manure 5 and you do a balancing act watch the boy you know distancing himself amongst the plastic cities of his imagination calling to his visions stuck in high definition in eye sockets as ancient as cave walls 6 flat metallic stars towns spring up in dark trousers and hookers work the night beat collide

a childhood becomes a playground for ghosts past and all the hills / are down to a crawl

I traipse after legends of film and television conversations cut from newspapers / cut neatly / cut in long thin strips / swapped / shared / and pasted I traipse after echoes fading behind blue-brick buildings like Watchorns / Joe Kwong Lees / Woolworths like Smiths the condom people I try one for size / before the nights flashlights are done 7 and you pull in the neighbours / you regularly

pigeons scratch at broken eggs cut flowers for family members

buried in your bedroom for a gimmick amongst many masks I tattoo my face

elephant 1 then who walks the concrete carpet

picking up garbage foliage a he-mans lopped-off hair? its a dizzying state of internalised strife who cries elephant in my room in this hollowed-out epicentre of perpetual motion

2 cry elephant and you squat in a teardrop of shimmering sunlight you squint at distortions

trapped in tinted glass

3 a ceremony breaks black bread I join the party celebrate (with others) the soft-bloated idols of a painted procession

4 my room creaks in the wind in the balance of where it rides precariously on its chunk of bone I once had long hair straighter than a sundial had a shadow

5 you ring the changes grab the best hearts for yourself the best lungs in the soul the hardest iron

great animals fascinate the wannabes amongst us looking on

high-wire intensities with investigative curiosity I go on hunts choose anything vulnerable ask for no names / no places of origin / ebony or ivory types no personal indicators I invent my own strategies on how to kill a story

# she has little to say about my botched attempt to force her to the top of a hill plaster her body all over the grass blister her ideals of conjugal hibernation she says little about play-acting the uninhabited virgin the prongs of a rainbow grabbing at the figure of her solitariness # the sun peels back its collar of leaves exposes its throat to the moons cold eye parable-talk is the smooth hardness of a stone breaking the mucus of a lake / reflecting upwards the synthesis of a fathering pulse a walkabout the humbling stealth of a watery evening / the womans whiteness

# nocturnal watchers snuffle through Bible bins chewing off aphorisms / / pulping

sweet boluses for the gratification of her mouth she hates the intensities of attention-seekers the loss of another breathing space through recklessness a journey too far # I choose the birds high-wiring through branches morning becomes electric self-archived / they share fame briefly fuss

strip jack naked 1 being battery-farmed is one aspect of saying this is the life whoever thought up the concept of in-house incest?

2 another nuclear ode to enlightenment urinates on its notes on how to grow the most deformities on a small parcel of land

3 the air fizzes like warmed up tap water as I count the lines of unsold trees no one seems to want the responsibility of walking under canopies of old bones

4 fresh air is highly prized worth haggling for worth stuffing down gullets as quickly as possible but long lasting gulps are even better

5 I play strip jack naked with the mirror I play to win because theres this cavorting female in blue jeans

whos teasing now who strips fastest to win grab the money and run hunny

Winter 2011

Heller Levinson

The Fecundating Trespass Rotational Cluster

trespass in obdurate credulity
purloin caul partition caterwaul -- caulk -saw-scat triplet jabberwocky plasticity is a form of persuasion submariners gauge oxygen deliberate horological witchcraft are tumbling craft often misconceived as attendance bears scrutiny normally sanctioned by parsimony the veto carries the format undertow shimmy grab a hold in desperate ways the planks cakewalk

venture wound
peelings lungfulls t o r integumental rip plunge to deep bedding to the ruin that collapses (de-lic-ious-ly obliterating vesicular clot ventricular absenteeism mute colors eloping to the hides of albino crocodile all is let wound bled unto wound pools of blood theme upcharges amplitudinously de-curtaining throbbing spooling thrones of immaculate enquiry layer-scrapes

trespass like lolling liquidity

undercurrents locks-void exposure expose exposition wound wound-ing wind winding venturing wound windings comb - ing [[trespass ventures the wound]] the breakdown effloresces gratuitously & with dispatch sea urchins squealing for signature the uprisings more frequent more fervid pastries laden with grumblings greater than commotion command the outposts, the earthenware creaks

how to judge a trajectory void of destination dispositions dissimilarly aroused spell odd contractions the leftovers no longer consumable

Border broaching Trespass

B: Why? T: Why what? B: What makes you do it? Why take the risk? T: It makes me tingle. Makes me feel alive. B: And if you get caught? T: Im caught in the act of uncatching.

with trespass, ... divagate deviate delinquency ... ..... delve de-liverance

Winter 2011
Greg Moglia

THE TALK

Goes with a risk but not to have it Chances a walk on eggshells I decide I could no longer wait Listen about the last time we made love

You weren't there and I got No more than a sorry self pleasure It showed up the next morning No desire to get out of bed

Call it depressed...whatever I hate this psych stuff She says Yes, I wasn't there...yes I let you do your thing

Then she really looks at me Later, alone I thought How sex can fool me Sit proud on the surface

Can make me think It's something more But go deeper There's real need

A begging for intimacy And the greater pain When body to body And in return nothing

Now, I think again How after the talk Her look Her smile

I DON'T KNOW

My friend's divorce set me To try to understand his ex Her first marriage - a biker wild man My friend - his opposite, good guy churchgoer So what does this woman want? Who knows? But a look at any Match. com profile And every woman knows 'Honesty, a friend, sense of humor...on and on No sense of doubt - not a hint

Not just gender -for example, It's not like I know what I want A bit of my Match.com history - my time with Joanie Ms. Take Charge -the tour, the times, even the luggage Or Wendy - What would I like to eat... play...do -my choice See commander type, or adoring follower Over a year with both-do I know what I want?

In a dream I see on Match -a woman Her profile - full of doubt on her needs We decide to meet and when we do Stare at each other for a time At Starbucks I decide to test her Tall, grande, venti? She says I don't know - Yes, I shout We rush into each other's arms

Fall onto the coffee shop floor Deep into a fourth tongue clinging kiss I say - Your favorite position? She says I don't know Yes... we entwine deeply After I ask Was it good for you? She says I don't know We run to city hall

JUST ENOUGH LIGHT

Dear Aunt so sweet, so pretty - Kodak model of the year 1954 10 year old me played at marrying you, then along came Joe Football guy, IBM man lived hard and died at 37 A second heart attack left two sons you raised alone

At Joe's funeral friends couldn't find the widow, your smiles Of greeting fooled them, Joe's in a good place, worry free you said The church your lover until the end in your 75th year Now, a granddaughter at 19 strangled at the hands of a stranger

Then in his grief your son - a self inflicted bullet to his mouth So much pain, so much hurt and here you are again, dear Aunt You lovely in summer shorts hold my bike steady I start down the street with a wobble as you begin to jog alongside

Then to run...still you hold on... I gain confidence... I push harder You let go... I hear Yes; go you have it... go... I'm apart... free... And I think, dear Aunt with every chance to embrace the dark Here you are, not with 'pie in the sky' crap

Instead a Don't worry I will guide you and its Just enough...just enough light

SEX PHYSICS BASEBALL SEX

She says I bet you like rough sex I don't think I ever had it or ever gave it But as a teacher of physics here's a guess I think it's linked to 'soft hands,' look

mass x velocity equals to force x time (mv = ft) A ball (mass) comes at you with a velocity You have to catch it and it will hit you with a force Make mass 10 and velocity 10 and catch it

In one unit time and force hit is 100 But stretch out the time (soft hands) to 2 units Then the force is only 50 as in 50 x 2 In baseball a fielder who catches the ball

With a glove that gives lovingly, has soft hands Now, with sex I'll bet most women Prefer soft hands but not always A woman's times of pleasure

Can be in flux, soft hands... hard hands But Debbie gives herself away by asking If I like 'rough sex'? Hmm...to this physicist She's saying Never mind this soft hands stuff

Give it to me hard and fast And be quick about it

Winter 2011
Gonzalo Salesky

You Will Be You will be breath of sea, you will be nostalgia When your mouth leaves and does not return. You will be my breeze when the wind drops, You will be fire beyond words. You will be the sky, void of my pages, And the prayer to announce my departure When the pain, this world and our life Take everything and leave me nothing.

Harlequins As harlequins in the wind Your laugh flies with me. It envelops me and rises in mid autumn, Makes me grow and mature in silence. Maybe it grows dark for some But, my love, only your love is enough for me To reach eternal paradise in life, To be able to daydream of your eyes, And so to forget, amongst all, those tears.

Omen I know that in life, no matter how, Fire is always extinguished by day. Night is short when winter looms, Time cures and heals wounds. To stop talking is not good medicine; I know the harbinger of light and agony Is being fulfilled, no matter when it arrives, Perhaps it is near and finds you asleep. You will not see it coming even if it is announced, Do you know how sweet and frivolous is this expectation? Because very soon you will emerge, it will be so easy Like coming full circle.

Winter 2011
Enola Mirao

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Winter 2011
Emily Ho

Solecism
The Canadian and I, we spent one night in a seat-stripped bus parked two blocks from the beach underneath the palms and next to the qwicky-mart; (think what you will, I was no vagrant, merely a girl in love). Setting camp near the rear, we fell to quietly making, to quietly mistaking Love. Counting ceiling tiles, he whispers, (now please say it(love)now;); Overnight, the front tire deflated, leaving the elbow of the folding door jammed(true story)against the curb. I climbed out the hatch in the ceiling (the sky fading ellipsis), and walked myself to the beach where nets were fishing up the sun ((gulls stuttering out in shabby punc tuation, losing purchase against pregnable word))

spacemen in

the

desert

reservoir

before heading in from their afternoon float they upon testing beach themselves the aqua tramp it out like two space men

two jackrabbits on the moon feet together and thrusting at air gramma slips to her backside and grampa hops a circle round her, her hand still in his until he slips too his hand still in hers.

Just how she stalks over my writingtable

Most every one of the things I know trickles to a single sea; (behold) The whiteblue silhouette of my childhood love pushed up against the pallor of her bedroom wall; the space heater against snarldamp grass while he only halfway undressed me; and the way my blood (afterwards), its slow and sticky finger tracing me into halves, slipped over my each vertebrae, the same way my mothers wet touch on the back of her neck spilt dishwater down her freckled spine. It all comes back to this woman who ate me up believed faith should be spread like a quilt across water, spill like sunshine through the bathroom window, spay and neuter desire like a dog. Leaning bare back against red mountain, just watch the valley next door, where the lightning plays at hawk and sparrow, zagging like your mothers dishwater touch on the back of her neck splits down her freckled back.

prayer
the spot of crown shepherding lochia the dishwater thrown out with old prayers the heavy and anxious and the descending the weight of uncast stones is borne by words in the dust dear God, the sparrows are falling

Winter 2011
Ed Makowski

Peanut Portrait Gallery

In the frenzy to inflict trophies and christen all else failure from smug armchairs we neglect noticing that the also rans Ran

Butt Naked

During Civil War tribal warlords battled for control One was called General Butt Naked because he fought entirely naked wearing shoes. Butt, for soldiers, recruited heroin addicted pre-adolescent boys Before battles he'd select and capture a young child, then using a machete open an incision tracing the child's spine. While his fighters took turns drinking the blood of the innocent Butt Naked's fingers penetrated the wound and returned squeezing the extracted heart of the child Then, General Butt Naked portioned the heart, which he and the boys ate with their fingers before stripping naked and running into battle.

Battle consisted of raping, maiming, soccer ball beheading, and eating the uncooked flesh from the bones of the vanquished. Life continued and ended like this for years. In the late 1990's as civil war ran out of breath, General Butt Naked was visited by Jesus and became a preacher. His name is Josh.

Brian, 23, National Huntington's Disease Conference 2011

We come from Nashville. This the first I been out the house in a while. I cain' go ou'side much alone cuz er'body think I'm a drunk'an no one talk to me 'less I talk to them, an then I gotta explain I got a disease. Easier now, though since I's got diagnosed an' we know wha's wrong. I's adopted and doctors didn' figure out til I's 19 year old. Disease started when I's 7. My parents always tol' me I's possessed. They tell me I got demons'n spirits in my body. They say that I's evil, that I got the devil in me but I's just a kid and I never know what I done wrong.

The Ant

Every day I find an ant. a single ant somewhere in the house. just one. I'm beginning to consider it may be the same ant Some days climbing the sides of the bathtub. Others crawling near the trashcan. Often standing still, waggling antennas above the kitchen sink. I wonder, this ant and I, if we're destined this way like lovers waking every day surprised by the same confrontation.

Annually

more Americans visit the Mall of America than the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, Old Faithful, The Captitol Building, Cancun, Yankee Stadium, voting booths in Minnesota, and Disneyland combined

Winter 2011
Don Cozzette

Night 17007 The breathing slows No more prose. The time has come.. For me, the end They say nothing like wasted talent I say who the fuck are you to judge Yet I judge more than all. During this sexy Humanity ball Hypocrisy is innate In this physical state A debate of debates From mimicking monkeys who masturbate, alienate, procrastinate, articulate, pontificate, repudiate, assassinate and bloviate. The breathing slows One last glance at my fingers and toes.. One with Mother. And canine too The rest was a battle. Palestine vs. Jew. One with mother But never another Nurture vs Nature Times they a changin.. Bored with the man and his need for bangin.. The breathing slows Was it the paths I chose That led to Dantes Prose Allegory of the cave

My own minds slave. The breathing slows Another tooth becomes loose Shadows of reflection lead to indigestion. Imperfection is perfection? Whom do I believe? All carrying tricks up their sleeves Push em away, before they hurt.. Wait a minute, there goes a short skirt. Shell understand me, and cure my ills And well soon separate Behind on our bills. Walk down the aisle, full of denial Make a toast Boast Ego will guide you. Shame will hide you. Greed will drive you One with mother Shes like no other.. Safe in the womb. Alive in a tomb.. The breathing slows. Trumpets Blow Bop! Bop! Bop! Goes the lure of the song.. Curtain calls arrive Insecurities thrive.. Hand Jive. Swan Dive Traumatize.. For Im Alive Alive. Alive .. Only to die. The breathing slows.. The blossoms fade.. One breath of bloom and then the doom. In a small room.. Will I resurface again.? Perhaps in a farm pen With whiskers under my nose.

Incapable of prose Whos to determine whats wrong or right Its all perspective, so why the fight.. One with mother There goes another brother. Cut him out before hell cut you They always do They say the best offense is a good defense. I was always a gamer at heart. Competition proved what...?? Whos good and whos not...? But its all perspective. Just read your own writing. Less is more Mans a whore. Ironic. Soon bionic Pills run amok Just ask Chuck. Hes on something. Depends on the buck. The breathing slows. Im out of gas No pills for me, just a little wine n grass Time to close my eyes, my heart, my ass. Time catches up Did I have a blast??? One with mother I did that right.. Mommas baby One last gravy Taste the salt Thats where it all started In the oceans Before they were charted Weve come full circle. and where have we landed Back to perspective The seeds replanted.. Will I be allowed to try again Will these wounds mesh, mend and transcend.. The breathing slows.

Less is more Perhaps thats true Puns change when they become about you Love is grand til it fades away and youre left in the dark- naked and gray.. Was I a steam engine or just a caboose, following the herd and tightening the noose.. Good in the garden, one with the roses Contemplating Commandments, carried by Moses Its out in public, that the telling turmoil began.. The sum of my parts conflicted with man Was I the devil or Christ himself I looked for answers, in books, on the shelf Confusion and chaos, was all I could muster. Surrounded by fears, like General Custer. The breathing slows Only a few breaths left Will I arise one more time, from this forgiving bed What will it taste like, that last breath? Sorrow and romance mixed with death?? When will the judging end The curse of mans logic Deciphering good and bad, from a chart in your pocket. One with mother Glad I knew of her The breathing slows Vanitys gone, no more new clothes Burning all bridges, charred friends and foes What will they think of me when they glance back? Will they giggle, cringe or attack Hardly a people person, for whatever cause. Loved a few and played em all wrong. If thats what love was Baptized, bewildered then buzzed Shyness hurt me and expression was tough... What was inside didnt match the rest The tongue became my weapon Sharp like a saber Filled with bitter flavor And a beer chaser A cacophony of camouflage, is the song I made And the provocative piano plays and plays Misunderstood, now thats quite a clich.. Finito, is the sound of this day

And the quiet chords, continue to play and play The breathing slows And the head becomes heavy A sigh. A shrug And then a clenched jaw.. As I chastise the shadows If they had only seen, what I saw The breathing slows One last glance at my fingers and toes One with mother. I did that right. A soft smile comforts the night. I did that right.. I did that right. I did.. That Right.

Winter 2011
Dennis Etzel Jr.

from My Secret Wars of 1984

Like a cape, a cover to deflect, recover under. Like a virgin. Line up all around the block, inscribe / dry red Kansas, country empty, even "Great American Desert." Love somebody. Lower level characters must keep busy surviving and learning. Lucky star. Men are a result of it.

Men who

find themselves isolated. Mind if I pitch in a high-impact optic blast? Miss me blind. More than ever before, lesbians bear children. Much song / in little compass. Must protect myself with a telekinetic force field--like mom an' the professor taught me.

My armies outwit all you bullies. My bad choices in crushes. My cassette tapes are blank, as I attract bad magnets. My discipline is mind control, a struggle within. My fellow Americans, I am pleased to tell you I just signed legislation which outlaws Russia forever, says Ronald Reagan.

Perhaps I know better than you the temptation of insidious power--power which can be used for subtle manipulation. Please come to my rescue, Atreyu. Please let me find a place to hide.

Sappho in Kansas gets fragmented, parts of her lost. Say say say. Scribbles represent my clutter. Seventy miles away in Kansas City, Ronald Reagan continues to convince with his conjectures. Sexism leads women to devalue parenting work while inflating the value of jobs and careers. Sexism teaches women womanhating, and both consciously and unconsciously we act out this hatred in our daily contact with one another. Sexist ideology teaches women that to be female is to be a victim.

She goes to school and works through the night to provide. Since all forms of oppression are linked in our society because they are supported by similar institutional and social structures, one system cannot be eradicated while the others remain intact. Sixteen candles.

Notes: [Like a cape-Men are] Sentence 2: Title of song by Madonna. Sentence 3: From ARK47, Plow Spire by Ronald Johnson. Used with permission from Peter OLeary, literary executor. Sentence 4: Title of song by Rick Springfield. Sentence 5: From Dungeons and Dragons Companion Set: Volume One by Frank Mentzer. Used with permission from Wizards of the Coast, LLC. Sentence 6: Title of song by Madonna. [Men who-Must protect] Sentence 2: From Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars by Jim Shooter. Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars and TM Marvel Entertainment, LLC, and used with permission. Sentence 3: Title of song by Culture Club. Sentence 5: From by Ronald Johnson. Used with permission from Peter OLeary, literary executor. Sentence 6: From The New Mutants #18, Vol. 1 by Chris Claremont. The New Mutants and TM Marvel Entertainment, LLC, and used with permission. [My armies-My fellow] Sentence 5: President Ronald Reagan, Presidential Debate, October 21, 1984 in Kansas City, Missouri. Public domain. [Perhaps-Please] Sentences 1 and 3: From Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars. [Sappho-Sexist] Sentence 2: Title of song by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. [She-Sixteen] Sentence 3: Title of film from 1984.

Winter 2011
Deanna Rusek

Imbrication coca colas red and white lettering world-wide representing a refreshing drink it while its cold rather than warm and flat items, recycle or the ground upon which we live will become made of junk, leftovers, discarded trash, the unwanted items, purchased for safetys sake mom says, when talking about bike helmets made in china assembled in mexico, shipped by large trucks wearing eighteen black sneakers, roaring up the nations highways, speeding past the economically friendly drivers of the smart cars are helping the air quality so we can breath deeply through clear hoses running from a polished, silver portable container inside its green bag over-theshoulder pads worn to protect the little league footballers from injury, rough and tumble tikes training wheels barrel down the sidewalk lurching from side to side, while father shouts to slow down or risk injury to a back must be taken serious, lay them on a flat board and strap them on tightly sealed containers keep food from leaking, making them amazingly spill-proof ziploc bags keep food fresh, because of the double seal protection, what goes in fresh, comes out fresh made muffins packed in individual to-go containers of sixteen ounce bottles of liquid poland springs, for those on the go grab a bag of chips and a container of dip to take to the game systems are great for all ages, create a mii and become a golf champion in your living room America puts to the curb on garbage day their unused over-bought items in white or black bags, once a week, fifty-two weeks a year, sixty plus years for most of us would not like biting into hot plastic while someone yells, bite harder.

Ode to the Forest

Needles lie abundantly sprayed among broken branches, creating incidental homes for creatures who have not evolved enough to build; holes in fallen trunks become sanctuaries to some, made vagabonds through mans desires; brown, red, gold, and wet leaves blanket the ever-damp floor, not seen naked in years, holding the moisture which rises on sultry days creating life. Giving and giving, never taking, only man takes. Promote and preserve, this life bearing, life breathing, ever-giving, but not ever-living thing, lest the ever-green king be overthrown.

Winter 2011
David McAleavey

At the day care center

Cleaning the gerbil cage, Miebeth found one dead. Hed been happy for years, the way gerbils can be happy. Three or four kids gaped at Miebeth with her coffee can trying to pick up the little corpse while keeping the live one from crawling in, which it kept doing, making her seem clumsy. The kids were asking what happened, whats going on, whats wrong. Its hard to say, Nothings wrong, but Miebeth is right, thats what to tell the young.

Buried lives

1. This side of the window, four succulents on a shelf, a spider plant, alternating lines of light and shadow from the mini-blinds. Beyond, three elm-like zelkovas in the median, light traffic. On the hill still mostly white with snow, birds fly in and out of an enormous forsythia like thoughts, sparrow, mockingbird. Wispy twists of cloud, lined and linked by the blinds, gradually merge to overcast; the sun goes away; mockingbird and sparrow still in the bush. 2. Not the first time Ive dreamt about a suicide. The second time Ive had this one, where a middle-aged guy with a potbelly standing on the roof of his truck ties a rope around his neck the other ends tied to his house then jumps into a hole which goes through the cab into the earth into a cavern hes gone as I watch, me, and not me. 3. Whats under wraps warps. Go carefully around the body.

Shed said he viewed her as meat, as just an organ to jack off into. She was thinking of Portnoys Complaint where the guy uses a package of liver. 4. As for the meaning of our lives the direction of the river how the tenderness of love, so real, so persuasive, convinces us we have a purpose how about the linguist philosopher lecturing in New York claiming many languages double negatives to intensify negation, and a few, like English, to form a positive though none, so far as he knew, uses two positives to make a negative to which a guy in the back mutters, Yeah, yeah.

Remote Vermont lake

Many leaves down and many just falling where we walked in mid-October, a cove where water reflected reds and oranges as if meant to do that, then; at its edge a shack boarded up, caving in, a length of stovepipe rusting on the roof. We spoke, as if speech, we spoke as if we would always live where high mountain waters reached their brimming limit, pushed ripple after ripple by the gentle wind.

The linoleum prince

Rising above trees then steadily higher the wind loud as drums. If you need to unravel things, said the novelist, things stop. My immaturity is voluptuous, cried the chorus of daughters, it is hard to wait on the wind. In the fairy tale, a linoleum prince is looking for a bride; no one will let him in at the homeproducts fair so he has to wait at the door like a rolled-up magazine the mailman couldnt wedge through the slot. Finally a posse of impoverished immigrants comes up and cant get in either lacking enough credit, and to salvage their machismo they haul the roll off. He wanted this though he couldnt have known it. Animals stroke him all over, every morning a woman washes him, and the shoes, the slippers! No part of him feels unappreciated, none of him trash, even the scraps from cutting to fit him to the room patch worn floors in other rooms, other houses. The princess he had wanted, pseudomarble countertop and brass trim, window greenhouse and downdraft range,

she was abstract anyway, out of reach, and now he is happy, being used is enough, being fully employed, thank you, thank you! The pulse-press of puzzled desire imagines objects, deliberates, will not attain them, finds itself being used in an exemplum, and then again reverts to a rising swell Down there, the others, that drum, my own heart only to wobble, waft, drift off to ask, Was it I, lost and alone at the door, a sheaf unraveling in weather, now no longer held by the wind, content if I could be the most ordinary unwealthy flooring? When the fleet troop of choiring daughters taps across, he perks up enough to admire their trim lines, skirts asweep in the spring gusts circulating on beautiful autumn days, days like today.

Winter 2011
Dave Migman

this pride

There is no signpost to lovers beach (waves crunching the stony shore) The wind has almost gone gentle sea caresses my skin we kneel you look into my eyes you hold it to your lips (the clouds are translucent bones mouths askance with silent laughter)

Transient soul fade ash Kick in the head: something kicking in the head I lose my cool the rain inside is warm, though the blades dissect with exacting precision the cortex fine as mince - a billion neurons in a riot soup of static fuzz tone mad and she takes the handle, withdraws a shining exclamation; my sight is blurred! Im learning my sound is full of blood a sonic wave down by spine through every wire she dances around me in dreams around me and sings my name. She has a thousand faces. but I tell you baby youre the only one eye to eye recognized by your consort the silent universe and my holy shit rinse of saintly guises falling to you knees beneath the cross of wounds. foaming like the broth of minds, hands clasped you grasp the handle, gasp release you answer

scum lord the lunatic wave schloffs mounds of dark stones shiny like seal skins below cliffs bristling with eyes and mouths weighted by the cores caress that seeks to turn all here into a lather the toxic hiss of two worlds constant within their conflict ceaseless elementals sunned brasses lined beneath palm fronded pinions gatecrash tranquility from their asphalt lairs (I am leaving you here) (I am returning again) the black eggs were cussed from a glowing womb they rattle together. Infertility binds them nothing crawls from there. a cancerous verse of broken souls whose lonely songs curse the airwaves forever

flames that move in circles From the great extinction Take heart From the previous nada Hand spanned age No sight No breath No feeling Un-alive, un-being Coaxed through ungraspable space I was Like a devil In a Crowleyian ring I lay shivering Mewling And consciousness stirred The grain within me. Like a dark ridge Breaking the sleek wave Drowning. Once again.

Climatic paradigm shifter their pockets greased sticky black grasping each coin the freshly printed scent of their god whose greenish hide is strewn with eyes 100 years is too long for the stream to shift so the sheets of ice will press down and force us back into the Mesolithic 20 more years is way too long to suffer these liars their PC green patter taunts the air

I You whispered dark solitudes cupped orchids between our teeth led you through the gardens between bushes of roses blushing like no one fingers laced knots beneath succulent shades of elms a naked worm stark on the turf

Winter 2011
Curt Hopkins

Tahrir Square
Which hands sowed / The hearts seeds of fire? R. Jacobsen

This flower with its petals made of bronze Refused to follow down the falling sun And made of fires and pyres a thousand dawns To light the darkened square while stars were questioned. This flower with its vines and roots of blood, Whose growth they sought to stop with iron walls, Climbed and dove and wandered where it would And spelled out freedom en espalier. Scatter seeds and flowers catch the wind, Gouge the land and roots grow deeper still, Burn it out and life will rush back in, What impulse turns to life our very will? The lodger of our soul turns dark to light And all the black designs of death to life.

They Will Recover My Body For Joe Brooks They will recover my body in spring when the snow melts, They will discover my body in time for the funeral bells, They will uncover my body from the winding sheet when your hearts melt. From beneath its sweet sleep in time the heart breathes, From the heart of the wheat sheaves a sweet singing rings, A sound from the sea, the salt sting of the deep, Wakes us in our lathe-and-cable slings, Swings the cradle, starts it rocking, As we cry out again and again our name of names. They will watch me rise as winter falls, They will call out to me when frost crawls across the panes And the pain breaks as the cracked carapace fails And I spring to my feet and I cry to the sky, Sky, crack open! I arise!

Contra Celsus If A, then B, Whose face shook the backbone of the world. Post hoc, propter hoc. By Pharos Philo knew Logos, Israel the Seer. In time you feel the mind within the mind Thank you, maam (the sign for fire). And without it and outside it and then its zoom, And off go the angels, One of whom has got a gun (a Beretta 92 FS Inox) And lo! He carried in his right hand a sword. You who can see, lift your eyes to heaven. Damned cold here on the metally edge of winter Where civilization fails and pine forests Fall into the frozen floes of blue rivers Who flow to northern seas where nothings named. If A, then B, Never knew her, never raped her, Not her anyway. Post hoc, propter hoc. Trapped between philosophers and prophets, Historians and theologians, Never wanted nothing but a farm And to get off the dole and to get out of Rome. Ive hated every place Ive been And now I sense the rising wind. My end, if not exactly nearing, Is nearer than my beginning.

Some Angels of Europe and North America An angel bends the gleaming sleeve Bends the groaning sieve The angel who breaks the gleaming sleeve Broke the golden skin With its voice full of golden sand With its voice full of seed. All across Central Europe Cold angels Rise from ledges Rise off of ledges In black and white With voices of silver crystal With voices of moonlit sand. The tufa of the Transtiberina glows The golden horn of Trastavere Blows down Rome Stone by stone With a voice full of golden corn With a voice full of lions. Here is memory become An angel of steel like a folded fan In an assassins hand And here is the angel of our modern times Cutting herself with a broken ashtray Voice full of dirty feathers Voice full of wet silk.

Winter 2011
Charles Wilkinson

Taraxacum Triste I moon-ticker night, full-faced seedhead white malady of the wind song matching sigh dispersal star feathery clocks & the sickness: bald late love parachutes deleted, lost in the unsoiled vasts II the roar retreats: old moonmouth spits planets like teeth; dentde-lion, lunacy of last grief: a a stalk left in the hand

After the Arrowhead the toy submarine somewhere in the lake last summer failed a dredged darkness up boating in the park the wake-fletched water stone-ripple circles target deleted by a shaft winter-honed trees the bows hidden in them can sail or shoot the quarrels in the form the arc unstrung harmless in the hand a bolt tipped with intentions behind the back aims change dissolve & shift sky flowing a shape in a childs book escaped into the world new weapon filed toxic the conns hidden now guided right from the bed all the white explosions streaked breadth of ocean what rises from below no sheen of the teardrop hull operation under the surface underwater cruising day after sail-plays absence suspending respiration should be charged with depth

Myodesopsia a white wall will show whats in you: the watermarks that dissolve & swim upon the page are shadows of the self. The eye-stains sliding across the screen are various: this wisp, a light grey front, travels at the speed of looking & will not track the wind; the matchless skys even light is mottling with germs, hard-edged under the microscope, & in the corner, right on the rim of sight, the one that creeps away as you turn. This glassy humour in the gel leaves shapes that will not laugh or fix: movement defeats the mind that only tricks the constant image. Now there are these dark forms, fallen from behind sight & no returning to what is over the shoulder: those first fields shining without mist, no speck of hovering horror eluding the direct gaze, only the worlds first innocent immensity: the vision that will not revive when a shower of light is a dangerous detachment & theres no sidling past the ruins in the eye.

Voices How will the voices find you? This one has feathers and sings in the glissando tree. Last month it swept into sky and would not weep a sliding music on your shoulder. The songs are many and various no matter without the discrete tenor of objects. The conversations of silk woven into the chat of water-shimmer on stone: Light notes from the spinerettes, the movement is a surface of sounds too quick to catch. The speech of streams is the glide and ripple round the river bank, eluding the eye, Only half heard before it hides itself in the lapping of lakes, the crash of oceans. And these tongues up from the earth that lick the air with flames that die as a score of ash. The bodies black notation is the harmonics of death, a noise lower than white. You never quite trap a sigh, the silence so softly requested in the reeds; Even this thin wind will not be wrestled to ground, held to be bullied in the grass. The whiplash from the blue clouds: the unconducted drum and crack are their own accord. Recrafting continents at the edge of frequency informs the waves without you. The pitch of the new mountains is the product of the independence of orchestras. And if the bird forever granted you its song to soar with these sundry voices How would they sing together?

Winter 2011
Changming Yuan

Winterscape: Crow vs Snow Like billions of dark butterflies Beating their wings Against dreams, or myriads of Spirited coal spread from the sky Of another world, a heavy black snow Falls, falling, fallen Down towards the horizon of my mind Where a little white crow is Trying hard to fly From bough to bough

Fate Forecast: A Parallel Poem - Believe it or not, the ancient Chinese 5-Agent Principle accounts for us all.

1 Metal (born in a year ending in 0 or 1) -helps water but hinders wood; helped by earth but hindered by fire he used to be totally dull-colored because he came from the earths inside now he has become a super-conductor for cold words, hot pictures and light itself all being transmitted through his throat 2 Water (born in a year ending in 2 or 3) -helps wood but hinders fire; helped by metal but hindered by earth with her transparent tenderness coded with colorless violence she is always ready to support or sink the powerful boat sailing south 3 Wood (born in a year ending 4 or 5) -helps fire but hinders earth; helped by water but hindered by metal rings in rings have been opened or broken like echoes that roll from home to home each containing fragments of green trying to tell their tales from the forests depths 4 Fire (born in a year ending 6 or 7) -helps earth but hinders metal; helped by wood but hindered by water your soft power bursting from your ribcage as enthusiastic as a phoenix is supposed to be when you fly your lipless kisses you reach out your hearts until they are all broken

5 Earth (born in a year ending in 8 or 9) -helps metal but hinders water; helped by fire but hindered by wood i think not; therefore, I am not what I am, but I have a color the skin my heart wears inside out tattooed intricately with footprints of history

Epilogues Just as both God and Devil are mans incarnation, so are Heaven and Hell both mans construction. I From the front yard of a melodious morning From the busy road of a sweet Saturday From the moist corner of a heavy march From the back lane of pale winter We have come, here and now, all gathering In big crowds gathering in big crowds Gathering in ever-bigger crowds gathering For the boat to cross the wide wild waters Before the fairy ferry is fated to fall Under our feet too heavy with earthy mud II You may well hate Charon But you cannot help feeling envious: That business of carrying the diseased Across the River Styx is ever so prosperous The only monopoly in the entire universe That has a market share Larger than the market itself Daydreaming, on this side Of the river, how you might wish To be an entrepreneur like him A success American dreamer

III Flying between sea and sky Between day and night Amid heavenly or oceanic blue I lost all my references To any timed space Or a localized time Except the non-stop snorting Of a stranger neighbor Then, beyond the snorts rising here And more looming there I see tigers, lions, leopards And other kinds of hunger-throated predators Darting out of every passengers heart Running amuck around us As if released from a huge cage As if in a dreamland

America, America: A Zeugmatic Sketch Every time you stage a play or an election in your own yard You cannot wait to shake hands with your audiences and their wealth No matter whether it is the passage of a new bill or an old dilemma You excel particularly at manipulating public will and private property With your weeping eyes and hands You keep waging war and peace far beyond your boundaries While you kill non-Americans and their hope together To turn all others and othernesses into biblical dust More often than not, you selfish intentions prove Much more destructive than your smart bombs You invisible fighter jets strike far farther Than your visible arms of peace effort You are simply too great for a small criticism Too super-powerful for a weak opposition Too democratic for a totalitarian competition And too single-minded for a double standard

Configurations of Cards: A Poker Poem how i long to remove all the iron in my blood, and make it a big spike so that I can drive it into a crack of time The Spade not unlike the proud Prometheus you stole from an unmapped paradise the white seeds of peace and purity sowing them tender and graceful with softly solid stillness in a dry and dreamless wintry land like muted wishes flooring the human heart The Heart like a fishing hook thrown into the lake every nerve getting tight and straight you feel the sunpainted fingers of serenity trying to catch misty moonlight swimming like trouts but each time detouring around your soul as it takes a prolonged bath in the spring water, clear and clean The Diamond on the other coloured side of summer stands a lonely being being alone at the bushy and muddy bank of a wide but unknown river looking beyond the blue universe dying speechless without leaving a will at the boundary between light and shadow The Club despite the absence of an inspired wind, all fallen leaves giggle, busy reporting to their invisible roots

like infants smiling from ear to ear when recalling all the fun they used to enjoy in their former lives

Winter 2011
bruno neiva
esses averbais

Winter 2011
Aviva Englander Cristy Bias When the ventricle is full, the heart raises itself, forthwith tenses all its fibres, contracts the ventricles, and gives a beat. William Harvey, Movement of the Heart and Blood in Animals, 1628 likewise the valves against obstruction as the lunate against body the quick and rapid

to crescent the hand

not to present, to force an impediment, the sign tender and one could argue of closure in degree towards gesture obstruct to bias, to consider

delicate structure each ventricle valve holds a bias turns back again the campaign of the heart

insist the semilunar valve in triplicate to ambush in the extrusion of blood the face of the moon a movement, progression in closed circuitry not a holding in

an angle a seal

in course, an insistence

And it happens to all blood The veins communicate very freely with one another, especially in certain regions of the body Grays Anatomy 1. bodies sun and give up rain fibers care, so far the circular vessels, each study, all speak of impediment, of stated thickness the two lamina, the two kinds the domesticated cavitied I also recalled the elegant the carefully contrived the sea a lightening a likeness to the imperfect bias, the pulse of lung continuous from assertion in immensity, systol: suspect dilation, alone and considered

2. office of the hearts movement being the concept to seeing I first addressed my mind proficiency of function to note, through cooling, equal and rapid, the starting point back, it is freed, a little below; ligature, to compress, reserve through distension, to provenance: with swelling, fact or convey but for the wink of an eye or the length of a lightening to all blood, to the margin or at least become swollen to bursting

The Threshold of the Body

of figures to contemplate

as door-keepers, movement and assume a wakening to encourage catch and realize to cusp and desire heard to hold to strengthen nerves to wonder

a question of steward and timeless to swank and standing, a collaboration of wanting of naming to remember to wake and

The Articulations from Greys Anatomy, The Articulations the various bones with slight movement constitutes the fundamental element is pliant designed and elastic

structure differs from ordinary

with one another, and presenting will be found described their surfaces, and it contains no and adjacent, arches be observed vertebral bodies

from the articulation

in ordinary bones is thin, delicate the most perfect freedom

of the facial bones, the adjacent margins and do not perforate the articular surface be observed it is of a white color, extremely dense a shining, silvery aspect like the white of an egg

to act as a substitute for muscular power

For It Is Clear Enough from William Harveys The First Anatomical Essay to Jean Riolan on the Circulation of the Blood 1. nay, rather, by filling up and pathological work written against so violent and, if one looks flux and reflux and cools it

the physiological aspect

by the same specious argument what compresses of cachetic bodies of is derived in time be disrupted

but stagnates unaltered expels so benumbe and stiff to believe the extent as it throws light to which the inner parts are corrupted

2. for the concept of a circuit of showing cadavers an inflammation or a furuncle an object from the branches percolates continuously and uninterruptedly an alternate to remain there or the conversion unceasing from the natural form of the portal vein

determining me to indite and commit to writing

3. but our friend has adduced these things for it is clear enough flows lacerating movement and drive at each pulsation each beat one drop not originated the protective warmth ligatures, and apparatus of all sorts

from sensation but drive distend the vessels of the hand in the very booklet two thousand times for there is no knowledge within the hour it beats for the whole of the inflowing cooled and heatto put on record

tempered blood to confine

for this reason the subject itself and expels it

A Song, In Secret after Marsyas In mourning they say I was ravaged, a single wound entire. I fell, thrashed flesh left to speak for me. A first lynching canonized, side-note in this book of terror. This is not my only secret. Skin does not contains us. I am not diminished for being stripped bear, bled until I ran clear. Exposed, our sinews bind the muscles of song and skeletal hope. At vespers they remember I swung head-down, bled for days, my heart determined, a condemned melody. I do not repent.

Winter 2011
Avery Zaduk

Escaping Disgrace Shining

Sub sequential prize derives from a condoned fricative dive. Futile to the newborn smile, derived an angle from the pre tense marine drench now risen immense. Placate the inquisitive stench with a squint of horizon bliss enjoyment from the crisp of the sunset dip. Astound on teams of impeding please, amplified to the branch of placid physique. Never lose the fear of heights, that sight inspires might, build that fright a ladder and climb past demise. Eclipse the ever expensive debt and brevity will take shine reciprocating dispensed sighs. Like an oriental massage, make pleasure the job.

Shining Euphoric Nightlight

Sunshine is adored, habitual nature implores as the binaural dawn de solves, embracing scuttled scorn. Before the scene digresses, I seize to digest before awaiting the cycles regress, exploring further, where its rays stored, presenting more. In refraction, held by a harnessed prism, caressed the cradled enchantment now in sights possession. Lighting my mind, like a disco ball, pine bright in the midst of darkness and fright, spread shot from mace, showering bright cleanse hovering over a shadow base. Lost at sea, blinded from urease, a flicker is brought to the lighthouse, florescent illumination. Bounding assistive navigation pyre through the aqua mound, the stout ascended our eyes, subconscious to uprise.

The Great Progression

Serene scenes, unexplored deep ocean floors, catoptric sea shores, unvisited family morgues. Days that due, reinstated Dj vu, waking up reviewing shades of blue, unpaid belated was the revenue. Repeats like a dumb downed hound mumbling a sore absorbed roar, rebreeding receipts, re boughten cassette decks stuck on reset. Heightened like a giant, non compliance and criminal violence, achieving thoughts without process. An educational investment, pounced out for reasons behind infectious test assessments, delayed was my lament. Undressed for public awareness, highlighted ungrateful presence, held up in detention, resented like recession. Emancipating every constipated complication, sensations delivered with back rubs, dubbed discrete mend, the breakfast in bed. Reliable like the bounce that comes after every heavy bass sound, baring more pride than a virgins grace bound.

Hearts Hung Out Like Crimson Targets

The words Im dead may never be said, a recited psych, infinite light that put halos over your leftover bites. Unmentionable nights, feeling as goofy as a crippled in tights, hungover sights with pleasant radiant delights. Impregnate the possibilities, discombobulate continuity, abort self retorts like you would to a busted Newport. Retire my deity, indict bitter sobriety, retelling smells from bottomless wells, yells dont work well, how often do you see a kid come out of a circular cell? Lets all ring florescent bells, relinquish pain like a two legged horse claim. I knew this dyke, rebels think shes tight, she killed a shrew, incarcerated for two, long pending death sentence, the harmed nest is put to rest. She went down, her family faced the frown, attempting letters that bound, a death saw coming is a breath less cunning. Bountiful worries, from the observatory came this allegory, shoe boxed are our stories.

Winter 2011
Andrew Baron

untitled for Andrew Haley I know you without dimension as I know the desert town south of another desert town you told me about, and the hard mineral they mine there. Its the yes under the tucked wing of a cheap portrait bird where it hangs on the wall of a rest stop mens room, And if they ask me to testify in this thing, witness to the character of these materials, thats what Ill say- yes in the parking lot of the rest stop with the courtroom walls closing in around us yes hand to bible yes. waiting.

Planet of the Apes If the lyric is lost (a toy or an innocence, then with it the living, as the rime sets the clock of the cell. Originator of music, giver of lifes gift and could be its already gone, imploded with the star by whose expiring light we live demanding greater brightness. Could be thats not the end of the fable, that the chimps we gave Aids go on laughing as our drugs stop working. That cells divide to music (a daughter born and the weeds of abandoned places give lie through the asphalt to what the hot tar promised impenetrable. That this is beauty. The death stars the size of a planet theres no way out but to speak together the words of goodness: to sing where the exit signs fall to the freeway, where the rime sets the clock of the cell, and my daughter with her stuffed monkey is the originator of music.

The Crucifixion in the Floor I Now leasing 1,000 Sq. ft., vacant from a thousand feet walking away, or from one step away and thousand times. A thousand songs have sung a place in the shade of this sun lifting vapor off the street like goodness saved from the world. Gimme shelter. Oh come gather by the river the young escape their album covers and clothes by the thousands to sink there without drowning. I drove by and they were there. If they knew of something better than goodness (cool water and each other), theyd up their demands. If they knew the words, theyd sing them. The hypothesis on offer is of real numbers and their lives, of feet square or bleeding, from the vacancy or the nails. Oh Christ the empty spaces in the city. Oh Christ deliver from the heat. Oh Christ, again.

II Offered as Christ crossing a bridge, only look down and see hes just a kid, sitting at a table, who cant convince you of the fact of his hands. If its not for you to say, that means you must say it. If they didnt build it for you, its probably for the kids, their safe passage across the water. He never said he was Jesus, so you can take him down off the linoleum cross in your kitchen. And no ones asking for your bulletproof vest. Go ahead and check his papers against the monsters they swear they saw him with, against his sisters virgin birth. But do it before he reaches the other side of the bridge they didnt build for you, but for the kids. Their safe passage across the street.

III Is this child the future, this finger a wing? Lets say it is. And explain the blood where it crashed and dragged the asphalt, the terrible glisten in the sun. At first they said it was paint. Then that it wasnt there at all. There was a lie at the dawn of creation, when Christ gave flesh to the words of presence. Lets say there was. And take him down and carve it in the cross beams. That it could have been other than what it is. The rot ever waiting in the wood. The childs finger ever upward to the mothers hand.

The where of wild things Theres coffee and tea, exhaust of cars or of someone just come in off the street, breathless and alone, a tentative approaching turned crusade by one thing or another, the onset or the loss. A cautious neighbor told you things were wild there, and there the wild things are: tatoed on the neck or breaking in through cracks in the sidewalk. You jump up from the table to avoid the spreading coffee spill. You notice that the last remaining wildness was the background of a Nintendo game you played once and mastered, note the imperfections in the sky of this perfect spinning cage.

Winter 2011
Ambrielle Army

Mushroom Cloud Watching And the world lay beautifully exhausted beyond these four fragile walls, As Gods breath exhaled across the earth. Fields, planes, and cities alike shed their delicate petals Among the ashes of the forgiven. They crumble so peacefully, I can barely hear their lovely tears. Scorched at the roots, Life itself shall not awaken, And the beautifully optimistic and innocent practice we used to call Progress withers in the dust. We may be alone, but the world Is more precious now. The last flashes of blinding light have Danced across curious eyelids, Leaving only lightning to appease Natures boredom. We await the day when our divine symphony Filters out into the final song of silence Our world has so deserved. Our day marks closer with each tumbling snowflake. Here, in this desolate world of our spinning, A gentle smile plays across its lips as its heart Surrenders the final sacrifice. And here, there are more ends than beginnings.

Winter 2011
Alison Lyons

Throw my ashes into the ocean so I may come full circle.

At an hour too early for thieves, when there's enough room to kick and to breathe, the world is having breakfast slowly and no one knows how busy I am; I crawl great distances down to a science, with a twenty-one year thanks and a lazy left arm. and of all the ways I move my body, this is the most true. You want to join me, but maybe you should stick to land. Your dry hands may not understand how I like to fall into a rhythm and flip like a trapped animal pulled out with the tide. Sometimes I don't want to come back up for air.

I am content coming back from the dead with fast feet, as if carrying the messages between earth and sky, With giant numbers clouding my head and every single muscle in my body being put to use. I like to drag my fingertips while losing count, repeating only: Here's the open side of my palm and a storm moving in. I forget where I am at. Sweat glands swell and contract and sometimes I get frustrated with the inhabitants of my shores, who un-tie their shoes, who interrupt: How do you breathe? How long have I been doing this? - in this life? This is my firstborn. This is my quicksand. This fury is thick and ancient. I remember when childhood dragged, and an old man in a jumpsuit and a straw hat bellowed: you move like the women I used to photograph, 1940 to 1948,

but kick water, not air, kick water, not air. He always told me that I would be better today than yesterday, better tomorrow than today. I just have to keep getting up. So stay down, creature, stay in bed your keys are exactly where you left them. You're going for the same dream again, but I want to be better today because, Oh, old habits die hard. and despite my lazy left arm that drags, my breath only to one side, I can not stick to land. somewhere in the middle the silence is acidic and thunderous making the mountain that much higher but it just may be the only thing my pruny hands understand.

Winter 2011
Adam Fagin

13 Views
1. I have learned all light comes down through the motion of the observer, which is white. It is only to the still observer that the motion of the observed form adds revealment. To a motionless man, any leaf or branch seams the same bright shore.

2. A first sight becomes, when white is visible, wholly outside of color. I enter the animal, sucking skylight from the leaf-like shadow of a wing. Its true outline en masse axis of fleshy processesbird being but a uniform of its environmentpure leafy space spreads twilight with thumb and forefinger.

3. Let me beg, orchid, the eye to follow what Ive forgotten. There is no end to energy displaced by what it attends. Like a shadow in the mouth, a man is a parade through his beliefs. Each word follows the contour of a logical mind: I notice what I have already noticed. A wilderness like ones hands before ones eyes.

4.
Looking through a white earI seed and siftand sift and seed. This canvas is planted in its composition. A veiled music trapped in the rheumatic afterglow of landscape. Under the machine-like utterance of night, a glance throws these walls against their origin.

5. Dear northern region, dear dear one: we hold these truths to be self-evident, but they are merely exposed: White knoll in a holy privacy of thought. Meaning tumbles over green leaves. Men are raised through the eye. In a prophecy of wren instead of sky, the artists life is spared.

6. This is not a theory. The sky is blue and there are tree-shadows on snow. Its wings little white prayers which occupy a point further in. Here a straight line extends the gaze. It is another blackbird heard across the sky. When reversed its turned to evidence: I open the impressionblue kite cut apart by moon-fragmentand am met by observation: a flight where matter converges with its style of conveyance.

7. Where green trees point, a somatic grammar. Sensation is a bare ocean. Where shadows extend, a leaf I know by heart. Is there sky to express mortality? Is it blue enough? Each day is sense refined by distance. From morning to cold meadow, these birds, I have lived a rather roving life.

8. Oft-repeated evening sky. White eiders vanish toward the light. Let us reflect: the sun makes total what it touches. But only an artist can do this in utter darkness.

9. Blue, likely omitted sky. In this moment thought multiplies the animal it becomes. A leaf, a twig, a web of sunlight. Grass-patterns part. Having seen, we should not look.

10. A butterfly renames the soil. Aix sponsa or plover passing over a learned vacuity. Detaching its velocity from hypertelic rhythms of a Redpoll, my flower eats the wing of a complex debris.

11. Wearer, when unacknowledged, it is sky you speak through: robins egg, green shade. Wearer, sky is when you consent to being imagined a volume of air rendering Birds of Paradise.

12. Yellow flower near the edge of a meadow. Some days are violets pressed inside the pages of a letter.

13. leaf-like listener of branch diameter I have noticed a mouth caught between two virgin spruce containing sound sky is thus inverted in speaking it is a ghost reversing earthly light crouching in sunlight the eye is lost slim leaves split open the branches

Winter 2011
Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Reclamation Project Sometimes it's the right decisions that hurt the most, that's what she tells herself anyway. Only half buying into it. The tears wont stop; she puts them in her pockets taking them with her wherever she goes. This is not what she wanted, but she could see the writing on the wall; clich at best. And she writes poems about her still, with words that hold meaning, with words that tell stories, the only words she has left. She would have given her the moon, if it were not but a fingerprint away.

Ginger Something was said of this Im sure, something in green, something with teeth. Something profound. I lean in to catch a whisper, but its far too late for that. And I can see her eyes change from sugar to sand, smoothing out the ripples; the ever growing distance between us. I want to know the words, I want to know why! And I fell apart like a dying sunflower, slipped Down a hole in salt, a whole in salt. I just let it happen. Didnt put up much of a fight really, let go and unraveled, unraveling still. And I can still taste the ginger, as I listen to my heart stop.

Hate Department Cringing in a corner doesnt suit her, much. She does it anyway. Waiting for the feelings to change, in bold breaths breathing. Slipping her eyes; something less formal. She has that stay away from me look down pat, because she cares too much. Always the problem. Her emotions burn like cheap cigarettes, cold. Almost surreal. And she can feel the sand in her teeth, the heat of her skin, steam. She knew this moment inevitable, tried to wish it away with small gestures. But it came just the same.

Winter 2011
Philip Kobylarz

Fishing for Television

Got a story that aint got no moral, let the bad guy win every once in a while -the Spinners

Because I live in a valley surrounded by pointy mountains, rows of rusty knife blades, a pyramidal series of bonsai gardens created by an artist whose underlying themes are obviously chaos and desolation (they taught us how to find underlying themes in college), I cannot receive what is everyones basic right in America: free television. A thin signal flows into the old fashioned rabbit ears, a relic in itself, or themselves basically its a glorified coat hanger taped to a clock radio circa nineteen eighty one. Early, early Etruscan art. What the beautiful people are doing in the fresco space of the screen, however flat or round it is up to you. Today

its mostly pornography or sports (not necessarily in that order), the recent political scandal, or a decades worth of murder. The news relays the choice topic du jour: the fuckedupidness of the Middle East. I guess they forgot it was once a holy land. Topic two is always death in its more glorious forms. Always lots of gore and guts just like in the scariest of our hyperviolent scary movies, full of nightmares beyond the realm of abhorrent that we are encouraging our children to soon dream. Theyll know how it was. The hell of the 21st century. Yippee! But theres only really one story. Shes dead. The modern incarnation of the 50 foot tall woman. Yes, indeed, Anna is dead. Our nightmares, however, arent dreamt anymore. Theyre whats happening in meaty real time on teevees, ubiquitously showing war war war war war war war war and war. And we dont really have to fight them, we just have to watch. We only have to press the Nielson button, the old poll, the next poll. Those polls and not the kind girls dance and spin on. Its the only relevant ballet thats left. The war doesnt matter anymore, The reason is simple. Shes dead. The hottest reality t.v. show is the one that really doesnt have a goal, no winners, only bloody melodrama that no one even cares about not even the people who think they are reality movie stars. No million dollar prize, maybe a spot in an Adam Sandler featurette or Dr. Pepper commercial. Some such prize that amounts to freakin nothing and the fuckin taxes that have to be paid on it. Its all an old Coke bottle top that promises something exactly like thirst. So drink up while you can even if it makes you puke.

And we puke a lot. Or we feel like it. Or we take a host of prescription drugs that prevent it from ever happening.

Day 2: Diary of the New Show

Its us to us, we the people, we the real people of the crazy dream of coolness as life. We want to buy the ultimate freedom on QVC because we know its only going to be there for a limited time. It doesnt matter what the cost. We have cards for that. Instructions: all it takes is the perfect movie plot, created in storyboards totally elementized (the genre to be decided at a later date) that includes murder, sex, aliens, and a great Costa del Sol locale, sun drenched bikini-ed Spanish babes and the worlds best tequila imported from Mexico. The story of all stories. The best advice is not to wonder what Theodore Kaczinski mused as he was losing his mind in a Waldenesque cabin enveloped by northwestern white pine on the border of nowhere and nowhere. Yeah, its o.k. to write each other vapid e-mails of anonymity, of emotional sturmunddrang, but every once in a while, actually write it down. Paper, ink, that sort of thingy. Read the Randy Weaver book over and over again. Have nightmares of robots busting out your windows with duct-taped guns in their hands because if you do they will be true.

Armageddon part 832, chapter nine, the end of the end ending.

I like the city to stay awake for me. I enter what you call sleep and I monitor how eveningtude unveils her brunette locks by walking around the country club in which I live and gazing nonchalantly into windows that the rich feel no reason to cover in drapes. They are rarely doing anything more than watching t.v or solemnly drinking booze and watching t.v. or sitting in a room in which a t.v. is on but they are looking in another direction thinking about watching t.v. or what will come on next.

After I Heard Anna Had Died Here is what happened. I saw some people either fucking or committing murder. I couldnt quite tell. They were moving wildly, muscles flexing, heads, one head with a mane of hair thrown back, the electric eels of flesh and soft lighting, a painting fell from the wall. Heres what anyone has to know about winters here: there isnt much to do. Sure, theres skiing but when the temperature is below zero, it feels like your face is being peeled off by acid. And what is skiing anyway but falling down a mountain while trying to not kill yourself or crack a rib. So you do this: brave the elements while walking around a rich neighborhood/golf course/serendipitous park combination and you look in windows. The ultra rich, as we all know, never pull their shades because they like to show off their

wealth and furniture ordered from the best catalogs. Floral prints are always big. Stuff made out of glass that should never be. Why the rich have no class has something to do with Americans displacement from Europe. In this neighborhood built on a gently undulating plane that is meandered in half by a small river and stitched in by 6,ooo plus foot mountains, there are numerous Kokopellis. They adorn houses and mailboxes and Im sure serve as interior knick knacks. One barren mountain that juts into the sky like an unsharpened meat cleaver where no humans ever go is named Indian Peak and that must be the inspiration. Native American culture exists only as a smoke-filled casino of one-armed bandits that lies on the north side of a highway that bisects the state and leads to two ends of nowhere. Remember the crying Native American who laments pollution? Well, here, the tears have all dried up and no one ever has to see their suffering. And the city in which I live is named after a Chief. The night I went out to see the murder/romantic interlude was crystal clear with meteors flying overhead. The geese leave green Cheetos of shit all over the golf course that you inevitably walk in and trek behind you like vegetal footprints. In the distance there is a rumbling of a train that is more so felt than heard. Who knows what they hold as there are only a few stores in town owned by the big chains and no restaurants worth mentioning. Voyeurism is a last resort when there is nothing better to do. This explains all the sex on the internet. Its all American sex and there are thousands of other countries but we do it best. Or we do it the worst and try hard to be romantic about it. These are the facts and Im sticking to them. I am no criminal, just an observer of how weird life has become past the turn of the 21st century.

Isnt the Sky the Weather Channel? Every day is a gray one. The weather here is ominous, especially if it indicates anything about the afterlife. Half of the country is steamy and warm in the middle of winter, the other is freezing its ass off. Or course, Im in the freezing part weather so cold that people dont even want to have sex. The clouds hang above the mountains and loom over them like hunchback of non-existent Notre Dames. However, despite of the horribly frozen weather that makes the thin veneer of snow crunch and whine like Styrofoam cutting Styrofoam underfoot, that couple on a wintery Thursday night were going at it like rabbits in a warm den. Or someone was murdering someone.

Here are the facts. I saw a struggle. A painting fell off the wall. I think I heard the telephone ringing, unanswered. Or was it my imagination? Am I tainted by so many CSI programs and Datelines about death? Late, sleepless nights reading entries in Crimelibrary.com. Who knows? I know what I saw. Two naked people writhing like snakes. He was pulling her hair and her arms were reaching behind trying to strike him. The lights went out and I heard the sounds of something hitting the walls. Thats when I ran. I ran under the shining stars above, entering into the puffs of breath that froze immediately in the frozen air. I ran because I felt guilty. I ran home and sat in a room and wondered.

The whatever-I-saw-happening still cant take away the fact that she is dead and moldy but she still lives in radio broadcasts about her and her John Redcorn-like mythical son that just might be true and the thousands of men and pilots of industry that boinked her but couldnt touch the barely real thing she kept inside like a splinter from the True Cross. Some early morning a.m.s will be like this for everyone: the rantings of cable, a thin trickle of a river spilling by over well washed white bread loaves of rocks, the scent of a rattling air conditioner unit flowering the air concrete block clean, and the memory of homeless people sleeping territorially sleeping under lights in a dry basin of a city park in Tucson, AZ. Remembering this in Boise, Idaho on a warm March night. Places she has never been, until now. With me, in memorium. She weighed 178 pounds when she died. No one cried when she died. People heard it broadcast on t.v. as they scarfed down Kentucky Fried Chicken and they thought for a moment, between swallows of industrial strength mashed potatoes and coleslaw that it was a shame, then they took a sip of cherry vanilla Pepsi. In the newspaper on Sunday, glorious Sunday when the rain starts and stops and the sun comes out to christen the mountains in halo drapes of yellow then gold then revealing bronze extra gleam, I saw the report that ends the story. So much of the news is about ended stories. Two people were cited by the police department for disturbing the peace. The old couple neighbors who with their skinny scared Labrador that barks at anything called the neighborhood watch, they had heard some noises, maybe a robbery, and the police were then called because we do have a 9-11 service so why the heck not use it? The horny older couple didnt get cited with a ticket but the police did come out and

they pretty much saw the same thing I saw although in a different position (we can only wonder) and from a totally different perspective. And they probably lingered more because they had the right to. Here is the moral of the lesson as all stories are supposed to have them. Watch how much fun you have because at the height of ecstasy, the cops can come a knocking and you are being watched by everyone and nothing you do is private and she is dead and there are legions of Marilyn Monroe worshippers but none, less me, who are truly, truly devoted to her memory and for it, and the cult of my others, namely, you the reader reader, are condemned to a darkest sulphuric realm of hell: an internet memorial webpage. The new infinity. Guess what? The new telephones books have arrived in their bright yellow bags and no one absolutely even gives a shit.

Winter 2011
Michael Quinlan
Three Days of Fall

October 31, 2003 Inferno I couldnt help but laugh as Benjamin did his best T-Rex, growling and clawing at my leg. It was almost dark, and the kid was ready to trick-or-treat for the first time, his stuffed tail swinging behind him with each dramatic step. Shan had finished making the costume earlier that day, and he hadnt taken it off for anything since. Made of green fabric dotted with black, it was ill-fitting and baggy in most areas but too tight around the ankles. The hood was the only thing that fit about right, with the edges surrounding the boys face lined with gray, felt triangles for teeth. Shan had never been much of a seamstress, but Benji didnt mind. Neither did I. A few locks of his thick, brown hair curled out under the teeth, and his big green eyes (his mothers eyes) flashed with excitement. I scooped him up and hugged him for a brief moment, and he squirmed and growled, still a dinosaur. You ready to go? I laughed, trying to hold on. He wriggled and roared, or rather, tried to roar. I began to tickle him and his growls quickly turn to laughter. I loved to hear him laugh. Are you ready? I repeated, still tickling. YES! he gasped through a giggle. Ok! I put him down and went over to the closet to grab my coat. Shan rounded the corner from the kitchen carrying Alice. Shan had dressed the infant in a black cat outfit, complete with ears attached to a headband. All set? She beamed at Benji, now scratching at the door with a clawed hand and handed Alice to me. Looks like it. I pulled on a jacket and took the baby from Shan. She sat down on the stairs leading to the second floor and pulled Benji into a hug. He didnt squirm this time. Do you have a joke? she asked, arms holding him tightly, and kissed him on the cheek. He nodded. Well? What is it? She let him go and turned him around to face her. He cleared his throat and stood up straight. What do you call a witch who lives by the sea? he asked, far too smoothly for a five-year-old. Wed practiced earlier that afternoon. Shan smiled and shook her head.

kid.

I dont know! What do you call a witch who lives by the sea? A sand-witch! he blurted triumphantly. Shan groaned, then laughed. Of course. A sand-witch! She shook her head. And where did you learn that one? Daddy taught me! He was pleased with his mothers response. She rolled her eyes in my direction. Im sure he did, she sighed and stood, taking Alice. Daddy always needed help with jokes when he was a

Hey, I cut in, I suggested that he make a crack about how the Terminator is now an elected public official. I pretended to pump a shotgun and whipped out my best Austrian accent, Can you say Hasta la vista, taxes? Shan shook her head and bent to kiss Benji again. Alright, baby, have fun! She grabbed a plastic jack-o-lantern bucket off the dining room table and handed it to him. Ok! he chirped, taking the bucket while turning back into a dinosaur. I kissed Shan goodbye and told her wed be back in an hour. It was brisk and windy outside and I thought about going back to get a coat for Benji, but he was already halfway down the driveway. Slow down, kid, I called out. He stopped at the end of the drive and pretended to chomp down on an imaginary triceratops. A few kids dressed as mutants from X-Men, complete with a more-than-adequate Wolverine costume, walked by in the street, and a teen couple from Hogwarts smiled and waved at Benji as they passed. He growled back. Across the street were three very convincing wraiths from The Lord of the Rings movies, eerily gliding across the lawn. We set off down the sidewalk, passing our next-door-neighbors house. Earl and Marilyn Stevenson were already in Florida, more than eager to leave the coming Midwest winter behind. Once their grandchildren stopped coming by for candy, they didnt see much reason to stick around and deal with the lame jokes. In years past, when Shan and I had first moved in, their wraparound porch would be practically overrun with glowing, home-carved pumpkins and fake cobwebs while the two would sit out in old-fashioned rocking chairs, dressed as if straight out of the early 1900s, and pass out candy from a giant antique barrel. As their children and families moved away, however, visits became less and less frequent until they stopped visiting all together, and grandma and grandpa Stevenson discovered how much nicer a tropical climate is once the fall set in. As we walked on the sidewalk, Benji would sprint ahead for a few steps before stopping to wait for me, and as I would reach him, hed sprint forward again. The first house we stopped at had Bachs Toccata and Fugue in D minor (with some additional sound effects) playing through the tinny speakers of a small CD player in the corner, and a giant spider suspended above the front door. Benji approached timidly and stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the door. He turned around and I waved to him from the sidewalk. Daddy? Yes, Benjamin. He didnt say anything. You scared? I started to walk up the lawn to him. No! Ok. I stopped walking. You gonna ring the bell? He considered this for a moment.

Do you remember your joke? He nodded. Do you want me to come with you? He looked at me, then at his bucket. He gave a small roar and spun around, marching up to the door, and rang the bell. Half the neighborhood later, Benjis bucket was full to the brim. His joke had been a success and the neighbors had been taken by the kids adorability, being more than generous with their candy, and Benji was on a sugar-high without even consuming a single, fun-sized Milky Way. As he skipped up the Hill family driveway, whose son James was Benjis age and the two would often play together, I told him that it would be our last house before heading home. Ok! he called back over his shoulder. My phone rang. It was Shan. Hey, whats up? Just seeing how things are going. Oh, theyre going well, I laughed. Kids a star. How many houses so far? she asked. I turned and looked down the street. Maybe twenty? I approximated. This is our last one, then well be home. Sounds good, babe. Hows Alice? I put her to bed when you two left. Getting ready for our movie. Alright. We were going to watch The Others after Benji went to bed. I shivered a bit. Well be home in a few minutes. Great, see you. Bye. I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. I checked my watch, it was just after eight. The wind picked up, whistling through the bare branches and swirling fallen leaves across the street, and I turned back to the house. Though the music was still playing, the door was closed and the porch was empty. I figured that Benji mustve gone inside with James, so I walked up the drive and rang the doorbell. Tom Hill answered. Hey, Tom. I offered my hand. Mike! He shook my hand. Nice costume. You got a joke to go with it? Im actually just picking up Benji, I laughed. Could you let him know its time to go? Sure thing, he said, opening the door a bit wider. Come on in. I stepped into the house and stood in the foyer while Tom shut the door. Theyre probably in the basement. I just got back from the office, he said, taking off the coat I hadnt noticed he was wearing. I mustve missed you coming up the drive. Oh, Ive been back for a few minutes, he said. I was finishing up a call in the car. I nodded. Do you get much business on Halloween? Not more than usual. He hung up his coat. Fourth of July, though, is a different story. Tom was a pediatrician, and Benjis doctor. I can imagine.

He nodded. Ill go get the boys. He walked to the basement door, opened it, and called down. No one answered, so he walked down the stairs. I had only been waiting for a few seconds before I heard Tom coming up the stairs again. Nobodys down there, he said, closing the door. Who are you looking for? Toms wife, Kris, asked as she appeared from one of the upstairs bedrooms. Oh, hey Mike, she said, coming down the stairs. Hes here to get Benjamin, Tom answered, meeting his wife at the bottom of the stairs and hugging her. Kris looked at Tom strangely, then at me. Youre here for Benji? she asked. Yeah, didnt he just come inside? He told his joke, she said, disengaging from the hug and walking over to me. Then he said hi to James, but he left. I blinked. I just tucked in James, she continued. Hes gotta be outside, Tom assured, opening the front door and walking out onto the porch. I followed. It was colder outside and the wind was really whipping. I called out Benjis name and walked to the sidewalk. I looked down both directions of the street and called again. Kris joined Tom on the porch and both also called out. The street was quiet. My stomach tightened. I took off jogging down the street in the direction we had been heading, calling out. Nothing. He mustve gone home and I just missed him. I turned around and headed back towards our house. Anything? Tom called to me as I passed by their house. No! I called back. Im thinking he mightve just gone home. I kept running. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone and called Shan. After four rings, the answering machine picked up. I hung up and called out for Benji again. Still nothing. I hit redial but the machine picked up again. Hey, Shannon, I started to leave a message, scanning both sides of the street as I ran. You need to pick up. I cant Michael? she picked up. Yeah, hey. I was nearly out of breath. Whats going on? I was showering. Are you running? Is Benji there? What do you mean? Did Benjamin come home? Youre not with him? Did he come home? I was yelling now. No. What happened? I was nearly home. Im almost home. Get some shoes on. I hung up and picked up the pace. I called out again, looking around, bordering on frantic. I was passing the Stevensons house when I stopped suddenly. There was a light in the empty houses window.

I sprinted up the lawn and pounded on the door. No one answered. The door was locked, so I decided to check the back. The light in the window had been extinguished, and I ran around the house. As I was rounding the corner to the backyard, a door slammed, and I heard feet running down the stairs of the deck. The darkness was overwhelming, but I could make out a form sprinting around the other side of the house towards the street. I skidded to a halt and sprinted back the way I came, yelling for the figure to stop. Before I reached the front of the house, I heard the screaming of breaks, a car door slam, and tires squealing, and when I got the street, all I could see was the retreating taillights of what looked like a station-wagon. I started to pursue the car, the adrenaline an inferno raging through my veins. Michael! Shan yelled from our door. I stopped, and the taillights disappeared. My head was pounding and my lungs were aching. I felt like Id gotten hit by a train. I turned around. She ran out to meet me. What happened? I stared at her. I didnt know what to say. Wheres Benjamin? she took my arm and squeezed. Her voice wavered. Michael! Wheres Benji? There were tears in her eyes. The adrenaline dissolved and I remembered how cold it was. I began to shiver. I couldnt speak. I couldnt move. I couldnt think. I pulled my arm free and staggered up to our door. There was a sharp pain in my stomach and I doubled over. Michael! she pleaded from a few steps behind me. Where is our son? I coughed and shook my head. I dont know.

November 1, 2004 Ecclesiastes 3:4 I flipped through the channels and stopped on Monday Night Football. Well into the third quarter, the Jets were pummeling the Dolphins so I switched off the TV altogether. I finished my beer, stood, and stretched. Id been sitting for a few hours, only getting up for more beer. Time to get moving. I pissed, then went to clean up my mess in the kitchen. I took out the trash, filled the sink with soap and water, and collected all the dishes and set them in the sink. I looked around the kitchen for anything else to do, but decided to leave anything else for tomorrow. Shan had taken Alice and gone to her parents for the night. I needed the night alone, and I wasnt going to spend it cleaning. Shan, Alice, and I had spent last night in a hotel, and by the end of the night, she could tell something was wrong. Without me asking, she had told me that she understood if I needed to be alone. I told her I did. Before crashing in front of the TV, I had tried grading papers, but I couldnt focus and Id had too much to drink. Id even called my brother, but hung up when he answered. I felt sick. Wed been searching for the better part of the year. There wasnt a ransom note. The police said they werent giving up, but they didnt have any leads. The station wagon I saw was never found. I even told them about the three wraiths and probably sounded crazy. Shannon said she didnt blame me. I didnt believe her. Hell, I blamed me. I grabbed a few more beers out of the fridge and went back to the couch. I still remembered the way she looked at me at the moment it all hit me. I dropped the beer on the coffee table, not bothering to open it. Whatever strength Id ever felt, whatever confidence Id ever had was wrenched out of me in that look. I had lost her son. As the months dragged on and the search was yielding nothing, it became real. The school had given me whatever time Id need, but after a few months of futility, I went back to work. I hadnt given up, but with Shan and Alice at home, I needed to work. The days away from home turned into nights away from home working late. Shan never said anything about it. It started to rain outside. I was feeling even more sick. The doctor told me not to drink with the antidepressants. The priest told me not to drink at all. The doctor was Shans idea. The priest was my fathers. The aging Fr. Mark, lungs slowly calcifying and hands shaking from Parkinsons, had married my parents and been present throughout my childhood. Hed been a major inspiration for my brother, and was the homilist for his first Mass. Hed spoken about the Will of God and surrender and how proud both he and the Church were of Andrew for giving of himself to that Will. My mother had cried, overwhelmed with joy. Id gone to visit Fr. Mark just a few days ago. He had been glad to see me, and I him. He offered words of comfort between breaths through the oxygen mask, and there was some comfort in his words. He told me to stop drinking before it became a problem. Drinking, hed rasped, would not bring back my son, and it would only lose me a wife and daughter. I didnt disagree. It didnt take too long, though, before hed told me to call my brother. That, I did disagree with. Fr. Andrew, my older brother, had married me and Shannon and baptized both our children. Hed been a major inspiration all throughout my life of a man trying to be the best man he could, and in the weeks following Benjis disappearance, he was the person I spoke to the most. The last time we talked, hed spoken about the Will of

God and surrender and how we often wont understand why things happen the way they do and that it was up to me to surrender to that Will and to trust in His grace. Id told him to go to hell. I found myself holding a picture Shannon had taken that day. It was the picture wed put on the flyers, Benji baring his teeth, crouching like a dinosaur. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I ran through the minutes in my head like Id done every night since it happened. I used to be looking for something Id missed before, something that would bring back my son, but now I did it just to remember. It was after eleven and my house was dark except for the lamp on the end table. It was quiet. I was long past trying to find a reason. Every time I did, it just slipped away and left me even more unsettled. All the things people had said to me and Shan, all the words of comfort and prayers in faith, only lasted as long as it took to speak them, leaving only silence in the dark. I just wanted to hold onto the silence. I just wanted to hold on. Id stopped praying months ago, but now I opened my eyes and looked up anyway. I turned off the lamp, and in the silence of the room, I stopped remembering and just sat there in the dark. I wondered if this was what surrender was like. I was numb. The phone rang, obliterating the silence. It was almost midnight, but I answered. Hello? Michael? Shannon sobbed on the other line. Hey. I love you. I love you, too. She was trying not to cry, so we said nothing. Shan, Im sorry, I said after a few moments. I didnt know what else to say. I know, she whispered. I dont know what else to do. I know. I I coughed. Im lost. I could hear her crying now. She was holding the receiver away from her face. When she spoke again, she didnt try to stop crying. Alice and I will be home tomorrow. Ok. Will you be there? she asked, beginning to collect herself. Yeah, I said. Ill be here. Ok, she said. Shannon? Yes? Ill always be here. I know. She sounded sure. Ok. See you tomorrow. Yeah. Night. Goodnight. I hung up the phone.

November 2, 2010 All Souls I voted this morning after dropping off Alice at school. Because of the crowd, Id ended up waiting for over an hour. Afterward, I went and got coffee and bagels for Shan who was home with Therese, dealing with the chicken pox. I didnt have class until the afternoon, so I planned to spend the morning at home and let Shan get out of the house. Then the phone rang. The call had been too much to handle, so I hurriedly explained to Shan what was happening, grabbed my keys, and practically sprinted out of the house, promising to call very soon. Im driving too fast, but I dont care, and I only slow down as I approach the police station. I park on the street, not bothering to feed the meter, and I race through the doors. Im met by the chief of police and a few other uniformed officers who quickly lead me back to the offices. As were walking, the chiefs explaining to me whats happening, but Im not really hearing him. Something about a drug bust and finding a child along with the drugs. Something about the child not being the drug dealers and roughly matching a computer-generated image of what Benji would look like seven years after his disappearance. Something unbelievable. The chief stops as hes nearing the end of the cubicles, and I can see the nameplate on his office door. I can see through the glass windows of his office, the shades pulled all the way up. I can see a young policewoman leaning against the chiefs desk, talking to a boy in one of the chairs facing her. I can see thick, brown curls. I cant breathe. The woman is smiling kindly as shes talking to the boy. Hes nodding and responding, but I still cant see his face. As hes answering, he looks to his left and I see his profile. I reach out and grip the chiefs arm, steadying myself. He doesnt know that were watching, and he runs his hand through his hair. Mike? the chiefs looking at me now. Yeah? I whisper, not taking my eyes off the boy. He says his name is Ben. I sink to my knees. Im lost. The chief waits a minute before speaking again. Is that him? he asks. Is that your son? The woman is talking and pointing to things and the boy gets up from the chair to look at what shes pointing to. Hes looking out of the windows with curiosity, but I still only see his profile. He turns and looks out the window that I see him through, taking in the bustle of a police station. He looks out with his mothers eyes. Yes. Im reeling now, but I stand with the chiefs help. Thats my son. The chief nods and pats me on the shoulder. Can I call my wife? I ask after Ive steadied myself. We already sent a car by to get her. Ok. Now, were not sure whats happened, the chief begins. So, were not sure what to expect out of him. He seems to be comfortable talking, but were just not sure what to expect. I nod. I dont know what to expect, either. We think its ok if you talk to him, he continues. Do you want to wait for your wife? I nod again, and it hits me.

Im overwhelmed suddenly with a torrent of emotion and memory and I ask to sit down. The chief leads me to a nearby desk chair and I take it. I dont know what to think. With my head spinning and my heart pounding I remember the last moments I had him. I remember frantically searching for him and telling Shan. I remember the agony of the search, of not knowing what was happening to him. I remember the crushing darkness of grief that had nearly overwhelmed me and my family. I remember tears. I remember comfortless words and prayers that gave no peace. I remember the memorial service three years after it happened. I remember the birth of our third child, our daughter Therese. I remember finally calling my brother and asking for forgiveness. I remember realizing that I couldnt bring back my son. I remember everything. I see him now. I realize that I have no idea who he is. Hes not the boy of five that I scooped up and hugged. Does he remember his family? Does he remember his home? Will he know us? Im paralyzed in the chair. I hear quick-moving footsteps behind me. Shans here. She calls my name. I heave myself out of the chair just in time to catch her as she throws her arms around my neck, holding tightly. Is it him? she whispers into my ear. Yeah, baby, its him. Are you sure? She wont be able to handle losing him again. Neither will I. Im sure. She lets go and looks up at me. Have you talked with him? she asks. I was waiting for you. Ok. There are tears in her eyes. You guys ready? the chief asks. I look up at the boy in the window, now sitting at the desk with the woman, writing something. I look back at Shan. She nods. Yeah, were ready. The chief leads us to his office door and opens it. As we walk in, the boy doesnt look up and no one says anything. The woman with him stands and begins to close the shades in the room. Shan and I stand in the doorway. The woman finishes closing the shades, nods and smiles to us, and leaves the room. The boy is drawing at the desk, but still he doesnt look up. Shan is holding my arm, not breathing. I take a step further into the room and she follows. The boy stops drawing and puts down his pencil. I speak. Benji? The boy looks up and sees his parents.

Winter 2011
Michael C. Thompson

Shadowless 1 -- (Gone to Ground) EXT. CITY STREET -- NIGHT Watched ARLOW wash away in the rain, clay rivulets running down into the gutter, following his shade into the muck soup of the sewer below. He was headed down-stream, feeding the tree. Had that look on his face like he was caught, at least until it melted away. My eyes stared out as the rain took chunks off him, cutting holes in the trunk of his self. He hadnt wanted to die, but decided to dissolve in the down-pour rather than face Pinkerton and his fucking mouths. He would rather return to the shadowless tree, back through the artery, better washed away than put on ice. My own SHADE leered at me as I watched the target melt, slide down through the grates into the dissolution below, a vein of the sick streets.

--You should have been faster, the shade said to me.

I tried not to listen to it. The shade never said anything worth hearing.

--Pinkerton will have your eyes, it added maliciously.

--I can fashion more, I replied, catching myself only after the words had fallen out, plopped on the dirt below like filth out of a gut.

--You are running out of clay to shape them with, the shade answered.

By the time our conversation was over, Arlowd gone to ground. FADE TO BLACK

2 -- (The Arena) INT. ARENA -- NIGHT The SAVAGE pulled through his collar, taking his own head clean off; his body ran in aimless circles, his arms flailed wildly, confused. His shade bore witness, shrieking in delirium, until its casters head was stomped flat by the OPPONENT, mashed to the mat. The decapitated body fell lifeless, and the referee hosed his clay to nothing, spilling muddy remains into the gutter surrounding the ring, feeding the artery of the tree. The savage lifted his arms in victory, and the REFEREE hosed him down until only the stain of clay remained on the mat before following suit and turning the water on himself. His hand gripped the hose for a few moments after the rest of him had joined the erased competitors. The crowd around us cheered the dissolution. I looked at my watch. 9:25.

--Oh, God, I thought. Im still alive.

Tomorrow was coming fast, along with an appointment I didnt want to keep. A flash of Pinkertons mouths. Rain was due -- I pondered the quick way out. FADE TO BLACK

3 -- (Cracked Clay) INT. HOME -- NIGHT Held my clay over the fire, felt my fingers growing hard, numb, listening to the rain patter outside. My digits crackled in the heat, and my shade flickered on the wall, focused on me with malicious intent. If it had lips it would have been smiling, grinning like one of Pinkertons mouths.

--Wasting your time, it told me.

--No such thing as waste or time, I replied.

I feel less guilt about answering my shade in privacy, as most do.

--You cannot stick around, it continued. You cannot bake yourself into permanence. Ash, clay - in the end its all the same. Muck for the artery, headed for recycling. Youll follow me through the sewer grates.

--Not if Pinkerton devours me.

--Ill get you eventually, the shade chided. Wherever I go, you follow.

A finger cracked, broke off of my hand and fell into the flame. I watched it blacken, breaking apart into gray ash. The shade said nothing else. FADE TO BLACK

4 -- (Touched by God) INT. PINKERTONS WAITING ROOM -- DAY Half of her face was a fingerprint, mashed deep into the flattened clay of her head. Touched by God. What remained of her spoke from the left side as her single eye glared from just above her smashed half-mouth. Her voice didnt sound quite natural, but LUCILLEd been that way ever since Id known her. Her shade eyed mine from the moldy wall-paper, thick with shit-sick floral artifice.

--Pinkerton will see you now, she informed me.

I stood up, walked past her shade, which looked ready to attack. Pinkertons office door opened as I neared. My own shade walked in, dragging me behind like a pet on a leash. I pondered what Pinkerton would do to me knowing that I couldnt secure Arlow for freezing. Hed probably freeze me instead. I waited for my shade to speak, but it didnt. CUT TO-INT. PINKERTONS OFFICE -- DAY --Wheres Arlow? asked PINKERTON, all four of his mouths speaking in unison.

--Hes gone to ground. Ive failed you, I answered. The down-pour took him into the artery.

--You mother-fucker, he replied.

I waited for him to go on, but he didnt. Just sat there, all four mouths frowning, one with teeth bared. He had no eyes or nose to speak of, all four of his sculpted maws carved into the clay of his single face.

--Sir? I finally managed, expecting violence in response.

--I ask you to do one fucking thing for me, he says with his top row of mouths.

The bottom two are showing teeth now . --Cant do that? What am I supposed to do with you?

What do you want me to do?

--Do with me as you wish, I said. Whatever is your desire.

My shade laughed in my ear. Pinkertons own grew larger.

--I think you want to wash away. Does your resolve falter? Does your fucking nerve quaver? You must be thinking about standing in the rain, like Arlow and the rest of those motherless fucks that let themselves be flattened by the down-pour. But you still cant do it, can you? Never could, thats why you came to me. Because I let you stick around, mostly in one piece. You know why?

I shook my head, oblivious.

--Youre different, more useful than the rest of those walking puddles out there, he continued. They who just wait to be pissed on by God and flushed away to that festering fucking tree. I always thought you were a survivor. But now? You cant stop listening to your own shade. If Ive told you once, Ive told you a million times. If it doesnt follow you, then you must be following it. Ignore the fucker. Show it whose boss.

--How do you ignore it? I asked.

--How does anyone ignore their own shade? he replied. Choice. Choice and fucking excuses. You see?

--No.

--Thats the difference between you and I.

Now for punishment. Put up your right arm.

I lifted it to his top-right mouth, obedient, terrified. The maw opened, far too wide for a single finger; a circle of sharp round teeth stuck out of the clay of his gums, gleaming in the amber glow of his office. His head jumped forward, the mouth snapping off my entire baked right hand in a single bite. I yanked my arm back and stared at the stump, sheared red clay oozing moisture into the air. I hadnt expected him to take the whole thing.

--One more chance, he added, speaking with the three of his mouths that werent still chewing my dirt. One more fucking chance. After that, I dont stop with your arm, and youll wish youd been baptized with Arlow.

I sat staring at my stump, wondering if I could fashion a new hand from the clay of my torso. Pinkerton didnt seem to care.

--Go to the shadowless tree. Youll find a collector there waiting for you.

--Then what? I asked, not looking up.

--Go and fucking find out.

FADE TO BLACK

5 -- (The Collector) EXT. THE SHADOWLESS TREE -- DAY The SHADOWLESS TREE stood tall before me. I saw rivers running beneath the streets, veins, pouring clay and water back into its roots. New branches reached for the sky, dried up, broke off and fell back to the earth, then got up and walked away. Faces formed in the trunk, tore out of the wood, sallied forth to die again, to be washed by rain back into the artery, feeding the tree that bore them and would forevermore, new to the world, forgetting all that they were previous. A man with seven heads walked up to me. A mass collector. Violent types, prone to extreme behavior for the sake of mashing other people up into their bodies. The collectors shade stood tall, reaching toward the shadowless tree. My own kept a good distance. All of his heads looked at me simultaneously.

--You work for Pinkerton? they asked, their identities sounding as merged as their bodies.

--Sure do, I replied, keeping my answer short to try and sound unattractive as a potential addition to their mess.

His heads simultaneously gaped for a moment, I knew he was thinking about adding me to his

collection. I tried to ignore the gazes of his different faces. His hands trembled, He wanted to take a chunk of me - and which chunk, I had no trouble imagining. He clearly had a preference for heads. I made no move to stop him. He didnt, though. Pinkertons orders, I hope.

--Did Pinkerton tell you why youre here? one of his heads questioned - the ALPHA, I presumed.

--Told me it was my last chance not to be devoured.

--Good a reason as any.

His heads gazed up to the shadowless tree, through the cracks in its high, petrified branches at the distant sun, slowly and uselessly trying to bake our world to entropy.

--Weve got a problem to take care of, said the alpha head.

I looked up at the head, it met my gaze as its compatriots continued to gaze up at the tree branches.

--What kind of problem?

--A shade-eater.

FADE TO BLACK

6 -- (Oscars Banquet) EXT. CITY STREETS -- NIGHT The collector dragged me around like my own shadow, one of his heads constantly staring at me, the other six gazing around the city streets in search of people missing shades. I tried not to look at the leering lower face, but my own eyes were drawn back to it repeatedly. It wanted to absorb me. CUT TO-INT. BANQUET -- NIGHT By the time we reached the Banquet, I could feel electric in the air. The rain would be falling soon. We reached the entrance just in time, as a pellet of water clipped off my back heel, sending it sliding toward a sewer grate. At the front door, we were greeted by another collector, a HOSTESS - she with only three heads. They appeared to be equally in control, and I couldnt determine which her alpha was. All of their movements were coordinated, and within a moment, her three sets of eyes were focused on me. She spoke to the collector while looking me over.

--Dinner? she questioned with three mouths.

Her eyes moved to the stump of my right arm.

--Looks like a meager portion,

she added.

--Hes protected, the collector told her, speaking through the alpha. Were here on Pinkerton business.

She nodded, let us pass. Inside there were hundreds of collectors, thousands of heads attached to clay lumps, bodies out of symmetry and synchronization. They sat around a large, circular table, upon which lay various shorn body parts, many of them heads, all still alive and staring toward me with pleading eyes. Some shouted out in my direction.

--Where is my body?!

--Save me!

--Please, sir! Fucking please!

It was none of my business. I followed the collector around the end of the table until we stood before a fat sack of clay. Heads stuck out of his body in all directions, at least fifty of them. The alpha head sat atop his putty-mound, looking down upon us. He dwarfed the collectors size by at least five times, in both mass and

people trapped within him. His shade stood against the back wall, leering threateningly over the Banquet table, an enormous silhouette.

--Mister OSCAR? the collector asked him, still speaking through his alpha.

--Ah, Pinkerton cunts, the monstrous thing replied, all of his heads talking simultaneously.

The effect of over fifty different voices insulting us in unison was almost overwhelming. Id never seen a collector with so much mass. He reached toward the table, picked up a shrieking head, slapped it into his gut and mashed out the mouth so it could no longer scream. The eyes rolled back in his new head until those were mashed out of existence as well.

--Here on business, said the collectors alpha.

--Make it brief. I dont like business conducted at MY Banquet.

--Following a lead on a shade-eater.

Oscars multitude of heads all shot their gazes directly at the collector, and his monstrous shade stood up, walking toward us with menace, standing beside its owner and dwarfing him in size.

--That subject is taboo, said Oscar through over fifty mouths. No one shall talk about such filth in my presence. Pinkerton is aware of my sensitivities!

--This isnt business as usual, the collectors alpha told him. Its dangerous.

--Nothing that walks into my Banquet should expect to walk out again without my expressed permission, Oscars heads replied. Shade-eater or no. I am not

threatened by hypothetical rumors! You insult me by suggesting that I may have knowledge of such an abomination? How dare you?

--Were both mass collectors, Oscar. Lets not pretend we dont know each other. Theres a line. And theres a temptation to cross it.

I glanced at Oscars shade. It was eyeing my own shade with an alarming scrutiny. With my remaining hand, I tapped the collectors back-side, pulling off a finger in the process. One of his lesser heads looked at me from his torso. All eyes were on us, and now the atmosphere was hot enough to cook in.

--We should leave, I told the collector.

His alpha looked down and saw me gazing at Oscars shadow, trembling, then met the lumps gaze once more.

--This investigation isnt finished, the collectors alpha informed Oscar.

Well come back, if we have to.

--Next time bring a fork, said Oscars many mouths in similitude.

FADE TO BLACK

7-- (The Procurer) EXT. BANQUET DOORWAY -- NIGHT They let us stand in the doorway while the rain continued.

--What do you think? the alpha asked me.

--Cant say. This isnt my scene.

--Of course not. You should try it sometime. I could show you the ropes.

His hands were trembling again.

--Thanks for the offer, but Ill decline.

--I thought the lump was suspicious, the alpha continued, ignoring my rejection as if it had never happened. And his shade was way too big.

Didnt seem right. Almost like he wasnt in control. That wouldnt be natural for someone like him.

--What about like Pinkerton?

--Pinkerton isnt sick that way. Hes got something else.

CUT TO-EXT. BACK ALLEY -- NIGHT We met the PROCURER in an alley shortly after the rain stopped. He was carrying a briefcase and immediately upon seeing the collector, he glanced at me, focusing particularly on my missing right hand. His shade was keeping a good distance away, as if cautious. One more look back up at my accomplice, and the procurer opened the briefcase. Intact hands, single digits, eyes, a brain and a tit fell out. He panicked as they slapped the wet concrete, reached down and scooped them back up into his case, leaving small chunks of clay matter on the ground.

--Not interested, the alpha told him.

--You a cop?

the procurer questioned.

--Just want some information, I added, growing more comfortable outside of the horrific atmosphere of Oscars Banquet.

When the procurer turned toward me, I saw that his entire face has been pinched together horizontally, mashing his features into the center of his head.

--About what?

--Shade collectors, said my accomplice. Those types.

--I dont traffic in that. Traffic in mass only. Nothing insubstantial. Dont even believe in it.

--No one asked if you believe in it, I said. Or if you trafficked in it. We want to know what

information you might have about people who do.

--Hey, mind your own fucking business. Are you gonna buy or are you wasting my time like every other shit-head walking around tonight?

The collectors alpha spared a glance at me, and then he yanked off the procurers head, molding it into a blank spot on his own chest. The procurer screamed in protest until the collector mashed his mouth closed, erasing it from his face.

--Do you mind? the alpha asked as I stared at his newest addition.

CUT TO-INT. APARTMENT LOBBY -- NIGHT We left his body in the streets and headed for the nearest building. It would rain again soon. Inside, he told me the purpose of his actions.

--Looking in his head, the alpha told me.

This ugly shit-heel is coming right off after we get the information we want.

I said nothing, and tried to look away so as not to upset his vanity. He spoke up as the rain started to fall again.

--He lied to us.

He grabbed the shitheels head and ripped it from his chest, opened the door and threw it into the rain. It cascaded across the wet cement, bouncing and breaking apart, and within seconds was washed into the artery through the sewer grates.

--His dealer is a big-time collector. Deals in mass and shade. Friend of Oscars

--You know where to find him?

--Yeah, said the alpha, trembling again. Likes to hang out in a freezer. FADE TO BLACK

8-- (Deep Freeze) INT. CITY STREETS -- NIGHT Our shades led us down the street, dripping in the mist after rainfall.

--Ill tell you the future, my shade whispered, skipping across cobblestones with faces in them, their eyes wide and watching.

The collector didnt hear it. I wondered what his own shade was whispering. CUT TO-INT. FREEZER -- NIGHT The collector stepped into the freezer first, looking around cautiously. It was too dark to notice our shades, they blended in with the blackness surrounding us perfectly. Condensed air spilled out, crystallizing mud, slowing animation. The collector stared into the darkness, saying nothing.

--How is he alive in there? I questioned.

One of his heads turned to look at me.

--Hes not one of us, the alpha said. Hes a shade.

--Where is his body?

--Who knows? his personalities answered, all in unison.

CUT TO-INT. FREEZER -- NIGHT My foot stuck to the floor of the freezer, keeping a layer as my leg pulled away.

--Why are we doing this? For Pinkerton? Id rather be washed away than freeze

I started to ponder the possibilities. It wouldnt be so bad Id be free, then, to start over - without Pinkertons threats, without my fear. But no longer myself. New clay, rolled into a husk for habitation by whatever sick spirits chose to infest it, shackled to whatever shadow first crossed its dirt.

--Youre giving up too easily, the alpha responded. Do you know how old I am?

--No, I replied.

I was surprised that I was beginning to lose my fear of him, or of the possibility of him snatching my head off of his body and adding it to his collection.

--Many generations. Because I choose to survive, rather than wash away. I choose to follow the rules.

One of his heads stared at me as he walks on. I could feel a frost starting to form on my outer layers.

--Why dont you just collect Pinkerton? The words came out slow, chilly.

--Some people shouldnt be collected.

--I cant take this much longer I told him. Were going to freeze.

--Its not much further, he replied.

CUT TO-INT. DEEP FREEZE -- NIGHT Hundreds of crystallized forms stood round us, molded in sculpted in all shapes and sizes, their frozen eyes glued to the wall and the silhouette shifting upon it. The shade-eater blotted it out, standing tall before us with eyes of missing darkness, replaced by by lit blue triangles of cold freezer. Our shades stood back, small and withered behind us, afraid.

--Come a voice whispered, echoing through the black.

Closer stepped my companion, his feet leaving particles behind, clay crystals frosting over. The shade

grew larger, and his own tried to run, but found itself chained to the atoms it once claimed possession of. I glanced around, feeling my neck crack, and noticed the shape of the shade-eater - a tree, branches cracking off, faces and bodies forming from the the immatter. I saw a vision in the black. The collector stood still, staring upward, his faces all in one direction, as the tree drank of him, sucked away the darkness that animated him. My own shriveled at the sight.

--Run, my shade begged. Reset! Wash away!

I couldnt move, already a statue, watching the collector be collected. When he was gone, a lifeless ball of icy clay, it came for me. I saw through the eyes of my shade, a world of negatives, and a looming white shadow, its mouth an ivory vacuum, magnetizing me into its abyss. Atoms slowing. Crystallizing, swallowed by cold darkness, empty space, I find it. The secret, my shades own shadow having brought me a gift in the black unreality that I had always longed for in the light and heat. Immortality.

CUT TO-EXT. THE SHADOWLESS TREE -- DAY With old eyes, I looked down upon the world below, saw my children fall from branches made of bones, splattering on the clay earth and climbing back out in disorder, animated nevertheless. I felt the blood of life flow into me, liquid clay through the arteries of the street, revitalizing crackled mud roots breaking free from the living soil. I felt the heat of the sun and the chill of the freeze hardening me, my soul and soil separated yet always entangled, my mind in two places at once. Then I remembered.

--Oh, yes, I told the world. Its always been this way.

Winter 2011
Jim Meirose

Friendship

DREAMING Dream. Dream a silly dreamyoure to be featured playing a violin solo in front of thousandsyou step out on the stageyou never learned the violin. Youre afraid. Youre about to be found out. But you cant just tell them you dont know violin. Its all set for you to do thisthousands are waiting. What are you going to do? What are you going to do AWAKENING Dawn is full of sun and fresh air, the sleepy people lie in the shadows of their bedrooms wishing for the stars to continue to shine, the morning slimes over them like thick sticky mud. RISE Bogged down, you force yourself up. The day is an adventure. Turn off alarm with the push of a plastic button. An adventure? Soles on the wood. Right. Rise; the wood creaks. I spend most of every day being afraid. Dress in a plain shirt and pants. Afraid of what? Bring out dog into the grassy dewy yard. Id rather not say. Take piss. WellI want you to be honest with me. Defecate. I am being honest. I told you I am afraid. Put on coffee

in the Proctor-Silex. Youve got a problem. Feed dog his bland diet. Why? Feed cat his digestive health food from the pink bag. You dont even know what youre afraid of. Shave with Barbasol. Yes I do. Shower in the filthy moldy shower. Why dont you tell me then Take medicine. Green and yellow pill. BREAKFAST Id rather not say. Pour coffee from Proctor-Silex. So what are you up to these days? Make eggs and bacon in a sizzling steel pan. Why are you asking me that? Eat eggs and bacon with white toast on the side. Well, you wont tell me what youre afraid of. Wash dishes in the deep stainless steel sink. So? Bring out dog onto the quickly drying grass.. MORNING Well I need something to talk to you about. Bring out dog again; he went to the door. So? Take piss. What? In winter, put on heavy quilted coat. What are you up to these days? Go to big Pontiac. I just bought a motorcycle. In winter, scrape frost from windows with the dull long nearly useless plastic scraper. Do you have a motorcycle license? Insert and turn the silver car key. Im studying for the test. Drive to work down route two eighty seven. I didnt know you could ride a motorcycle. In winter, run heat full blast. Its just like a big fat bicycle you dont have to pedal. In summer, run air conditioning, with the vents pointed straight at your forehead. Thats an apt description. Park car in the spot by the fire hydrant. Its a damned good description. Walk into the big black glass office building. What kind of car do you have? Ride stainless steel walled elevator. Rabbit. Go to grey desk in grey cubicle. Rabbit? In winter, take off coat and fold it up and lay it on the cardboard box in the corner. Right. Volkswagen Rabbit. Sit down in the blue office armchair. How do you like it? Turn on the computer; the blue logon screen comes up. It gets me there. Read rows and rows of email. So what are you

going to do over the weekend. Delete most of the email. I dont know. Maybe raise a little hell. Answer email. Type quickly, concentrating. What kind of hell? File email of various kinds in various folders in the computer. I think Ill get out my Dads old shotgun. Fire off a few rounds. Go get coffee from the cafeteria. You got a shotgun? Pay two dollars for a large coffee. I got three. And a handgun. Come back to the desk; write some facts on a yellow legal pad. You ever shoot them? Run conference calls; announce yourself; ask the others to say their names. Not any more. Take piss. When did you? Attend conference calls; say your name. Years ago, when I used to hunt. Drink coffee from a brown cup. You used to hunt? Read emails. Oh, yes. Fish too. Delete emails. Hunting and fishing. That how you grew up? Answer emails. Type fast. Press send. Yes it is. Why? Sit idle on hands at desk. Oh, I dont know. Drink coffee from a brown cup. I never would have figured you as one that grew up that way. Surf Internet; push buttons; mouse over; read screen. Oh? Why not? Google yourself. Put in your name; read screen. Scroll up, scroll down. You seem a little too sophisticated. Take piss. Sophisticated? How? Defecate. LUNCH Ohoh I dont know. Never mind. Go to cafeteria. Theres a crowd in the cafeteria, but youre alone. I think youre saying people who grew up like me are backwards somehow. Buy tuna sandwich on a hard roll with chips. Nonot at all. Buy coffee in a brown cup. Then what did that mean? Sit at small round table alone. I think we should drop it. Eat sandwich eat chips. Drop it? Drink coffee from the brown cup. Yes. Im not comfortable talking like this. I didnt mean anything by what I said. Take tray to garbage disposal belt set into wall. Okay. So what would you be comfortable talking about? Leave tray on moving garbage disposal belt. The tray disappears. Your gunshow many guns did you say you have? Take piss. Four. Go toward office. On the way back, pass people, nod hello. You licensed to have these guns?

AFTERNOON Go to grey steel desk in grey cubicle. Nope. When I was a kid, you didnt need a license to have a shotgun. Sit down, settle into the chair. Grip the chairarms. Really? But I bet you do now. Log in to blankscreened computer. Oh sure. Read email; theres a nasty one answering what you wrote yesterday. So youre breaking the law. Delete all the other email. I supposebut laws are made to be broken. Answer the nasty email. Be nice, be nice; the bending reed never breaks. What kind of attitude is thatlaws are made for a reason. File the original nasty email and your answer. Answer will come tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. Really? Go get coffee in a brown cup. Yesespecially gun laws. Pay two dollars for coffee. HuhI dont even know what the gun laws are. Come back to desk again, settle in. You should. You own a gun. Run conference calls; introduce yourself; ask for others to say their names. Never take notes. Keep it all in your head. You know youre really trying to rub me the wrong way today arent you? Attend conference calls; say your name. Take notes. There are names and numbers to remember. Need to write them down. What do you mean? Drink coffee from the brown cup. First you look down on people brought up like methen you call me a criminal because of my guns. Take piss. I didnt call you a criminal. Read email. No answers yet. You said Im breaking the law. Isnt that the same thing? Delete all the email. Theres just threeall junk. Wellno, not really No need to answer any emails. How is it not really? Sit idle on hands at desk. If I wanted to call you a criminal Id come right out and use that word. I never used that word. Drink coffee from the brown cup. Its getting cold. But its still good. Maybe you didnt use that wordbut I caught your meaning Surf Internet. Type in this, type in that. Scroll up and down. And I never said I

looked down on how you were brought up. Google yourself; nothings different from before. WellI caught your meaning there too. Get up, stretch. You know what? Lock desk with brass key. No what? Go to stainless steel elevator. I dont think we should talk any more. Youre misunderstanding everything I say. Take stainless

steel elevator. No Im not I understand it perfectly. Leave tall black glass building. WellI dont see why I offended youbut Im sorry if I did. Go to car. Cars still there. Nono apology necessary. In winter, scrape frost from windows. Well I just Insert and turn silver key. If thats how you feel about me, why apologize? It starts. Drive home. Its not how I feel about you. In winter, run heat full blast. I just go by what you say. Why do you say it if you dont mean it? In Summer, run air conditioning, with vents pointing to your face. II dont knowjust dont be mad okay? I value our friendship. Park car on gravel driveway. I value it too. But you said things that Let dog out onto grass; watch dog defecate. All right! Have it your way! I did mean it all. Pick up plasticwrapped paper from driveway. What? Go into house after unlocking with brass key. I think you were brought up like white trash and I think youre a criminal with all those guns. In winter, take off coat, throw across couch. But you said you didnt mean it Take piss. I know but you wouldnt listen! Its like you wanted me to mean it! Change clothes. Throw work clothes in hamper. But I Feed dog his bland diet. So I mean it! I mean it all! Feed cat digestive health cat food from Pink bag. Dump garbage into big black bag; throw in garage. Does this mean were not friends anymore? Because I dont call someone a friend who believes all that. Turn on radio. Dont listen to whats on. Do it for the noise. A silent house is no good. No I suppose were not. Sit on couch, settle in. Okay then be that way. Stretch your legs. Feel bones crack. No problem! So long forever. Leaf through paper you take from plastic bag. Good bye. Good riddance. Decide to eat out at the diner. So there he goes. Rise to your feet. So I have just lost my best friend. In winter, put on coat. Just like that you can lose your best friend. Get chain of car and house and desk keys. It seems wrong somehow. Take piss. But its for the best if thats how he really feels about me. Go out back door. Dont need a friend like that. Lock door with brass key. That kind of friends no friend. Go to big Pontiac. Thats right no friend. Insert and turn key. Time to eat now. Drive Pontiac quickly to diner. Im hungry.

DINNER Park Pontiac at diner. Did you know I just lost my best friend? Go into diner up brick steps. Really? How did that happen? In winter, take off coat and hang it on chrome coatrack. I dont know. A silly misunderstanding. Be shown to table for two, alone. Can things be patched up between you? Sit down. Cushion is soft. I dont think so. He called me a white trash criminal. Put napkin on lap. White trash criminal? What does that mean? Look over big diner menu. Everything, theyve got everything. Its a long story. At any rate, we were friends for a long time. Put down menu. What would it take to patch things up? Im sure things can be patched up. Order strong coffee. Hed have to make the first move. And knowing him like I do, he never will. Order dinnerliver and onions. Wellwhy cant you make the first move? Wait for dinner. Look idly around. No. Because Im the one who was wronged. Sip coffee. What difference does that make? If you want to be his friend again Get dinner. The liver and onions look perfect and theres plenty. No. I think I can live without his friendship. Thank waitress. She says youre welcome but she does not smile or linger. Well, if thats how you feel, it must be the right thing to do. Eat dinner. Eat the Meat! Everything comes to an end you know. Drink the drink! Thats true. Get check quickly. Life comes to an end too. Leave large tip. Hey dont talk that way. Its too morbid. Pick up check from table. Well, enjoy yourself. Rise. Ill try. Go pay at register. Was everything good? Oh yes. In Winter, put on heavy coat. Go out to car. Well Im alone in the world now. Get in car. Nobody to talk to any more. Insert and turn key. We used to talk a lot. Drive home. About a lot of things. Stop for Dunkin Donuts coffee on way home. Large black as usual. Maybe I should make the move to patch things up? Park in your driveway. After all it was a silly argument. Let dog out. Look up. Twilight stars. Yes. Go inside up rickety back steps. Ill call him up. Put down coffee. Offer an olive branch. In winter, take off coat. Yes thats a good saying. Take piss. Olive branch. EVENING

Take piss. Hi. Fix coffee with Sweet and Low and skim. Oh hi. What do you want? Go to La-Z-Boy recliner. I want to say Im sorry about before and I want us to be friends again. Put down coffee on table to the side. I feel the same way. Pick up grey plastic remote. So thats it? Switch on television. Thats it. Flip channels. That sure was a stupid argument. Watch television. What shows arent important. Thats true. Drink coffee. But you really ought to get those guns licensed. NIGHT Why? At nine, take dog out into the dark. Bright stars and moon are casting shadows. Because its the right thing to do. Take piss. You mean youre still Come in. You are breaking the law you knowI mean now that were friends and alla friend should be able to tell a friend how he feels. Sit down in recliner. But why should I get the guns licensed? Watch more television. Theres a local guitarist on the public access channel. Because what is somebody finds out youve got unlicensed guns? Finish coffee. Whos going to find out? At eleven, take dog out for final piss. I found out. Turn off television. Yes but that was because youre my friend and I told you. Lock and latch front door. Am I your friend? Take nighttime medicine. I thought so. I said I was sorry about before Turn off Chinese style lights. I dont really know if Im your friend. Head up to flowered wallpapered bedroom. Why not? GO TO BED Take off clothes. Toss them in heap on floor. Because it bothers me youve got those guns. I dont like guns. Take piss. So thats a reason to not be friends? Set alarm. In my book, yes. Look in mirror. Youre overweight. Turn out light. All right Im sorry you feel that way. Get in bed conscious of your big belly. Good bye. Lie there and wait. Good bye. Drift away. Its a good bed. It cost enough. GO TO SLEEP

Sleep. Night is full of stars and fresh air, the sleeping people are oblivious to the stars shining above. The thick sticky mud of the day sloughs off. DREAMING Dream. Dream a silly dreamyoure to be featured playing a violin solo in front of thousandsyou step out on the stageyou never learned the violin. Youre afraid. Youre about to be found out. But you cant just tell them you dont know violin. Its all set for you to do thisthousands are waiting. What are you going to do? What are you going to do

Winter 2011
Dolan Morgan

A Spiders Faith in Webs On prospect Ave, the Kanoutes revealed the limits of Zenos halving paradox. You can't, they discovered, just keep cutting into infinity. Rather, the limit is about eight -- because any more and there's no room for the stove or the love-seat. Eight is the number of extra rooms the Kanoutes cut into their two-bedroom apartment, a three-story walk-up, the one that the newspaper would later compare, after the fire, to a rabbit warren. But that doesnt do justice to the geometry or the artistry of the improvised construction. Whether or not it caused the deaths of three families, including nine children, is of no consequence when it comes to aesthetics of form. No, the apartment was much less like haphazard holes broken in the dirt than a theorem-governed matrix or, if it must be animals we invoke when speaking about West Africans, a honey comb. Fanta was fourteen and staying across the street when the house burned down. She watched her cousins not emerge as the firemen arrived. She imagined them in their handmade, perfectly rendered labyrinth, covered in the artifacts of their lives, clothes and papers and tables and documents and blankets, all the things whose flammability had never seemed important. Who cares if your residency cards can burn? What does it matter that plywood is so dry? Only one absurdly singular father was left standing in the ashes of the maze they built, a

father who was, in a way, no longer a father at all and who would soon begin walking, steadily, into a new and more perfect maze which only devastation, city bureaucracy and journalism can render. Now, Fanta wants to graduate from high school, but may not have the credits. She can't read or write and doesn't expect to go to college. She tells tearful stories, not of the night her family died, but of her native country, the Ivory Coast, where the men could touch you and you'd be cursed, or the women would come with cloth sacks to snatch children and smuggle them behind walls. She talks about it like an amusement park of myths and dreams, with no height requirement on the rides. Most of her friends want to be accountants, lawyers, doctors, engineers, or baseball players, but Fanta wants to be a relief worker. She doesn't know anything about this job, only that it has something to do with helping people, anyone and everywhere. Shes heard it so many times in news reports, for disasters large and small, spread from continent to continent, from earthquakes to floods to wars, as if these people were all places at once, as if relief workers, like Santa Clause, could fly at great speed or change the rules of time, and as if all Fanta wants is to vainly learn the secret magic of this profession, not out of altruism, but in a desperate attempt to relieve herself, or at least lessen the growing knowledge of how many times a person can be cut in half, a number which, she will assure you as she throws her tangled arms around a timid young lover, is infinite.

Winter 2011
Anthony Johnson

Outlast

For as long as Jimmy could remember, it had been an unlucky spot. When he first moved from Puerto Rico and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a thick goatee, it was a flower shop. The people in the know, the old-timers who were involved in the separatist movements and for whom lies were about the proximity they once worked with Albizu Campos, knew as a matter of course that the place was sustained by performing Santeria ceremonies. Then, it was a place that served tacos nothing more than just a large, oily stovetop and a couple of stools. This was before Mexicans really started moving into the neighborhood, though, and Jimmy saw them more as something to make fun of. He and his friends would mock their accents when they ordered, and joke with the cooks by drunkenly singing famous rancheros, purposely off-key. The shop wasnt protected by bulletproof glass the way the Chinese would have done, and it was more or less robbed out of existence. Jimmy and his friends werent the culprits, but the generation below them Jimmys nephew and his crew who were just kids when arriving in New York seemed to be coming up without morals, and without having Puerto Rico to dream about returning to. Then came a grocery store that was really just a front for a numbers spot. Jimmy spent hours upon hours each day posted outside this establishment, drinking not-so-discreetly out of a paper bag, and awaiting the next round of winning numbers to be announced. It had become more convenient to do so rather than going back home between rounds. Jimmy,

always tall and very wiry, developed a paunch. After a random act of policing, the numbers spot was closed down and the numbers runners were pushed back on to the street. With the runners out on the sidewalk, Jimmys loitering moved locations as well. The number runners attracted additional police activity and a number of Jimmys friends had been picked up by police for drunkenly loitering, but then imprisoned for other things, many not returning home until years later, changed. A drug spot moved into the storefront, under the guise of its being a sparsely stocked grocery store.

Jimmy took the opportunity to establish himself among the true alcoholics who hung out outside Bonito Bakery across the street, which sold a strong cup of coffee, and was next to a liquor store. The guys out there stood around for as long as the liquor store was open, and drank coffee when not drinking alcohol. The amount of coffee they drank supported Bonito Bakery, but that support was offset by the wall of deterrent to other residents by their slurring behavior and lascivious comments. The grocery store/spot remained for the remainder of the 80s and into the 90s until it was busted. The store re-opened as a no-name, fast-food burger place that sold few burgers and many nickel and dime bags of marijuana. When this spot was closed down in a police raid, a legitimate burger place opened in its stead, luring Jimmy back across the street to hang out. He considered the crew outside the bakery to be associates rather than friends, and though he liked his drink, he couldnt keep up with that bunch; and he found some of their actions to be underhanded, like the rough way they spoke to the liquor store clerks Jimmy found it unnecessary and was glad to be back across the street. The legitimate burger spot, though, was not successful and closed after a short while. The space was empty for a while, then, for a time, it was rented every spring by Jackson Hewitt. This lasted until there was a shootout outside the offices, a bullet crashed through the window, killing an employee.

The next tax season, Jackson Hewitt moved their offices around the corner, onto 116th street. By this time, Jimmy had taken his act to his stoop. Alcohol and age had begun to show up in his appearance and his gait. His beard was nearly white, his face more withdrawn, his paunch more pronounced. The window of the store front had its hole taped over and then boarded up, the store left vacant until the New Harlem Caf opened in 2008.

By the time New Harlem Caf opened, people did not think much of the spot as being one of malfortune. Jimmys generation knew That place was cursed since the 70s. They was doing Santeria there or some shit. They was selling flowers, but also yerba mala for ceremonies. But, among the crew stationed outside Bonito Bakery, older, with canes, wheelchairs, unshaven, free hand gripping a bottle, when talking about New Harlem Caf, luck was not often the subject. They gentrifying the whole city. Maybe the salads and shit are better for health, but its worse for culture. Because, while the vacant space did nothing for anyone, the fact was that New Harlem Caf catered to the mostly white, middle class set that had, when crime became relatively less widespread, begun moving into the neighborhood and paying rents that landlords could never get from the older, Puerto Rican generation, yet were cheap compared with places like the Upper East Side. For his part, Jimmy had paid the same exact rent, subsidized by section 8, for the past 20 years, and stayed so faithful to his block that he never even saw New Harlem Caf until it was open, having missed the months of construction.

Around the neighborhood, marches and rallies were held, poorly but passionately attended, demanding that affordable housing be prioritized. Local politicians had to choose sides, or risk being seen by some as a sell-out and campaigned against on those grounds. After the risk was calculated, however, it was decided to allow more

luxury real estate development. What the people dont understand, said one local politician, is that with the influx of the money into the neighborhood, everyones quality of life will rise. After all, plenty of Jimmys longtime neighbors were happy to see more money injected into the neighborhood. Not that they would ever touch any of it, but, after seeing themselves for years through the eyes of these middle class residents (via representations of themselves in the news and on TV) as pariahs of sorts, some were flattered to finally feel wanted. Whoever thinks the white people should leave are estupidos. They should be taking notes on how to live.

Jimmys block was no exception to the controversy. There had been a time when the halfway house across the street was not yet built and the area was a large vacant lot. Also, the schoolyard down the block attached to the elementary school was used as a place to buy and sell crack. Across the street from that elementary school was a middle/high school. The older kids from the middle/high school fought a lot - gang brawls seemed a terrifying but weekly ritual - the extra drug trade endangering the welfare of the elementary school kids. Still, when the school was closed down for poor performance and construction violations in the early 90s, it was not seen as a positive development for the community. Some of the kids were bad, but closing the school dont change that. The building remained abandoned for years, windows breaking and not being replaced; a massive fortress for illegal activity. By the mid to late 90s, however, crack was not as big an issue. The halfway house was completed in 2000, and while its residents were occasionally rowdy, the building itself, with its large, open lobby, was an upgrade over the tenements of the rest of the block. Then, early in the first decade of the 2000s, the building on the corner, which had been abandoned since the 80s, and crumbling brick by brick ever since (a scaffold was put up on that side of the street in 1997 and left there to catch falling parts) was remodeled and made into a low-income housing building, then quickly populated by Mexican families. As to why there were no Puerto Rican families living there, it was theorized by

Jimmys friend, Ramon, that, We got our own shit. By the time that building opened, work had begun on the middle/high school to convert it to a building of luxury rentals. When the protestors came down Jimmys block to distribute their literature, they found an ally, theoretically, in Jimmy, but Jimmy had no interest in protesting or marching. The protestors were Puerto Rican, but, [He] dont know them.

***

Jimmy woke up to an argument between a pedestrian and a driver. Both had moved on by the time Jimmy poked his head out of the window. Without putting any water on his face or trimming his broad mustache, he put on a sweat suit and sandals and went outside to sweep the sidewalk in front of his building. The air was light for a summer day, and there was garbage out there from the previous night. Jimmy was not the super of the building, but he used to be, and he would still be if it wasnt for [my] health, a reference to the heart attack he once had, necessitating a pacemaker. He was no longer up for the heavy lifting of garbage, but occupying and taking care of the space directly outside the building gave him a sense of ownership over his life. Saying a quick prayer in front of the mural of his deceased nephew, painted on the wall of Jimmys building, indicated that he was officially awake.

Jimmys nephew died in the early 90s in a gun battle on the sidewalk outside his building. He was walking home from playing dominoes at Jimmys, just exited the building, in fact, when his enemies spotted him from a passing car and shot and missed. Jimmys nephew shot back, missed, but was then shot by return fire. One of the gunmen then got out of the car, approached Jimmys nephews already dead body and shot three times directly into its face in order to force a closed casket funeral. That the gunman had no second thoughts about exiting the car and

prolonging the episode was testament to the lack of police presence, or interest, in East Harlem in the early 90s. After the mourning period and the unsuccessful search for the killer and Jimmys inability to enact any vengeful response, his other nephew, Hector, went to jail, and Jimmy ceased trusting people, separating himself from the Bonito Bakery crowd. He went to the guy on 113th who breeds dogs, and got himself a puppy a black Akita, and began getting old.

Seventeen years later, he was old by most objective standards, and waking up to sweep every morning was no easy task. Plus, in the past few days, the dumpster down the street, parked at an angle to the curb, hadnt been emptied. The garbage was now overflowing out of the dumpster onto the sidewalk. The stench, unbearable, especially if a breeze came by. The smell, the garbage, the dumpster: these were not problems that sweeping away some leaves and cigarette butts could solve. But, the point was routine routine performed each day a bit worse, at his age; an extra speck of dust unnoticed here, a pain noticed there. Taking a break from sweeping, Jimmy let his dog out to roam the street, hoping he was aware enough not to step in the newly created dustpiles. The dog limped over to the garbage dump, and too tired to return immediately, lay down. Jimmy whistled for him, but the dog just moved his ears.

Ramons schedule of arrival a bit more erratic: I dont even know when hell show up. Dont matter. I just sit here anyway. And he was sitting there, on the stoop of his building, unpainted for years, the surface already sticky after a night of rain. Here Jimmy sat, and here Ramon approached him with coffee from Bonito Bakery up the block. They both had cups of coffee and Ramon pulled up a folding chair, which Jimmy stashed behind the garbage cans in front of the building. They preferred coffee from Bonito Bakery because they do it Puerto Rican style as opposed

to the newer, New Harlem Caf, which was white. Well, the owner spoke Spanish, but she was from Spain. The staff was mainly younger Puerto Ricans, but still, it was different. It was a class thing. All of the white people who had recently moved into the neighborhood went to New Harlem Caf. All of the older Puerto Ricans went to Bonito Bakery and stood outside of it endlessly, drinking and commenting. Bonitos coffee was Puerto Rican a bit stronger than the American drip coffee served at New Harlem Caf, and with steamed milk all the time. New Harlem Caf boasted track lighting and music played off of the I-Pod of one of its employees. Bonito hadnt renovated in years and sported a gumball machine with plastic prizes peppered in with gum no doubt hard as pebbles.

The two sat, drinking their coffee and without too much conversation. They watched and nodded at passersby people on their way to work, shuffling themselves down the street. Despite the early hour, they still managed compliments for the ladies, God bless you mami! even the white ones, though they didnt give any response except to look more intently straight ahead. The Puerto Rican ones would at least, sometimes, smile or look over. Increasingly, most people wore earphones anyway and didnt hear their comments. Still, there were some neighbors mostly new ones whose passing by only elicited sorrowful shakes of the head. Jimmy and Ramon, having gone unnoticed or ignored like urban lawn ornaments, knew what each other were thinking each time one of these new neighbors passed by: the old days, when someone like that would have been robbed, or not even there in the first place. There was a bit of nostalgia for that period of time, now that the prices were higher now that it was so obvious, yet unspoken, that Bonito Bakery had only steamed milk and longevity to hold it up as a neighborhood pillar.

They still havent cleaned up that sign. Ramon reported, referring to the graffiti that had been spray painted on the sidewalk outside of New Harlem Caf scrawled in white paint on the concrete: Whitey go home! Leave Spanish Harlem to Us! The two snickered because they understood the sentiment. Have you tried their coffee yet? Jimmy asked. Hell no. The two sipped from their paper cups. Neither had tried New Harlem Caf, and neither would. That much was certain. Also, neither knew who had written the graffiti. Jimmy, although spending most of his time on his stoop, had an impression that he was aware of the main neighborhood events. He attributed the graffiti to the housing protestors.

One of Jimmys upstairs neighbors came down. Jimmy stood up to let him pass. The neighbor was a new one, white, the first to ever move into Jimmys building. Like most of this new crop, he wasnt too friendly. Not outwardly mean, though, just awkward and not warm. He said hello sometimes, and sometimes did not. He tried to speak Spanish, despite Jimmys speaking to him in English. Mostly, if nobody said anything to him, he would just quickly walk by. This time, Jimmy tried to make conversation. He was not yet too drunk to do so. Late work day? The neighbor stopped. Day off. Just going to get some coffee. You should try Bonito. Ramon said, lifting his cup. The neighbor looked over at Ramon. I like Bonito, said the neighbor. They dont give enough, though. I need a lot today. The neighbor looked away, down the street. Is that your dog in the garbage? Yeah, Jimmy said, and whistled again. This time the dog, using all his might, lifted himself up to his feet and began the process of hobbling back toward Jimmy. See you soon. Said the neighbor, and was off.

But, as the neighbor passed the dog, the dog stood in his way and sniffed at his leg and hand. Satisfied, he decided to follow the neighbor down the street. The dog used to follow familiar people down the street when he was young.

A cute, though big, young dog his gait was bouncy then. Now, The dog struggled to keep up with this new neighbor, even though he was walking slowly. The neighbor looked back every now and again to see if the dog was still with him, and looked at Jimmy and put his palms upward as though he didnt know what to do. Jimmy smiled, remembering the first time this neighbor visited the building, with the realtor, to see the apartment. The dog was outside, alone, as Jimmy sometimes just let him out and watched him from his window, and the neighbor was reluctant to approach the building until Jimmy called the dog in. He was an old dog, but still big. Jimmy laughed, imagining what the neighbor would have done on the block in the eighties, when a stray dog would have been the least of his worries! These people are not your friends, the realtor had said to the neighbor, in a purposely loud voice, no matter what you think. The neighbor crossed the street to get to New Harlem Caf, and surprisingly, the dog followed him. Jimmy craned his neck a bit.

After losing sight of the dog, a few minutes went by before the neighbor came back running, panicked, to collect Jimmy. Jimmy. To think, the dog, bad! What? The dog of you. Sickness. The panic in his voice communicated more than his broken Spanish. Jimmy responded in English, How do you know? Hes just laying there. Maybe hes tired. Hes old. The neighbor didnt respond, but stared wildly. Jimmy stood up and the two rushed over to New Harlem Caf the neighbor a couple of steps ahead.

When they reached New Harlem Caf, Jimmy saw that, indeed, the dog was just laying there wet with sweat, his black fur matted down in waves, his body covering parts of the spray painted graffiti. Nobody had stopped to offer assistance. Jimmy was about to reiterate that the dog was probably ok, but the neighbor pointed out that He just fell there and all that saliva came out of his mouth. There was a puddle gathered outside the dogs mouth, and the

dog had urinated while lying down. There was a reeking smell, worse than the combination of urine and dog the smell of death, though the dog was breathing. Jimmy called forcefully to the dog. The dog struggled against the will of time, to its feet, though the legs wobbled too much for him to stand erect. Quickly, the dog fell to its stomach. Its legs splayed. Jimmy felt nervous and looked at the neighbor directly, What did you do to him? No, nothing, nothing! The neighbor waved his hands, swatting the idea away. Meanwhile, the dog was emitting a wheeze and repositioned himself on his side. Jimmy called to him again and the dog responded by kicking his legs straight out and keeping them there, still, as the rest of his body fell at ease. Jimmy looked to his neighbor, Hes dead. The neighbor nodded solemnly.

Is that your dog? The owner of New Harlem Caf came out wearing an apron, speaking in Spanish. She appeared annoyed. Hes dead. Jimmy repeated, and began to become emotional, bowing his head, though he did not cry. The owner huffed and went back inside. The neighbor followed and came back out momentarily, holding a cup of coffee, which he had left at the counter while going to collect Jimmy. The puddle of urine the dog expelled in his final moments drifted in a stream over towards the graffiti. The smell of death was strong and the neighbor held his nose. Jimmy let a tear drip. By that point, the crowd across the street, at Bonito Bakery, had taken in everything that was going on. When Jimmy let a tear out, they laughed and called out, Hey Jimmy, hows your dog?! Jimmy didnt respond. The neighbor said that he was sorry, and walked back towards home. A few seconds later, the owner of New Harlem Caf came out again. We need to get this dog out of here. Do you want me to call sanitation? No. Jimmy took out his phone and called Hector.

In the few minutes it took Hector to arrive in Rauls station wagon, some people, both Puerto Rican and white, passed by, holding their noses and saying ewww. Nobody said awww. Hector jumped out of the car, a silver SUV with tinted windows, which he left double parked on a narrow street, holding a box of garbage bags. Hector passed the bags to Jimmy, who proceeded to wrap the dog up. He was still upset, though Hector did not provide much sympathy. Hector waited by the car, on the lookout for traffic cops. When the dogs carcass was wrapped, the two of them lifted it up, and loaded it into the trunk and drove it back down the street, to the garbage dumpster in the middle of the block that hadnt been emptied in over a week. Using a swinging motion, the two of them tossed the carcass to the top of the pile that was still in the dumpster. Jimmy went home and washed up. Ramon was outside, still, sitting without an expression.

***

One of Jimmys neighbors, Tony, is a drummer in a bomba band, and when the weather was right and the mood hit him, he would call his buddies together to perform out on the sidewalk. This was one of those nights. Tonys wife set up the hibachi grill and prepared some hamburger patties, hot dogs, and corn on the cob. Other neighborhood women and wives helped out, while the m en sat in a circle, drumming and singing, their voices straining and drunk, as the women cackled and tapped their feet, spread out on lawn chairs underneath the mural of Jimmys nephew, the sounds and smells filling the air and temporarily overtaking those of the decomposing dog and other stench of the dumpster, overflowing nearby.

Soon, dancing would begin. Everyone ate from the grill, paid their respects to family members and friends they hadnt seen in a while. Word of these drumming gatherings got around as though through the wind Tonys band had members from other parts of the neighborhood and from the Bronx, locations close enough to walk to, but far enough to discourage people from paying visits. The band members arrived with their neighbors and a reunion of sorts happened: Continuation of stories begun weeks ago, political discussions about Puerto Ricos potential statehood, oblique references to things that happened in the past. All of this accompanied by beers bought from the store on the corner at which Jimmy never [had] to pay and from the kegs of enterprising neighborhood supers operating out of their basements.

When the conversations were over, the drums sped to a pace and rhythm the people could not resist, gravitating toward the circle. Some lent their voices, rasped and longing, made passionate by alcohol sweat, spit, beer spilling, and veins in the necks swelled, and the circle of drums beating faster, harder, more yelps, more small riffs communication from one drummer to another. Outside this circle were the dancers. Grandchildren, loose limbed, getting the attention of adults for their efforts. Older people dancing a slower version of the steps they knew. A young woman dressed in an evening gown, dancing as if at a club a relative, fighting off the advances of eager men until one proves he is up to the task of leading her in a salsa, careful that her spins do not take her off the curbs ledge, into the street. On the outskirts of this circle of competent dancers are some people standing around, wanting to be close to the music, but dancing only by nodding their heads, or swaying. These people were involved in conversations and watching the drummers and dancers at work. These people leaned against parked cars, still greeting familiar people they havent seen in a while as they arrived. Beyond that ring of people were the rest of everyone who is there because it is an occasion. Teenage boys plotting, in a tight circle, to get the attention of a girl.

People selling drugs and pouring illicit, harder alcohol into plastic cups. People so trained to behave illegally that they cannot enjoy a nip without looking over their shoulders. Drunks arguing loudly, but unheard by the drummers. Jimmy was among these.

When everyone was younger, and the neighborhood was different, these drumming circles would last well into the night, and would really only end when something rowdy happened. Now, due to a deal worked out with the police, they ended promptly at 10. Still, it was plenty of time to celebrate. The compromise became necessary once neighbors began complaining of the noise the drumming created. The complaints went straight to the police, bypassing the drummers themselves, long time neighbors and friendly people though they may be. It was naturally assumed that the people who called the police must be new to the neighborhood, must be unaccustomed to the drumming, must not know how to communicate without the protection of the law, must be squeamish, must be white: The exact type of people who would look down on Bonito Bakery.

The young, new neighbor who inadvertently lured Jimmys dog to his death earlier was on his way home from a nearby restaurant. As he passed by the drummers, the young man waved at Tony. Tony waved back and smiled from under his jibaro-style hat, a Puerto Rican flag patched on, Let us know if we get too loud he said, keeping rhythm, friendly. No, no keep going, I love this. This is why I moved here. Keep it up! As he passed by, Tonys wife offered some food from off the grill. The young man accepted a burger and a piece of corn, though he had just eaten. He gushed and made humming noises over the flavors. This was not the first time that exact scene took place. The young man, wanting desperately to not appear to be the ones who had called the cops, the people wanting desperately to not have the cops come shut them down.

After eating, Jimmy came over and put his arm around the young man, expressing how happy he was to see him out, though indecipherable, his breath pungent, the words blurred, beads of sweat visible beneath his mustache. Jimmy led him over to the steps of the building, where he had been sitting. He went to offer a beer, but there were none remaining. The young man offered to buy the next six pack, somewhat awkwardly, for your dog. At the mention of the dog, Jimmy began to reminisce. The dog had been with him nearly since the days when his nephew was alive. The dog was with him when his mother was alive, and living in the apartment he currently lives in, and he was living upstairs in the apartment the young couple lives in now. That was when Jimmy was the super of the building, before he got too old and had a heart attack. He guided the hand of the young man to his heart, to feel his pacemaker. He drained the last of his beer defiantly, and made direct reference to his disobeying the doctors orders, Ill die anyway if I have to change. The young man said that the dog had seemed to be a nice dog, and Jimmy countered with details of fights he had been in as a young pup. The details were lost in slur, and Jimmy switching from English to Spanish from word to word. He talked at length about Puerto Rico and dogs, and ageing. The young man stood politely and nodded when it seemed like he should. Tony, the drummer, passed by once to go inside to use the bathroom. Hell talk your ear off if you let him.

They eventually went to the corner to get more beer, and the young man reiterated his offer to get the next six-pack because of the dog. Jimmy refused again and claimed that as long as they were neighbors, as long as he knew Jimmy, he would not have to pay when they went to the corner store. Jimmy said something to the guy at the register at the store as they walked out with six beers in paper bags, and six straws. Jimmy put his arm out when they got to the corner to let the young man know that it was not yet safe to cross the street. The light was red.

As Jimmy drank his next beer, he began to become more animated, as he jumped to the topic of the price of real estate in the neighborhood. Here the young man injected some words into the monologue to ask if Jimmy had known about the affordable housing rally that took place on Lexington Avenue earlier? Jimmy ignored this comment but paused for a second to let his vision refocus. He was confused. Why would this person be involved in the affordable housing protests? He waved his arms a bit more as he talked, and punctuated every sentence with a request to let it be known that he was understood. Si, from the young man, and then he went on. There was some sadness about the dog, and some animosity towards New Harlem Caf. He tried to tell the story of the location, about the unluckiness of that spot, but he was not understood through his slur, through his language shifts, through his search for receding details about the struggles of Albizu Campos, through the worry that he was working himself up to a heart attack. The young man, at one point, said that he had to go to the bathroom. He went upstairs and did not come back down.

***

There was a crime outside overnight, well past the time when the drummers had packed up and left. Jimmy went to his window to see what was going on, and then went outside to the stoop to get a closer look and to ask questions to the cops and talk to the others who had come outside. He was always curious about the police activity that took place on the block especially after a murder. This was the location of his nephews death. Jimmy knew that his nephews mural would have to be replaced one day, by a newer deceased. He wanted to make sure that if it had to

happen during his lifetime, it was for something worthy. There was also genuine curiosity about the activity outside, as well as some plain nosiness.

A killing was a community event especially at night. A killing during the day was something that any passerby could feign interest in. At night, only the true community members came to see what was going on. At a night-time event like this, it was possible for Jimmy to believe that nothing had changed in the neighborhood, or if it changed, it was all linear, from within. Outside, the same ageing Puerto Ricans who had been around to watch Jimmys nephew bleed to death on this very sidewalk were milling. Some Mexicans were there too the ones who had been around for a while. As for the English speaking newcomers, Jimmy could see that their lights were still out, or they emerged momentarily on the 4th floor of the building across the street, on the 3rd floor of the building next door, as shadows behind their curtains, or tentative, peeking eyes. Many people of all types simply did not wake up at all, able to sleep through the disturbance. For them, the morning would bring a normal day.

Jimmys reasons for attending every crime scene that he could included the fact that he was absent from that of his nephew. The shooting took place right outside of Jimmys window. Jimmy owned a gun. But, Jimmy was passed out drunk on the floor of his living room, next to his couch, having not made it all the way there. He felt guilty as though if he werent drunk, he might have been able to help. He stopped drinking for a short while, until the depression over what had happened truly set in.

In this case, his nephews legacy would remain intact. The killing had taken place on the corner. The police activity outside the building, in front of the mural, was only because the shooter had chosen this location to ditch his gun. It

was underneath a parked car and the police had roped the area off. There was no danger, so the atmosphere was pleasant. Tony and the drummers had cleaned up the sidewalk before disappearing for the night, but some of the same revelers were out, discussing what a nice time they had all had. You ok, Jimmy? The police worked slowly and filled out paper work, some with hands covering their noses the smell of barbeque long gone. More police cars arrived, lights flashing, but when the cops stepped out, there was nothing for them to do. They would most likely not solve the crime, and they were under little pressure to do so. The dog smelled, perhaps stronger than the rest of the garbage combined, but the atmosphere was light. Nobody familiar had been killed, and the cops did not question anyone. The message in the graffiti had not been acted upon.

Winter 2011
Abbi Nguyen

The Foreign Dream

Linh has heard of them before-- the girls of the nightthey were hunters, scouring their territory, swarming like a disease through District One and Three. They were perhaps the lowest class of their kind, vagrants who slept in different beds when night fell. In Ho Chi Minh city, there were other professional fronts like hairdresser, masseuse, hostess, that served the same purposemen with money. But Linh did not go to those places. It was easy to tell from the glass entrance of the shop whether or not it was a real business. The ladies in tight yellow dresses and bright orange lipstick sat in a row on a bench, at the front of the shop. They waved and smiled at passerby. A young boy stood outside guarding the motorcycles. He pulled on the arms of foreigners and spoke in a thick Vietnamese accent. Need a haircut? Come in, we have nice ladies. Good for you! He was jovial and persistent, a combination hard to refuse.

At 4 am, the street lamps flickered before shutting off. The red horizon stretched over the city as it began to wake up. It was Linhs favorite time of the day. The shadow of the girls in stiletto heels stretched over the alley wall. Their silhouettes walked unsteadily but quickly, and disappeared before the first sun ray hit the concrete. The street was

mostly empty except for a few night owls that vroomed by on their moped. Linh helped her mother set up the shop, treasuring the peaceful quiet that would disperse soon as the people started for work. It was not much of a shop--a simple straw mat on the side walk displaying an array of motorcycle helmets. They were cheap knock-off and would shatter into smithereens of sharp plastic bits, piercing the riders skull if he ever got into an accident. But it was the law to wear one and most people were unwilling to spend 500 thousand dong on an item they considered a nuisance. She arranged them in five rows with precision. The helmets provided food and lodging for them. She could not be careful enough. Linh liked the foreigners the most. They always looked strong and beautiful. Their biceps surged beneath their sweat soaked t-shirt. And they never bargained. A man that looked like Brad Pitt stopped by on a yellow Vespa. He pointed at a simple black helmet with a large Winner sticker stamped on the lid. How much? Linh was about to point to the carton board marked 50.000 D/Helmet when her mother pinched her waist. She shrieked in surprise. 75 thousand dong Her mother gestured. The man looked at Linh and hesitated for a few seconds before he took the money out and paid. After he drove off, she prayed God to forgive them. At lunch, mother bought them each a large bowl of vermillion soup and tender beef loins, Linh forgot all about how they had cheated the foreigner. The sun was at its peak in the sky. Everyone hustled indoor to avoid the heat. Mother was having a rough cough and took off early. Keep an eye on our stuff. Dont start dreaming now. She warned before gathering her straw hat and blended into the crowd of people. Linh took out her English book and scanned the words distractedly. At her

high school, she received an honor award for graduating with the top score in her English class. She had studied hard even though it was only a public high school with no money to invest in foreign instructors. She wished that she could afford to join the Language school, where all the teachers spoke native English, then she could improve her speaking proficiency. But that dream had been buried long ago by the more urgent burden of food and other necessities. After she dropped out of 11th grade in high school, Linh knew college would never come. But she had continued to steal off in free moments to read her English textbooks. The words rolled on her tongue awkwardly. She threw the book at the tree trunk and thought of the foreigner. I wonder what he is doing in Vietnam. I guess he must be an engineer, building new homes for the villagers. Or a doctor! He is here to help the poor and sick. He must be angel from God. She rested her head on her knees and remembered Mai Anh, her professor who had married an American. She was a tour guide and he listened eagerly when she recounted the tale of Turtle Lake. Mai Anh had said to her Learn English, it may change your life.

When the sun disappeared behind the tower of Foreign Currency, the sky returned to its hazy gray. During the day, the rolling wheels kicked the dirt up into the atmosphere, forming little dirt devils. At night, the dust settled on the pavement, cloaking the city with a thin layer of white smog. Linh sold five helmets. It was a little past nine, she decided to wrap up and finished the day. As she strapped the helmets on the back of her bicycle, she heard a shrill laughter of a girl. They walked pass Linh without so much of a glance. The gentleman with a reddish mustache encircled his arm around the girls tiny waist. He chattered amiably as she nodded and exclaimed random English words in a sugared Vietnamese accent. Linh felt a sudden wave of nausea that both excited and irritated her. She got on her bicycle and peddled quickly.

Linh and her mother shared an apartment complex with five other ladies. Most of the time, she avoided the tiny, cramped space and walked alone at night until she was weary for sleep. She climbed the fifteen flight of stairs to get to the apartment. The door was slightly opened. She was surprised and curious. Mother and all the other ladies were always so worried of theft. Their crates filled with handmade purses, potteries, Gucci and Louis Vuitton imitations of t-shirts and belts, were their sole possession. Without them, they would be back on the street begging again. Just last week Chi and her handicapped son had moved out. Chi would push while he sat in the wheelchair, waving lottery tickets at any gullible soul fancying for a lucky break. They were unfortunate to wonder in the wrong territory. A boy of around seventeen had snatched the tickets and ripped them in pieces. By the time she could open her mouth and screamed THIEF!, the boy was long gone. Linh scanned the apartment. The lower level of the bunk bed was not slept in; her mother was not home. It was the first time she was in here alone. She felt strangely satisfied.

From a large leather satchel, Linh pulled out an old red dress. Some of the seams were frayed but the whole was intact. On the shoulder strap embroidered a golden rose. She put on the dress and admired her reflection from the window pane. She pulled on the hair clip and a heap of silky black hair fell on her shoulder. Suppose I can be beautiful. Suppose mother walked in right now, she would laugh and ask what silly game am I playing. She might say youre too old to play dress up. Linh giggled to her self, swaying her hip back and forth. A childrens rhyme she had learned in preschool suddenly occurred to her. She sang it loudly, exaggerating each syllable with pleasure. Outside the colorful flashing lights showered the streets. Steady beats from the clubs and bars pulsated on her skin. Linh slipped into her rubber flippers and followed the vibrations.

The Buffalo Bar was bustling with foreigners. Linh could not understand them. Out of an intermingle of languages, she managed to pick out a few English words order, fries, whiskey. The waitresses wore black spandex dresses with the Heineken label across their chests. They slid among tables, taking down orders, and remained composed when an unsuspecting arm reached out and squeezed their behind. Linh has never been inside a bar before. The contrast between the dim light and bright orange of cigarette ends somehow branded exclusivity. She spotted an empty couch at the corner of the room and walked in an tentative steps toward it. Not until she was close that Linh saw someone was already sitting there. He wore a full black suit and Converse shoes. It was too late to turn around. The stranger smiled. Linh sat down at the edge of the seat uncommitted. Hi. Do you speak English? He said to her. A little. She turned and noticed his pale blue eyes. Youre very pretty. Thank you. Your eyes are pretty too. She noticed a familiarity about them. The foreigner laughed, surprised at the outspoken compliment. He put out his cigarette and shifted his complete focus on the new girl. How much? He asked her. As soon as she heard the question, Linh realized where she had seen this foreigner. He had bought a helmet from her for 25 thousand dong more than the price. She was glad that it was dark in here because her face reddened to a deep scarlet. She studied the foreigners face. Under the blue florescent light, his skin was a shallow and sickly complexion. She held her breath and only took in a minimum amount of oxygen. The scent of perfume was overwhelming. She coughed into her hand. The foreigner shifted closer and pat her back. He massaged his fingers into her neck.

There, there. Is that better? A smile was arrested on his face. Linh had never been intimate with another man before. At school shed had a few admirers, Tuan being one of them. Even though he lived in District five, nearly an hour away from her house, hed always offered to bike next to her the whole way. On her birthday, he hid a jars full of paper stars in her bag. Linh poured them onto a table to count the stars. She secretly thought that the number of stars equaled the number of years she had to wait to find her true love. There were a hundred stars. When she thanked Tuan, he grabbed her hand and held it until both their hands were sweating. She thought the stars must be wrong. Then Tuans parents sent him to Russia to study medicine. At the airport, he embraced her and promised he would come back to marry her. He had tried to kiss her then, for the first time. But Linh turned away and said shed wait for his return. He looked at her, hurt and disappointed. It had been three years since she stood alone at the waiting area, waving until her wrist was sore and the shadow and his rolling suitcase disappeared behind the security gate.

The foreigners touch sent a shiver up her spine. But Linh did not want to move. She sank back into the leather couch comfortably. She was present and captivated. She was no longer waiting for the dream promised to her. It would have been nice to be a wife of a doctor. When the foreigner handed her a glass of a strange, glowing liquid, she put it to her lips and swallowed until there was nothing left. A surge of heat ebbed from her throat to her stomach. She straightened herself and stared into the foreigners wanting eyes. Im not She cleared her throat and pointed at two girls across the room, who were each sitting on the side of an Indian man with a large stomach and a long, thin beard tied into a knot at his chin. But the foreigner was not listening. He wrapped one arm around her waist and led her out of the bar.

The hotel room was spacious and brightly lit. Linh studied each piece of furniture. Everything looked new and Western. Take your clothes off and wait on the bed. The foreigner said in a detached voice. He was no longer smiling. He unhooked his belt and his pants dropped on the carpet. God damn, do you not know how to take off your own clothes? He chuckled and lifted her dress up. Linh reached out her hand and caressed his face. She tugged the fallen hair behind his ears and wiped the sweat from his brown. Please, slow down. I am very happy to be here. She pulled his face toward her and kissed his lips. The foreigner allowed himself a few moments of uncertainty before prying Linhs head away from his. What do you think youre doing? Is this some kind of romantic date night for you? He laughed. I like you. Tears started to swell from her eyes. Baby, youll like me even better after this. The foreigner pushed Linh down to her knees. She shrieked in surprise of the pain but was resolute to remain absolutely still. She did not want to make a mistake. A few minutes later, the foreigner collapsed onto the bed and heaved heavily. Are you on your period? There is some blood here Im not. Linh whispered. Her throat was dry. You are a virgin? Youve got to be kidding me. He cupped his hand over his eyes. Why didnt you tell me? Come here, lets sleep. Linh put her dress back on and crawled into the bed. When she closed her eyes, she began dreaming of America or England, a foreign place she had never been before. The women wore long black coat with rabbit fur collar. The

children were blond and beautiful. Frozen ice melted from the roofs of bakery shops. It was so cold that when the people talked, there was only a cloud of smoke . Linh woke up in an empty bed. Her hair was matted with sweat. She heard the shower running. Hey! Want to shower together? The foreigners voice echoed from the bathroom. He whistled cheerfully. The sun light flooded the room. Linh tip toed on the brown carpet, stained with spills of food and alcohol. The air smelled damp and mildewy. She picked up a wallet from the night stand. In the plastic pouch was a picture ID. It read: John Lorry Carson Dob 11/7/1974 A mix of Vietnamese dong and crisp dollar bills were tugged behind the ID. She smoothed them out and countedOne million dong and five hundred and twenty dollars. Linh put the ID and a twenty dollar bill inside her bra. She opened the front door and slipped out quietly.

***** The baby laid asleep on a bundle of cloth on the pavement. Under the sun, his cheeks was a bright red. Linh tickled his hand and he giggled. He stared at a leaf from a tree above. The lashes on his pale blue eyes fluttered. Linhs mother hovered above, fanning the wiggling child. She frowned at him but her lips curled upward into a smile. How pretty you are. Now help us sell some helmets She sighed. The baby attracted much attention. Linhs mother determined that he was a pot of luck. Ever since Linh started bringing him with her every morning, they had sold twice as many helmets. Housewives on their way to the market bent down to lavish kisses on him. Youre so lucky, theyd say and walked away with a smile still across their face.

Linh loved the baby. She admired and fixed her eyes on him ardently and only looked up when there was a customer. The blond strands of hair, delicate nose bridge, and thin pink lips were alien to her. Yet as soon as she held him against her breast, she knew the warm blood underneath his skin was hers. After twenty minutes of cradling, the baby snored, bubbles of milk forming at the corner of his mouth. A docile baby, he rarely cried. Only when shook deliberately, did noises of protest actually escaped his mouth. A bald white man stopped in front of their shop. He eyed the helmets for a fraction of a second before drifting his gaze to the baby. Your baby? He asked. Yes Linh replied engagingly as confirmation of the baby as much as her English fluency. She had spent nights under a small bulb of light studying. One day, shed teach the baby too. A foreigner in his own country eh? The man smiled, shook his head, nodded, then shook it again. He reached into his pocket and took out a few crumpled bills- some were Vietnamese, some were dollars. He handed her two tens in foreign currency. Linh was not sure of the exchange value, shed check later.

The motorcycles began to disperse, then emptied from the street. Linh sat, tired and dazed from the heat. But she was happy, because in her head, she was beginning to thread tales of love, of tragedy, of hope. The day her baby had grown old enough to ask the question. She would be ready. Hed glide his fingers over the glossy surface of the picture ID and ask Who is he? and she might say no one or your father. Yet the baby would not be a lost baby. Hed have a background, a story, and a green twenty dollar bill to question and to discover a whole other world that seeped through his veins. He wasnt just a baby. He was speciala foreigners baby.

Winter 2011
Acta Biographia
Winter 2011 Author Bios

Sean Borodale Abigale Louise LeCavalier My poetry has appeared in many online as well as print magazines: Fullosia Press, Feelings of the Heart, Black Cat Press, The Sheltered Poet(twice), The Same, FreeXpression, The Journal & Original Plus, Abandoned Towers, A Long Story Short, Negative Suck, A Golden Place, PigeonBike, The Linnet's Wings, Vox Poetica,The Blotter Magazine, Roses & Vortex's, Language and Culture, The Writers Block, Visions and Voices, Philly Flash Inferno, Camel Saloon Press, Locust Magazine, Mat Black Magazine, The Second Hump, The Eclectic Muse, Clutching At Straws, Lit Up Magazine, Leaf Garden Press, Illogical Muse, Raven Images, Ken*Again, The Scruffy Dog Review, Jerseyworks, 63 Channels, Speech Bubble, The Stray Branch, Clockwise Cat, and, Record Magazine. Alison Lyons Alison Lyons wanted to be the Little Mermaid when she grew up, but that didn't exactly pan out; So now she just pushes pixels all the livelong day, saves june bugs from the neighborhood pool and wakes up in long term relationships. When she's not graphic designing and illustrating she's usually sweating out toxins to make room for more toxins and/or dancing with swords on her head. One day she'll find the time to write about all these adventures. Ambrielle Army Ambrielle Army was born and remains in rural upstate New York. She often writes prose of all kinds, focusing on surreal concepts to bring focus to real problems and the human condition. She spends the rest of her time pursuing a college education at Cornell University.

Andrew Baron Andrew Baron lives in Portland, Oregon. He works with immigrant and refugee kids in the Portland Public Schools. Anthony Johnson Lives in the Bronx, New York, and works as a high school English teacher. Has a Bachelors degree and a couple of Masters. Enjoys traveling and hiking, yet stays put for most of the year. Is open to lots of new experiences, yet becomes anxious when routine is broken. Writes for enjoyment and to birth ideas. His works appear, mainly, in his journals and in the future. Avery Zaduk I am a highschool junior who lives in dallas. My favorite book is The Sound and the Fury by Faulkner. I've been published before on Madswirl. I live in Dallas Texas. I'm dangerous, yet vulnerable.

bruno neiva bruno neiva is a Portuguese writer, poet and artist. Books / chapbooks: this is visual poetry by bruno neiva, early-natttura, polar coordinates and N2OC10H12, sad items, natttura1-7, poemas visuales, "Nuvem Ruim", o livro das minhas proezas de pesca 1-8", "Samples 1-8, 9-16, 17-24". Magazines: Must, otoliths, BlazeVox, moria, ditch, The Anemone Sidecar and Word For/Word. Changming Yuan Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman and 4-time Pushcart nominee, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to North America. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan teaches in Vancouver and has poetry appearing in 420 literary publications across 18 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Poetry Kanto and Poetry Salzburg Review.

Charles Wilkinson Biographical note: Charles Wilkinson's first collection of poems came out from Iron Press and a collection of his short stories was published by London Magazine Editions in 2000. His recent work has appeared in Poetry Wales, Poetry Salzburg (Austria), The SHOp (Eire), Tears in the Fence, Envoi (Wales), Orbis and other journals. Some of his poems are forthcoming in Prick of the Spindle, (Florida, U.S.A.). He lives in the small town of Presteigne, which is in Powys, Wales. Curt Hopkins Curt Hopkins has written about punks in Berlin, Gypsies in Granada and nerds in Nairobi for Newsweek, Reuters, the LA Times, Salon, the SF Chronicle and others. He was the founding director of the Committee to Protect Bloggers, the first non-profit dedicated to the liberty and safety of bloggers worldwide. His poems and essays have been published in BlazeVox, 3:AM, Exquisite Corpse, nthposition, Cavafy Forum, Rhythm, Cirque Journal, Perceptions, Gloom Cupboard, Full of Crow, Good Foot and elsewhere. Robin F. Brox
Robin F. Brox is a poet, teaching artist, and the Marketing & Publicity Coordinator for Just Buffalo Literary Center. A graduate of Amherst High School, SUNY--Buffalo, and The University of Maine--Orono, she runs the small feminist press and occasional performance series saucebox, http://sauceboxbookarts.wordpress.com; chapbooks are forthcoming from poets JodiAnn Stevenson and Silvana Costa. Author of the blog Ice Hockey Chick, and several chapbooks, Sure Thing is her first full-length poetry collection (BlazeVOX [books], 2011).

Simon Perchik Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay Magic, Illusion and Other Realities and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. Aviva Englander Cristy Aviva Englander Cristy is a doctoral candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. She is a Poetry Editor for the cream city review. These poems are from her current manuscript, What She Never Owned. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Hollins Critic, Spoon River Poetry Review, So To Speak, The Chiron Review, The Conversation Papers, and decomP magazine, among others.

Dave Migman David McAleavey David McAleaveys fifth and most recent book is HUGE HAIKU (317 pp., Chax Press, Tucson, 2005), and he has had poems in Poetry, Ploughshares, and The Georgia Review. In 2010 and 2011 his poems appeared in print in Poetry Northwest, Denver Quarterly, Hubbub, Poet Lore, Connecticut Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Memoir (and), Anon (U.K.), Limestone, Magma Poetry (U.K.), and Chiron Review, and online at diode poetry journal, DMQ Review, Rougarou, Medulla Review, Ascent, Eclectica, Innisfree, Pedestal, White Whale Review, Praxilla, Waccamaw, and elsewhere. More poems are forthcoming at Stand (U.K.), Epoch, Poetry East, and American Letters & Commentary, among other places. He teaches literature and creative writing at George Washington University in Washington, DC. Deanna Rusek D is a wife, a mother of two and resides in Buffalo, N.Y. She recently finished her BA in English which began in 1985 a fleeting 25-year gap. With intentions of writing slogans to sell the world and all its contents, a side trip landed her instead in graphic design. She still enjoys writing, a pesky English professor, Edric, suggested her pieces from his class could be worthy of publication. Her personal favorite is "imbrication" and she hopes you get it. Terry van Vliet Terry Van Vliet was born in Los Angeles. He has written poetry since he was in high school. Karl Shapiro praised his work early on encouraged him to continue to write. He taught English and served as chair of the English Department at Immaculate Heart High School in Los Angeles. BlazeVOX published his collection "Black Lines on Terracotta" in March 2011. Since his collection was published he has been invited to give readings in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, and in Venice and Ventura California. Matt Higdon Matt Higdon grew up in Maryland, Ohio, and California. Raised an Air Force brat, he somehow ended up joining the Army instead. After a six-year enlistment as a graphic designer, first in Germany and then at Fort Bragg, he left the service to pursue civilian work, to go back to school, and to return to his vocationally first love of writing. He lives in Rock Hill, South Carolina, with his wife Alana. Dennis Etzel Jr. Dolan Morgan Dolan lives and writes in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. www.dolanmorgan.com

Don Cozzette I am a native New Yorker and have lived in all the boroughs of NYC and have also lived in Florence, Italy... I spend my real time thinking, breathing and eating... Aside from that I have bartended within the city for the past dozen or so years... During that time I have studied humanity in ways few others could experience... I am currently marketing a book entitled American Jade aka Citizen Scream... The book consists of short provocative pieces, acerbic anecdotes and perhaps poetic rants and observations, concerning our contemporary culture and life in general. The book is peppered with personal notes, humorous passages, and deeper themes all enveloped by an everyman existing in our modern world... Ed Makowski Ed Makowski writes poetry and is a contributor to Milwaukee's NPR station 89.7 WUWM. As Eddie Kilowatt he released two books, Manifest Density and Carrying a Knife in to the Gunfight. Ed lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and is foreclosure shopping in the neighborhood your parents or grandparents probably escaped. More of his work can be found a Ed Makowski's Kitchen Table. http://edmakowski.wordpress.com/ Emily Chandler Emily Chandler is a creative writing and music student at Western Washington University in Bellingham WA. Emily Ho I am currently studying in an MFA program at Brigham Young University. I was recently published in the 2011 edition of the Licking River Review and the 2012 edition of Inscape. Enola Mirao Enola Mirao is a nom de keyboard.
Gonzalo Salesky

Gonzalo Salesky is an Argentine poet and short story writer. He was born on 12th December 1978 in Crdoba, Argentina. So far, he has published two books, "2011" (poems and short stories) in 2009 and "Presagio de Luz" ("Harbinger of Light", poems) in 2010. These books can be downloaded from his blog http://gonzalosalesky.blogspot.com. He has been awarded several prizes in literary contests in the USA, Spain, Mexico, Venezuela and Argentina.

Greg Moglia Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U. and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 100 journals in the U.S., Canada and England as well as five anthologies. He is five times a winner of an Allan Ginsberg Poetry Award sponsored by the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College. His poem 'Why Do Lovers Whisper?' has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2005. He has been nominated by the College of William and Mary for the University of Virginia anthology BEST NEW POETS OF 2006. He lives in Huntington, N.Y. Abbi Nguyen Just another young soul attempting to unravel the mystery of the world. Abbi Nguyen is a vagabond at heart, a traveler and a couch potato, a library "frequenter," a believer of God and an agnostic. She is filled with contradictions. A writer that thrives on human predicaments, sustained by the imagination, hindered by this prison of atomic structures. Interested in character development and tragic endings. A good friend and a coward. A girl and a ghost. An admirer of human accomplishment and a recluse. Dave Migman After escaping from Paradise Dave Migman has been locked in a small room in Edinburgh. With pens duck-taped to each finger he feverishly writes. His offerings have appeared in numerous on-line receptacles. His first novel, The Wolf Stepped Out, is available from Doghorn Publishing. He is also a stone carver. Iain Britton Poetry published in such US magazines as Reconfigurations, Harvard Review, BlazeVOX, Hamilton Stone Review, Drunken Boat, Pool, And/or, The Tower Journal, Zoland Poetry, Interrupture, UCity Review, The Jivin' Ladybug, Jacket and the International Exchange for Poetic Invention. Some forthcoming publications - The Missing Slate Fall Issue, Evergreen Review, Cricket Online Review and Vanitas. Oystercatcher Press (UK) published my 3rd poetry collection in 2009. Kilmog Press (NZ) my 4th in 2010. The Red Ceilings Press (UK) published an Ebook 10 Poems earlier this year. Forthcoming collection with Lapwing Publications (UK) due out in January, plus an Argotist Ebook (UK) in June. www.iainbritton.co.nz

Ivan Jenson Ivan Jenson has enjoyed unprecedented success publishing his poetry in the US, the UK, Sweden and France and he has received recognition for his bold Pop Art. His Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and he has sold several works at Christies, New York. Ivan Jenson is highly sought after for his popular and dynamic live readings on the stage. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Camroc Press Review, Poetry Super Highway, Alternative Reel Poets Corner, Underground voices magazine, Blazevox, and many others. Ivan Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. His poem, "Bad Boy" published by THIS literary magazine was nominated for Best of the Net. He now writes novels and poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.ivanjensonartist.com <http://www.ivanjensonartist.com/> Jacqueline L. Jiang Chieu Jacqueline Jiang is a student of English Literature at the University of Puerto Rico. Her favorite writers are Oscar Wilde, Sylvia Plath and Charles Bukowski; she also just enjoys reading new things when the opportunity presents itself. Her poetry represents the loss of innocence that occurs in human beings and the downfall and pursuit of happiness. Any questions or comments you may have, you can e-mail her at jianj333@gmail.com. Heller Levinson

Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Sulfur, Jacket, Hunger, Talisman, First Intensity, Laurel Review, Omega, The Wandering Hermit, Fire (U.K), Tears in the Fence (U.K.), Alligatorzine, Counterexample Poetics, The Jivin' Ladybug, Moria, Woodcoin, Mad Hatter Review, etc. His publication, Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008), was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Press will be publishing his from stone this running in 2011. Additionally, he is the originator of Hinge Theory. Please visit www.hellerlevinson for more information.
Jen Besemer Jen Besemer works with words, actions and images to explore the fertile tensions between/within those media. The result of misused text, processes and products, Jen's work comments on the entrenched systems of contemporary life and the unresolved contradictions they generate. Recent publications include visual poetry in ARTIFICE and Otoliths, with work forthcoming in Sentence, e-ratio, and a special Drunken Boat folio, "Handmade/Homemade." New e-chapbooks, Ten Word Problems (White Knuckle Press) and Quiet Vertical Movements (Beard of Bees) will appear in early 2012, as will a chapbook of poetry and photography, co-authored with Tim Armentrout, called The Earth Is What Happens (Livestock Editions). See more at www.jenbesemer.com <http://www.jenbesemer.com/>

Jim Bennett Jim Bennett lives near Liverpool in the UK and is the author of 63 books, including books for children, books of poetry and many technical titles on transport and examinations. His poetry collections include; Drums at New Brighton (Lifestyle 1999) Down in Liverpool (CD) (Long Neck 2001) The Man Who Tried to Hug Clouds (Bluechrome 2004 reprinted 2006) Larkhill (Searle Publishing 2009) He has won many awards for his writing and performance including 3 DADAFest awards. He is also managing editor of www.poetrykit.org one of the worlds most successful internet sites for poets. Jim taught Creative Writing at the University of Liverpool and now tours throughout the year giving readings and performances of his work. Jim Meirose Jim Meirose's work has appeared in many leading journals, such as Alaska Quarterly Review, New Orleans Review, South Carolina Review, and Witness. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the Best of the Web 2011. Julie Kovacs Julie Kovacs lives in Venice, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Children Churches and Daddies, Because We Write, Illogical Muse, Poems Niederngasse, Aquapolis, The Blotter, Danse Macabre, Silver Blade, The Camel Saloon, Falling Star, Veil, Moria, Nether, Blue and Yellow Dog, and Cherry Bleeds. She is the author of two poetry books: Silver Moonbeams, and The Emerald Grail. Her website is at http://thebiographicalpoet.blogspot.com/ Julie Ellinger Hunt Julie Ellinger Hunt resides in Northern New Jersey with her lunatic sons and part alien husband. Her full collections of poetry, "Ever Changing" and "In New Jersey" make for excellent trivets. Read more about Julie @ jthunt.wordpress.com <http://jthunt.wordpress.com>

Karlanna Lewis Karlanna Lewis completed her honors B.A. in Russian and Creative Writing at Florida State University, with an honors thesis in poetry. Ms. Lewis' work has been published in various journals, and in the summer of 2011 she published her first book, Cante de Gitanas con Nombres de Luz / Songs of the Gypsies with Names of Light. A native of Tallahassee, Florida, Ms. Lewis is also a principal dancer for the Pas de Vie Ballet and a DJ and the continuity director for the V89 radio station. Sarah Kosch Sarah Kosch is a semester away from earning a Bachelors degree in English and creative writing from The University of Iowa. She spent a semester abroad at London Metropolitan University in the spring of 2011, where she was shortlisted in the university's creative writing competition in fiction and poetry. Her work has also been published in the University of Iowa publication Earthwords. Kristi Nimmo Kristi Nimmo writes in Virginia. She also paints, teaches meditation, and travels. She has poetry published in Psychic Meatloaf: Journal of Contemporary Poetry, Mouse Tales Press, and Numinous: Spiritual Poetry. minko terez Minko Terez is working toward an advanced degree in anthropology. The foray into poems is somewhat anthropological too. Some recent ones have seen light (or will soon) in Boston Review and Forklift. Minko has been obsessively reading Robert Walser, who was obviously a visitor from another planet. Michael Quinlan Been writing since I was 12 and have written poetry, lyrics, music, screenplays, stage plays, academic papers, and short stories. Currently working as a car salesman, but have been in Catholic seminary. Michael Kerszewsky Michael Kerszewsky's recent work appears in Ekleksographia, Mud Luscious and BlazeVOX. He is the co-founder and co-editor of the online magazine Pinstripe Fedora www.pinstripefedora.com He lives with his wife Rene in Colorado.

Michael C. Thompson Michael C. Thompson has been published in the November 2010 "Gothic" issue of Michael is 25 years old and lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. His work has appeared in print on numerous occasions, including publications Icarus Magazine and Collective Fallout. He has been printed and re-printed in anthologies by Static Movement, Burning Bulb Publishing, and Pink Narcissus Press. In addition, his work from Icarus Magazine was produced for broadcast on the Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine webcast. Online, Michael has appeared on Deadmans Tome, Weirdyear, Bewildering Stories and The Mustache Factor. Margot Block Mattia Marino Mattia Marino writes prose and poetry sketches on the mix of politics and shock in current writing and acting in various languages, including Dutch, French, German, English, and Italian. He published also in the journals Otherness: Essays and Studies and Other Modernities. He teaches Italian and European history at Bangor University, North Wales, and gave talks from 2004 also at the Giovanna De Nobili Institute in Catanzaro, the Bertha von Suttner Gymnasium in Andernach, Maastricht University, Stanford University, the University of Salford, the Norwegian Institute in Rome, the University of Cambridge, and the University of London. Matthew Walz Matthew Walz is a graduate from the University of Minnesota where he studied sociology and history and is currently residing in Minneapolis. His poetry and fiction has been published in literary magazines on three different continents, though they primarily have a home in the United States. His most recent can be viewed in the winter 2011/12 editions of The Sheepshead Review and Calliope. He can be reached by email at matthew.walz.writing@gmail.com. Marthe Reed Marthe Reed has published two books, Gaze (Black Radish Books) and Tender Box, A Wunderkammer with drawings by Rikki Ducornet (Lavender Ink); a third book is forthcoming from Moria Books. She has also published three chapbooks, post*cards: Lafayette a Lafayette (with j/j hastain), (em)bodied bliss and zaum alliterations, all as part of the Dusie Kollektiv Series. Her poetry has appeared in New American Writing, Golden Handcuffs Review, New Orleans Review, HOW2, MiPoesias, Fairy Tale Review, Exquisite Corpse, and The Offending Adam, among others. Her manuscript, an earth of sweetness dances in the vein, was a finalist in Ahsahta Press 2006 Sawtooth Poetry Contest. Further information about her work can be found at her homepage http://www.ucs.louisiana.edu/~mxr5675/

Marcia Chicca Marcia Chicca lives in New Jersey Nils Norelius Nils Norelius is the legit lovechild of lion-o, carol hathaway, orko and taylor rain, they gave loving birth to him in sweden, in 1982 http://twitter.com/#!/nilsnorelius / http://nilsnorelius.tumblr.com/ Lives in Denmark. Published in New Wave Vomit and the Scrambler. Purdey M. Kreiden Philip Kobylarz Pattabi Seshadri Pattabi Seshadri's work has recently appeared or will be appearing in TYPO, American Letters and Commentary, and Beloit Poetry Journal. He lives in San Francisco and works for a software company. Rob McLennan Born in Ottawa, Canadas glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, his most recent titles are the poetry collections Poems for Lainna (BuschekBooks, 2011), grief notes: (BlazeVOX [books], 2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011), kate street (Moira, 2011) and 52 flowers (or, a perth edge) (Obvious Epiphanies, 2010), and a second novel, missing persons (2009). An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The Garneau Review (ottwater.com/garneaureview), seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics (ottawater.com/seventeenseconds) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (ottawater.com). He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com Richard Fox Richard Fox has contributed work to many literary journals. Swagger & Remorse, his first book of poetry, was published in December, 2007. He recorded a CD of his work in 2001. In 2006, he contributed the text for the exhibition Shared: Blue Bikes at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. In spring, 2007, his video installation

for the 800 square-foot video screen at Hyde Park Art Center in Chicago was exhibited. He was recipient of a full poetry fellowship from the Illinois Arts Council. He holds a BFA in Photography from Tyler School of Art, Philadelphia, and lives in Chicago. SPLV "When he is not escaping child-support charges through closed border posts in the Amazon, SPLV teaches anthropology far in the Canadian North. Otherwise, he writes, and he tries to breathe and slow down. http://splvsplv.blogspot.com/". Richard Cronshey Richard Cronshey is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently The Snow and The Snow published this year by Otis Nebula Press. He is a student of Tibetan Buddhist meditation, lives with his two children in Salt Lake City, Ut, and works as a hospice chaplain. Shinwell Johnson Shinwell Johnson is the poetry editor of BlazeVOX [books] and widely reputed to be the street artist known as Banksy Thomas Cochran Thomas Cochran was raised in Haynesville, Louisiana. His work includes the novels Roughnecks (Harcourt) and Running the Dogs (Farrar, Straus & Giroux). Non-fiction and poetry have appeared under his name in Oxford American, Rattle, Farming Magazine, and other publications. A schoolteacher by trade, he currently lives with his wife on a mountain in rural northwest Arkansas. W.M. Rivera W.M. Rivera has a new book titled Buried in the Minds Backyard (Brickhouse Books, Inc., 2011). Retired from the University of Maryland, his academic and professional activities focused on international development. He is currently putting together what he hopes to be his next collection of poetry tentatively titled The Living Clock Runs Up. During 2010-2011 he has published or had poems accepted in the California Quarterly, Gargoyle, Recursive Angel, Ghazal (online), The Broome Review, Innisfree, The Curator (online), and Third Wednesday.

Adam Fagin Adam Fagin represents one of several generations of his family born and raised in Hartford, Connecticut, where his grandmother, Roslyn, a lifetime employee of the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company, worked for over a decade as personal secretary to the firms Vice President, Wallace Stevens. His work is forthcoming or has appeared in Boston Review, Fence, Volt and other journals. He is a founding editor of textsound, an online journal of poetry and sound.