untitled literary journal

August 2012
Myles Ma: fction
Adam Clemente: fction, illustration
Joseph M. Gerace: poetry, photography
Untitled Literary Journal Issue 1, Volume 1
2
sulfur
the defnitive experience
sulfur in the air of appearance
you worked your adult life
to buy this black chevy
tahoe, fipped onto its roof
right there
the right hand of the highway
irreverent, flthy, fever fast
road fares draw your eye
the vanishing point keeps you
away
the defnitive appearance
keep the truth at bay
sulfur in the air of experience
road fares and pay checks
car wrecks and committee chairs
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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you worked your adult life
to buy a smile
white, without a hint of weep
speeding down
down
the frst man to step foot on nowhere
to nowhere
forever
lasts forever
fipped onto its roof
down there
nowhere, there
forever
irreverent, flthy, fever fast
frefghters uniformed, pristine peel back
both drivers side doors, gut pillowy remains
pull out the body, put the body back on wheels
a defnite experience
sulfur
the air of appearance.
Untitled Literary Journal Issue 1, Volume 1
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Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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instep rises with each heavy-elbow scrub flthy mop across
the grey grey tiles underheel somehow wet and clean, sap drying.
hidden in the bushes with feld notes
penciled comments pertaining to the subjects patience, its hand
work, sloppy but effective, paid service, years of
cutting, barely subject puts its tongue to the flthy lips
of the shops slop bucket
& sucks.
suddenly, the subject rocking on the balls of its feet, like a man
waiting for a crocodile to ...
in the tacky grout, all gut & regret passion extinguished by
by?
by what?
tight lead circles along the margins.
by whom?
by why?


burps,
observations still
inconclusive
the subject dashes out the back door
toward a 7-speed gitane
trailed by a roadrunner plume of dust.
feld notes on the movements &
hunting habits of the hired scrubber
Untitled Literary Journal Issue 1, Volume 1
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a thumb jammed deep in the eye of some tragic blonde
stain her clothes her bedsheets teach her blindness
you get over pain like with the fick of a magic wand
when she sleeps you open your eyes, infict love
preferably
she shows you a glimmer of affection
preferably
she is tired and
you are tired
just long enough so she lets you beside
to heal a wound
infict a wound
to infict a wound is to be kind too
heal a wound, infict a wound
just long enough so she lets you beside
preferably when she is tired, you are tired
preferably she shows you a glimmer of affection
when she sleeps you open your eyes, infict love
you get over pain like with the fick of a magic wand
stain her clothes her bedsheets teach her blindness
a thumb jammed deep in the eye of some tragic blonde.
Untitled 12292011115
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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no one taught us
so soon after a boil
not to lie
across this messy bed
pillows, pills, braided leather belt, back
arched this
wonderful, big, homecooked meal, this
stoking of the fre
an unbalanced
check book, credit cards
etched with skyy
scrapers, so much idle elongation
so much
life tattooed in liquid
canopus 13, burns so much
indifference in lifelong legislation
as far as the arms stretch
[no one taught us]
Joseph M. Gerace is a reporter, editor, photographer and poet living in northern
New Jersey. You can see more of his work at winebowl.wordpress.com
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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My frst thoughts were of suffocation.
It seemed relevant at the time. I was very
oily and my fngers were pathetically
weak from the long prelife slumber, so
escape was no easy feat. Still, I escaped
from the uterus machine in relative tact.
I was naked, of course, as I stood up
and looked at the defated mass of fesh-
like synthetic membranes from which I
had emerged. It looked like a pile of rain-
coats all melted together and steaming
from heat. It was sopping with mucus as
it drooped from its coneshaped metallic
frame. The odor was not altogether un-
pleasant, and smelled of Scotch Tape.
What the hell is Scotch Tape? I re-
member thinking.
Before I could refect any more on the
subject, I realized just how many more
pods like mine there were each incu-
bating grown men and women in a deep
slumber, naked, foating in endless rows.
I quickly assumed the roll of art critic,
strolling up and down the noisy, smok-
ing aisles, analyzing the naked podlings.
They were a diverse bunch, I thought, my
arms crossed and sliding against one an-
other from the greasy birth slime.
When Id had my fll perusing the mu-
seum of naked bodies, I began to wonder
about my own naked body. I looked down
at myself for the frst time and realized
that the dirt from the foor was starting to
combine with the gooey muck I was cov-
ered in. My feet looked especially unsan-
itary, and for a moment, I was startled by
the existence of toenails which seemed
somehow entirely foreign to me despite
my knowledge of their correct terminol-
ogy. I was repulsed and wet and decided
to have a look around for a towel.
It really didnt seem like a towel kind
of place though. More a strangely lit
tubes and thick mysterious cables tan-
gling around in the dark kind of place. I
thought it might have been a laboratory in
a cave, until I realized I couldnt exactly
say what a cave actually was- or a labora-
tory for that matter.
It was at this moment I began to notice
a strange circle bubbling on the ground. It
began to foam and steam as I stared at it.
Very quickly, almost like it had tele-
ported, a triangle rose from the spot on
the foor. At the vertical apex of this trian-
gle, there was a horizontal beam of white
light, which hypnotized my vision and
almost made me fall asleep.
The Battery
by Adam Clemente
Untitled Literary Journal Issue 1, Volume 1
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The light faded and the triangle opened
as if it had been an elevator. A man
stepped out. He was fully dressed, and
not covered in any kind of visible sludge.
Hello he said.
Hello I answered back.
Can I help you with something?
No, Im just having a look around.
Oh. a polite nod. And why is that?
Um. I guess Im not sure. You wouldnt
happen to have a towel, would you?
I see. What do you need a towel for?
Isnt it obvious? To dry off.
Ah. And why do you need to dry off?
I cant just walk around naked and
covered in slime.
I dont suppose you could. Where is it
you plan on going?
Oh. Hmm. You know. I hadnt re-
ally...
And there it was again. This sort of
vague, but oppressive feeling that all of
my thoughts were gibberish; inarticulated
and hovering, unbound to any presence
of actual experience.
You should probably come with me.
Ok I answered, and followed the
man to the dilapidated looking capsule
from which I had recently escaped.
Did you do this? he asked.
I felt embarrassed.
He looked back at me and smiled reas-
suringly. Dont worry.
He unplugged several cables (which
had been attached to the pod I had climbed
from) and reattached some new ones that
were coiled on the walls and previously
not connected to anything. The dishev-
eled pod very slowly began to re-infate
with fuids. I found this to be somewhat
of a relief, since it was the only capsule
that wasnt upright and engorged, and I
was the one that had reduced it to its ir-
regular collapsed state.
Then the man led me to an area where
the pods were empty. They each radiated
a pleasant light from their cone shapes
and unobstructed by the jagged shape of
a human body, the light was cast much
more uniformly.
Which do you like? he asked, which
I thought was a funny question since they
were all identical.
Its a matter of position then. I ex-
claimed. I guess the view from this one
is about my style.
The man seemed surprised and laughed
very mildly. I wasnt sure if I had made a
joke.
He pulled out a strange device that
looked like a cross between a calculator
and a vacuum cleaner, and plugged it into
the pod I had chosen.
I stood there feeling the mucus on my
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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naked body dry into a caked on powder
as he pressed buttons on the device. Oc-
casionally, hed look up at me and smile.
The pod would occasionally switch the
color of light it emitted, release steam, or
make loud sounds. The sounds it made
reminded me of an MRI machine (an-
other of very many things I thought, but
couldnt comprehend.) They were long
repetitive clicks and dense beeps that
changed suddenly and dramatically the
moment you got used to hearing them in
what seemed like an infnite loop.
There we go. Its ready for you now.
I was nervous to go back in. I looked
around. Everything else was dark and
confusing. If there was some other place
I could go; an option of any kind, maybe
I would have resisted. But, to be fair, the
pod seemed simple enough a choice. I
could sleep again- or whatever it was I
had been doing before. Which had cer-
tainly not been an unpleasant experience,
if it could even so be called.
So I approached it. The pod had a logi-
cal place for me to enter, but no obvious
means for entrance. I touched it softly,
and a thin outer membrane peeled effort-
lessly from the body of the cone like a
tent fap.
Within, the pod was flled with a trans-
parent jello-like substance, which I put
my hands into. It was, without question,
an unbelievably good feeling. The physi-
cal sensation was accompanied by an in-
tense fash of erotic thoughts. I quieted a
moan. Incredible.
I looked to the man one last time. He
nodded to me, and then I immersed the
rest of my body in the pod. Everything
prickled with warmth.
Inside, I stood at frst, but then sort
of began foating, and I opened my eyes
for a moment. I could see very clearly
through the gel. It was incredibly bright
inside and felt clean. Outside was much
darker. I could see the man unplugging
his calculator thing. Hmm... Whats... a
calculator..?
I drifted in and out of sleep for a while,
until fnally I opened my eyes. The man
was gone. It didnt matter, I was so tired.
It seems now that I dont open my eyes
for more than a few seconds at a time.
Theres nothing really to see anyway.
Outsides dark and insides light. Nothing
takes more than a glance to enjoy com-
pletely. Sometimes I like to hold my eyes
open and look around the bright insides
of the pod. Doing so usually makes me
fall asleep almost instantly, and for what
feels like it might be a very long time.
I do remember that I climbed outside
though once. Especially if I concentrate.
Adam Clemente is an illustrator.
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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The parrot, red and gold, stared im-
periously from the salesmans shoul-
der.
The salesman shuffed up the beach
making a pitch in a Mexican accent to
every stretched out tourist.
Want to take a picture? Want to
take a picture?
No thank you. I stood up from the
beach chair and waded into the warm
Gulf water.
I was used to the sales pitches by
then. The Cancun airport was lined
with grey-suited hawks, all trying to
lure Americans into their hotel.
The day before, we visited the lo-
cal market, an orange dollop of mud
in the middle of slick downtown Can-
cun. From behind every corner a man
or woman talked up their wares.
Linger too long at any piece of
merchandise, and you got the treatment.
I spotted a hat I liked, persuaded by its
look and the hot sun.
The hat was made of woven straw,
with a wide brim and a red and black
ornamental band.
Ill give it to you for $35, the man
minding the shop said.
Too much, I said, slinking away.
$30, he insisted.
I dont have that, I murmured, but
he persisted.
$25.
$25 I had. He must have noticed my
hesitation, because he took the hat out of
my hands and started to put it in a bag.
$25. Mui bien, he said.
The Mexican Parrot
By Myles Ma
Untitled Literary Journal Issue 1, Volume 1
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I handed him the money. Gracias.
I took the hat out and wore it, walk-
ing over to my mother, who was carry-
ing several trinkets and a new hat of her
own, the result of several successful ne-
gotiations.
You should have talked him down to
$20, she said.
I shook my head. And I thought
America had perfected capitalism.
It was my mothers voice I heard as
I came up from under a wave. She was
screaming.
I spun toward the shore, where red
and gold feathers were foating toward
the surf. A vaguely European looking
tourist was holding back his dog, which
was barking at the parrot, whose limp
body the Mexican salesman was waving
like a saber.
The tourist settled the dog down and
gestured an apology to the distraught
salesman. I felt a wave coming on again
and ducked under the water.
When I came back up, the sales-
man was walking around with his head
down, still clutching the dead bird in his
arm, red and gold feathers strewn across
the sand. I waded back toward the shore.
***
The next day was our last in Mexico.
I sat in a beach chair and tried to soak in
the last rays of Gulf sun.
Want to take a picture?
It was the salesman, making his same
smiling pitch to the tourists who had
checked in last night. He wore a new
parrot on his shoulder.
No thank you. I stood up from the
chair and waded into the warm Gulf wa-
ter one last time.
Myles Ma is an editor and writer.
Untitled Literary Journal August 2012
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untitled literary
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UNTITLED LITERARY JOURNAL IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF JOSEPH M. GERACE. FOUNDED IN NEW JERSEY.
COPYRIGHT 2012 JOSEPH M. GERACE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, ALL WORK THEREIN REMAINS PROPERTY OF ITS CREATOR.