an online journal of voice

Spring 2017

s
BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
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BlazeVOX 17 | an online journal of voice
Copyright 2017

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 Spring 2017
Table of Contents
Poetry
Abby Minor Andr Spears
Billy Cancel Christien Gholson
Christopher Ozog Claudine Nash
Clive Gresswell Colin Campbell Robinson
Daginne Aignend Daniel Altenburg
Daniel Y. Harris Deborah Saltman
Dilip Mohapatra Doug Bolling
Ed McFadden Elga Logue
Georgy Cohen Greg Baysans
James Sherry Joseph Veronneau
Karl Miller Kate Noble
Kevin Ryan Lana Bella
Lawrence Upton M. Kaat Toy
Marc Carver Meg Kelting
Michael Gregory Ollie Beach
Olivia Grayson Paul Brookes
Paul White Petar Lozanov
PT Davidson Roger Craik
Rp Verlaine Sana Asif
Sarah Roehrig Scott Wordsman
 Seth McKelvey Shirley Jones-Luke
Simon Anton Diego Baena Simon Perchik
Tara Teed Tiffany Flammger
Vanessa Sylvester W. Scott Howard
Alpine Copntale Zinnia Plentitude

Fiction
Charlie Hill Multitudes
Joshua King Poena Cullei
robert wexelblatt Petite Suite des Erreurs Minuscules
Becca Lundberg Just Delaney
Lisa Clark Modifications
Leigh Ann Cowan What Little Girls Are Made Of
Craig Fishbane Molly Webber Has Arrived
Emilia Rodriguez Nursery
Kate Koenig Gentle, Gentle, Gentle

Text Art & Vispo

ana cancela from, The Herman, Bartleby of Tales
Mark Young five visuals
bruno neiva from, GUY (alt version)
hiromi suzuki eternal loop

Creative Non-Fiction & Experimental Prose

Lawrence Upton A SONG, through Alaric Sumner
Caitlin Conroy Leonid
Diarra English Black Faces in Private Places
Elika Ansari Confession of a Pseudo-European
Rebecca Melson Cultivating Nations

Acta Biographia Author Biographies

 Spring 2017
IntroductionIntroduction
Hello and welcome to the Spring issue of
BlazeVOX 17. Presenting fine works of poetry,
fiction, text art, visual poetry and arresting works
of creative non-fiction written by authors from
around world. Do have a look through the links
below or browse through the whole issue in our
Scribd embedded PDF, which you can download
for free and take it with you anywhere on any
device. Hurray!

In this issue we seek to avoid answers but rather to

ask questions. With a subtle minimalistic
approach, this issue of BlazeVOX focuses on the
idea of public space and more specifically on
spaces where anyone can do anything at any given
moment: the non-private space, the non-privately
owned space, space that is economically
uninteresting. The works collected feature
coincidental, accidental and unexpected
connections which make it possible to revise literary history and, even better, to complement it.

Combining unrelated aspects lead to surprising analogies these piece appear as dreamlike images in which
fiction and reality meet, well-known tropes merge, meanings shift, past and present fuse. Time and memory
always play a key role. In a search for new methods to read the city, the texts reference post-colonial theory
as well as the avant-garde or the post-modern and the left-wing democratic movement as a form of
resistance against the logic of the capitalist market system.

Many of the works are about contact with architecture and basic living elements. Energy (heat, light, water),
space and landscape are examined in less obvious ways and sometimes developed in absurd ways. By
creating situations and breaking the passivity of the spectator, he tries to develop forms that do not follow
logical criteria, but are based only on subjective associations and formal parallels, which incite the viewer to
make new personal associations. These pieces demonstrate how life extends beyond its own subjective limits
and often tells a story about the effects of global cultural interaction over the latter half of the twentieth
century. It challenges the binaries we continually reconstruct between Self and Other, between our own
cannibal and civilized selves. Enjoy!

Rockets, Geoffrey
an online journal of voice

Spring 2017

s
 Spring 2017
ana cancela

Two works from The Herman, Bartleby of Tales

 Spring 2017
Andr Spears

Ship of Fools 1
 1

Ship of Fools 1
Note: Ship of Fools 1 combines excerpts first published in House Organ #88 and
#90, with dedications to Lou Reed and Ralph Maud, respectively.

in memoriam Ken Warren

I wish that I'd sail I think the luminescence

the darkened seas / on the horizon,
On a great big which leads me back to you,
clipper ship / continues to recede
Going from this land as we head in its direction,
here to that / because the Fathers of Cohiba,
In a sailor's suit commenting on the NOSTROMOs
and cap. passage through the Straits
Nico and the Velvet of the Scarlet Sea
Underground, in Chapter X, Book II
Heroin. from the Pedagogues Handbook,
describe conditions similar to our own,
The river is given: 1) the recent overboard fall
within us, the sea into the Pelagic Omega
is all about us. of Finnegan and Leiningen,
T.S. Eliot, Mazka, Meade and Fiat,
Four Quartets. from Engineering, who jumped into
the ocean or pushed each other
The river we stepped like Sun, Li and company;
into is not the river and 2) the gaseous Dust Cloud
in which we stand. of the Useramen nebula, in which
Herakleitos, Fragments. the Light loves to hide
as if clothing, un-clothing,
A branch of Ocean, re-clothing itself in successive
allotted a tenth layers of Spiritual cover,
of its waters. / Nine parts yet shrinking nonetheless.
circle earth
and the seas broad Neither Venuss reading
back / In silvery of the spit projected
currents returning by Commander Exprs
to Oceans brine. onto the first Glass Ingot
Hesiod, Theogony. inside the Cauldrons
nestled Metal bowls,
TO THE SEA nor Tran-Ba,
YE MYSTICS, the Spirit of the Keel
the cry that following the so-called

heralded the act
of purification
J. Harrison,
The Eleusinian
Mysteries,
in Prolegomena
to the Study
of Greek Religion.
All of a sudden /
killer-squalls
attacked us,
screaming out
of the west /
a murderous blast
shearing the two
forestays off /
so the mast
toppled backward,
its running tackle
spilling / into the bilge.
The mast itself
went crashing into
the stern, / it struck
the helmsmans head
and crushed his skull to which we now theoretically return
to pulp / and down
from his deck
the man flipped
like a diver /
his hardy life spirit
left his bones
behind. / Then, then
in the same breath
Zeus hit the craft /
with a lightning bolt
and thunder.
Round she spun, /
reeling under
the impact,
filled with reeking
brimstone, / shipmates
pitching out of her,
bobbing round
like seahawks /
swept along
2
Big Fart, agrees with me.
Thus, we sail ahead toward
the light, over Murmuring waters,
to a constant Ringing
of the Bells, with the feeling
of being watched;
here in a Morphic field
of Rubber cylinders floating
like tall, alcove-riddled towers
in a web of Black slime;
the deck furniture secured, but
the ouzo in the jars polluted
with Canaanite Seashells;
the Bluestone anchor encrusted
with Sea Weed and dead moss,
the fissure down the mast and
the crack along the propeller shaft
sprouting radio-active Plant Life,
the arcades stained glass
melted away, the flag poles
inscribed with Flaming Letters,
the Lens out of joint
with the light of new stars;
our sights set on Absolt Point,
under the pure, stop-and-go
movement of a meteor
advancing with its tail
pointing forward.
Stories of gas passed
by a whole crew
simultaneously
are collected in Helikons
Pamphlet on Ultrathin Borderlines
based on the logbooks
of the WINCHESTER, the ESSEX,
the LUXOR, the LYNCEE,
the ULUBURUN and the ALERT;
in our case, however,
the Black sky and
the Silver sea had opened
the field of Dasein,
so the situation was different.

by the whitecaps
past the trim black
hull / and the god
cut short their journey
home forever.
The Odyssey
(Book XII).
And Moses stood
in the gate
of the camp
and said, Whoever
is for YHWH: to me!
And all the children
of Levi were gathered
to him. And he said
to them, YHWH,
God of Israel, said this:
Set, each man,
his sword on his thigh;
cross over
and come back
from gate to gate
in the camp; and kill,
each man, his brother,
and, each man,
his neighbor, and,
each man, his relative.
And the children
of Levi did
according to Moses
word, and about the timbrel, the cymbal and gong
three thousand men
fell from the people
in that day.
Exodus, 32.
And when in his wide
courtyards Odysseus
had cut down /
the insolent youths,
he hung on high
his sated bow /
and strode to
the warm bath
to cleanse his blood-
3
Following the Alien debacle
and our arrival
in the Mare Tenebrarum
just after Captain Anna-O,
cursing in chronic fits
beside a dumbfounded
Commander Exprs,
had assembled the crew
between the Third level
of the ships First bottom
and the Middle level
of the Middle bottom,
above the head and torso
of Avon the Poetess,
the Big Fart became manifest
through a gas-induced
chain reaction of signs.
All at once, we stood still
and started talking fast,
until the random moment
when the Diving Bell cracked
and the velvet pipeline
filtered the Sound,
the spokes on the Omnicycle
appeared to spin in reverse,
and we found ourselves pacing
to-and-fro, humming in unison,
creating a background Drone
over which could be heard,
from beyond the Quietist room,
until the next random moment,
when an auxiliary ladder
crossed through the air
from starboard to port,
and some of us stopped,
while others kept moving,
and Communications and
Intelligence put their foreheads
to the bulkheads, and together
dreamed the same dream.
By their own account,
they dreamed of Red Dots,
like dominoes, Mutating

stained body.
N. Kazantzakis,
The Odyssey:
A Modern Sequel.
Then, I must ask you
again, Virgil,
toward which goal
have you been striving
with your poetry,
since it seems
it was not toward
an understanding
of life?
Herman Broch,
The Death of Virgil.
Oh build your ship
of death, oh build it! /
for you will need it. /
For the voyage
of oblivion awaits you.
D. H. Lawrence,
The Ship of Death.
And some grew weary
of the ghastly dance /
And fell, as I have fallen
by the way side, /
Those soonest
from whose forms
most shadows past /
And least of strength
& beauty did abide. /
Then, what is Life?
I said [T]he cripple
cast / His eye upon
the car which now
had rolled / Onward,
as if that look must be
the last, / And answered...
Happy those for whom
the fold / Of
Percy Bysshe Shelley,
The Triumph of Life.
4
under Cosmic Rays
into thirteen Open Hands,
then into nine Dancing Heads,
then into twelve Heads-on-Sticks,
exchanging kisses
The Waves of Fear
hit only later,
because, paradoxically,
when the signs of Passed Gas
subsided, a good measure
of calm settled over the ship
into the crews Lower Elixir,
and like others
Maria, Soho and Greenwich,
Marlboro and Wang
I experienced a tingling
in my breasts,
my Sex felt lusty and wet,
while the phalluses
of Chauve and Venus,
Sinbad the Steward
and Kodak the Second Mate
stood fully erect
a seemingly clear indication
that jubilation and
self-renewal were in order,
as on the STARMAN
or the SATELLITE OF LOVE
in the abandoned gloss
to the Senzar Almanac.
Yet new sensations
followed, from the moment
the matrix codes
in the Majic Lantern
of the depth gauge
confronted the crews
generalized Sexual arousal
with the nomadic,
Poromechanical spectacle
of bottomless Abysses
opening, closing, re-opening
across the ocean floor,
as the ship made its way
through random Fog Clusters

The poet as poet
is the one who points,
thus something that
shows, and is thereby
a sign. The poet
is a sign that has a soul
in which a mind
is appropriate,
in which it bears
the stars of the heavens
The sign, the demi-
god, the river, the poet:
all these name poetically
the one and
singular ground
of the becoming homely
of human beings
as historical
and the founding
of this ground
by the poet. before the cryptogenic emergence
M. Heidegger,
Holderlins Hymn
The Ister. seething and the Tracelessness
It takes wings
to seize /
The nearest things /
Immediately /
And reach
the other side.
F. Hlderlin,
The Ister.
I often stand
at this height
but a moment
of reflection
hurls me down.
F. Hlderlin,
Hyperion.
The need to climb
is too widespread.
To feel it no longer
is a rare deliverance.
5
of variable densities.
The change of mood
and weather recalled
the Abyssal Time, when
New York came into view
for the LANCASTER II,
and the twin figure(s)
of Smashed Tablet
and Burned Manuscript
replaced the Azreal-Asmath
equation (Ocean = Lubricant)
in the Catalogue of Men.
It was the Abyssal Time
in which distress
took hold of our souls
at the Cutting Edge
of the ships Crystal body,
and anxiety kept us on alert
of new constellations;
it was the Time of mysterious
of the figurehead
after the recombination
of van RrUbiks Half-Shadow;
the Time of the Movement-
that-transports-being during
the Dormition of Mbius;
it was the multi-functional
Abyssal Time of Sing-Along
Songs for Drella, Yusef
and Madiba, when the struggle
between opposing powers
in the First Testament
of the Old War impaired
the ability to traverse
incompatible dimensions,
and when the lapses,
wounds, pains and
rewards-after-appeasement
in the Second Testament
of the New War
foreclosed undiscovered
territories of the new.

S. Beckett,
The Lost Ones.
If I cannot sway
the Heavens, Ill stir
the Netherworld.
Virgil, Aeneid;
quoted by S. Freud,
in The Interpretation
of Dreams.
Power comes
from below.
M. Foucault,
The History
of Sexuality.
The axis of my writing
does not run from death
to life or from life
to death, but rather
from death to truth
and from truth to death.
I think that the alternative
to death isnt life but
truth. What we have
to rediscover through
the whiteness and
inertia of death isnt
the lost shudder of life,
its the meticulous
deployment of truth.
M. Foucault,
in conversation with
Claude Bonnefoy.
all is not dead
one drinks one gives
to drink goodbye
S. Beckett,
How It Is.
Now choose, /
right, left, / win, lose.
H.D.,
Hermetic Definition.
6
Finally, inevitably,
after emerging
from the 21st Fog Cluster,
we beheld starboard side
at Three OClock,
like the Isle of Blessd Wounds
in Yax Passages Torn Letters from
Manifesto of the Unconscious
and Random,
a monstrous mound of Sea Jelly
rising from the oceans surface,
as if from the Underground depths
of a River of Light,
or a Lake of Fire.
Temporarily Enlightened by
the spectacular event,
like us all, Captain Anna-O
became our Model of Moderation
along the split, schizo-warped
Axis of the Ephesians
Dead to the stings-of-life
and stronger-than-Herself
in the game of Pleasure Relations
while Ringo and Thebes
of the Syracuse School
immediately theorized about
the Sea-Flower Brain
or Watery Eyeball of Super Mind
as Bell Jar,
and Avon rhapsodized
about her legs-turned-to-bone
floating under the Ark of Millions
and reaching down
as long super feelers
in an electro-magnetic
helical thread of Love Fuel,
that opened the way
through an uncanny mode
of recirculation back to Malaysia,
Mazlum and Palmyra.
The logbook shows that
the second mound of Sea Jelly,
turned upside-down on its back,

The Soul selects
her own Society /
Thenshuts the Door in a cosmodromic Fog Cluster
E. Dickinson (409, 303).
The genuine poet
chooses to lose
This is the deeper
meaning of that tough-
luck, of that curse
with which he always
claims kinship and which
he always attributes
to an intervention
from without; whereas
it is his deepest choice,
the source, and not
the consequence
of his poetry. relative to the Soft Metal Machine
J-P. Sartre,
What Is Literature?
I found in this myth
situated at the confines
of the world the theories
of philosophers
I had made my own:
every man must forever
choose, in his short life,
between indefatigable
hope and the wise
absence of hope,
between the delights
of chaos and those
of stability, White Light \ White Heat of neither.
between the Titan
and the Olympian.
M. Yourcenar,
Memories of Hadrian.
Above all, dont fool
yourself, dont say /
it was a dream,
your ears deceived you: /
dont degrade yourself
7
appeared portside at Nine OClock
in the spot of time before
the ship was again enveloped
just as Neanderthal shouted,
Something happening here
and Commander Exprs
started spitting in the wind.
During the conversation
that followed under
the penumbra of the Fog,
Woodstock and Soho,
who had witnessed the second
Mutation of the Silver sea,
discussed with Ringo and Thebes,
who had not, the Theoretico-
Poetic significance of what
had taken place, viz. whether,
of the crews collective Mind,
the upside-down sea mound,
and the long, life-like
coils of Silver water
that reached up from it
and seemed to probe the stars
taken as the Minds
complemental Sub-Conscious
together with the first sea mound
as Minds Super-Conscious
functioned, alpha-numerically,
either as an Analytic
or Histrionic assemblage;
or as an Academic composite
of both; or as the vectorial
When the Fog Cluster lifted again,
it settled as a Blue-Red
Haze above the ship
and revealed, directly astern,
right side up, a third mound
of gelatinous water, as massive
as the previous two combined
both of which were now gone.
 8

with empty hopes According to Mazka,

like these. who was sitting
C.P. Cavafy, with her head between her knees
The God Abandons and her legs in her arms
Antony. against the bulkhead between
the photo-polarimeter and
I have had to learn the Stelae of Tesla and Tlaloc,
the simplest things / under the boom, this giant mound
last. represented the appearance
C. Olson, of the third oceanic Dot
Maximus, to himself. in an Archaean three-Dot pattern
identified as the Renowned
The Light is easy Philosophers Hieroglyphic Triad
to move, but difficult of Unlocalizabilitya pattern
to fix. whose manifestation at sea
The Secret of the Golden Mazka, her eyes bulging
Flower. in an early sign of Madness,
dubbed Plataforma of
Poetry / is this. the Moist Principle.
C. Olson,
The Secret of the Black Despite naming the event,
Chrysanthemum. however, and opening
theoretical access into
It is considered the Heavenly Arms of truth,
more lucky to dream through the love of truth,
of a vulva as open. within a hermeneutics of Erojan
Sheikh Nefzaoui, Otherness, her words acted
The Names Given as Penetralia to Madness
to a Womans in the Mind(s) of Meade
Sexual Organs, and Leiningen, Finnegan and Fiat,
in The Perfumed all of whom save Fiat
Garden. found their short- and mid-
term memory wiped out.
His finest work
is his use of time. In an archetypal instance
Henri Pierre Roch, of Synchronicity, when the order
Souvenirs de was given to accelerate
Marcel Duchamp. and put maximum distance
between ourselves and
I am. I am. I am. the giant mound behind us,
Sylvia Plath, two more gelatinous mounds
The Bell Jar. surfaced directly ahead,
as if reborn side-by-side
I am myself alone. from their earlier incarnations
W. Shakespeare, one right-side up,
Henry VI, Part 3. the other upside-down
 9

with its long coils of water

I am a thousand times blindly reaching for the sky.
the richest, let us be
as greedy as the sea. So the counter-order was issued
A. Rimbaud, to stop the ship immediately,
A Season in Hell. moving the members of Engineering
to abandon their posts
Many men have and follow their Spiritual call
related hideous things, to transformation on the Horizon
not mentioned in print, of Purity beyond the Gateway
which happened of Concealment by taking
on the battle fields a walk on the Wild Side
of the Great War. to the Alcove of the Panel
H.P. Lovecraft, of the Close-Up, which
Herbert West: they no longer remembered
Reanimator. was on the focsle deck
until reminded by Fiat,
The love-region who led the way.
takes on its character
of mind, becomes As in the Great Disturbance
this womb-brain at Sov-Ar-Dee described
or love-brain by Hadron the Circle-Drawer,
that I have visualized an invisible scythe
as a jellyfish. seemed to slice through the water,
H. D., which started bubbling all around us,
Notes on Thought just as the Silver coils
and Vision. of the inverted mound reached over
and seized the mound beside it
It was then lifted it in the air
the unnamable! completely out of the ocean
H. P. Lovecraft, and turned it upside down,
The Unnamable. setting the second mound,
with its life-like coils reaching
This is not for the stars, on top of
quite accurate the coils of the first.
S. Beckett,
The Lost Ones. Towering before us,
like a Gothic Tree of Life
The best way out at the intersection of the Control
is always through. and Conception Meridians
Robert Frost, on the Ionic Grid in Nikons
"A Servant to Servants; Fund of Funds, the double
restated as, The way upside-down Cuhthulic phenomenon
out is the way through, polluted the Art of Pleasure in
in Star Trek, the Know-How of Anna-O, and
To Attain the All. brought deep Dread to the ship.

I am boring into
a mountain
from two sides.
The question is,
how to meet
in the middle. scrambling from the focsle deck
J. Joyce on
Finnegans Wake;
in Frank Budgen,
James Joyce and
the Making of Ulysses.
I have come
that I may greet
myself with myself.
The Egyptian Amduat,
First Hour.
And Xibalba
is packed with tests,
heaps and piles of tests.
Popul Vuh.
Today, as in the time
of Pliny and Columelle,
the hyacinth thrives
in Wales, the periwinkle
in Illyria, the daisy
on the ruins of Numantia, merged and formed a single column
and while the cities
around them have
changed masters and
names, several having
passed into nothingness,
civilizations having
clashed and broken,
their peaceful generations
have crossed the ages
and come down to us,
fresh and laughing,
as in days of battle.
Edgar Quinet,
Introduction to
the Philosophy
of the History
10
The Captain issued the command
to veer to starboard, and ordered
Engineering to their stations;
but Fiat and Meade, Mazka
and Leiningen, led by Finnegan,
in the grip of Madness, searched
in vain throughout the ship
for the Engine Room, whereupon
Scardanelli, Nobadinus and I,
like the Swift Nudes of Anatis,
had the Presence of Mind
to act on Engineerings behalf
and tend to the binnacle magnets,
adjust drainage levels on the draft
pistons, and secure the cassettes
in the cyberspace sockets.
We pulled away to starboard,
gaining speed as the wind
Energized the jib, the flying
jib and the spanker;
but, as we sailed
to safer waters,
the towering phenomenon
from which we escaped, and
the long Shadow it cast, Mutated :
the two sets of watery coils
of two intertwining strands.
At the same time,
during the process of Mutation,
the mass of Sea Jelly
hovering in mid-air
dissolved and continued to shrink,
while its Image \ Movement
underwent dissemination
and transference onto
the columns Mystical summit.
All hands were on deck,
when the Silver waters
of the columns twin strands,
rising to a height of some

of Humanity.
the saying that grass
mocks catastrophe /
is a whim
of the inconsolable
and fickle creating the miraculous apparition
Zbigniew Herbert,
The Hill Facing
the Palace.
The spring,
the summer, /
The chiding autumn,
angry winter change /
Their wonted liveries,
and the mazd world /
By their increase
now knows not
which is which.
W. Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Nights
Dream.
The seas /
boiling the lands /
boiling all the winds /
of the earth are turning /
the snow into sand
Charles Olson,
The Maximus Poems
(Volume 3, posthumous).
As man advanced
in control over nature,
the mystery and
the godhead of things
natural faded
into science. the tachyon fans, the trilithon fans,
Only the mystery
of life, and love
that begets life,
remained, intimately
realized and utterly
unexplained;
hence Aphrodite
11
2000 cubits, portside
behind us, converged
to form the Simulacrum
of a culminating Faucet
like the Hardware on the Thigh
of the Goth Colossus
of a Colossal free-floating Faucet
running water into the sea.
In the visionary Fold
of that moment, Sub-Conscious
and Super-Conscious
Mind(s) came together,
and the Open Call was heard
to take a closer look;
so we looped back
and resumed our course toward
the luminescence on the horizon,
with the Faucet off to port.
What could not be foreseen
was the change of Weather
we saw next: a Force 11
gust of wind swept in, and
blew across the Faucets stream,
projecting a massive body
of water in our direction,
that kept approaching
like a long sinister cloud
the Weather Event whose impact
was to wreak such havoc
with the ship
Amid the ensuing commotion,
the order was given to activate
the Ventilation system,
but before the photon fans,
and the pyramidion fans
could be engaged, Meade, falling
from the Belvedere, cried out,
The end of Theory!
and plunged into the sea,
followed soon after by Finnegan,
who took a running jump.
 12

keeps her godhead

to the end. Moments later,
J. Harrison, along the portside bulwarks,
Prolegomena Fiat, Mazka and Leiningen
to the Study did the same, jumping overboard
of Greek Religion. one after the other.

Inside the Music / Strangely, as if refusing to sink,

The Devil cant get in. Leiningens legs continued
Amiri Baraka, to kick in the air,
Un Poco Low Coup. which prompted Cpher, beside me
on the quarterdeck by the paddle,
A blackened shroud, to remark that the spectacle
a hand-me-down gown / seemed an Ironic re-presentation
Of rags and silks, of the legs turned-to-bone
a costume / dragged below the hull
Fit for one who sits by Avon the Poetess;
and cries / while Chauve, overcome
For all tomorrow's with Emotion, recalled
parties. how our lost crewmates
Nico and the Velvet were exquisite the most Youthful
Underground, and elegant among us
All tomorrows beautiful of body the sweetness
parties. of their thighs, their lips

Ocean, you My love

wanna be my bro?
Lautramont, Maldoror.
I no longer said
to the flower,
you are my sister.
F. Hlderlin, Hyperion.
Poetry was a word
used by grown-ups.
And their distrust
was enormous,
like that of animals.
since I broke off
this letter to you,
Action-adventure and Death
have bent and twisted time.
We are now stuck,
here in the Shoals
with the light finally aligned
behind us.
Different Wave Types
continue to pound us,
no doubt as the direct result

Whose instinct warns them
that one day
they will be hunted down.
C. Lispector, The Message.
Ygnaiih. ygnaiih
thflthkhngba
Yog-Sothoth
rang the hideous croaking
out of space.
Ybthnk hehye
ngrkdllh.
H. P. Lovecraft,
The Dunwich Horror.
I take SPACE to be
the central fact to man
born in America,
from Folsom cave to now.
I spell it large because
it comes large here.
Large and without mercy.
C. Olson,
Call Me Ishmael.
Since then more
countries far away /
Weve found
past Thule, past Norway, /
As Iceland and
Pilappenland, /
Which ancient writers
never scanned. /
Theyve found
in Portugal since then /
And in Hispania naked men, /
And sparkling gold
and islands too /
Whereof no mortal
ever knew.
S. Brant, The Ship of Fools.
Dont you think that
the true captain will be
called a real stargazer,
a babbler, and a good-for-
13
of the furious Whipping-
of-the-Sea projected
on the Glass Ingots
by Commander Exprs
and interpreted by Venus
from the spit,
then commanded by Anna-O
during our second go-around,
after the Accidental thrust
of Mutiny: Internal Waves
at Two and Three OClock,
Rebirths Magnetizer
behind the hallucination
of the all-swallowing gate
at the Edge of Night
in the Introduction to Cosmos
by Capt. Ursula; Constructive
and Destructive Waves at Four
and Five OClock, respectively,
both preserving and spending
the Memory-Images
of Comedy and Tragedy
in the Maat.Daat Chiasmus
of Eleusis and Isiss
Labyrinth \ Asylum;
Standing Waves, alternately
at Six and Twelve OClock,
whose silence is final and
criss-crossed with oblique,
horizontal Sounds from
the most primitive vibrations
of Under-world, before
the Monster is overcome,
according to Cabus
Taro Manifesto; Breaking
Waves at Seven OClock
and Progressive Waves on
the Orthogonal Axis of Eight,
where Quest, Voyage and Return
are Sheets of the Past in
the Cone of a Fools cap,
as explained in Dr. Starbks
Treatise on Phosphenes;
Refracted Waves at Nine
and \ or Ten O Clock,
Instruments of Creation

nothing by those who sail in
ships governed in this way?
Plato, The Republic.
Nohow less. Nohow
worse. Nohow naught.
Nohow on. /
Said nohow on.
S. Beckett, Worstward Ho.
Doomsday is near:
die all, die merrily.
W. Shakespeare,
King Henry IV, Part I.
That for which
we find words
is something already
dead in our hearts.
F. Nietzsche,
Twilight of the Idols.
A Pen has so many
inflections and
a Voice but one."
E. Dickinson (L559, #471).
For there is a rose,
and then there is a rose!
Zohar, Prologue.
I like anything
that a word can do.
And words do do
all they do
and then they can do
what they never do do.
G. Stein,
Everybodys Autobiography.
Lead off, my lyre, /
And we shall sing together.
Sappho, Fragment 210.
You too, in response,
now tune
14
for the Colored glass shards
of the Smashed Mirror
from the Riches of Gloucester
to the Rags of Machiavel
in Prospers Chain of Spectacles,
quoted by Maria from
The Adonis View of Polytics,
before Maria fell Asleep Maria,
whose constrained clockwise path
channeled Geulincx, whose bones
left a spiral of Death glyphs
Maria Maria!
Maria blew out
Red Alert on her Sleep-walk:
the Din of Ringing Bells,
that had enveloped us
since the Storm Cloud disaster,
stopped, and a deep Silence
stilled the Murmuring sea;
then, from bow to stern,
the alarms of Red Alert
went off, one by one,
just as the distorted Voice
of Scardanelli from the Library
blared over the loudspeakers
that Maria had fallen Asleep
and the Sleeper was walking.
I broke off my letter
to you, and went
to the ambulatory,
where I was joined
by two other women:
Thebes and Rosetta.
Maria moved forward
with indolent grace,
as if to showcase
her distinctive uniform
from the leprosarium at Carnak
a stylish ensemble consisting
of small Feathered Slippers,
trousers embroidered

within yourselves
your interior lyres
for the Divine Musician.
Hermes Trismegistus:
Corpus Hermeticum,
Poimandres.
I saw Dionysus
as an instinctive
attempt to express
what Bergson
called dure.
Jane Harrison,
Introduction to Themis.
The superimposition
of the Logos Plan pattern
causes all material reality,
this entire space-time
universe, to experience
a certain stress to be
other than it is, a certain
urging to become
If there is a universe
of anti-matter,
there may be a universe
of anti-time,
retrograde time.
P. K. Dick,
The Exegesis.
With a leap (she said
it was an arabesque /
I made, off the porch /
into the snow.
C. Olson,
Letter # 41 [broken off].
Rushing out into the snow,
he had flung his arms aloft
and commenced a series
of leaps directly upward
in the air.
H.P. Lovecraft,
Beyond the wall of sleep.
15
in a pattern of Lotus
and Mandrake, a scarf
falling over her shoulders
caught up at her waist
by a girdle of fretted Metal,
and a drapery of filmy gauze
that veiled her head and throat,
through which could be seen
her tiny ears, arched eyebrows
and closed eyes.
She continued to advance,
until the moment she arrived
at the bexium tubes and
the site of the Pinball alarm,
where she removed her veil
to begin her Dance of Death.
Her slender feet tiptoed
through the glass cage, the crypt
and the hall of mirrors,
as if to the polyrhythmic Sounds
of the Chime and Doorbell alarms;
her sculpted arms seemed
ever-beckoning and striving
to entice to her side
Death-in-Life, who was fleeing
from her allurements,
and who she appeared to pursue
while walking on air,
in a nostalgic re-enactment
of Floating Dollar emerging
from the mists of Breton Woods;
she continued past the waterfall,
while other crewmembers
looked on, and reached the jars
of Special Reserve ouzo
(ouzo which has lost its aroma,
and strikes the palate with
a blast of volatile acidity,
producing an astringent flavor
that turns insipid and lifeless,
with a raspy, cloying finish).
On the foretween deck,
where the Sound of the Doorbell
 16

The Poet is like alarm was replaced by the plaintive

that wild inheritor Sound of the Time Passing alarm,
of the cloud, / Marias attitudes in her Dance
A rider of storms, denoted an overpowering lassitude;
above the range as her chest heaved with sighs,
of arrows and slings; / her whole being expressed
Exiled on earth, a profound languor
at bay amid although it was unclear whether
the jeering crowd, / the anxiogenous flow of her sighs
He cannot walk derived from the pollution of
for his unmanageable the psychosphere at the limit
wings. of Commodity, or whether
C. Baudelaire, she was expiring of Love
The Albatross; from the embrace of Death-in-
trans. George Dillon, Life, the object of her seduction.
in M. Gardener (ed.),
The Annotated Rime Eyes closed, her form quivering,
of the Ancient Mariner. the Sleepwalkers body undulated,
while her face remained impassive
Is there something and her twinkling feet still moved
that prevents in their intricate steps toward
a passenger in a boat the Urim-Thummin, the gas
which is taking him cylinder, the #1 lithium mold, and
westwards at great speed the Sound of the Descent alarm;
from heading eastwards onward, to the Anticipate alarm,
in the boat ? beyond the anticipator mechanism,
Thus it is the diatransmeta, the interval
that Gods will analyzer; to the propeller shaft
directs all things overgrown with Plants, to the melted
but without anything stained glass of the arcade and
standing in the way the Sound of the Ascending alarm;
of what we attempted her yearning to bust loose
A. Geulincx, be free, flyher will
Ethics, Book III. to go! go! go! was irreversible;
by embracing Death-in-Life
Nothing to be done. she welcomed the infinite acceleration
S. Beckett, of the infosphere, the financial flow
Waiting for Godot. of the micro-traded Dollar,
the deterritorializing effect of Taro;
No-one / bears witness she invited Deregulation, hyper-
for the / witness. complexity, she wanted to turn Life
P. Celan, Ashglory. into repayment of the Metaphysical
debt she would absolve.
He stretched out
his arms toward Zion; Between the Swoosh and Swish
and, standing tall, alarms, in the engine room

his head drawn back
and his fists clenched,
he hurled an anathema
against it, believing
that words had the power
to be effective.
G. Flaubert, Herodias.
The poet becomes as the religious incarnation of suffering
seer through a long,
immense and reasoned
deregulation
of all the senses.
A. Rimbaud,
Lettre du Voyant.
Oh, Time, Strength,
Cash, and Patience!
H. Melville,
Moby-Dick.
Karl Marx never
in his life saw
the inside of a factory.
David Markson,
Vanishing Point.
Thus the Hegelian
proposition turns
into its opposite
through Hegelian
dialectics itself:
All that is real
in the sphere
of human history,
becomes irrational
in the process of time
F. Engels,
Ludwig Feuerbach
and the End of Classical
German Philosophy.
A puppet wearing
Turkish attire
and a hookah
in its mouth sat
17
by the spare propeller shaft
above which Mbius stills hangs
by her toes in suspended animation
the dancing Sleepwalker seemed
transported with a delirium
of Love and Passion;
she danced as the Boolean
embodiment of leper consciousness,
in an engine of Leper Creativity;
open to the enigma of openness,
she whirled in a labyrinthine voyage
of becoming-Hanged Woman,
toward the Sound of the Digital
and Electronic alarms by the Keel,
before the presiding Spirit
of Sanbon-Sugi, along non-escapist
Sorcerous lines toward the Schizo-
strategic plane of Pelagic openness,
the openness associated
with Love as the stronger
closure of the outside world;
to the Sound of the Boing
alarm in the promenade, between
the purifier and the trap-door,
her swift movements made the folds
of her draperies blur into
a social and instinctual body
emerging from a field of bodies
within the war machine
of Over-health, within the Hygiene-
complex of Death and taxes,
Dollarism and Taro, competition,
leprosy, clothing
All the crewmembers who
watched Marias Dance of Death
felt drawn in solidarity
toward a re-opening of the Indefinite,
transported by the Khaosmic flow
of a collective Intelligence
in which closure remained
entangled with Impossibility
and the exteriority of an outside;
her arms, her feet, her garments
reactivated sensuousness in harmony

before a chessboard
placed on a large table.
A system of mirrors that invited slowness and withdrawal
created the illusion
that this table
was transparent
on all sides. Actually
a hunchback dwarf
a master at chess
sat inside and guided
the puppets hand
by means of strings
The puppet, called
historical materialism,
is to win all the time.
It can easily be
a match for anyone,
if it enlists the services
of theology, which
today, as we know,
is small and ugly
and has to keep
out of sight.
Walter Benjamin,
On the Concept
of History.
You know that
the waves are only
waves, and the sea
is only the sea,
and you cant put god
in a boat.
Charles Olson,
cited by Robert Duncan
in Charles Olson Marriage of Anthropome in Laffers
Memorial Lecture.
My mother is a fish.
W. Faulkner,
As I Lay Dying.
ecstasy ? fantasy ?
insanity ?
H. D.,
Hermetic Definition.
18
with the exhaustibility of
her psychic resources, to a rhythm
beyond the frontiers of suffering,
at the threshold of freedoms
new landscape.
To the thrilling Sound
of the Suspense alarm, between
the luminary and the net
with a symbolic flourish that
signaled an insurrectional halt
to the disastrous acceleration of
semio-inflation across the ship
she came to a pause,
placed her feet wide apart,
and without bending her knees
swayed her lithe torso downward
until her chin touched the deck;
then, as if releasing magnetine
streams of Meaning and Affection,
Friendship and Love
above and against overproduction
in the field of attention, against
the mathematization of language,
her body slowly rose again; and,
standing tall, with ease and grace,
she let the embroidered trousers
that enveloped her legs fall
to the ground, and stepped out
of her slippers as seminude Bride
in a world made safe
for de-automation and poetry.
The reference to the Chymical
Critique of Pure Mercy was clear:
Maria whirled on, while the music
of the Tri-Tone alarm
grew louder and the faces
in her audience began to shine;
she paused again at the foot
of the Great Spiral stairway,
under the Tweet alarm,
and, like Geulincx the Fumist
on the Stairway of Destinies in

Guide for the Dazed and Confused,
Come, my friends. /
'Tis not too late
to seek a newer
world. / Push off,
and sitting well
in order smite /
the sounding furrows;
for my purpose
holds / To sail
beyond the sunset,
and the baths / Of all
the western stars,
until I die.
A. Tennyson, Ulysses.
Six decks I gave her,
dividing her thus
into seven, /
Into nine compartments
I divided her interior /
I struck the bilge plugs
into her middle. /
I saw to the punting-poles
and put in the tackle /
Poured pitch
into her furnace / Seemingly whisked out from under,
Tar / Oil / by a Refrain beyond the nosphere,
Oil for libations.
Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
19
threw herself into a handstand;
her feet rose straight
in the air, and, holding
the Archetypal pose
of Nomad-Monad, she climbed
on her hands up the stairs
to the deck, behind the spanker,
and arrived motionless
in front of the Lens.
The nape of her neck
formed a Right Angle
with the bones of her Spine,
her veils fell around her face
like a headdress; as she arched
her back and angled her pubic
Triangle toward the malic panel
in the alcove, her eyes opened
and glowed with radiant
Sensibility, as if drawing energy
from the stars through the Lens
while, one by one, from signal
to signal, the alarms
of Red Alert shut down.
across a Slippery Deck,
she dropped on her side, Dead.
 Spring 2017
Billy Cancel

shut your lonely planet guide to k-hole

& the k-land peninsula where the knock
em down rain is so compositionally sharp &
auto-tongue wipers are aloof pessimistic
muttering about inevitable synchronicity from
here to inter cloud spac attack your
closer reading of the meatball beef shall reveal
an impermeable geometric surface & an
attack of the slows dont get in a snit if
youre unclear on the concept of
specialized off shore proletariat myself
i fell into afternoon farming to maintain a put
upon alter ego shacked up with a zigzag the
idea pot testing new types of multi slack in lieu
of my monday night at the movies a 3rd voice
a watchman amongst the cows at dawn whispers
into a growing chorus of some of us have to eschew
strict categorization & live
here we want to go
out & walk with lucy
 gazing through blue funk with
a jaundiced eye you jump the
fence & make off on all 4s because
white ants their incessant presence white
ant shit & the hills closing in this low
lying poorly graded area was most unsuitable
for a beano was frazzing about the moss
flowers grasses til my little glider
wings were overloaded with yearnings
for kitsch marshmallow clouds meanwhile youre
right-sized beneath a half-penny
planet waiting to be led by a green man through
these mini explosions biscuits hanging high &
you need a knife & fork harm can come to a
boy that way is superblock
cul-de-sac means this midnight overdrive
through bandit territory what
do you
think little
sir echo?
 the rich man in his castle the cryptid in his microclimate
his style is blast door hard for randos to get into peppered
with references to psychosomatic tick tock certainly its
a pigs head & the wind is blowing suddenly
from the east & we all know what
that means this is the
evening of the deluge where 3
generations of circus king stop & downgrade to a
fools head on a stick skilled-loop-relentless-noise-
tide-gloom-gestural-matrix-of-diamond-cut-diamond though
wino time with anchors is proper lush lolling
in adverse landscape dense mixed forest
valley our talking & a jawing hardly rapid descent zig
zag pattern high speed low drag polluted sky same
city ill tow that about a bit & bring it in before we
come over all unnecessary then have to go on the john
bull search from hell to gone still find nothing because
careless-weeds-burst-into-drive-away-careless-
weeds-burst-into-drive-away-careless-weeds until
by the 4th season in square 1 i stand hand on hips wearing a green visor
 coming down from my wizard phase surrounded by
cake n booze i discovered the merits of half-belief &
let the angst line go deep into the folkways of
that swirling nocturnal blur where he picked up his
marbles & went home & numerous forces
interests encounter each other so you can be both all
about that micro niche & go off some people billy-
no-bird & johnny-on-the-spot are in fact
the same dynamic relationship structure 2 lamps
burning & no ships at sea knotted composition
reinforced by its own superlative sod them if
they cant take a joke wet paper can cut me cool
head main thing right? because idea hamster wont unfuck
this hospital hold commuting daily to & from inverted
commas just for a chicken in a basket at the
star dust hotel i had the briefest of
contact with
psych-abstract disaster
scene now it is morning
in the swamp & the olympics have left town
 Spring 2017
bruno neiva

5 works from GUY (alt version)

 Spring 2017
Charlie Hill

Multitudes
I contain multitudes. Walt Whitman

It is morning, said the first Sam and the bed became a bustle of activity. He loved, on mornings like this, to
lie with his face in a sunbeam. The forking of blood vessels across his closed eyelids reminded him of leaves
in autumn: thrown into the air in great armfuls or crunched underfoot. He liked the cold when it was
optional.

The second Sam would not be stirred. She dreamed of her body's curves and of friends' adoration. The third
Sam bounced excitedly all around the second. It wanted to be outside. Failing that, it wanted to press the
skin of its forehead against the windowpane and run a finger along the flaking paint of the frame.

The fourth wondered if staying in bed this long could in some way be an act of class violence. How could
they live without hurting anyone? Were they not taking away from everyone else by the simple fact of their
existence? After all, the world was overcrowded and it was only getting worse.

It was the seventh, a very ancient Sam, that compelled motion in search of a fight, a righteous war. The ninth
managed to find food though she couldn't shed Eight's suggestion that bran flakes look like scabs.

The seventeenth Sam was driving. She thought about the first as she edged through traffic: the spring sun on
her accepting face. She wondered how many other minds were around her and whether they worked in the
same way. From here she could see dozens of cars that implied heads that implied brains and she knew the
queue would stretch on for miles. As she imagined leaping into all the other heads around her, she was lost.

The eighteenth Sam wondered if her wrists were too hairy.

The twenty-fifth wondered why there were even here. Thirty-seven hated his noodle soup but had a lovely
lunch spent studying the broad back of Bernard from Accounts. He pictured digging his French tips into that
back really leaving a mark. The seventh Sam, still hanging on at the back of the mind, found itself
confused but approving of these thoughts.
The forties were a council of Sams debating whether asking Bernard for a drink was a risk worth taking.
Live a little, said Forty-six, who looked a lot like Sam's mother. It was Sixty-seven that had the courage and
defeated Sixty-six who was already making a run for the car.

Seventy-six didn't like beer, but liked the idea of drinking it. Thirty-seven still had wind from lunch and
thought more bubbles were a bad idea. Forty-six said, G&T is the lady's choice.

Eighty-two thought this conversation had gone on too long but Eighty-three wouldn't arrive to save him, so
instead this Sam focused just above Bernard's eyes, where his hairline was receding. Eighty-two couldn't tell
if this was a mind game or just boredom.

Sam ninety-nine tried her best to salvage a lacklustre engagement, but Bernard seemed to have a
preternatural sense for hitting awkward angles. One-oh-one was too sweaty and thought only of a shower.
One-sixteen knew she shouldn't be driving but there was no way she was coming back for the car tomorrow.

One-two-four had a kebab and didn't pay attention to a Ryan Reynolds movie. One-two-six found the spot
Bernard couldn't and it was so wonderful he questioned why he ever left the house.

Sam one-two-nine marvelled at how rarely she got a chance to come out. Hers was a world of amphetamines
and essay deadlines, one that had slipped out of existence in the past few years. She vanished into the void of
sleep before she could turn this into a profound realisation.
 Spring 2017
Christopher Ozog

This Weight Is A Gift

The millennials stand on 4th street,

microphoning & preaching like medallions,
lobotomizing language & reviving their apparatus,
rendering them into the fleeting resurgence of truce,
where words are minced & barely spoken.
Where the air is so timid and the mind so vacant;
where the flare of the autumn wind,
captures solemn hymns, & suffocates them,
riding onto the coattails of fierce sentiments,
built like titanium, where their neon lips swell.
A critical gaze, An indignant sleuth.
Am I the song, am I the equivalent,
conforming to lollipop whispers
and lushly serenading banters?
Maybe I'm creationist, but maybe I'm just zen,
watching the recidivists recede back into their tombs,
& inside the suns womb, where skeletons of generation X,
spill out from under the gutter.
Comforting Ashes

Inside my immaculate shelter,

and in-between insanity & sanctity,
in my times of forging for this blessed feat,
the only retreat that acquiesces
and liberates itself from it's estrangement,
the rhythms and rhymes that I mine,
- still remain,
and i'm the same,
and these severed veins,
from a prematurely aging temple harbor,
as my feet still shuffle the same way
down the pavement
as it always does,
this crippling mosaic strains.
Twenty-Four years
launched from
the fertile grasp of maternities
emergency evacuation,
preconditioned lullabies
simmered through air,
and archived until
the next seed planted,
and as I slowly rose from
these ashes,
& watched all these shrubs
tare from the ground
before their prime,
I try to hurdle
through my next rhyme,
attempting to evade every
shard and every thorn.
To this day I equip this
conjecture,
& wonder if it was really
worth creating.
But I am not a mountaineer,
and I am not a conductor,
nor a contractor,
I am the contract,
suspended in time,
until the embargos been lifted,
while everyone else,
desperately seeks,
an existential relapse,
into the arms of longevity.
Time Never Gave Us Reason!!

To an ailing presence,
mirrors rob a life in transit.
Interstate, along the rails of continuum,
continuity's life cycle spins into the depths
of the slumbering sunset, before youth finally escapes,
and climbs out the rear window.
But he's no fire-escape. He accelerates into the arm's of decay,
conforming to the speed, while twilight's sage still burns brightly,
and embraces the age of an ailing respirator.
Supersonic accelerations sting this man,
where youthful revitalization's are burned by the last breathing torch.
In the Polaroids of decades reversing, he looks to the past behind,
sees all that rusts, the hourglass with all it's sand.
Takes a stake in life's grandiose rehearsal,
distorting the memoirs in a novel that remains sullied,
to seize the reigns of time; is this the day we conclude?!
Will we make amends, or repent for one last chapter?
Fending For The Reigns

In the winter the season stutters; springs lift you up,

but times arrow snipes & pulverizes your line of processions.
you are dynamite; and you fear the light.
Reluctance resonates, but you are the respirator,
A broken valve, that cant be defibrillated.
 Spring 2017
Daniel Y. Harris

Exergue VII, VIII, IX, X, XI from The Tryst of Thetica Zorg

Exergue VII

Odor receptor genes are codified by Sophia Latrinus.

She disinfects crackers, bluing keygens with nag screens.
Tetrachromacy alters opsins, unboring Ur-Nammu script.
Sophia redacts jargon. Demophily is the one true fiction.
Razzmatazz, catechetical praxis turns pulp.
Naphtali sacrifices the heifer Baal. Was it in the primer?
Sous le pav, la plage, says Deputy Kohanim. Catatonia
settles the Greekjew heist. This things manichean
beyond dispute. Sophia sings a sloka. Jacqueries for all.
Duryodhana blows his conchshell. Just dosing yourself
with androstadienone wont lude your tube. Nanofibre
bundle along peduncles, p64 interface for new
arborisations. Mr. Segundus wants a recall. Rational
thaumaturgy has its chlets de ncessit. Sophias lot,
corpse bride. A new emergency implant is housed
in cisterna magna. We go for blood and cerebrospinal
fluid. Mr. Talthybius and Mr. Eurybates, your Botox
injections are ready. [agobot3-Source.rar].
They arch: haec mrgo mortua est etfamiha eius earn
ad vitam redire mil t. Caustic equity removes fatigue
toxins. Ctrl+Z/Ctrl+Y= revenant. Pride in whos crux?
Sophias, on her brocaded throne with nooscopic crown,
sifting biometric data. Tell the field agents that dyadic
hierarchies cause a fiat lux ex nihilo. The day Danaos
took Argos, terra nullius shucked its terminus. Our
commonality is spent in the ruck.
Exergue VIII

In Mount Athos sketes, the verbivocovisuals a pornado.

Stellification is left for theists with subcutaneous battery
packs in their chests. 15 degrees C using micro-Peltier,
leverage a remix. Conflagration dire. Cenobitic pure.
Maximillian Pissante preens his nanocomposite,
honeycomb veneer. Hobohemias hot helmet, uncreative
genius lifts the veil off dada dcor. The base escapes
the nobler suffix -oid, oeides like stern, metalloid is neuter
as metallum. Divinity regrams Thetica criticism.
Revision ratios have copyright loopholes. Facts are outliers.
Spambot Assumptio Mosis wages the last Crypto War
against Maximillian. Scimitars repeat curves. Fascicles
ratify pro domo. We meant listicles in laquearia.
Silver fleck nearby or was it titanium lacing? Nothing
but triumphal identitarians are left. Just beneath skin,
ceramokevlar scales hiss. Rot peeks in brine. Air clots,
toward you. High fives, libra pondos. Hyphae
incubate. Const char c_CDTray[MAX_PATH]={CD
Tray opened. Closed if not on a laptop.};. Maximillian
invests in bionic brass knuckles, strikes
a #TheticaZorg hashtag. +1 damage dice on brawl.
Maxi ejaculates through his fontanel. Teratism
has its rarity. Proprioception signals beam across
pain shunts as schizoid supermen over tetragons.
Neurochips are the new fetus graffiti.
Exergue IX

Gregor Samsa cums in a vestry for our prostituta

and our hrn, derived from root keh-,crus, caritas, hure,
cher, in the argosy, mixes obsequies with chickbait for trolls.
Jtnar from the Skldskaparml or the doxbin?
Stay away from arachnophobia. Be mutant lewd.
An electrode mesh in the locus coeruleus pilots turn
on fake conquests. Bodily dysregulation crowd
portlets. The Imps blame hetaerae for demagnetization.
Nullity fits the procrustean. Be anomies. Does firmware
have a cutoff? Mark architraves with Lunacy Act 1845,
(8 & 9 Vict., c. 100). Theres a 5% chance that locus coeruleus
will be damaged. Faux sunyata is all the rage. Shredders
for capos, says Gregor, redacting a carceral jeux.
Upkeep is gobbledygook. Best to upgrade bodychem
sensors. Dermacomps are free. No vein seeds for Onan.
Not Tiberian nn in levirate decline. Yibbum favors
halizah, but Onan has rebits, cuckholds
and FLGGNKHILN. Grayware
is shot through a phylum. Armatures unravel.
Has descriptive miasma failed? Gregor demurs.
Zussamenleben is no longer for tenured radicals.
Achtung! The autoinjector has a special syringe.
For her bros, Salvia Divinorum or Sally-D,
filibusts our exergues with Mazatec Indians.
Bundled, its easy to fault metamatics. Pentapod
biolasers fit the index finger.
Exergue X

At WinInet.lib Temple, the Imps use cyberlimbs

whose very acephalia plugs fugitive criture. Captions
cede privilege. Hepatic expanders occupy. The Persian
defeat at Marathon is asemic. Two cyclists
shake their fists, #pid = os.fork(). Upticks in snark
effect motherboards. Extortion is on the rise. Convert
palms. Convert peristyles, flanked by p3 slabs. Maximillians
resolute. Hes unpurged by epitaphs. 8s a perfect cube,
the octuplus, mn, prit, sekiz, kakte-ksa and ot(w), 1 of 2
fibonacci numbers. Velocipedes on crucifixes
are slated to win this heretic hunt. The bastard said
a jovial hullabaloo. Resist or cuck. Asses prefer straw
or specific voter blocs. Depends on the avatar pic,
frothed with convolvulus. At all cost, reverse cause
and effect. Int recv_strip_null(int sock, void *buf, int
len, int flags). Our ectypes are due a prognosis.
Maxis indisposed. Hes staging a duel at the Jardin
des Tuileries. Renomme be monstrum horrendum.
Thug out, biatch. Pack biotech guns. No word
from our sponsor. Whys the punk peignoir
complacent? It not. Suicide bomb holy hush.
The Imps search aleatoric refuge. Muzzle velocity:
540mps. Magazine: 60 rounds. ROF: 1/3 range.
Damage: 1d10 (x2). Release hordes. Your target,
tailored fungal spores. Homerids legislate
and disavow passism. Nothing less than abattoirs
for haulers. Vandalize the masterpiece.
Exergue XI

The Imps enroll in a messy volksgemeinschaft. Fiefdoms

for all with brachiocephatic sleeves. The linchpin
is deinococcus radiodurans as trente glorieuses. Are hybrids
prims? Bacterium is tough as Conan the Cimmerian
in the Hyborian Age. Hansa the Hanseatic pits umbrage
against a Jaschonek Fabrikant A-9 Sturmgewehr. Stop
faiblesse, begs Khra, agitating a parasitic superace.
Cuius regio cuius religio = checksum_generic((uint16_t *)
iph, LOCAL_ADDR_(struct iphdr)). Posterior analytics
triumph over primary colors. Detritus fuses blow out.
Khra rubs her face with flammable gel, lays her dolls
on shipping pallets. Immortality is borborygmic.
Trundle out the revanchist city and offer lebensraum
for racial health. Outlaw urbanisms the bomb. Tap
peskyspy for militant exorcism and reclining nudes.
Were always in partibus infidelium, our flechette
gun a posie, affaire dabme. Wheres that clitoral trigger?
There are too many kleptocrats in the moshpit. Near
the offing, a panopticon jacks its cage. Identity theorists
crash the leetspeak seminar and tear down R. Mutts
Fountain. Just what the Olympians require. Paralytic
agents in the surveillance feeds raise the terror threat.
Opening night for Krapps Last Tape. Hot thrums drool.
Vova and Olga Galchenko juggle. Khra
fights for breath as deplorables instill a savior. BSOD.
 Spring 2017
Dilip Mohapatra

HIDDEN HORIZONS

I cup your face in my hands

and search for the world
that slowly materialises
as I delve deep into
the abyss of your eyes
seeing the sea wax and wane
in tandem with
the neaps and springs
and the breakers brimming silently
at the threshold of the
kohl lined edges
and retracing their footsteps
to come back again and again.

The world that takes shape

as your breezy breath
picks up its rhythm
and embeds and encapsulates
within all the
raging storms in the universe
and as blood seeps into
your cheeks that
slowly get incarnadined
into a blushing pink
your lips quiver
and pucker in a pout
the sighs escaping in a whimper.
The world that forms
in the cup of my hands
then dissolves into
something like
a shapeless magmatic mass
spaceless
timeless
having no coordinates
no boundaries
no demarcations
no more the heart plunges
no more the soul soars
but the quest continues
for the seeds and the shadows

and for
the hidden horizons.
ADRIFT

It fails my memory to remember

the umpteen times that
I cast off and came alongside
again to brave the waves
and be back to the harbour again
and again to secure fore and aft.

It fails my memory to recount

the hazards I overcame
the dark and dense nights
that I sliced through while
the vagrant waves relentlessly
crashed against my gunwales.

It fails my memory to reflect on

the reflections of the desolate moon
on the mirror of the sea
and the black dots on a distant sky
becoming bigger and bigger as the
seagulls close in and perch on my mast.

Now as I get ready for my final voyage

perhaps never to return
I don't care anymore if my ship
is still seaworthy
if my sails are with gaping holes
shrivelled on a ramshackle mast
if my compass still swings
or if my charts are updated
for I have no need for any of these
nor do I need any hand to
hold my hand to lead me on.

Let me free my ropes from

all the bollards and cleats
and sail into the unfamiliar seas
for one last time
with no fear of the winds and waves
no wait for the landfalls
no more scanning the horizon
for a flashing beacon
but just float away
on my journey of serendipity
that may take me wherever
whenever
for I have no definite destination
nothing to deliver either
and no compulsion
to retrace my tracks and do a u turn.
ON THE EDGE

As you stand precariously

on the precipice
dreading to look down
and you are equally scared
to turn around
and retrace your steps
back to the cesspool
that you left behind
don't you despair
the time is not yet up
the story is not yet over.

Just remember
no weapon can ever destroy you
nor can you be burnt by any fire
no water can ever drown you
nor can the wind blow you away
for you are in deed
immortal
invincible
indomitable
being an extension
of the supreme soul
not trapped in the confines
of time and space
of birth and death
of hell and heaven.

Spread the wings of your soul

and let it rise and levitate
while you hurl yourself
off the ledge
and let your body be sucked
into the endless oblivion
and let your finite self
lose its identity
in the vastness
of timeless eternity
and boundlessness
of cosmic infinity.
SHELF LIFE

Immortality
is just a concept
an attempt to
fool yourself
about your invincibility
at best
a self fulfilling prophecy.

Everything comes
with an expiry date
nothing lasts for ever
everything that goes up
has to come down
sooner or later.

Eternal love
undying love
extraordinary love
and relationships
that defy death
and get carried over
birth after birth
are only fallacies
and make believe
pretensions and
perhaps
sweet deceptions
that hold no water.

It's finally
about asphyxiation
of the life line that fed into
your turgid arrogance
inflated with
a tumescent
bravado
and a defiant ego
that you nurtured
over the years which
finally cowers in a corner
whimpering and gasping
for breath
with an irreversible flaccidity
of a placid phallus!
AFTERMATH

The sun no longer splinters

into million shining stars
through the prism
of the dew drops
gravitating on once
green leaves that have
now been liberated
and have fallen at the root
of the denuded tree.

Amidst the leaves

strewn around
lie our wilted kisses
our frigid sighs
our flaccid silences
and droplets of our
cold sweat that
collect in confluence
on a fecund wet soil
but to no avail.

Let me pick up my rake

and sweep them into a heap
and strike a match
to incinerate them
and turn them into
smoke
that would slowly curl up
and mix with the pollen
wafting in the air
and that way
at least I will save
them from rotting
and from
definite decadence.

Then I shall go home

recounting to myself
the happy stories
that we wrote together
and reliving
those intense moments
when we sang
in tune
with the amorous birds
that chirped on the boughs
across your window.
 Spring 2017
Doug Bolling

Terret 14

Plane of light across a room.

Just there.

A presence.
A spacing as though a
moment counted.
A colloquy of particles seen unseen.

A texture of a stance suddenly there.

How you said through a silence:

What is it to be so positioned be
as though an

ontology now speaks.

A plane of light and a silence. The object in its place

as if all motion counted not at all.

Is there then a saving equation you asked.

Some means by which to dig.

Some reconciling of a universal with

 a seethe of particulars

As once Aquinas & the gowned ones sought.

0r is there within the dream

a melting,
a colluding toward
a mirage

a celebration of all shadows in

Platos cave.
_________________
 Stria 3

A silence along a space

As of a suspension
As of a shadow unmoving

The single moment within a flow

As though hands
Might enfold,
A cupping
A palming of an instant

High in the village of Soggetto

We drank far into night
We attended the aged guitarist
As he wound sound around
The silences

A moment is the story of a lifetime

Alyssa said
Through the perfumed smoke
The spaces slowly arriving

A mind and a story she said

A moment holding within
A vastitude

We are the streamers unweaving

As we draw spaces in the long
Corridors of the moment

She said.
___________
 Stria 2

The constructed self they said

A devising out of a felt need,
A departure

Cezanne paints the woods, a mountain

Off there

A colloquy of trees unspeaking in

Their gowns of greenery & bark
A brush stroking, a palette of oils
A fabrication of a visual

Does a poem negotiate the spaces

The temporals
They asked
A linear formation, a breaching in
The complicity

Take the train to Prague they said below

The rain
Turn left then right proceed
As though a goal
A song you must compose

Each of us a composition of masks

They said

Beckett knew:

It is most difficult to traverse

A spatiality
Not likely that your daytime self
Will construe its passage
Through the maze.
 Stria 1

An object shaping a space

An arrival of a thereness
A containment of a time, a space
A resolution so as to
Stipulate, refine

This is not easy such

Navigation of a being
A being there
Because once they asked the
Overwhelming question:

How is it a compression such that

A touching feels it,
An object
Suspended among such flux

And we the seekers composing

As though in dream,

A writing down
As if to grasp,
To confirm.
 Spring 2017
James Sherry

MENUS A CLEF

This book is dedicated to all my former friends and to Deborah Thomas for having thought
of this book and being a good egg about letting a more famous artist do the drawings so that
we can sell more copies.

Blurbs for back cover:

"No way."--Mad Magazine

"Eat this."--MFK Fisher

"Eat me."--Mimi Sheraton

"Probably no one will publish this because they dont seem very tasty to me."--Author's
Mother

PREFACE

It has struck me of the serious and immediate need for this book to expand our awareness of
the unseen, untasted, and untasteable in culinary experience. Too many cookbooks have
been written solely for the recipes, forcing the cookbook reading public to see cooking only
as it relates to eating, to the physical body, and not as it relates to the self, the, if you will,
inner body.
In the Philosopher in the Kitchen Brillat Savarin describes a brawl he had on a riverboat in
the American wilderness where the mere mention of truffles raised the hackles of one of
those ruffians of whom Walt Disney and John Ford have been so fond. Of course, the brawn
of the American was no match for the master's tenacity, Savarin promising to die, himself, if
it was necessary to drown his antagonist and truffle-hater.

But this is the great cook's idea of philosophy. I am sure in his other writings he was able to
articulate some more subtle arguments and certainly his understanding of the art of cooking
and eating surpassed the standards by which most judge, yet the cookbook writing somehow
bogged down in cookery, so to speak, not feeding the larger person.

Poetry, speaking as it does to the five senses as well as to other less palpable ones, is ideally
suited to addressing the topic of cooking entirely. Language poets, as opposed to poets trying
to versify prose, in particular, not content to languish in the idiom of the heart and the
emotions, felt, true, deeper, creative, adjectival imagination, being today's poets and being
the poets I know best and perhaps least likely to take umbrage at this slight deviation from
the doctrinaire which I might make in order to clarify for the novice just which part of speech
we are cooking and begin a parboiled letter writing campaign against me personally.

Not that this is not true of other American and significant poets of today who true to the
standards of American democracy allow freedom of expression as the first tenet of their
constitution and would never dream of questioning whether an individual might have a valid
alternative to the politics which the use of words puts in our mouths.

After writing the first draft of these recipes, I sent them to the poets from whom they are
plucked.

Dear Fellow Poet, (I wrote)

Enclosed is your recipe, part of the Language Cook Book. Please feel free to revise is as you
would like. Keep in mind that this is my book not yours and if your revisions do not in my
view reflect an amplification and exaggeration of your theory / character / poetry / politics
(projected or actual) then I will ignore your suggestions as well as your lawyer's phone calls,
summonses, and subpoenas except in so far as they will add to hyping and attracting
audiences to this volume soon to be published as a mass market paperback in Japan where
they appreciate a good laugh.

I have eliminated your names except in the cases where you gave me permission use the
possessive of your name in the title of each recipe. I have since of course heard that my dear
friend Douglas Messerli is soliciting recipes from writers as well and I hope his effort will not
prevent you from being mad at me that he is doing this.

One of the less honorable members of the group suggested I footnote which ingredients or
functions of your recipe were added or amended by you in order that we can produce a
second (authoritative), annotated, scholarly, variorum edition, hardbound to sell at even
more outrageous prices to academies and libraries sucked into the neo-franco-frankfurter
mode by squeaky professors.

In any case, let me know what you think.

Sincerely,

James Sherry

Early readers of this book, have said this is not cooking. Anyone can do this. It's just messing
around with food. I advise them to read the Crackers without Cheese recipe carefully for a
rejoinder and that messing around with food is not for the uninitiated and you should not try
this at home.

CRACKERS WITHOUT CHEESE

This recipe was derived from the famous Kung Pao concoction "For the Birds" which used
fortune cookies. It is also related to the Tibetan cure for Herpes Zoster, usually transmitted
to Vadrayana monks by their habit of french kissing yaks for enlightenment.

The charge that this is not cooking at all is answered in Engles' letter to Marx, "What is
cooking? Cooking is the application of labor to food and non-food ingredients to accumulate
them for the diner." The charge that this dish is finally not eaten by humans can be
dismissed as speciesist, because food only passes through humans anyway on the way to the
cosmos, and because no one ever thought to problematicize the assumption that people had
to eat using their mouths. This is a feast of restraint.

(serves God)
1 Box of crackers with shortest ingredients list on box
1 Starched, white, folded table cloth
1 High stack of dinner plates (more than 10)
1 Book of matches

Spend several weeks during which you are also getting married, starting a new business
selling commercial air conditioning, training for the marathon, and writing the definitive
tract on the "Barthes Brothers" during hours on the clock no one has yet dreamed of,
researching the cracker question. Put the clean starched, white table cloth on the table.
Keep it folded up. Put the stack of dinner plates in the corner of the table and the book of
matches on the topmost dinner plate.

Remove crackers from box. Place box off center on the table. Lay out crackers in neat rows
on the table cloth so that no cracker touches any other. Stare intently at the crackers without
moving them or you for 157 minutes. Get up suddenly and leave the room. Come back later
and throw the crackers out by the bird feeder. Write a long dissertation attacking everything
and everybody in your vicinity revealing your self-hatred.

BALONEY SANDWICH

White boys eat white bread and so on. There is no real need to explain this recipe which is a
time honored American favorite even though Bologna might be an Italian city. The
ingredients are intentionally bland, because although the dish is advertised as radical it is in
fact only virtual radical, since any real spice be it culinary or emotional is too threatening and
only the implication of spice will suffice.

(serves self)
1 container prepackaged bologna (liverwurst may be substituted)
1 loaf enriched white bread (must contain only "correct"
[ingredients)
1 jar light yellow mustard
1 grey or green flecked with gold formica top kitchen table with
[galvanized legs

Spread two or three slices of bologna on the table. Spread them as far apart from each other
as they can be without seeming to be moved simply to the edges of the table. A useful hint is
to draw a margin within the edges of the table about four to six inches from each edge and
place the slices wholly within that margin. Really you are using the center of the table
around which to rotate a series of ellipses, but only the words margin and edge should
inform the way you speak about positioning. Keying off the center is inevitable (STP), but
questionable.

Radicalize the bologna by tearing off the plastic skin. If no plastic skinned lunch meat is
available, don't tell anyone and try to make the meat look as if it had a skin and you tore it off
to make it more easily used by an eater you imagine is too dumb to know either that bologna
is skinned or not or how to peel it if it has a skin. Place two slices of bread equally far apart as
the bologna so that the pieces of bread are unrelated to each other or the bologna.

Note: this may necessitate moving the bologna configuration, but it is necessary to totalize
the structure with every change while posturing a community-based theory. Spread the
mustard, using a sharp pointed steak or long bread knife to avoid charges of instrumentality,
on the side and legs of the table. If the table has leaves, pull the leaves out but not before
spreading mustard between the leaf and the body of the table. Spread mustard correctly
rather than liberally.

Eating Bologna Sandwiches Out:

If eating this dish in a restaurant, eat each ingredient separately, by deconstructing the
sandwich. Make sure you taste everyone else's food at your table while scoffing at the other
tables in the restaurant. Whip out your pocket calculator and figure out how much the
sandwich cost. Do not add your percentage of the tax into the kitty as a protest against the
way taxes are allocated. Subtract from the total the difference between the waitress' salary
and a first-year lawyer's salary. Put down exact change and leave before anyone else can add
up their share, saying you have to go to an avant-garde plumbing/dance collaboration and
only the first 17 people who arrive with their calculators, subtly explaining why you carry the
thing around to restaurants, will be admitted.
 Spring 2017
Joshua King

Poena Cullei

The monkey seemed at once our only hope of escape and our best chance of dying sooner than expected. His

intelligence made him my best ally, sure, but his temper was a real drawback.

They only ever used a monkey if they had one on hand. Thats what I had always heard. I can only

wonder how the ridiculousness of this had never crossed my mind. They always seemed to have a monkey

on hand. It made no sense. But, as you know, once you start thinking that the whole world begins to come

apart at the seams.

Though it was as dark as ox-hide in there, there could be no mistaking who was who. The dog was

the most docile, which was unsurprising. I had often seen stray dogs - which I assumed they used for these

things - approach people in the streets and enter houses looking for food, unafraid of humans. My presence

probably made him think more of scraps than of fear, lucky bugger. The snake was somewhere about, but

there was no way of knowing where. A small thing. Probably not venomous. Just for show really. As for the

rooster, if there hadnt been a monkey, he would have taken top spot on the list of least desirable sack

partners. He didnt peck or scratch or anything like that, he just found it hard to keep still and nigh

impossible to keep quiet.

 That, in short, was the company I kept in the sack.

At this point we were rumbling down the road on the back of the cart, just getting to grips with each

other. The crowd outside were following along, probably thirty or forty strong by now. I couldnt really hear

them thanks to the monkey and the rooster, but I was sure they were there because I had been among them

enough times. They usually kept quiet anyway, because the real fun was in listening to the prisoner and

seeing if he could shout louder than the animals. And though they often could, I wasnt going to give the

crowd that satisfaction.

The prisoners in my position often made the mistake of shouting fluribis or something similar at

this time. The river was more desirable than the sea, you see. But, if youre already in the sack, they dont

care much about your preferences, and anything you say is likely to get spun right around and turned into

the opposite. So if they were going to the river, and they heard you shout for it, theyd likely change their

mind out of spite. Besides, the sea was much closer and the river was barely six feet deep, so it was real

wishful thinking. I wasnt as stupid as the others. I accepted my fate, even though I had done nothing wrong.

The cart was bumping along a gravel street and over all manner of surfaces, and I could, despite all,

feel that we were going downhill, so I thought that the sea was just half a mile or so away.

Even though the road jolted and rocked the cart terribly, I managed to balance myself in a little ball, a

sort of egg shape, and so I succeeded in not upsetting anyone too much. The dog even rested his head on my

leg. Everyone else was, understandably, upset and showing it, but, in group solidarity, no one had drawn

blood yet.

Due to a gross misjudgement of how long the road was, I was surprised by the sack being suddenly

yanked up out of the cart and dropped on the floor. The pain was no worse than I had already been feeling. I
landed first, the dog on me, the monkey on him, the rooster on him and the snake somewhere about. Under

different circumstances I could imagine savoring the moment for a party anecdote. Those gathered around

wouldnt believe what an interesting life I led.

As I expected, this was the point where the crowd all moved forward and got a few kicks in, and, if

they had a weapon with them, stabbed and prodded the sack until the guard called time. I cant blame them

for this. They wanted the show to go on for as long as possible. Afterwards they had nothing to go back to

but the usual routine of work or school, maybe a short bath or workout if there was time and then, if there

was no theatre to be enjoyed, an evening reclining in wait for the next day.

After ten minutes or so of kicking, they let up. The monkey was screaming and causing me a notable

amount of harm, the bugger.

But then all went still.

We had no solid edge to rest on suddenly, and all of us bunched together in the bottom end of the

giant bag, in the same formation as when we had been dropped from the cart. And then we were dropped

from what I could only assume was the cliffs edge.

The sound of the cheering crowd quickly died away into a distant whimper. We couldnt feel the air

rip past us, because the thick hide took the brunt, but what we did feel was weightlessness. No doubt it was a

rather banal experience for the rooster, but the rest of us fell still and silent, enjoying the macabre theatre of

the moment before having to accept the inevitable. The bottom of the sack drifted away from me and the top

hung somewhere above, rippling like it was in the water already. Just before we hit the sea, there was a

moment of pre-impact when my body decided it must react somehow, and it knew that it should expect pain.

If there had been any light inside Im sure we would have exchanged glances, nodded in acknowledgement,
a final here we go, chaps. I braced myself. Even the snake stopped its incessant slithering and coiled up. The

dog put both front legs around me, ready to treat me as a flotation device, of sorts. When we hit the water it

felt as if my skeleton had been stripped and muddled and put back together.

The monkey, quite understandably, was as mad as a monkey could get.

***

Im sure youre wondering how I came to be in this situation. Just remember to ignore the stories around

town. You know how quickly rumors can get out of control.

Only a few hours ago I was walking home from work. I am not anything important. Well, certainly

not now. But then I was only a shopkeeper. The slaves and aristocracy neatly enveloped me on either side of

the social hierarchy, and neither had any need for the pottery I peddled. The lucky ones in my trade were

getting involved with spices and silk and ivory and whatever other new fad was busy enjoying its time in the

sun. No one bought pottery, it was true, but at least that would last for a thousand years. Not like these silly

crazes. I had a legacy at least. And goodness knows it wasnt going to come in any other form. Kids, for

example. No girl looked twice at me anymore.

But thats another story.

I was walking home from work with a basketful of unsold pottery. With times as they are, you know,

and Romans coveting things they have no right to, I have had to start ferrying my wares back and forth each

day or there would be nothing there in the morning. Not even pottery is safe in todays world. Jehovah.
 It wasnt late in the day. I had packed up early because business was slow, so there were plenty of

people milling about. I took the way home that I had taken every day before that, which led me through the

marketplace, and, though my hands were full, people still thrust whatever was on their stall in front of me,

shouting random numbers and its one-thousand household uses. I would walk past the gladiator ring, and

sometimes, depending on the time, I could hear the screams and woops of a crowd that had just seen a head

come loose. The next thing I passed was Speakers Row.

Now I dont know if this was its official name, but thats what it was generally known as. Along the

side of the street, up on stones or mounds of dust, or columns if they were particularly good, stood the

speakers.

A harmless bunch usually, what they did was not given much notice by passers-by and the religious

ramblings they spouted was generally not of much interest. However, it was a respected position. I cant put

my finger on the strange mixture of charm and repulsiveness these men exuded, but then no one could, or

wanted to. This mixture just made them invisible. Or, rather, visible but ignored. I dont mean to say that the

Almighty is not a big part of life here, but most preferred to keep their beliefs undiluted by noisy strangers.

On my way home I would often try and catch a fragment of a speech, for fun, out of curiosity. I had

never heard anything that wasnt either banal or benign, and I never thought to expect any different.

On this day there was a new guy up there. They were usually the same people with the same old idea,

so this caused me to take a closer look. Beard: check. Dusty old robe: check. Lack of hygiene: check. Empty

space in front of him: something was different.

Intently listening to every word was not a huge amount of people, but at least fifteen or so onlookers.

They were nodding along, being polite, mouthing the words when it was obvious what he was going to say.
I will trust and not be - and they would all mouth Afraid or something close enough to not make them

look silly. Everyone knew these maxims, because they were echoed everywhere. They had infiltrated like a

smell. I must admit I took great joy in seeing them occasionally struggle to fill in the gaps, and the speakers

hopeful face being greeted with random muttered syllables, designed to sound like any word, forcing him to

finish the verse himself. I mean, to be fair, who would ever guess he will rejoice over you with singing. Not

me. And not any of these gormless buggers.

Here is where it all went wrong.

I was perhaps just a bit giddy and playful having given myself a bit of extra time off work. Or maybe it

was my father coming out in me. Either way, it didnt take much to set me off.

Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the our

old speaker started. The crowd readied themselves to mutter their usual chorus, but one poor old woman,

with her high-pitched squeak, overexcited and desperate to prove herself, took a stab a second earlier than

the rest. It was a shame, because she could only come up with the word bathhouse. An answer so categorically

wrong that it was laughable, unfortunately.

Bathhouse, she said, in more of a sneeze than anything.

Now, Ill be the first to admit this isnt funny. Objectively. But weve all been in those positions where

we know we mustnt laugh, and yet the whole world suddenly seems only good for comedy. Like needing to

pee, it cannot be turned off. The only way out is out.

So I laughed. A big snort of a laugh. Everyone turned around, as they would.

 What you lau hey, thats Arrius boy, someone said suddenly. I was, as he said, Arrius boy. A

murmur went through the crowd. Being a shopkeeper can be quite good for increasing your local fame, but,

sadly, I would only ever be recognized as Arrius boy.

Now, now, said the speaker, allowing his eyes to half-close in faux-contemplation. Im sure this

young man did not mean anything by it. We are all, after all, children of Jehovah, so

Not him! someone else chimed in with. The speaker looked confused and mumbled a petulant

noise. This apple fell right under the tree, the person added.

The crowd approved with nods and guttural noises. Just like his heathen father! another said. Every

eye that had recently been on the speaker was now on me, and the speaker and I seemed to share a desire to

invert this. He stepped forward, elbowing audience members out of his way.

Now listen here, he said. I dont know who this man is, but if you have listened to a word Ive said

then you will know that he has our Fathers goodness in his heart, and

Not this family, a forthright woman who had spoken up before said. The speaker sighed and let it

happen. I tried to throw him a gee-these-people-eh? kind of look, but he preferred to suffer alone, it seemed.

This family doesnt know Jehovah! she continued. You want to know what his father said? The

crowd of people who knew the story well all cried out, Yeah! Yeah!

I, of course, knew what my father had said, as anyone who was anyone knew. The poor speaker was

torn between crowd control and curiosity, and Im sure you can guess which one won out. I tried to explain

to the woman that it was not important, but she cut me short with a look that told me I was in no position to

answer back.
 Well, and youll never believe this, he said that the sun was his god, she said, scanning the crowd

before settling on the speaker. She paused with a look of astonishment on her face. The sun! He said that it

didnt seem likely that this Jehovah of ours would be both all-powerful and hidden away so effectively, and

so the sun seemed as good a thing to worship as any, because She paused again, and the crowd all started

to prematurely mouth along the words with her. Because it was right there, and a god you can see is better than a

god you cant.

This, by the way, is why no girl will look twice at me. Not with a father spouting things like that. Now

you know.

The crowd erupted into a flurry of exasperated jowls and throat-clearances of disbelief. The speaker,

in one final rally of energy, shouted above them all.

Perhaps it is time to forgive his father. Dont you think?

The crowd hushed and looked at each other. A few shuffled uncomfortably. I stood like a lemon,

central to the semi-circle theyd created around me.

We cant, a few eventually muttered.

You can! You can! the speaker said, joy in his open arms.

No, we cant, they said again with a little more confidence.

This is the test, he said, seeing an opportunity to change them all for the better. This is your chance

to forgive and grow. Why? Why cant you?

They looked around, trying to decide who should best speak for them. The woman stepped forward.

Because hes dead.

What?
 We stoned him to death.

Oh.

A powerful silence took over. In my peripherals I could see the speaker looking at me, but I didnt

want to be a part of this anymore. My fathers stoning had happened two, perhaps three years ago now. I

hadnt witnessed it myself, but they say it was over quickly. I had known better than to turn up at my own

fathers stoning. You try and argue, they stone you too. You join in, people say youre a monster. Theres no

winning here. I knew if I were to say anything to this speaker, this crowd, then I wouldnt win.

But, as it turns out, even silence proved rather damning.

And, uh, and did that solve the problem? the speaker said, turning back to the crowd.

Well, no. Now we have his son to deal with. We shouldve known sooner or later the curse would

rise in him.

So, if stoning his father didnt help, what will you do to this man?

He spoke like a schoolteacher, urging the children to reply, in sing-song unison, that forgiveness was

worth a thousand stones.

Stop, I was thinking. Its no use.

We need to do more, the woman said, finally.

Yes! Yes! he replied. Much more!

Just stop.

I regret now that I didnt do something then. Not argue, obviously, but deny any connection to my

family, or at the very least turn heel, drop my pots and run like water. However, I was frozen to the spot, my

arms quivering under the stack of baked clay.

 Then its settled. Poena cullei! she screamed.

What? the speaker said.

Of course, I thought, and the crowd were on top of me in moments.

The Roman guards were usually quite efficient with this sort of thing, and so I didnt even have time

to wipe the blood from my lip before I had been tried, found guilty of blasphemy and thrown into the street

ready to be bagged. Where they found the animals at such short notice, I dont pretend to know. I suppose by

this time they made sure to always have a healthy stock at hand.

***

My eyes had become used to the darkness now, and I began to see the situation for what it was. You do not

need me to describe what these animals look like, and perhaps the image of them all bundled together in

this situation is one best left for your imagination.

I tried not to dwell on it too much. Instead I focused on myself.

The first few moments in the water were, ironically, spent in prayer. Well, not prayer. More a loud,

desperate plea to anyone, omnipotent or otherwise, to step in and offer a hand. In this wild shouting I almost

found myself pleading forgiveness from my father, but managed to check myself at the last moment. I

couldnt ignore the strange twist of fate that had left me being punished in a way that had once been

exclusively for parricide. Nowadays, it covered everything from coveting a neighbors ox to looking at a

guard the wrong way. Whatever is not compulsory is forbidden here. And to do what is forbidden is to be

punished by the sack. That stupid man. I shouldnt be grovelling, I thought, he had had it easy where death
is concerned. During a stoning, you could expect to be pardoned at any moment, it being such a public thing.

Anyone could wander in and stop it. It never happened, of course, but it could. Where would my saviour

come from? Jehovah? The sky? The depths?

I have heard rumors that there are people somewhere that do worship something at the bottom of

the ocean, though how true this is, I cant say. It would be nice to find this were true now. Perhaps this god

would, territorially, evict me and my fellows from its homestead.

But, no, we were simply left to die.

The sack itself was buoyant, which came as a surprise to me. In my mind an ox didnt have much use

for a skin that could float. This world throws up all sorts, I suppose. But luckily it did float, so for the first

couple of minutes we hung there, straddling the line between sky and water.

The sack, of course, was slowly being filled, or rather water was filtering in from all directions, and

though the ceiling of the thing stayed afloat, it did mean that to keep breathing I had to start kicking my legs

like a frog and alternating between ducking under for a few seconds and taking desperate breaths for a

slightly longer few.

The monkey was getting quite unravelled by my constant bobbing, and a thought struck me, or,

rather, I remember the first thought I had had. The monkey. If anyone was going to do it, it would be him.

Break free, that is. It wasnt just strength he had, but determination of character. However, coaxing him into

doing anything other than void his bowels and randomly strike out seemed an impossible task.

My point was proven quite well after I had entered my fifth minute of bobbing up and down like a

fish-bowl toad. Attempting to grab his arm and gesture to him that he should scratch a hole in the roof, that
we werent necessarily done for yet, he screeched, dove, and reappeared immediately with the snake in one

hand and its head in his mouth.

Well, I supposed, that was a step in the right direction, at least.

Poena cullei had been happening for a while now, and it had become popular in the last few years when the

Romans had become bored with the usual punishments, their suddenly being so many rules, and so they

had thought they might spice things up. So it was that the sack stopped being solely to deter parricide, and

had come to be the go to punishment for almost every notable crime.

As a result, we the local drunks and I in the bars - had discussed it at some length, and speculated

and made assumptions about the way things went. The most popular argument was in which order the

sacks contents would die.

Assuming all the subjects survived the cart trip without being eaten or disembowelled, there was no

doubt in my mind that the rooster would die first, I would say. But Ive seen a rooster on water, someone would

always counter, and they use their wings to float, like a leaf. Nonsense. The snake would kill him, I said. Thats

nature. Next to go would be the snake. Why? Because the dog would kill the snake. Have you never seen the

stray dogs around here? Anything that isnt human they eat. Ive seen them break open tortoises with

nothing but teeth and claws. Besides, its their curious nature. Something slipping and whipping about that

much is sure to be pounced on. Yes, fair enough. Next to go, Im afraid would be the dog. The monkey would

never have bothered with anything so small as a rooster or snake. Surely. But a dog? Its a territorial creature,

and more than capable of bringing it down and certainly that way inclined. These animals have instincts for

the biggest threat. Good point, good point. But, if thats the case, why wouldnt the monkey attack you, the human,
first? Well, its, uh, Im sure its a matter of comradery. Like-minded creatures must pull together in times of

hardship, isnt that right? Like-minded? Well, you know, similar creatures. Similar? What are you suggesting?

Oh, no, I dont know. Forget it. More wine?

It was these moments that everyone started to talk about the will of Jehovah, and that it would just go

the way he planned it to go, they supposed. Once I offered up the thought that Jehovah seemed to have some

strange ideas for punishments for a being that could simply erase the sinner from existence with one breath.

As I say, I only offered this once, because no one seemed happy to discuss it. Anyone who would have

discussed these things with me in secret had long abandoned me after my fathers death.

Blood was spurting from the snakes body, and the dog, who had continued to hold onto me like a

new-born baby, started snapping and twisting, trying to catch some in his mouth. I plunged under again,

annoyed that I had been wrong about the monkeys helpfulness and the damn drunken argument.

***

The rooster was the next to go. I was quite pleased that this guess had been right.

After swallowing the snakes body whole and discarding the head, which I tried to forget was

tumbling around somewhere below me, the monkey had decided to take things easy for a bit. Unlike me, he

was quite buoyant, and seemed unperturbed by the fact he was chin deep in water. With a full belly, he

hadnt cared to look twice at the rooster, who, too, had been floating quite happily.

The dog, unfortunately, was the culprit. I realized late enough that the dog had been doing no work

himself in regards to staying alive, and this is what set off the chain. I didnt mind him hanging on, because it
didnt make much difference to my ability to stay afloat. He was small enough, and friendly looking, so there

was no harm. What I did worry about, however, was the message this gave off. The monkeys fur was

becoming heavy. He wasnt struggling, but it was obvious that he would soon be. If he saw the dog hanging

on to me, not a care in the world, what would that make him think? Right. That clever little bugger would be

on me like a lion on a slave.

So, and it broke my heart to, believe me, I folded my arms to my chest and thrust forward, pushing

the dog from me. The bags balance was knocked temporarily off kilter and the whole thing was sent entirely

underwater for a worrying thirty seconds. Eventually it rose to the top again and we all took a welcome

breath. Luckily, no one seemed particularly desperate to blame me, so we let ourselves settle again. Without

the dog I felt more at ease, and, surprisingly, he was floating. Without so much as a kick of his legs he was

resting happily on the surface. I patted his head and he bobbed down slightly, but rose again just as quickly.

It was the most curious few seconds. At that moment a wing rose from underneath him, broke the surface for

a moment, and then stopped and sunk. Investigating underneath him with my hands I realized what was

keeping him afloat. The poor bird didnt stand a chance.

So it was just me, the dog and the monkey now. It was all quite calm.

It was nearing evening, and had only been about 3 hours, at most, since my arrest. The sun was still

hot. We were close enough to the coast for there to be a slight wind, which I could hear beating the outside

of the ox, but couldnt feel. There was no ventilation, and the number of sweaty, wet animals had turned the

sack into a sort of steam room. There was nowhere for the heat to go, and so it just hung in the atmosphere,

seeping first from our bodies, then into our mouths and lungs, and then back out to fill the empty space.
 Pushing my curls up and over my head I noticed that the dog was desperately lapping the water in

front of him. Instinctively, I grabbed his chin and stopped him, but as soon as I let go he continued. No

matter, I thought, hell be dead soon anyway. May as well make it a quick one.

My father had had it easy. Stoning is an alright way to go, relatively. You have to think relatively

when you talk about death. You have to take into account all deaths. Old age, disease, falling off a cliff. And

once you have done this, youll find that stoning is not as bad as all that. All it took was a few stones. The

good thing about a stone to the head is that it dominates your thoughts. There will be no wondering about

the afterlife or the sun or any damned monkeys when you have stones flying at you. Your mind will think of

stones. I, though, have an unbearable amount of time to think. The animals are slowly dying. And when you

are in the minority by simply being alive, what is there to think of but death?

The truth is, I didnt agree with my father. The sun is no thing to worship. Sure you can see it and

sure it can be useful at times, but it is too inconsistent a thing to be a god. As for Jehovah, I think much the

same about him. Although you cant see him, of course.

The dog slipped quietly from atop the rooster and both of them sank to the bottom.

***

The monkey has been staring at me since the dog went under, and every time I sink and then surface again I

find he is still looking. It seems with everything else dead he has taken an interest in me. I stare back at him,

unafraid of him, the mangy thing. The wet hair flattened vertically against himself makes him look stupid.

But, then again, I dont suppose I look much better.

 Go on! Go on! You stupid monkey! I scream at him, gesturing wildly, but either he cant understand

that the outside world is just a neat tear away, or he is unwilling to help. I cant say I blame him too much. It

is not that I am becoming accustomed to life in the sack. That would be absurd. Besides, its been little more

than thirty minutes, an hour, something not very long. It is just that I have some comfort to take from it.

There are no girls to ignore me, no speakers to listen to, no lost friends to lament, no drunks to argue with.

But most of all, I know that my pottery is still out there somewhere, and it will last for a thousand years. And

more. More than me, more than this monkey, more than my stupid father ever did, and more than their gods

who make all this nonsense happen.

It is hot, yes, and it smells like a sodden farm, and it is a rather trying situation for the old knees, but, I

swear on the sun, it is a comfort to think one day they will look back on this moment and regret it.

The monkey has that look in his eyes again, but he looks at me as if I have that look too. He knows me

by now. He knows every hair on my wet head. Reaching forward a bit he scratches my arm, nothing serious

but I would have preferred nothing at all. I ignore him. I like him. His temper is a foul thing, but he is an

intelligent sack-fellow. If only he would listen to me and help me.

I have decided now that I might worship the monkey. It is something to do. Forget the sun. It has

gone. And forget Jehovah. His greatest intervention in my life was to put me in this sack. I worship the

monkey. Theres a kinship, a likeness, and he respects it. And it is a comfort to plead to someone for

salvation knowing full well what the answer will be. Hes there, he ignores me as much as hurts me, and, best

of all, hes about to be erased from this foul world, just like me.
 Spring 2017
Lawrence Upton

from Caterham Valley # 1

for violist Benedict Taylor

[for vocal performance with improvised viola]

a tumult of days
and pop up tyrannies
acting elated, disappearing
and behaving with enormous fairy-tale emotion

ancient creaming of replica mysteries

remodelled modernisation elegantly sombre

desire storytelling
public hangings, delicately unctuous
enormously pleasurable
and lack of mournings generosity
enormously pleasurable
desire storytelling
relocated characters
blushing, bitter tender reduction
fuelled unexpectedly

our incongruous grandeur

sourcing darkness from darkness
spilling over the gathering of parasites

immersive entrepreneurship
a break in the trees --
a primaeval feeling
but not a wild one
from Caterham Valley # 3

for violist Benedict Taylor

[for vocal performance with improvised viola]

serial entrepreneurs encourage prolific entering

with understanding money
to future potential structures

particularly helped within businesslike rooms,

users change the films they're in
months later

later managing to raise cash

networking an ecosystem
representative of others' organisations

proud members of accelerated programs

calculating, calculating
from Caterham Valley # 5

for violist Benedict Taylor

[for vocal performance with improvised viola]

We shouldn't be looking at these images.

We shouldn't be hearing.

We shouldn't be seeing
by way of governance
a steady rise in burning blinding
throughout the summer
an idea sprung upwards becoming embodied
thick oil clouds
documenting composition
not having to be explained
cannot be held
linguistic curricula
rapidly tooled
legal forces and laws abounding
citizens
smash up good order in pleasure
our opponents are conealed among their lies
from Caterham Valley # 7

for violist Benedict Taylor

[for vocal performance with improvised viola]

History is made

and then remade

It is not what happened
only versions of past events

History as popular comedy

allowing stories to develop
father to son
mother and daughter less so

History made by writing

and the shredder and censors

History is changing climate

cold today
colder tomorrow
departures from expected curves
nagging cold
don't forget
History is mad
and then more mad

Let's all join prppaganda dance troops

ignorance is pride

and pride, of course, is ignorance

from Caterham Valley # 9

for violist Benedict Taylor

[for vocal performance with improvised viola]

Everlasting severity?

Cruelty is in government
insensitivity for sensitive times
delighted by impossibilities
of all who have laboured.
All things end in stupidity.

Our lives cannot sustain us.

All personalities are matter
tender-hearted in gratitude
resentment and clarity
sitting uplate depriving ourselves

There is more to life than fulfilling a purpose.

A role is a mechanism:
responsibility must lie

Solitude in hope and longing

codes of harmony
 Spring 2017
Kevin Ryan

Song of the Selfs

1
Adapt, yet ye need not conform,
listen to the virtue inside your heart
& sing.

Sing your beautiful song America,

For America,
To the World & for the World,
All our songs create
a symphony for all souls,
together, America, the Beautiful.

This song you sing,

this public display of affection for affliction,
it's a grand song of greatness waiting to be heard,
needing to be heard, some suffer in silence.
Pierce their ears with passionate pleasure,
a perfect prescription for pain.
Let your heart beat hate, surrendering.

A meadow in your mind,

The heather in your heart,
Let it grow, let it go & let it glow.

Let it be thy light that guides us to love,

to be loved, loving America!
 Spring 2017
Marc Carver

A FEW PLACES OF INTEREST.

/1.
As I walk over the bridge
city on my right
I see a man staring into a woman's eyes
when I look again
I see how old he is
and how young she is.
There must be twenty five years between them
but it could be a hundred
for all he cares.

2.
In the national theatre
I look at a young woman as she sits down
she spits on her phone
then rubs her finger around the screen.

Then she starts to comb her hair

right to the tips as she twists it at the end
then she starts to talk to her hair.

Perhaps she is annoyed with it

having a bad hair day.

Then a man sits next to her

too close for it to be mean anything else than they are together.
Then they get up and walk off
without ever having said a word to each other.
3.
In the south bank I go and sit in on a talk.
It is about Hayden and a bit about Handel.
One of the women on the panel is a dyke
but the other is hot.
I look at her a lot.
The last is a man, academic, American.

The man talks about the genius of Hayden

and the women talks about why he was not as revered as Mozart.
The man tries to defend him
The dyke says she has read his diaries
and gives us some examples.
He was boring and that is all it comes down to.
A genius can be many things
but he can never be boring.
Look at Mozart.
 Spring 2017
Petar Lozanov

Flying over our land they are

Thoughts and desires
And the earth more rapidly it is rotating
They fail to reach us

Borders for people placed

Birds with derision they fly them
Calling us ashamed and abandoned

With the winding step of any of my conquests

I entangled network of their disappointments
I look at the sky but space is not visible
Since both my hope in my despair she looks around

He stopped to think about the birds dreamy look

With a laugh or sneer again they fly
I saw countless persons faces
Unsolvable riddles all they were
Words countless flew past me
Leaving only the sound of quiet remembrance

Is it destined or not
Large puzzle with missing pieces
Misunderstood to this day, what is this
Which leads us to seek those countless faces

Forgotten, washed away and aimlessly erased meetings and memories

Though terrible spell my name is swept
And probably already replaced
I feel like a wax figure
Magic seemed mighty storm
Wind brings it back to me
Spell spoken in the cold darkness
It steals deftly over the years
Unnoticed my new body she bites

Standing there somewhere, stone circle

And if still alive in the air
Their words scary Im quietly appreciating

Running, waiting and forgotten over the years

The arrow stuck in the tree. Yet there she stood still

The perfume of the magic, the spell of flavor

Painfully intoxicating to me he was.
Looking into the darkness with a song of delusion
Believe now my heart somehow stopped

In recent burst of strength for revenge against the dark

With hope last candle i lit
Somehow even to my surprise
Instead of praying for salvation
I curse those who cursed me they

I put as his last stone

In the stone circle, eternal, not forgotten
Leaves new, obsolete and the wind blew them
But the tree is still standing, the arrow himself embraced
 Spring 2017
W. Scott Howard

LATE SWAYS

Upside-down dash stitch openwork whitecap bridge plunge increate fountain windup odes

stammering utter notes um belt-necked bedroom teenage solanaceous grim stamen

sea-cliff footfalls inaudible dark scale soliloquies fatal silo clef-offs

dim suffusion-veiled sidereal mote musings razed or shut rare diffusion sum

least-ways these jot lists table orts shirt-pocket last-thought syllables folding late sways

for otherselves from undiscovered one-way void-bourns coil-cursed forever tho less

lucid dreaming death sleep similitudes of cave spark valley fire caged mild ruin.

.-.. .- - . ... .-- .- -.-- ... ..- .--. ... .. -.. . -- -.. --- .-- -. -.. .- ... .... ... - .. - -.-. .... --- .--. . -. .-- --- .-. -.- .-- .... .. - . -.-. .- .--. -... .-. .. -..
--. . .--. .-.. ..- -. --. . .. -. -.-. .-. . .- - . ..-. --- ..- -. - .- .. -. .-- .. -. -.. ..- .--. --- -.. . ... ... - .- -- -- . .-. .. -. --. ..- - - . .-. -. --- - . ...
..- -- -... . .-.. - -- -. . -.-. -.- . -.. -... . -.. .-. --- --- -- - . . -. .- --. . ... --- .-.. .- -. .- -.-. . --- ..- ... --. .-. .. -- ... - .- -- . -. ... . .- -- -
.-. .-.. .. ..-. ..-. ..-. --- --- - ..-. .- .-.. .-.. ... .. -. .- ..- -.. .. -... .-.. . -.. .- .-. -.- ... -.-. .- .-.. . ... --- .-.. .. .-.. --- --.- ..- .. . ... ..-. .- - .- .-..
... .. .-.. --- -.-. .-.. . ..-. -- --- ..-. ..-. ... -.. .. -- ... ..- ..-. ..-. ..- ... .. --- -. -- ...- . .. .-.. . -.. ... .. -.. . .-. . .- .-.. -- --- - . -- ..- ... .. -. --.
... .-. .- --.. . -.. --- .-. ... .... ..- - .-. .- .-. . -.. .. ..-. ..-. ..- ... .. --- -. ... ..- -- .-.. . .- ... - -- .-- .- -.-- ... - .... . ... . .--- --- - .-.. ..
... - ... - .- -... .-.. . --- .-. - ... ... .... .. .-. - -- .--. --- -.-. -.- . - .-.. .- ... - -- - .... --- ..- --. .... - ... -.-- .-.. .-.. .- -... .-.. . ... ..-. --- .-..
-.. .. -. --. .-.. .- - . ... .-- .- -.-- ... ..-. --- .-. --- - .... . .-. ... . .-.. ...- . ... ..-. .-. --- -- ..- -. -.. .. ... -.-. --- ...- . .-. . -.. --- -. . -- .-- .- -.--
...- --- .. -.. -- -... --- ..- .-. -. ... -.-. --- .. .-.. -- -.-. ..- .-. ... . -.. ..-. --- .-. . ...- . .-. - .... --- .-.. . ... ... .-.. ..- -.-. .. -.. -.. .-. . .- -- .. -. -
-. -.. . .- - .... ... .-.. . . .--. ... .. -- .. .-.. .. - ..- -.. . ... --- ..-. -.-. .- ...- . ... .--. .- .-. -.- ...- .- .-.. .-.. . -.-- ..-. .. .-. . -.-. .- --. . -..
-- .. .-.. -.. .-. ..- .. -. ---
 Spring 2017
Seth McKelvey

Alm 2

the throngs throng tumultuously;

the fleece sea is in throws

(empty cascades, half

showers, Mills
messes and propless
windmills)

but this is straight (winding)

tossing:
less jocular,
more jugular

though immovable
object
still
laughs
as inadequate forces
ride waves of derision

still
wraths
as shackled wrists juggle
themselves
 Alm 3

uncountable (but uninfinite)

arrows infect the sky

but sun slips down

intercepts the arc
; lose sight in the bright
perimeter piercing

light eats shadows

burn swallows silhouettes;

sleep well
(with rope and bucket,
draw it up)
for jacked jaws
golden aspis punches the arch
-ers in the face

eyes continue on the other side

following the would be
but empty parabola

disc held darts

internally,
eternally
inbodied annihilation

(not through
and through
but through.)
 Alm 5

the needle flickers

in compass

throat

O
pen tomb
impatient
bloodthirsty never drink

O
winebibber
wet the tongue and thread it
few thirsty ever drink

so how does one

chase the setting sun

impatient West
and stretch the wait

but East is a flee

back turned, facehidden

so chase it in the morning

before day overwhelms

navigate inwards

O
aegis of the empty tomb
encompass the wayward,
compensate declination
wind the bobbin up
point to: ceiling, floor, window, door
for perpendicular paths as well
North
(why should North be up?
North should at least be North)
and South
sunseekers could move closer, or further
and perpendicularer still
(during day)
would immolate

O
vine
morn for us
 Alm 7

it may appear the lions share

but one will rip in half
and the other will have you
whole
devoured
one way or another.

what are you digging

that pit
for? careful not to drop
it it
might land
on your head
then you'll have to
wear it
like a
hat too big
and it
will cover you with
the solid violence,
the new roof of your life,
like an upside down hole
or, to the wise, inside out
and it
will be awfully dark in there
and you'll have to
listen to the soil
-y echo of your own voice

and it
will just look like a happy little hill
to onlookers
or, to the wise, perhaps,
a tomb
you'll be trapped inside your own excavations
and who's to say if anyone will dig you out
(you, for one, should put the shovel down)

hollows are by us
best left empty
but with only you in yours,
perhaps it still is

the news though, is that there's no escaping

the lions now, one,
or, otherwise, the other.
 Alm 13

how long
distance relationships change with distance-
shrinking technologies

that is kind of what it is like

when two souls
separated by infinity
are bridged by some new
spiritual invention;

the temporal (thus spatial)

gap collapses, despite resistance,
into juxtaposition,
verging on, for a time, and then,
merging, whereupon infinity multiplies

meanwhile, all along the how long

we never stopped believing

in our closeness
 Spring 2017
Scott Wordsman

Online

Everything can
or could be traced.

Post-coke blowout,
morning turns

vertiginous,
peels skin from its

face. Forced into

the day, I sprint

to the gym, come

home, cook tensions

for dinner. Cue steak

cue every other

hundredth way to say

I can change

without sticking
to a thing. I change

my t-shirt, change
my Facebook status:
Puked at the Planet
Fitness, dont

do coke and lift.

Retell it as funny

quell its poignancy.

Post, delete, repeat.
Platonic Sleepover

One of us

dreams
of chalking

tonight up

to a minor
victory

involving

every piece
of a starved

anatomy

One of us

dreams
of sleep
Pornography in the Digital Age

Enter stars of all

demand and anytime
you want to
watch them shine
you can
To My Barber

I shaved my head,
hence my absence.
I dreamt I would
resemble a stone
cut from gold
instead of this
pink-tinged
blotch I spot
through mirror
glass, blinking back
the dullness
of a phallus,
tip felled. This
song, the skulls,
its own condolence
letter. Penned and
shipped to both
receiver and sender.
 Spring 2017
Shirley Jones-Luke

Kimono in the Closet (Kurzetto no naka ni kimono)

Purple, papuru
floral linen, Kahei no rinen, glorious
silken life, Kinu no jinsei, cherished
for its natural essence, essensu
an angel's touch upon the skin, hifu
Organic

Nature knows no shadows

Light has abandoned us,
Heat of the earth punishing doubters,
Air is moist a jungle brush of growth
Provides no shade
Tall grass wet soil huddle together
Nests in the eaves of houses path of a cool breeze,
saves us a warm wind slaps away the dew
our skin sweats a fly on a flower near a windowsill,
its beatened wings create ripples in the air
a natural rhythm clouds gather cluster in the atmosphere
rain comes
starting the process again
Simple Pleasures elude me like Fireflies

Joy flits away in the moonlight,

solitude is the crystal tears of stars
dropping in clouds that shift restlessly
above a dark world, I feel the wind
numbing my spirit, freezing my being.
hardening the center of me, this core of emotions
I reach up, moonlight slips between my fingers, the stars
are beyond my grasp like fireflies, glow
about me, in constant motion.
 Spring 2017
Caitlin Conroy

Leonid

A star is born when space particles come together and form a single mass. The gravity from the immeasurable

amount of hydrogen and helium atoms slowly draws them together. As a result of the density, the hydrogen atoms

bond to create helium, releasing energy that will last billions of years. It has the potential to light up galaxies and

sustain life.

Im seven. Its November in the middle of the night, and Im fast asleep in the top bunk until Mom

nudges me awake. Drowsily looking down at her gentle face, I try to figure out what shes planning with no

success. She stretches up to greet me as I lean over the railing.

Come down and get your shoes on, she murmurs in my ear. I want to show you something. It

wont occur to me to question my parents for another three years, so I obediently clamber down, my feet

carefully balanced on each rung. My sister is still curled up under her pastel baby blanket as I slip past her.

Then Im in the minivan in nothing but my pajamas and shoes, and Moms at the wheel. The streets

are completely empty, save for the streetlights that cast an eerie orange glow. We go to a soccer field, the one

next to the playground on top of a landfill. Mom takes two comforters from the back of the car and spreads
one out on the ground. She slowly eases herself down and tells me to join her. Im worried because my

shoes are covered in dew and grass clippings, and I know Im not supposed to get that stuff on blankets and

carpets. But once Im snuggled in the crook of her arm under the other comforter, Im too content to think

about it.

Mom tells me to look up at the sky, and I do just that. Right in front of me is this endless void, littered

with stars that seem so small, they remind me of the glitter on our craft room floor. I had learned at school

that we are tiny specks on a minuscule rock surrounded by gigantic bodies of pure energy. In the moment, I

consider this to be both wholly impossible and irrefutable fact.

Were going to see a meteor shower. You know what that is? Mom asks. I shake my head, so she

continues, Its when some rocks in space, or meteors, come down to Earth and burn up in the sky. So well

be seeing a lot of shooting stars.

I perk up at the thought of shooting stars; Id never seen one of those before. I keep glancing at each

star, half-expecting one of them to just drop from their place. Theres one thats bigger than the rest, and my

eyes keep wandering back to it. It looks ripe, as much as any star can, ready to drop.

Then theres a thin, white streak in my peripheral. By the time I jerk my head over to see it better, it

vanishes. Did you see that? Mom asks.

I nod and add, Its hard to tell which ones going to fall.

Mom chuckles, her soft body rising and falling next to me. You cant. Dont focus on one or two, just

look at the whole sky.

Its a struggle, but I try. Slowly, the occasional meteor shoots by and makes a clean slice in the fabric

of space. I make a little Oh! in amazement every time, even when seeing the same thing over and over
again starts to get boring to my little brain.

The movement slows down eventually, and the cold finally seeps through to our bones, so we pack

up to head home. Back in the gentle warmth of our living room, I curl up on the couch and watch early-

morning television. Mom mentions that shes calling me in sick for school. At some point I ask about the big

star, and she replies that I probably just saw a planet.

Ill spend over a decade looking at the stars. I wont become a scientific-minded person like my sister,

not even close, but the stars and all of outer space will always be in the back of my mind, ready to spring

forth to the forefront at the right moment.

A star dies when it runs out of hydrogen to turn into helium. In a desperate bid to continue generating energy,

it expands to over 100 times its original size. When the sun dies, either the resulting red giant will engulf the Earth or

our atmosphere will be superheated until all of our water evaporates. No matter what, the very thing that created life

on Earth will destroy it.

Im eleven, at this astronomy workshop for Girl Scouts. Moms with me, of courseshes involved in

everything I do, especially as my troop leader. Were the only two from our area, so I nervously hover

around her while the other girls pair off. Ive never been able to socialize with people my age, and tonight

really reminds me of how lonely that can be.

Still, its fun learning about the stars and planets in a universe that is so incomprehensibly vast.

When the sun sets, we all fumble in the dark for our charts and the instructor loudly tells us about the

constellations with an authoritative finger up towards the sky. I try to look where shes pointing, try to

translate my sheet of connect-the-dots into stars. But the sky is one big smattering of lights. I could only

ever find the Big Dipper, the simplest, most obvious constellation, and I wont find anything else.
 During the drive home, Mom and I talk about the workshop and other things well forget about in ten

years. Mom lets me pick the music, so I tune the radio onto some pop channel that only plays the same ten

songs. One of them is about this boy who just cant make his parents happy no matter how hard he tries. He

sings about how they used to be close, but their relationship has fallen apart beyond repair.

I think about how close my mom and I are at this moment, how we spend almost every day together.

Things arent perfect but theyre pretty close, and in this car I realize that someday Im going to lose my

mom. Maybe Ill be sixteen and alienated from her, maybe Ill be fifty and at her deathbed, but Mom wont

always be there. Suddenly Im crying, mourning a life I havent even lost yet, and Mom doesnt notice even

though Im right beside her because Im being swallowed by the darkness.

In a couple months, my father will announce that he and Mom are getting divorced, and that he will

be moving away shortly. Mom will take on a part-time job to make sure we dont lose the house and give up

working with the Girl Scouts. I wont have much time to go star-gazing because between the massive

amount of homework from middle and high school and being shuttled between two homes, I will be busy

enough.

A red giant must eventually die, as well. It sheds each of its outer layers until only the core, a white dwarf,

remains. Although they are small--sometimes the size of Earth--and not very bright, they are dense, and are some of

the hottest objects in the universe.

Im twenty and Im standing alone in front of my schools University Center. I probably shouldnt be

here, since its the middle of the night and we all know what happens to girls my age that are alone at this

hour, but Ive made an insignificantly precious discovery.

If I stand in just the right spot in front of the building, between the overhanging lamps and
streetlights, I can see the stars in the sky.

Normally the entire campus is completely lit up. It looks like were all trapped under this dark tent,

and Im lucky to see Jupiter or a stray airplane. Even now, I can only see a tiny handful of pinprick lights.

Not for the first time, I feel an odd swell of homesickness for my dark little hometown.

I should probably go. I bet I look ridiculous. But I want to seethere it is. The Big Dipper. It looks

so weak, so faint, but its there. Chances are that nobody else cares about a bunch of tiny sparks in the sky,

but to me they are priceless. Proud of my little accomplishment, I briskly head inside to escape the

oncoming chill and possible on-campus dangers.

Next year, The Powers That Be on campus will continue their LED movement, and only a handful of

lamps will keep their old-fashioned glow. The ones in front of the University Center wont be part of that

handful, and the new, blindingly bright lights will wash out the stars.

A star well and truly dies when, as a white dwarf, it cools off to the same temperature as its surrounding open

space. Since it produces neither energy nor light, it is difficult to detect. A ghost of the universe, it quietly passes

through with no hint to its former glory.

Im twenty-one, back home for my last free summer. Its July and Moms going on about two things

tonight: a surprise meteor shower weve got to see and a screwdriver Ive got to try. Ive decided to put off

both of those until two in the morning, the meteor shower because it didnt start until then, and the

screwdriver because I knew Id need something to warm me up a bit.

At one-thirty Mom gets up and starts gathering blankets. I made a beeline for the kitchen to pour

together some vodka and orange juice with a dash of sugar. Gulping it down, I try my best not to taste too

much of the alcohols harsh bite, instead focusing on the warmth that spreads through my gut.
 Outside, Im freezing despite the sweatshirt, comforter, and drink. It doesnt help that the chair Im

sitting in is steel, sending a sharp chill down my spine. Were on the back porch of the house. Between the

streetlights in the back alley, the tree next to us, and the full moon, my view is pretty limited. After half an

hour with no sightings, Im starting to get annoyed, especially since this was supposed to be this rare, see-a-

shooting-star-once-a-minute spectacular event.

Im waiting another forty-five minutes, and then Im going inside, I mutter.

Be patient, Mom replies.

I wrap myself more tightly in the soft, down-filled blanket. By pure luck, I glance up just to see a tiny

streak of light in the sky.

You see that? Mom asks excitedly.

Yep.

We watch some more, but after an hour and only four meteors, were both starting to lose interest.

Screw this, I announce, standing up and bundling the blanket.

Well quietly file inside. Mom will go online to see if anyone else has seen anything and confirm this

showers was a bust. Well spend a few minutes laughing at the sarcastic comments on NASAs home page,

then go straight to the comfort of our beds.

In August, there will be another meteor shower, but the clouds will be too thick and well be too busy

for it.

However, black dwarfs are entirely theoretical. This is because the process of a white dwarf cooling off to

become a black dwarf takes more time than the universe has existed. In fact, even if ready-made white dwarfs burst

forth from the Big Bang itself, they still wouldnt have cooled off today.
 I am twenty-two. Its been three months since I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree, and one

month since I started my first full-time job. Making my first unsteady steps into true adulthood, Im trying to

piece together a budget that allows me to find a place of my own. Before that, I need to find a better job--

after I save the money to buy a car that will last longer than a few years.

Growing up and being independent used to seem so quick and easy, but now it feels like Im barely

crawling towards this abstract idea of a functional life. Fortunately, Mom takes me in, letting me stay with

her while I turn that idea into a reality.

Right now, Im leaving a wedding on a farm. I barely know the bride, a second cousin I rarely saw

after my father married my stepmother and bonded with his in-laws, so I slip out unnoticed. Frankly, Im

perfectly fine with that. Weddings remind me of my own family ripped apart by divorce and remarriage,

and how alone I feel without someone I could picture marrying. Plus, Moms precise instructions to only

have two drinks a certain amount of time before I drive back were too much of a pain to remember, so I just

abstained altogether.

Walking through the cornfield to the parking area, I get sick of feeling my heels sink into the soft soil.

I slip my shoes off and grin at the sensation of wet, thick grass between my toes. I scurry off, further away

from the security of the party lights, with an almost childlike glee.

Surrounded by total darkness, I happen to glance up. Overhead, the stars are unhindered by

common city lights and spray themselves out across the sky in the cosmic whorls they are supposed to have.

Suddenly, the stuffy wedding, the drunk guests, and even the suffocating summer humidity cease to matter.

There are only the stars above me and the ground beneath.

I will leave when I see the other guests going to their cars, too. After an hour-long drive, Ill be
welcomed home by a lit front porch and a warm hug. Ill spend an hour gossiping about estranged relatives,

then go to bed feeling much more at ease.

Someday, a star will die. For now, though, it will continue to evolve and shine.
 Spring 2017
Elika Ansari

Confession of a Pseudo-European

My first childhood memory is not a memory but a dream.

I, a child of three or four at the time with my bobbed haircut and perfectly straight fringe, am standing on the balcony
gazing out into the horizon. I stare ahead for seconds that feel like minutes, and minutes that feel like hours, searching,
probing, despondently pursuing an ever fleeting peace; a sense of calm that, for whatever reason, refuses to have
anything to do with me.

Just then I glimpse a snow-white dove flying towards me in all its splendour, and with it comes a soothing energy
when it perches on the railing next to me.

Be patient the dove murmurs, not with words, but with its radiating presence. Peace will be yours one day. And just
like that, I feel at ease. Even when the bird leaves me and glides off into the sunrise; even then, I feel calm, as I relish in
the enlightened aura it has left behind.

The dream was a recurring one. For months, maybe even years, the white bird visited me in my sleep and
showered me with millions of molecules of hope that seeped through my bloodstream and wedged
themselves deep into my heart.
That was when I was still living in Tehran. When I moved to Europe, the bird abandoned me for good, and
with it, that reassuring aura of serenity also disappeared.

The years slipped swiftly away as I moved from one European city to another, trying to find a home, trying
to remember what it felt like to wrap myself in that familiar feeling that lulled me to sleep every night, telling
me to wait, telling to be patient for good things to come.

But this is not one of those stories where I denounce my homeland and cry and plead in the hope that Ill
one day be accepted here.

Unlike some of my other compatriots who feel the need to laud their allegiance to the flags of their adopted
countries; who feel the need to shout out their British or Spanish or French patriotism loud enough for
everyone to hear, I dont feel I need to justify my presence here. I am no patriot, simply because I dont have
a taste for anything remotely similar to the falsehood that is the narrative of a nationalist.

Europe, I dont owe you any debts of gratitude for taking me in. Throughout my life here, Ive studied and
worked hard; Ive always tried to learn the language of every country I lived in; Ive paid my taxes on time;
Ive even put in my free time to volunteer every chance I got. No matter where I went, I tried to be an
exemplary European citizen.

But as a European who is really actually just Iranian I was always too different, too exotic, or too
beautiful (whenever you wanted to be nice about it) to be one of your own.

Those of you who wanted to impress said something to the tune of how you loved Irans rich history and
culture -and impress you did-; while those of you who wanted to impress but were less intellectually
equipped to do so, just said something youd heard on the news that day.
Your incessant questions about my homeland urged me to learn more about it, and I am grateful for that. Yet
when I finally came back to you with my answers, you dismissed them outright. Because lets be honest, you
never wanted my opinion. You only sought after my responses to confirm your own relative bias, and when I
failed to give you that, I was met with your disapproving grunts and your presumptuous rolling eyes.

How could you not shun your home country? How could you not shun Islam? Oh, but the government; oh,
but the oppression; oh, but the veil.

Oh, but the veil. How I tire to hear time and again about how a simple garment on womens heads stirs up so
much controversy in this continent. How I tire to have to go anecdotal to prove you wrong, every time I feel
the need to tell you my sister who grew up British, who after 27 odd years and in spite of every social
pressure, chose of her own accord to embrace Islam and wear the hijab in public.

How I tire to hear you pat yourself on the back for discrediting me so quickly, with a line so contrived as
Islam is not a race, whenever I give you every statistic, every valid study, everything there is to prove you
are a racist.

How I despair to live surrounded by people who make no effort to dig deeper to find out why things are the
way they are in Iran. Why there is such a lack of democracy in the Middle East as a whole.

Instead I am horrified to hear you justify these as reasons to excuse spewing your vitriol against a cluster of
minorities whose actual origins you dont even care enough to probe or examine; against the Alis and the
Mohammeds and the Amirs and anyone who doesnt look or act or dress white enough.

I dont feel compelled to offer you an explanation on behalf of my government, or any other Middle Eastern
government for that matter, nor do I feel compelled to hang my head in shame every time a brown person
commits an offence. No more than I expect any American or European person to hang their heads in shame
for the disgraceful history of oppression, manipulation and destruction their governments have had a hand
in.

I wish when I said my Europe was one in which women could wear whatever they wanted on their heads
and bodies without inviting backlash, the follow-up question wouldnt be whether I support Sharia law in
the West.

I wish my name didnt sound quite so foreign so your brazen discrimination wouldnt dismiss my educated
opinion in the form of Of course youd defend Muslims.

I wish I had been born with every privilege (and for the most part I was), so I could show you that I would be
right there, fighting for your rights, even if all the hatred and slander didnt expand so far as to include my
Iranian family.

But I cant. Because this is my life. It is my family you are refusing to tolerate. It is my familys family and my
familys friends and my friends that are the target of your hatred. And it breaks my heart. You break my
heart.

The image of the four year old me flickers in and out of my mind every time I feel I am in a state of utter despair. I find
myself trying to recall the white dove, trying to cling on to even a figment of the calm it once radiated. But now for all I
try, I just see that child flailing her hands, thrashing them wildly in the air in one failed attempt after another to grasp
at the tattered remains of a ghost. I am lost.
 Spring 2017
Leigh Ann Cowan

What Little Girls Are Made Of

On nice days like this, she and I like to walk down to the creek and wade. In the summer the water is cool

and shallow, and the snakes stick to the other side, where the exposed, straggling roots of trees make good

nesting places and trap plastic bags. Old firework cartridges litter the banks, odd splashes of color amongst

the natural hues. I like to pretend theyre flowers. Side by side, we slowly pace up and down the small stretch

of shallows, the sunlight warming our hair. We chat about what weve been up to in the weeks we havent

seen each othershe had gone to New York City for a paid internship, while Id continued my education at

the local college.

She talks mostlyabout the people shes met, the food shes eaten, the theatres and plays, the parties,

and things like that. I have nothing of that nature to add. My life has been pretty uneventful.

But I never expected anything else; I had stayed in our rural hometown, while she had moved on to

bigger and better things, such as the theatre industry, where she works as an assistant casting director. While

I live with my parents, she rents her own apartment, and parties with friends and meets famous people.

Living large has never been a dream of mine, but she seems happy enough.
 After a while I begin to tune her out. She has a habit of being extremely repetitive, and I can usually get

away with nodding along when her voice rises in pitch. What is it about me that is fundamentally content

with where I am? People have always teased me for being an old soul, a prude who wont drink or smoke, but

I pride myself for these things. Perhaps I was born into the wrong era, the wrong cultureor I am exactly

where I should be. I cant imagine living anywhen else.

Lulu.

Hmm?

I glance over at her, only to see that she is peering at something upstream. Following her gaze, I spot it,

too. At first, I dismiss itthough its illegal, it isnt uncommon for people to throw trash into the water from

the bridge not far off. But as it floats closer, I realize that it isnt trash, not in the conventional sense of the

word.

A plastic baby doll in a pink onesie bobs toward us. My friend bends over and scoops it up, brushing

soaked synthetic hair out of its face.

Gross, Claire, I tease. You dont know where its been!

I used to have one of these named Juliet! She ignores me, holding the doll out of reach as I move to

playfully smack it out of her hand. Some little girl must have dropped it.

I wrinkle my nose. Way out here? No. A dog must have gotten hold of it and gone for a swim.

Lulu, if it had been a dog it would have teeth marks and itd be really dirty. She turns the doll over to

show its impeccable condition. It looks brand-new.

 Well, maybehold on. I turn upstream, a sudden flash of light catching my attention. Something else

is floating downstream. I wade out into the deeper water to intercept it, my knees getting soaked in the

process, then return to Claire, drying the smooth plastic lid with my pant leg.

What is it?

Its a bead kit, I think, I reply, rattling its contents.

Claire takes it, tucking the doll under one arm so she can open the box. Inside are rows of small

compartments, each containing a different size, shape, or color of beads. A reel of plastic string and a how-to

booklet are also included.

I dont think anyones ever used it, I say. Its a miracle its not all wet.

This is so weird, she answers. Where are these coming from?

I want to say someone is throwing junk off the bridge, but somehow it doesnt feel right. What could

possibly motivate someone to do such a thing?

We both look upstream and see yet another toy. I stoop to meet it as Claire closes up the beading kit and

sets it on the bank with the doll. The item appears to be a tiny lunchbox at first glance, but upon opening, it

reveals a plastic doll surrounded by accessories.

A Polly Pocket! Claire exclaims excitedly.

A what?

A Polly Pocket. Ive always wanted one of these. She takes it, and I frown, vaguely recalling her having

some sort of obsession over a Barbie back in elementary school. It too looks to be in perfect condition, with a

miniature doll and colorful plastic accessories to dress her in.

 A chill travels up my spine, and a niggling sense that something is wrong intensifies. In all my years of

wading in the creek behind my house, nothing like this has ever happened. I resolve to walk farther

upstream to investigate.

Where are you going? Claire demands.

I roll my jeans up over my knees, though theyre already wet, and pick up a palm-sized rock just in case.

To see whos dropping stuff in the water. Its pollution, and they shouldnt be doing it.

Theyre not hurting anybody.

What about the fish?

Who cares? She shrugs, sitting down on a dry patch of rock with her feet still submerged in the water.

Claire begins to sort through the various clothes that come with the Polly game. Fish arent good for

anything but food.

I shake my head.

Just as I turn to go and give somebody a stern lecture, something bumps into my leg. I nearly scream, but

register that its an acoustic guitar. It glides past me and scrapes up against the shallows next to Claire, who

reaches out for it with a delighted cry.

My dad used to have one just like this! It even has a peace sign sticker and everything.

I gape. Youre not the least bit curious? None of this stuff worries you? Not even an exact replica of your

dads guitar, which, by the way, should be completely ruined?!

What do you mean? She regards me for a moment. What, are you jealous or something? Lulu, we can

share this stuff. Claire tips the instrument over, pouring a stream of water out of the body.

Never mind, I say curtly. I turn again, and immediately cry out, Oh, for Gods sake!
 A keyboard! comes the excited squeal behind me. Yes!

Theres no way itll work, I chide her as she lunges for the sleek electric instrument. The Yamaha logo

flashes. Its all waterlogged.

Theres only one way to find out. Im taking it home with me.

Claire, you cant be serious. Something really weird is going on.

She lets out an aggravated sigh. Why cant you ever just accept anything? Every time something makes

me happy, you have to poke holes in it!

I do not! Indignation sparks a rise in pitch. You just cant use your brain for once in your life? Look at

all this stuff! It makes no sense! Its all in perfect condition after floating down the creek for who knows how

long, and its all stuff that you like!

Yeah, so?

I just dont want you getting your hopes up, I say. You always do this!

No.

Yes!

Sometimes good things can happen, she retorts. Youre just madno, youre jealous that nothing like

this ever happens to you!

Before I can say something Id regret, her gaze moves past me, and her eyes light up with awe. Oh my

god, she breathes. Look!

Still scowling, I crane my neck to glance over my shoulder. A dress.

Not just any dress! She sets her prizes aside and pushes herself to her bare feet. Its my dream wedding

dress. Its exactly how Ive always pictured it. Hurry, get it!
 With an aggravated groan, I wade out and stretch for it. The cream-colored dress bobs in the middle of

the creek, just out of my reach. I manage to snag the hem of it, and drag it closer to me. The skirts, full of

water, make the material exceptionally heavy. I cant help but to be reminded of Ophelias drowning.

If you want it so much, I grunt, why dont you come and help me? You know, since youre so

independent now.

She doesnt deign to respond.

Without Claire, I get the dress as far as the shallows, but then can heave it no farther. It jerks to a halt

probably caught on a rockand I lose my grip.

Good enough, I say. Listen, you can get the damn thing for yourself, and Im gonnaClaire?

Shes no longer standing behind me. The things weve fished out of the creek are still lying on the shore,

but theyve changed. The doll is now mouldy and covered with sand, its hair tangled beyond fixing. The

bead kit is lying open, its contents spilled amongst the rocks, the paper booklet mostly decayed. The Polly

Pocket is in the same state, but Polly is nowhere to be seen. The body of the guitar is smashed, the neck bent

at an awkward angle, and the strings twisted into a knot. The keyboard is no longer shiny and newa fat

spider has made its home there, and looks as though it has been living comfortably for a long time.

All this I take in at a glance.

I suddenly feel very cold, and it has nothing to do with the cloud that passes over the sun, casting a long

shadow over the creek bank. Confusion gives way to numbing fear, though I dont know why.

Claire? My voice sounds hushed, barely audible over the cold sound of running water.

There is still no response, but something compels me to turnback to the dress in the shallows.

And thats where I find Claire.

 She is wearing the wedding dress, staring up at the sky as she floats on her back. Her hair and skirts wave

serenely in the current. Claires lips are blue, and her chest is still. I can only stare in horror as the water

swells up and carries her away from me.

 Spring 2017
Emilia Rodriguez

Nursery

Mae thought it was a shame the flowers in her nursery could not see themselves. Tiny, cupped

leaves, glowing like peridots, they twisted and fluttered and whipped, and sometimes turned to her in the

presence of water. The trailing perennials spilled fearlessly over ledges and heights of shelves. Ground

covers spread, like fast flying nets, over borders of plastic planters. She opened every morning at nine

oclock. By then the nursery would be full of expectant gardeners tugging at petals of striped, duotone, and

climbing varieties of roses. She wished there were mirrors enclosing the space from all angles, so that the

fuchsias could spot themselves: pink bottled sunsetsthe hope that we might be eternal beings because we

see our future sunsets blooming before useach more impossibly compact than the one before,

infinitesimal droplets of sky. Without her, they might continue to exist, without them she could not.

Mae had won the nursery in her divorce settlement. It had been his mothers bakery and the floors

were still a speckled, pink linoleum. Shed sold everything in it but the industrial stove and a teakettle. A

greenhouse was erected adjoining the nursery. Overhead, a burgeoning canopy formed, filtering daylight

through its ever-changing shape.

 Mae taped a piece of paper to the window. Its words faced the street: Now Hiring. It was the same

corner of glass where the sign was last displayed, and Dottie had walked in with a floppy hat and short

resume. Mae hadnt thought that Dottie, who was nearing 60, would find true love and leave to marry a man

she met on the internet. Dottie hadnt even invited Mae to the wedding. Mae didnt regret hiring Dottie.

She had wanted someone close to her in age. Part of Maes decision had been made to assuage her fears: if

she were ever in the same position, she didnt want to be rejected over her age. But now she realized it hadnt

made a difference what age Dottie had been. She had behaved like a teenager, quit over the phone, and

never once thanked Mae.

Mae went home late most nights to a house that was in good shape. The willow tree in the backyard,

which shed planted as a newlywed, was ripping up the plumbing with its roots. But in the evenings the sun

fell behind it and it radiated, ethereal. Its branches brushed the ground and rustled softly, and she couldnt

bring herself to kill it, so she worried about the mortgage instead. Most of her earnings came from local

landscapers. Independent gardeners accounted for the rest, and because she only hired one or two seasonal

workers a year, she was able to manage and maintain the nursery on her own and still turn a profit.

The first group of applicants was sloppy. One had dirt under his fingernails, and although that

wasnt necessarily bad, she considered poor hygiene unacceptable. Hed been a flirt with one of the

customers who came in during the interview. Hed seated himself at the table where Mae kept

complimentary cards and stationary, so that if someone purchased a houseplant as a gift, they could include

a personal sentiment with the plant as well. The applicant had pulled a card from the cardholder and used it

to scrape the grime out from under his fingernails. Just then, the bell had clanged against the glass door and

Mae had looked up to find a young woman already running her fingers through the foxtail ferns. As Mae
had attended the customer, hed leaned back in his chair, presumably to improve his vista. Mae, choosing to

believe the woman and the applicant were familiar with each other, had overlooked it. After shed rung up

the customer, the applicant popped out of his chair, plucked the bloom from an orchid and handed it to her

as he held open the door. When the customer had left, the applicant turned to Mae and said, "The customer

is king, or in this case, queen." Then hed shot her a self-satisfied smirk. Yet this was not the worst of the

applicants. The worst of them had mentioned several times that he had many plants and enjoyed the

hydroponic method of gardening. It annoyed her so much shed asked him to leave immediately. She was

aware that marijuana was commonplace, and in fact, she smoked sometimes. It was his lack of discretion she

couldnt tolerate.

The day the boy arrived, she was rinsing leaves for tea. The kettle whistled and he walked straight

into the back room and lifted it from the burner before turning it off. She dried her hand on her apron and

shook his. He told her about his interest in horticulture, and how in ninth grade hed been on a school field

trip to the citys arboretum. Most of the boys had used it as a chance to ditch class to make out with their

girlfriends, but that was the moment he decided life had meaning. His father was a born-again Christian,

and the boy said that on the bus ride home from the arboretum, he suddenly understood what that meant

to feel reborn. He said it was like feeling eternity. She hired him.

On his first day he arrived with a paper bag. She unlocked the deadbolt and he slid in sideways

before the door was fully opened. When she turned to look at him, he was holding the paper bag out to her.

She took it and unfurled the top.

Seeds? she said.

 My grandmother grows tomatoes in her backyard in California. She grows them in giant planters

and they get to be the size of grapefruits.

She scooped a handful of the tiny yellow disks and let them fall back into the bag. Maybe he really is

interested in plants, she thought.

Thank you, she said.

He had already walked to the sink and was looping his apron over his head. He crossed the canvas

ties at his back and knotted them before flashing her a smile.

Thank you for the job, he said.

She carried the seeds to the potting table, put them into tiny pots, and covered them with handfuls of

soil.

Throughout the day, she noticed what an improvement it was to have someone capable of bending,

lifting, and kneelingthings that had been a challenge for Dottie, which had left Mae picking up the slack.

The boy knelt without a straining sigh or the use of a kneeling pad. He moved things in an afternoon that

would have taken Mae days. In the evenings they had tea after they closed the register. Sometimes they

talked about plant physiology. He once mentioned that he might like to stay on past the summer, and

although she wouldnt need the help then, she was glad to hear it. You know, theres a place for you here,

shed said. By the end of the first month, Mae thought that if she ever saw Dottie again, she might thank her

for quitting.

One afternoon, as she was grafting a broken branch back onto a lemon tree, she felt a great fatigue

and wondered if she had not exhausted her life. If she had not ruined it trying to love a dead marriage back

to life, grafting the good moments, severed by the bad, back to their life source, until the effort poisoned
everything down to a rotted stump. She raked her fingers through her hair and tied it down with an elastic.

The boy stood in the distance with his back to the sun, his features hidden in the contrast of burning sky. He

was the image of her ex-husband when he was young. She was nineteen again, looking at him through the

cars side mirror while he fueled up. It had been months since shed thought about her ex-husband, and a

decade since shed let herself remember how beautiful he had once been. But there was this boy and his

shadow, and in it, the memory of pain, exhumed. She worried that by now the entire town had seen the boy,

recognized his uncanny resemblance to her ex-husband, and for the past month joked about how shed

hired him in an attempt to make herself feel younger. Maybe she deserved their pityafter all, who would

do such a desperate thing? It occurred to her that the boy might have known all along, and this was a game

he was playingan opportunistic grab at her loneliness. He might go home, call up his friends, and theyd

laugh about how she was a wannabe cradle robber. He had three weeks left of employment. It seemed to her

too long.

Heat spread across Maes face. She lowered her gaze, resolving to tell him tonight, after theyd closed

the register. She would put a new sign in the window on Monday. Maybe shed call the man with the dirty

fingernails. She wrapped the broken branch around the trunk with grafting tape. And thinking it looked too

weathered to be kept in the nursery, she made a mental note to take it home, where it would be out of sight.

A storm was forecasted for that evening. The sun surrendered to lavender clouds, thick as

frosting. The sky began to mist. Mae and the boy moved a collection of plumeria trees she'd set outside for

lack of space, to the greenhouse, where the wind wouldn't disturb them. She bent her knees and reminded

herself not to lift with her back. The boy lifted the planters by their bases, two at a time. The plastic planters

were old and crackled under the pressure of his hands.

 "Try not to break the planters," she said.

"I won't," he said, "but as the tree slipped from his grasp, he gripped harder and the plastic splintered.

The potting soil poured from the crack like sand emptying an hourglass.

"Dammit," she said, "Were you even listening?"

"I'm sorry," he said. He put the other tree on the ground by the pile of soil, and lifted the plumeria by

its trunk. She stomped past him carrying her tree. The wind had picked up and it muffled their voices.

"What were you trying to prove, anyway? That you're stronger than I am?" Mae was shouting, and

her voice carried through a missing panel in the greenhouse. The boy laughed.

"I am stronger than you. Isn't that why you wanted me?"

"I never wanted you," she said, then realizing what he'd meant, she self-corrected. "I needed you. I

thought I needed you."

The boy was at the entrance to the greenhouse. He lay the plumeria on the ground and rushed back

to retrieve the rest of the trees, carrying them into the greenhouse, one by one.

Mae pulled a new plastic planter from a shelf and filled it with new soil. She walked to where he'd lay the

tree.

"I can repot it," he said. "I'm the one that messed it up."

"Thank you, but I can do it," she said. She had over poured the soil, but didn't bother to level it with

the rim. She balled her hand into a fist and aimed directly into the center of the planter, where she punched

a hole. She lifted the tree, plunged it into the hole, and packed the soil around it tightly. "Plants require very

little love from us to grow, and yet they give us so much in return."
 "Yeah, I think that's what makes them so fascinating. They're, like, more evolved than we are." Mae

tossed her head back and laughed.

"I think you may be onto something there," she said. Mae followed the boy into the kitchen, where he

was setting the cups on the table. She left her apron on, but washed her hands before tightening the faucet.

Somethings bothering you, he said.

She thought of the heavy pallets of potting soil that would be delivered next week. He stood behind

her and loosened the tie on her apron.

Sit down, he said, Ill make the tea.

He put his hand on the small of her back and nudged her toward the table.

She thought about closing the register, but decided to take a minute. Behind her, he was rustling

through the tea drawer.

Did I mess something up? he said.

She remembered how her evenings after work had once been earfuls of complaints.

Ive had a lot to think about, she started, but was interrupted by the popping sound of a canister

being opened. She recognized the sound, and before she turned to look at him, she knew what he had

found. The boy smiled into the canister.

Is this what I think it is?

She considered acting like it wasnt her marijuana, but realized how transparently false that would

be. He suppressed a chuckle.

Try not to act so surprised, she said.

But I am. Im very surprised, he said. Dont get me wrong, you just seem like such a straight edge.
 I was your age the first time I tried it, she said. He carried the canister to the table and they

exchanged nervous smiles.

You understand youre off the clock? You could leave and pretend you didnt find this.

Or I could stay, he added.

She pulled the rolling papers out from the drawer.

I think Ill put some music on, if thats okay with you, he said. He pulled his phone from his pocket

and made his way over to the computer. I think I have some Pink Floyd, he said.

She laughed and dragged her tongue over the free edge of the paper. Is that really what you want to

listen to, or is it what you think I want to listen to?

He shook his head and played a song. A lazy voice trailed over a raspy guitar. It didnt sound

modern, but shed never heard it before. She didnt take an interest in it, but knew a younger woman would.

Who did we decide on?

Just a friend of mine, he said, I think hes pretty good.

She didnt care for guitar music.

I like it, she said, striking a match.

Did you grow the weed here?

Heavens no, she said, and then slowly exhaled, I grew this at home.

He reached over and lifted the cigarette cautiously from between Maes fingers. Her hands tingled.

She looked around the room trying to see it through the eyes of a customer.

Im going to paint the walls, she said. The pink is strange.

He concentrated on a spiral of smoke hed blown.

 I love the pink walls, he said, its like Im inside someones intestines.

She took the cigarette and inhaled. Inside her chest, her lungs bloomed, cupped like tulips.

I know this isnt what was bothering you. Did I do something wrong? he said. She sensed his

concern was earnest.

No, she said, wanting to rescind her resolution to fire him, but in a distracted moment, he could let

their indiscretion slip in conversation, and shed be ridiculed for smoking grass, or worse, labeled as a

grower.

Its nothing she said.

They sat and smoked and talked. She wondered about his mother. Mae envisioned her sitting on a

couch, maybe watching late night television, or already in bed, wrapped in her husbands arms, the weight of

his affection pinning her to the mattress. She wanted to ask him about her. What she might think he was

doing out late on a weekday. She didnt expect that most eighteen year olds jumped at the opportunity to

talk about their mothers, but shed never heard him mention her. In all their talking, there was still so much

she didnt know about him. His mother had never called, and maybe she wasnt the type of mother who

would call or stay up worrying if he was sober.

His eyes followed the pink walls up to the ceiling.

I feel something, he said.

She licked two fingers and extinguished the tip, then poured hot water into the teacups.

The leaves are in the top drawer, she said.

He stood and walked slowly. His hands hovered above the open drawer.

Its like I'm under water.

 Since hed come on the job, he hardly required any instruction. It was strange, but she liked seeing

him like this: a little lost, needing her. She found the leaves for him and put them into the strainer. He

watched. He leaned his head on her shoulder. The strainer steeped into the water, tinting it green. She

rested her head on his. His chest rose with each breath. She switched the strainer to the other cup. They

exhaled in unison. The water in the teacup caught the light like a small, green mirror and reflected the boys

lips. She pictured them turning to graze her neck. Kissing her skin with his hands at her waist. His eyes

would close, hed pull at her blouse, his open mouth would slide over her breast. Shed wrap her arms

around him as he suckled softly. But the vision took hold of itself, slipped away from her, and her breast

began to excrete a sugary sap. It trickled from the corners of his mouth, and gradually he sucked harder and

more forcefully, trying to drain her of life.

He jerked his head from her shoulder, and she feared that hed sensed the vision, penetrated her

psyche. She worried that hed run to his car, and drive off, and she wouldnt be allowed to explain it, not

that she could.

You never talk about your mother, she said, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice.

He sat studying the hot liquid, then lifted the cup to his lips and drank some.

No ones called the cops to file a missing persons report, he said. Were okay.

Were okay, she repeated looking into his eyes as he had done to her before. Outside, the wind

rattled a loose pane of glass on the greenhouse.

His smile stretched into a yawn.

I texted my dad, and told him I was at a friends.

 The burner on the stove had been on. It flooded the room with a dense warmth. Mae stood to turn it

off. When she turned back to him, his head was on the table. His eyes were shut. His cheeks puffed,

intermittently, exhaling dreams.

***

The wind sped through the streets and alleys of Maes neighborhood, bringing with it the balmy cold

of mixed currents, and pushing the car at its side. At red lights and turns, the gusts threatened the cars

integrity, as it labored to stay intact. She fingered the radios dials, but found nothing pleasant that could be

played loud enough to drown out the winds clamor. By the time she was in her driveway, raindrops

clustered on her windshield, and the first sounds of thunder murmured in the distance

In the garage, she lifted the long pruning shears from the peg board. She dragged the ladder to the

backyard where the willow tree whipped its wet branches against the fence. The sky thundered and flashed

with menacing light. She climbed the ladder, hooked the open blades to a branch, and sliced it off. Again,

and again, the branches gathered into coils on the ground, like the Christmas lights shed ripped from the

roof because it was April and because her ex-husband had put them up, but would not be coming back to

take them down.

It rained harder and the branches flailed. They struck her arms and her back until she was bruised

and had to climb down. She took cover from the rain under the screened porch. She removed her wet

clothing so she would not slip on her way to the shower. In the morning, she would hire the first landscaper

that came into the nursery. She would have them cut the tree down, drill holes in the trunk, and fill it with

salt.
 She rinsed the mud from her ankles in the shower and lathered her hair with a bar of soap. Every

couple of seconds, she pushed the plastic curtain away to keep it from clinging to her thighs. The boy was

probably dreaming now, of taut skin and volcanos and flying. She wrapped herself in a towel, wrung her

hair into the sink, and went to bed.

When she awoke she noted that It was unusually cool for mid-summer. Fall was approaching, and

spring bulbs would need to be planted. She dressed for work as her bedroom brightened. She took her time

lacing her boots, and layered a cotton blouse, printed with daffodils, over her tank top. In the hallway, the

mud shed tracked in had softened back into dirt, and because she was running late, she made only a mental

note to sweep.

When she arrived at the nursery, the boys car was not in the driveway. It was possible he was also

running late, or had gone out for coffee. Whatever consequences smoking grass with the boy had brought

on didnt seem as important in the moment. What was important was that the light rays skidded over the

surface of the windows and made them mirrors. Mae saw her backlit figure. She was made of glow and

translucence. Her blouse was blooming with wind and color. Her smile, a soft vine curling in the breeze.
 Spring 2017
Kate Koenig

Gentle, Gentle, Gentle

The day my daughter was born, I thought about him. I thought about him rushing to the hospital to

meet his goddaughter all wrinkled and new. Hed hold her in his arms as if she were made of glass, but with

all the warmth and love in his heart. His hand would run through her mess of black hair, already so dark,

more hair than baby. Hed say, Te Amo, Sofia. I love you, Sofia. Hed give her a thousand kisses on her curly

hair, kiss her crinkly forehead, and congratulate me and my wife, Ana. Or hed have his own children by

now and bring them by to see their new family. Wed both look at my daughter, her midnight hair, pink lips,

and almond skin and think, Te Amo, Sofia.

But he wasnt there.

We brought Sofia home the next day. She slept the whole car ride back, unaware of the shift in her

surroundings. Ana sat in the backseat with Sofias carrier and sang her lullabies. Every so often, Id sneak a

peek back at my baby, her little nose the size of the tip of my finger. We arrived home and Ana fed her. Her

eyes blinking, absorbing what was around her. Ana said she felt so warm in her arms and she didnt want to

let her go. She smelled liked roses, Ana said. I dont know if roses, but Sofia smelled like love. Her little hazel
eyes travelled across my face and I wondered what her thoughts were. Did she have them? Did she know

that I was her father and that I loved her? For nine months she was just an idea, a distant thought, but now

she was here.

I rubbed Anas back until she fell asleep. The baby monitor was next to her on the bedside table. I

listened to my wifes slow, steady breathing and the white noise in my daughters nursery. If my mother was

still alive, shed be in the guest room, with enough suitcases to last her a year. The fridge would be brimming

with hot dishes to help us along as we adjusted to a new baby. If he was still here, shed feed him extra,

telling him he looked too bony still. He needed food to grow, even if we were twenty-eight-year-old men.

That was the mother I once knew and loved. That was the mother I tried so hard to hold on to.

But my mother lost herself in drugs and alcohol and wasnt there when I hit high school. The

neighborhoods shed warned us to avoid on our way home from school, caught up to her and destroyed the

mother I loved. If she were here now, shed slump against our kitchen chair, head lolling back, and drool

collecting at the corners of her mouth with apologies straining to form on her cracked, white lips. Her eyes

would roam aimlessly at our white ceiling, her mind hundreds of miles away in a place I didnt know existed.

There would be no food in the fridge. No arroz con pollo with the rich, earthy flavors of the cumin and cloves,

ground pepper and salt, no savory rice and sofrito, or tender chicken sitting at my place. No humming as she

cut up the fresh red peppers to add to the mix. Her long wooden spoon wouldnt slap at my eager hand as it

tried to grab a sample before it was ready, Miguel, ten paciencia! Miguel, be patient.

I opened the fridge. I closed the fridge. If I closed my eyes, I could smell the arroz con pollo wafting

around the air, spices and sauces simmering on the stovetop to my right. My stomach growled thinking of

that full-bodied smell, the taste just out of reach. My mothers take on it was superb, the most addicting. Just
like her. I hadnt eaten it since I was thirteen and sometimes I still can taste the way her food made me feel,

the way her spices danced on my taste buds, the way it filled me up with warmth and love. My mothers best

friend and my best friends mother, Ma, could make all the savory and sweet dishes of our heritage much

better than my own mother, except for my mothers arroz con pollo. No one could make it quite like her.

He used to come over, make a big show of being faint with hunger, complain about growing pains,

and my mother would smile at him and say, Isnt your Madre feeding you, poor growing boy? Then shed

walk to her meticulous spice cabinet and begin to hum Durmete, Mi Nio even though we were too old for

lullabies. She said she sang it to me when I was just a little bump, when we were a part of each other, and

that no matter where I was, it helped her feel close to me and remember my first years. He and I would sit on

the worn bar stools, listening to her sing lullabies as she added the spices and chopped the peppers,

throwing a few slices our way to hold us over until her masterpiece was complete. Wed get drunk on that

smell, cuddling against us, sipping Guava Jarritos to pass the time with that sweet syrupy colors staining our

lips and tongue.

I thought about my mother as I prepared breakfast for Ana and me. My mouth watered as the eggs

cooked for the huevos rancheros. It was the first dish I made with Ma. She was ever patient even as I cooked

the eggs too long or burned the rice. Shed place her hands over mine and guide them saying gentle, gentle,

gentle.

Ana still slept when I dropped off the food on her bedside table. I tiptoed out of the room and down

the hall to Sofias nursery. She too was fast asleep, the steady waves of her chest as gentle as Mas hands on

mine. I sang to her Durmete, Mi Nio as my mother had with me. I ran my hand gently against her chubby

cheek and whispered, Te Amo, Sofia. I love you, Sofia.

 The cemetery was just a twenty minute walk away, but today I drove. Normally, I walked the streets,

the ones Id lived my entire life. Id wave at the young boys playing soccer in the streets, and call out to them

to watch for their mothers. Theyd shout back that they werent scared, but when Id walk back, they were

gone, playing in the open fields just a breath away. Walking was my preferred method because I needed the

time to think, to formulate the words from what I was feeling. Ana said I kept too much inside. Shed joke

that I was a piata and that it took countless hard beatings with a stick for me to share what was there. She

always giggled, taking her slender fingers against my belly and tickling it despite my feeble protests. Id

smile. It was true enough. So I needed the walk, the slow one, twos of my steps to piece together how I felt. Its

always been this way.

My mother was buried there, but I couldnt talk to her. The last years of her spiraling life were

constant hits and too much had been spilled between us. I held on to her spices, her lullabies, because I

couldnt hear her moaning and the glass shattering against her bedroom walls. I only talked to him and we

talked about everything, like we always have.

Hed always been the one with words between us. After his soccer or my baseball practice, wed lay

spread-eagle on the practice fields until night and stare at the emptiness above us. We spoke of the bloc

parties of our youth and how wed sit on the curb, hoping one of our classmates would walk by in a short

skirt so we could catch a glimpse of the mysteries underneath. We spoke of loss. Sometimes we cried, but we

always pretended once the tears dried up that it was a trick of the stadium lights. Our senior year we spoke of

our futures. Hed aced his SATS. The Ivies became more than a maybe, or maybe hed go wherever I ended

up and he could play soccer there. He was going to be an engineer. Those nights he spoke of dreams, I swear

there were fireflies dancing in his eyes.

 The town pitched in for his headstone, even going so far as to having his senior portrait engraved

above his name. I hated the headstone portrait at first. I hated seeing any indication that it was him lying in

the ground. I hated knowing that he was already decaying and that face was just a picture now. It wasnt real.

It wasnt him. Now, I cling to the image, I run my fingers over it as if I can feel him there, but the headstone is

cold. Sometimes I forget details about him, like the way his lips curled when he smiled, a little awkward from

years with braces, and the exact color of his brown eyes. Was it russet or whiskey? Forgetting scared me.

Id sit crossed legged, facing the headstone, and run my finger over the indentations of his name,

Carlos Hernandez, and the grooves of his birthday, November 1st. Id run my finger over every curve and angle

of those letters, summoning him here with me, touching his portrait last. Hola, hermano. Brother.

Shes beautiful, Carlos. She looks like Ana, just as beautiful. Lucky for her she didnt get my big nose,

huh?

I told him all about her. Hed heard my worries and fears these last nine months. He waited with me,

guiding me along until she was in my arms and real and thank Godhealthy. He would have loved her.

He would have loved Ana, too.

Im going to visit Ma soon. Maria called me yesterday and said shell be with you. Im going to say

goodbye. Ill hold her for you, she forgets. She thinks Im you, remember? Maria says it helps her, I kissed

his headstone, touching Carlos one last time before departing. The thicket of trees near the gate swayed in

the wind in greeting. I think Carlos was letting me know he still was there. Adis, hermano. Brother.

The drive to the nursing home was pleasant, quiet. I passed my old high school and practice fields. It

made me think of Carlos and wild youth. Wed been in the same school since kindergarten and friends since

diapers. He lived across the street with his ma and sister. Our mothers bonded over single parenthood and
the struggles of life with devious and energetic children. He and his sister became siblings to me at once. Our

families didnt share blood, but our tie was stronger, deeper like the roots of the ancient trees that lined our

sidewalks. His ma was my second parent and when my own succumbed to her demons and regrets, she

became my only. She took me into her home when I was seventeen, after my mothers funeral. She held my

hand through the entire mass, whispering Hail Marys under her breath. I was numb, but not in a sad way,

not at that point.

Living with my best friend, in a home that was stable again felt like a dream. They made sure that I

knew that I was welcome, always asking if Id eaten enough, if I was tired, if I needed just one more Ma hug

that day. The last tumultuous years with my mother, Id wasted away, looking like the skeletons of Dia de los

Muertos. My first year at their house, on Dia de los Muertos, they joked that I could lead the celebrations. Ma

fed me pan de muerto, the sugary bread to mark the celebration of our lost loved ones. We thought of my

mother and of their father, taken before they could even form a memory of him.

We decorated their graves with marigolds, the cemetery bloomed with color and memories of those

departed. I cried for my mother for the first time, even though shed passed six months before. My feelings

poured out. All the poisonous hate and anger, the deep, bone-aching sadness, spilled out finally. Carlos cried

with me, his arm around my shoulder. Ma held my hand in hers, rubbing her thumb against the back of

mine, gentle, gentle, gentle.

The images of my mother, bleeding, convulsing, crying out like a possessed child for her own mother

haunted me, torn at the little normalcy Id managed to save, but gentle, gentle, gentle, I let those feelings out

and let them go.

 Carlos would hate the smell of the hospice, the stench of impending death and carelessness. He

wouldnt be happy that his mother stayed in such a sterile and unfamiliar place, but her condition had

worsened and with my family and Marias, we couldnt care for her. It shamed us.

The orderly at the desk smiled as I signed in, Miguel Sanchez. They knew me by name and my

schedule of three weekdays and one weekend day, always Sunday, to take her to the chapel here for Mass so

I could say the Hail Marys shed long forgotten.

Maria waited outside her door, one hand draped across her round stomach, the other holding her

cellphone to her ear. When she spotted me, she hurried to end the call and embraced me, planting a kiss on

my cheek.

Oh, Miguel, its good to see you, she said and squeezed me tight, lingering for a moment.

Maria, how are you? I asked, swooping down to kiss her cheek. They were rosy, flush with heat. Her

river of thick, deep brown hair hung in a disarray around her face.

Good, I just wish he would come already. I feel so big, she patted her belly, crossing her fingers with

a wry smile. Carlos was always a pain in the ass, so this little man is already following in his footsteps.

Although, its more pain in my bladder. Ill be right back, ok? Wait for me before you go inits not easy to

see her right now.

She shuffled down the hallway, her pregnant belly swaying out at the sides. I watched her walk away

and thought of her. Shed come a long way, a family started and finally some peace it seemed. After Carlos

death she walked around like the dead and didnt snap out of it for five years, until she met Daniel, her

future husband. One night, she returned to mas doorstep, her belongings from college sitting in the seats of

a borrowed car. She came back to live with Ma and me as I finished up senior year.
 We made love, finding a medicine in the spaces our bodies could erase when we were together. I

filled up her emptiness and she ate away at my pain. When we made love, hands lost in each others hair and

breath hot on each others necks, we found something to fight that gnawing void inside. I said, I love you

and kissed down her throat, her hips, her hands, her eyes. She whispered my name and drew a line along my

jaw.

Eventually, we stopped.

I graduated and went to college and she petitioned to be readmitted to hers. Only in the summers and

breaks did we see each other. The last time we made love, I hadnt met Anathat would be in two more

monthsand she had just started to date her future husband. One last time, Miguel. Her lips tasted sickly sweet

that night, her hair smelled of spices from the restaurant where she worked, and her skin, her skin smelled of

fresh marigolds.

Maria returned, holding my hand with caution, exhaling before pushing open the door.

It smelled like death.

Ma laid in her bed, eyes unfocused at the ceiling, mumbling broken English between what sounded

like prayers. Her skin taut over her skull, her cheek bones protruding over the thin layer, sharp, like they

would cut through. Her hands were limp, but a Rosary was placed between her quivering fingers. I took the

seat beside her, Maria at the other. I gripped her hand and whispered, gentle, gentle, gentle. Her lips paused

their incantations and her eyes drove across the ceiling. From her lips, a single word slipped through. Carlos.

Ma, estoy aqu, I said. Ma, Im here. Te Amo, Ma. I love you, Ma.

Little beads formed at the corners of her eyes, and fell down into her grizzled hair. She gave my hand

the slightest squeeze and said, Hijo mo, hijo mo. My son, my son. Maria mirrored her mother, tears lining
her cheeks as she watched her mothers mind fight to speak with us, Maria, Carlos, los amo. Maria, Carlos, I

love you.

I sang Durmete, Mi Nio to her as her eyes fixated on the face of her son, in a place Maria and I

couldnt reach, the place where Carlos waited. A final tear rested on the corner of her eye like the dew on

morning flowers. On her lips, her breath drew a smile.

My son, my son.
 Spring 2017
Tiffany Flammger

Didnt Tell Him

When he asked me how I was I didnt tell him.

I didnt tell him that it felt like I was hollow inside
or that sometimes I would wake up crying and not know why
I didnt tell him that being with him I was a better person
because God knows what he wouldve said about that one.
When he asked me how I was I didnt tell him that some nights it took
everything I had just to hold on.
To clutch my knees and tell myself one day I would be okay.
When he asked me how I was I didnt tell him that I couldnt go on,
or that the pain never goes away, but instead gets easier to deal with
When he asked me how I was I didnt tell him I loved him, and I had
this entire time
that would just complicate things.
When he asked me how I was I didnt tell him.
 Spring 2017
Clive Gresswell

restless (breathing) font

candles simper summer
curling beneath passions
the lake (where) we
& the hurtling armada
fleet of foot & choosing root vegetables
(laughter) & where we fit
new shapes from this froth of form
a gate left partly open
to glimpse
narrow (needless) chattering
divulging corners of winter
(we) crept into the crypts
& buttercup fields
imprison freestanding freeze clouds
deft upon the wind of calling
time-honoured what we issued
amazing departures from the alphabet
stringed instruments the pearls
& motifs on the t-shirts
he called back to you
on a trail of your destiny
theresa may will see you now
slipped from grace & disreputable
sit & dispatch these trifles
a confederacy of envelopes
cast soft upon the european mind
howlings/refugees/impinge
somewhere a burning question
seeps deep into your gut
the high command you swallowed
peeling back the worm
twisted over years
laughter & sweet nothings
treasures & rubble
sunk to the bottom of this ocean
among the coral & garbage
flags & banners flying
is there a future in it?
he watches from his tower
the holy prince of ego
time honours this restless
sea legs jostle
he plagued among your wildernesses
brings daughters into this world
some cannot speak
at least not in the classical sense
let their limbs litter
the darkness of this river
flowing with the blood-dark howlings
fledglings with their pamphlets
and hurry to the crazed indian
he tore up their terrible secrets
stole them into their dreams of night
made a pact among the seedlings
well guide you to the light
a tremendous gluttony of effort
in times the purple trail
he follows on the evidence
cast across the shores
his handsome siren calling
from lake to shore to lake
clasped in his fist a ring
of the worlds first metal caste
but beneath the tower
sits this rusting nail of hatred
coiled on the spring
from which his watch was born
come in my child and feed us
alone & tattered & worn
in londons fair city
new feet tread (on)
corners of the old (mind)
& lifting up a carpet of shopping (malls)
dread feelings (locked) unpick (shocked)
like the tiny shells
you witnessed in your (youth)
washed upon traditions breech
giant strides (pass) on the other side
the places where the factories struck (down)
with a kind of influenza
tributes (played) on (this) marching band
a towers locks (unpicked)
we panicked in the (deadly) night sin
cities wheeling (fire) among the birds
(they) peck (&) peck (&) peck again
time & his idle hands (unsullied?)
who can say where (jesters) lay
& who should go unpunished.
the will of the people
burns into my soul
eats discarded babies
allows me to chant razors
& i walked on their paths
& into their jungle
singing songs on independent nights
through the chink in the light
where the alien invaders
storm-troopers & crack vigilantes
twisted my wood into nazi salutes
he freezes by a river of liberty
 Spring 2017
Deborah Saltman

Recycling Rubbish

The divorce is final

My outbox is no longer overflowing
With sour dates and half burnt accusations
Like the cooked food scraps and organic vegetable peels
That are growing in my recycling bin
I can smell the overness
As the last drops of her lemon verbena wash
Ooze onto the untouched body she left me

I chose to own very little now

Even the nite mice are desperate
Crawling around the empting containers
She expertly sealed in our kitchen
And like a one night stand
They leave in the morning
Despising my depression
Soul property from the legal settlement
(Besides the Freon in my veins)

I ring the local council to complain

About the unwanted garden
Greening my undersink
Will the same place where we married
Care as little about my rubbish too?
I do
The consoling voice tells me
Just store your toxic waste in the freezer

Someone will come sometime

To collect and bury it
Speak to me in numbers

Long
As it was to learn
How to divide the whole numbers
One atop of the other
Squeezing them between my equals

Speak to me only in numbers

and I will answer in kind

Now
Behind the ballgirls
I ask myself
What kind of twosome is it
That starts out with Love
Travels forty points to the Deuce
Only to surrender to the numberless Advantage?

Way beyond the baseline

I am bored
Not we and certainly
Not them
Will be victoried
By the tension
In your strings
Will no one in the crowd curse our divorce
Guide to the Political Pirouette

Practice pirouettes in a safe place

Clear of any sharp tweets or echo emails
Know your retracted position before you start
Keep your shoulders and back covered
Quell your lip stick
Arrange your weight so you can always push off the back foot
Execute when ready
Focus on going up not around
Husk after every turn
The last lift

With one eye closed to the world

The overworked biceps
Stretching the roses on
Her not-so-cheap shirt
Opens the door

I position myself
Over the echoes of adult size
No longer mine
In the passenger seat
But the smell is still unmistakably
Sour milk and wet dog
Quells my reverie

The fluffy pink dice, the shaking head buddhas, the kitsch wooden hearts
The arguing twins and angry glances
My dashboard of motor memories
Have registered
The other eye opens
To the leftover husks of Exs.
Labors

Symptoms quell the pain

Reliable fiends
There for the invocation
Above all the echo of reproduction.

Riding the stirrups of labour

All those midnight snacks
Outing the belly
Why my belly and not hers?

Maybe it was really meant to happen?

Right
How was your day?
Just fine
How are our twins?
Ah, the twins, theyre well inside my house
Should I have said our house?
Well, I would like to see them
Wait for it
The little Caesars inside me says.

They already has the measure of their custody

Need to nap during each day - us

Difficulty falling asleep - me
Difficulty staying asleep - her
Absent-mindedness - all
Difficulty reasoning
things out - both
Forgetting what you are
trying to say - her
Difficulty finding the
right word - me

Difficulty following up things twins

Difficulty understanding - all
She adds the last two to my list
She hopes
They both will climb out of the husks
That sink them
 Spring 2017
Elga Logue

She Never Cried

Joy, sheer exhilaration as the news is received

In nine months she will hold to her breast
A boy or a girl? Who will guess?
Pink, blue, yellow or white
This child will be her guiding light.

Appointment after appointment

Eating perfectly for her prize
Oh how she longs to see those angelic eyes
Blue, green, grey or brown
Sudden kicks accompany her to town.

Preparations well underway

October to June. When will be the day?
Nervously, she waits and waits and waits
Healthy fruit and vegetables she has ate
Nearly there week thirty-eight.

She goes to bed

Has a lovely sleep
Dreaming about the pitter patter of tiny feet
She wakes up
Something feels wrong
A lightness in her back
No familiar kicks when the tap water runs
No reassuring movements whatsoever
Fear, nerves, maternal intuition
She sits in the car, staring at the ignition.
Panic as she enters the hospital and waits
Clenching her car keys
She prays and prays and prays
Her name is called
Nurses with machines do their job without success
A doctor is called
The scan confirms:
You have a perfectly formed baby, but no heartbeat.
No heartbeat, no heartbeat, no heartbeat
The words echo in the exhausting heat.

They called it Stillbirth

Six days pass. A living wake
Then sudden contractions take her to the delivery room
A baby girl is born
A deafening silence engulfed in gloom
Pink is the colour
The hand knitted shawl, now a shroud
Birth and death on the same day
A coffin instead of a cradle
A headstone instead of a headboard
Tears that burn. She gasps for air
Then holds her daughter so closely
Suddenly, she feels privileged and proud
She is a mother
She kept her promise
Her love is maternal
Everlasting
Eternal
 Spring 2017
Sana Asif

I will find my happiness

One day perhaps

I will find my happiness
In some distant land
Lying under a rock
Crushed by the weight
But still
Intact.
Safe.
Preserved.
Like some Egyptian Mummy
In those golden pyramid
Waiting to be reborn
A Speaking Prostitute

I am a piece of flesh
Tied with bones
Undraped
They all forget
That like them
I too have a soul
That cries in darkness
That shouts in madness
My eyes are not important
As they are not flesh
They are just instruments of sight
Nobody pays attention to them
My breasts, a big lump of flesh
Are caressed more than my hair.
My name no one knows
They know my flesh
They reckon it more than my face
I too am human,
Wanting to be loved
Just like you and you and you
 I am a Girl

I have violated my soul

and sold my spirit willingly
to the darkness lurking around.
My heart bulges out
from my eyes.
My lips shiver
in darkness
and my hands are pressed
against my lips
not to utter
a sound, a cry.
Fading memories, longings
sit and dine with me.
The door is shut and barred.
A worm sneaks in
and laughs its heart out.
See,
it has started dancing too.

I am a girl.
 Spring 2017
Tara Teed

Please keep dragging my head into the clouds

Where your heart beating drowns out all sounds.
Pull me through a desolate world
Where the moon and sun continuously turn
Cradle my heart pieces in your hands
And show me that its okay to stand.
Prove there is enough light here to share
And that darkness is not always there
Speak still whispers that wipe away lies
And swallow the tears that I fear to cry
Steady the hands that tremble with fear
And let me know that friendship is here

Elysium
I see the moon dance in your eyes,
Revealing false paradise.
The stars open for the rain to fall,
That is when we lose it all.
The wind whispers in my ear,
There is no perfection here.

But oh how drunk I was off love,

I didnt see how much Ive sunk.
The tide comes and so I dance,
And watch it wash away my chance.
No one can tame a blackened heart,
I lost my way right from the start.
That demonic smile lights a flame,
But the burn will always be the same.

Heaven vrs. Hell

With each minute passing,
I stare at the blank lines.
The need to empty my heart
Is what gives my pen the drive.

I shoot words like heroin,

When the itch comes, I write.
Finger banging the keyboard,
With each letter that I type.

Letting go with each climax,

I fall into a new high;
No binds or constraints,
I quickly begin to fly.

Emotions, raw and uncut,

Pupils focus on the real
Meshing with innocence
And deviant ideals.

My Drug
I'll never be that someone,
That you had inside your head.
At night it's not me next to you,
But a ghost inside your bed.
I can be a lot of things,
But none of which you need.
You fell in love with someone...
But that someone wasn't me.

You Fell in Love

I made a new heart
From sand paper and nails.
Im a walking project,
Too heavy for your scales.

My flaws no longer hidden,

I thoroughly let them show,
Im so hot and ready,
Be careful I might blow.

You keep staring at the stars,

Long enough for you to freeze.
I dont have the antidote
To cure addictive dreams.

But this world is harsh,

Its winter, so its cold.
And the story of the future,
Will forever be untold.

Summer rain is grey,

Under the midnight sun.
Those eyes of yours tell a story,
That bleeds from the horizon.

So Ill start covering the canvas,

This picture has a twist.
Its time for an adventure,
But only if you insist.

Blank Canvas
 Spring 2017
Vanessa Sylvester

American You

Railroad Tied
Eyes;
Plastic Stent Parts;
your kid,
IDENTIFIED.
Forking over two-four-nine
for bottles of scripts to
even out whatever
TRAUMA they sold you,
But you cant afford.
Plastic stents
pieces of wires in your knees, the
SPECTRUM of mobility
is the ripple that droops
over your belt, but still
IDENTIFIED
as malnourished with ankles BIG
over flip flops
with no tick-tock
because your ninety-nine-nine cell
has video and a clock.
On a Crystal Light night,
You go, in between commercials.
Rail road tied eyes
plastic stents
IDENTIFIED.
Aroostook Potato Harvest

The wrinkles on her knees

are beautiful
and each one
has a matching depression
in the black, chilly dirt of
the potato fields. Which in July are
giant bright hills yellow - like the newest scrambled eggs
plunked among the fallow ones.
By September, the fields are
a deep spinach green,
ready and rich along the poorest routes.
North, at the end of the world.
even inside a car,
the polysaccharide smell overpowers
the reinforced steel and plastic.
Driving through a giant kitchen, one each side -
mountains of peeled raw sliced potatoes,
each chunk as big as dogs or boys.
One million cut sweating potatoes
makes the air a starch foggy tang,
one million raw sliced potatoes
piled up on a road
made of old Formica counters
and ready for the valley-wide frying pan.
 Spring 2017
Rp Verlaine

Short Affair Longer Poem

You can kiss

each of
my tattoos
she says-
if you buy me one.

Asked about bout the scar on her cheek

shes silent
not wanting me
near wounds
healing or not yet forgiven.

We make love
our confidence
misplaced in
a bed where
excitements rush
its iguana like hidden impulse
and its dichotomy to both discover/hide
are the wrong guides
to entwine us
past the
temporary.

she is precious/ much as she denies it/ when sober

Pours me coffee
Does two lines
checks mgs
and leaves me 2 poems
someone else wrote her
a disquieting challenge
I cant afford to win
or lose.

when we trade kisses

I win every single time
that it doesnt count.
Real or imagined
her smile is always enough
except in a pawn shop.

Trouble comes
in a script for a movie
she orchestrates.
in real time
with arguments
complications and simple violence
expected
as has
become the ending
we can now both predict.

Turning on each other/with words used for knives/the bleeding begins.

Her goodbye open-ended

is evil
the conceit of taking her back
consuming each night.

Unable to sleep
Im no longer awake.

The next woman who asks

for an expensive tattoo
gets an x or a ?
better yet- an I.O.U.
Finishing Touch
Sometimes a drink
takes you to the jungle
inside the city.

To an untamed jungle cat

in a jumpsuit of
black and white stripes.

Moving towards you

with a voracious intent
thats almost pure.

And claws so clean

they wont even
leave blood stains.

But it isnt until

she says she loves me
that I know Im done for.
For Lilly
Hung-over, I
create a painting
with vomit, I
donate to the sewer.

Then head to the Patriot

where the rumor is
Lilly has no peer
tending bar in N.Y.

Different color bras

hang from the ceiling
gifts from women who forgot
or remembered cost.

Juggling shot glasses

Lilly drops as many
as she catches
her mistakes litter floor.

Lillys large chest

makes a slashed Yankee t-shirt
almost indecent, but it
finds more eyes than game.

Eight drinks later

Im dazed like a street fighter.
hoping for a referee
knowing theres none.

Lilly says please stay

I do till 3A.M. when
she flashes tits for 3rd time
and my nights complete.

I go outside
to see all the stars
and try to figure out
what darkness really is.
The Scorpions Sister
When the scorpions sister
kissed me after
too many drinks
and then passed out.

I left
her apartment
wanting further damage
wishing I was sober.
New York girls
are poison said Steve
who died in I.C.U. from
a gin destroyed liver.

When the poems get routine

drink more says Paul.
Adding, desire has no kindness
and need no end.
Low on alternatives
one name came to mind
a contortionist more
bent than an acid freaks mind.

I wanted to call her

but the numbers would move
inside my mind where
clarity had no refuge.
For the scorpions sister
had kissed me
after too many drinks
and then passed out.

Her poison in my veins

fucking my head up
lips like knives
had cut me no slack.
So I went home
threw garbage off the bed
It made no difference
I lay there instead.
 Spring 2017
Sarah Roehrig

Tar Creek Runs Red

Heavy, Heavy song.
Rosebuds Recycle rain
Move the people up stream,
And the voice of Pain.

Repeat, Repeat, mountains Recoil

Dead like the Queen of the Nile;
Pitchers of souls mine the coal,
Smile a Smile all the while,

The backhoe pulls, Rolling Right.

Cut through the plug,
Blood stains the biting clouds,
Move the Artificial Light.

There is no beauty nor Rest here,

Rivers of Blood,
Cold, Mechanical lies,
Drag through the mud.

Ashes fall, the fire is lit

One day they will arise.
Spirit moving through bones and Rhythm so strong,
To Hear their troubled cries.
 Spring 2017
Greg Baysans

From Underground

Primal fears feel suddenly almost finite.

I wake in Mythraic coughing within a sealed void,
two sets of questions reduced to one.
We are too near a place of no language.
Nothing can be real; I can't explain.
I can only cough in code, an anti-cough.
Tamil, Amharic, Mixteco Baja, all the others:
a Stonehenge of Babel.
The toothless End Time cult wants to know more.

(Mythraic: related to a cult in existence just before the creation of Christianity,

and from which Christianity did much borrowing.)

(Tamil is a language of southern India, Amharic a Semetic language of Africa,

especially Ethiopia, Mixteco Baja is an old language of south or central America, not yet extinct).
Form EZ

This year, libraries and post offices

are no longer supplying tax forms
so I went to the Federal Bldg. today
to pick up Form EZ, the form I use
every year. It being the Federal Bldg.,
I nearly had to strip to pass security.
I go downstairs to the Regional IRS Office.
Id like to pick up a Form EZ.
We no longer carry that. It was
the most picked-up and least used.
What am I to do? Its my lunch break.
You can request it be mailed. It takes
14 days to arrive. Today is April 8.
You can go to this address with
your papers and have them done free.
The one site is on the rivers far side.
Thats not happening. Its out of my way
and I leave for vacation in four days.
You can file online or print the form
from the internet. For security reasons,
I prefer not to file online. I can,
only because I bought a new printer
last month for letters of complaint about
a doctor whose error could have
killed me, print it tonight. EZ, my ass.
Norman, Oklahoma

Earth (brown) quakes, (fig) leaves fall.

I am no (false) prophet (Eliot), afraid and

unafraid, Jesus, I am tired of him (Daniel)

pushing God in my face (book) page, no one

(John 21:21) and everyone (Joshua is) knows (my

nephew) History Channel (single) on the band

wagon, dont fall (off). 2012 marks (Mark) the

ten years since I quit drinking (blood), thats

the taste on my tongue (cancer) after my (in-

somnia) medication, I am ready to die for-

ever missed mention of Pope (Borgia) John

Paul II prays (too) the bullet that (he who tries to)

bit him, feeds him (dogs). I also do not mention

(save his life) falling (tea) leaves I didnt ask (not

Kurt) Vonnegut about looking back (1979) in anger

or schizophrenia (will lose it), footman, woman.

 Spring 2017
Paul Brookes

A Red Bus

rainmaker shakes.
bargain passengers.

Blood drills down

swooned stone walls.

Up above birds pickaxe isobars.

Vintage pear trees boombox

Jeroboam milked earth.
Gunned Growl

tinted windows souped up

black Minis in a girls laughter
of empty frozen car parks
at close of a retail park day,
hammer down the by pass.

Mouse skitters between

soft drink and alcohol aisles.

Rat shadow climbs

out of your eye corner,
freezes a grey slab
of tail in bus stop light,
snatches at brown burger wrap.
Margins

Frost formats fences, branches.

White margins widen.

Spoor scribble, claw note,

pad pattern cryptic comment

on barkskin limbs.
White space for animal texts

on scavenge for scarce morsels

ferret for warmth.
Skin Whispers

open a whirr of waves,

a shore of tick tock shells

inland cows moan orgasms

to blades
buttered with nagged light.
Cobbler

My tip is stitched
to the vamp
and outside of her

My vamp covers
sides of this foot
these toes.

Shank part of my sole

between me as a heel
and the other having a ball

The throat of my vamp curves

around the lower edge of the top
where I get a lacing.

My vamp shields me
from the lacing
and the weather.
 Spring 2017
Ed McFadden

Not Made for Humans

Seal bladders, cesium, deep buoyed sea [insert

rest of silk pupae tiger paw listicle tumblr here,
a hodgepodge of tenuously connected curiosities
croque monsieurs and cirque soleils

parameters, paramours, Estaban Loizas

one that your writing coach fails
in love with, showers you with cranes
submits to some horseless press

and receives zero likes (no ones on

that platform, its just fancy paper with
bolt marks). Meanwhile, in real life
my kid can read dead end and wonders

what it means, harsh it sounds, some final

resting place to have his MEASLES on
BUTTERED TOAST, as if one were on
the other, stuck to it like gluttony, the master

sees to the end of the field of bracken]

sees bladders, cesium, as I was saying
there are things in this world not made
for us, get over it, I think, I have.
Glut

Meal moths in the oats.

All the things we have
too much of: bullets, glass
castles. Sperm. Anchovies off
the coast of Spain. Echinoderms.
Hallucinations. Hard wires.

My boys raucous. And me mad at them

in the tub. Dumb. A glut of emojis. Im trying
not to get too near. Its just so hard to take
such a visceral world. Corn.
Neonicotinoids. A glut of immemorable
memes. Shocked, they were
to find her dead so. A clot they said.

A clot.

Not so easy for a boy to get

death. Either a fish or a person,
they can be resting, shadows
triangles, pointing north. Outside,
torn scraps of asphalt
shingles litter the pale lawn.

Sometimes you saw oil

glistening from her forehead
if you saw her at all. An excess
of sebum. Or too many chips. People
the list goes on.
Faces on the train. My son on tiptoe
at the glass, watches flashing
lights of the ambulance through leafless
trees. I can be cold here
from a distance. And yet, she was
someones baby once. Freckles. Bilious.
An excess of phlegm.
Purple toes.
Coast of Spain

I eat puffs in the morning, trying not to let

the frozen raspberries bleed inside the pillows.

It isnt easy, this constant separating and managing,

this keeping one thing out and another in.

Like someone you know had some great, dark

secret growing inside her, discovered

too late, the way it always is. Tell that to the scars
and the yellow ribbons and organized fate.

You take his hand under the white pine

to console him, but its not enough, its nothing

maudlin doesnt suit me easier to be paddling

on a pillow down the coast of Spain, not caring

which coast, or with whom, drifting further

from shore, the sun blasting a hole

through my vinyl heart, reddish blue

blood seeping into places it shouldnt.

He walks back home under the pine. Fatigues

limp, shoulders slumped. Off toward the coast of Spain.
Scars Throb

Tropical arctic doesnt scare me

so much just a different place
for palm fronds.

And roosters
working the overnight
shift, crack house lawn
across the street bursting
with them. roosters. when I came home.

An air conditioner would have drowned

them out. I was too cheap or poor
to get one kept a pile of stones
on the corner of the deck
near the scraggly key lime
instead.

In San Francisco my scars throbbed

in the fog. The K Line took me
to Ocean Beach, rattling
toast wasnt a thing
back then. Didnt know
about colony collapse
or cherries retreating
up mountainsides
but the San Bruno Mission Blue knew
something about habitat loss.
Now I have other questions: like why
did I say freedom
meant more to me
than happiness or new shoes
or that the rooster in the checked frame
in your kitchen was ersatz?

Know that the word ersatz is itself, well,

ersatz
and the truth about roosters
is that nobody
likes roosters.
Not even other roosters.

Thats why my scars

throb.
Meditation on Mangoes

There are tiny black flecks

on my mangoes. If I stare
at the fruit long enough,
the skin starts to wrinkle.

I could sit here all day

and watch them rot. I could sit
here all night too, and never
let them out of my sight.

Doing nothing is hard. I mean

really doing nothing.
Nothing to the nth degree.
They call that meditation.

No mangoes.
No tiny black flecks. No skin.
No wrinkles. No sight. No doing.
No nothing.

There are tiny black flecks

on my mangoes.
 Spring 2017
Georgy Cohen

A Day in the Life

1.

Afternoons on the back porch frontier

we cut up rubber bands
to cook in a blue plastic pan,
made guns out of clothespins
plucked from precarious twine.
We did what we could.

2.

Saturday nights at the dining room table,

markers arrayed, unspooling
the maps that coiled inside by day,
of worlds that baked in the heat
humble creations, survival moves.
We did what we could.
One If By Land, Two If By Sea

1.

The best course is pieced from

printed-out directions
left behind in nice cars

for rent by the hour.

You turn on the radio
and scan through the presets.

The song fades in at the

beginning, as if it's
been playing your whole life.

2.

The world is your boister,

a wriggling, jumping thing
unbound by latitude

seas splashed over drawn lines,

islands jostled against
the cupped hand of a gulf.

This world, shaky but true.

I'll watch over it now.
But rememberit's yours.
 Spring 2017
Lana Bella

FOOTNOTES

Right hand opened, left hand closed,

you were the escapist traveling from
one footnote to the other, like a face
forever unseen but marveled against
an embroidered coat of sheep leather.
Each breath a poem composed, skied
into luminous pieces with the timing
of tongues thrust down on dew-pink
hyphens, protesting the wary pauses
between verses. And all this to merely
lay me down inside the aged, vintage
balance of scent and soil, knowing the
bones of my fingers will wander along
the sacred edges of vellum, hatching of
air and impressions as if counting fools.
DAWN OF THE NORTH

The February moon fractured

through winter-spare trees; and what
smote rotten in you lent to hands
of Origami, jettisoned starless into
pale spectacle of the chamber.

You looked through pinched

glimmerspace of a gatepost, through
where the skyline etched insignia
to rippling of yellowish-green of
Alaska's Northern light.

Eyes shaded by the eaves,

hand poured a quarter of finger of
Scotch on the rock, bread and milk
were meted to wrung-out claws
of kitties in heat, as your yellow-
croak of arthritic words fed
to air like flying locusts.

Tonight, youll stitch ghosts

out of the dawning north, tunneled
the lengths of earth and sky bridling
the ages of seasons, feasting over
glossed indelible miles, empty
stretches of cornfield and
nothing more.
DEAR SUKI: NUMBER FIFTY-THREE

Dear Suki: Codrington Library, 01',

you knew by heart the space and
pause between whispers and still
hallways, held down by a library
of cosine waves and sepulchered
ghosts. Velvet books, caressed me
always with delicious parenthesis;
every catchphrase a memory, each
hyphen a tapestry of rhythms and
rhymes. Once, I touched you with
comfort torn to tassels, skin inked
black from the classifieds; and such
provocation was dead-woods quiver,
context tonsured from dactylic lips
adored by your hand held out, pale,
liminal, inviting as age-old theorist,
myself unseeing to the dioramas of
synchronicity breathed and bathos
kept, with parchment-stitched time
giving way below our feet, quiescent
and obsolete like Phlogiston theory.
 Spring 2017
Simon Anton Diego Baena

VALLE DE LOS CAIDOS

The ancient city is tightening

its noose, recreating Calvary
around the gargantuan cross

Even if it pours
the arteries are already turning
black
in the light

An orphan hears the sigh

of a falling leaf, feels
the shard of the deep winter
in her bones

Every breath is corroded

here: a rust fulfilling its own end
no matter the magnitude of novenas
no matter the abundance of the cathedrals

Impenetrable windows echo

in the hide of skyscrapers
and in the skull of a distant sierra

The day still remains within the cold

An old veteran slips into the shadows

under the bridge
fondling his coins
preparing for his final hibernation
SEPHARAD

The weeping is the cure

when the holes are still not filled with blood.

For this earth

is the beak of a crow

and the edict of expulsion

is the journey
where the flock is more secure
in his absence.

Stare at the aqueducts. Know

the difference between
the water and the tar
within the architecture.

The nails have always been at home

in the palms, the spear
in the chest, and the flesh
in the soil.

Let us pray:
the sky is the path
in the eyes of a wolf

The harvest comes only from the wheat

Rebecca understands that

the photograph
is the memory
she has been longing to heal.

Before midnight,
she finds an empty cup.

The wine has seeped into the cold.

 Spring 2017
Lawrence Upton

A SONG, through Alaric Sumner

Empty performance space with lectern in the centre-front, facing audience.

Voice walks into the performance space and goes up to the lectern.
Voice stands.
Voice looks hard at audience.
Voice removes its spectacles and holds them forward of its head and lower than its
eyes.
After a substantial pause, Voice looks at the audience again, though not so hard this
time, and begins to speak.
Voice: I am wearing Stanley Fish's glasses...
You want to push me.
I am not much more reliable than any reader's interpretation, a collision of a whole load
of homages, dedications, references and influences.
Alaric says: your stopwatch is very loud. He says that in my memory. Perhaps it was a
question. Perhaps I said it. My stopwatch is very loud.
Conversations become collaborative, or they die. What one says, the other says or
thinks. One says, what one thinks or the conversation, dies, or else, repeats with, and
without, animus. Contradiction, time passes, noisily, cluttered but interesting. To
whom?
I keep winding my stopwatch. Keep watching it, without imperative, watching time;
sitting watching the kitchen wall, intermittently. My memory gets worse. Must stop,
work, to do.
Wouldn't we get the point if it was two pages long? instead of hundreds? And / or
endless.
Noisy pages. Unenchanted by them now. Wallowing your brain in the fragrant muds of
a nice page of theory is worth 200 pages of dull poetry, at least? and what about the
poetic theorists? No more nice poems.
If a poem excites me, disturbs me, frightens me, I don't care if it is competently written
or whether or not it will be read in 100 years time.
It is not value I dispute. I value many things, but I may not have evaluated them.
I do question the response to poetry as an evaluative response. Sometimes poetry
makes me write. To me that is as valuable as poetry that makes me evaluate it. Give
me an incompetent poem that reconfigures my braincells rather than one that asks me
to place it on the list of excellence. I thought this was clear.
And now perhaps I have no animation. It's a way of resisting. I assume it does you no
harm. There is a consideration of self interest AS WELL as altruism or tempered by
altruism -- call it enthusiasm if you will!... one doesn't make so many unpleasant
blunders that one regrets later... one helps others while helping oneself... one doesn't
harm oneself while helping others.
I think I am overusing tables because I have just understood how to use them!
Sometimes I cannot keep the cup and saucer steady. And the cutlery. Might as well put
it on the floor to start with.
I think, that I think, that things are contained more neatly on the page, letting me get
more on, more neatly, very long scrollings sideways. Have you seen his intimacy? I
recently saw a marquee which was going back and forwards so fast it made. My head
hurt. Couldn't read. Couldn't shelter from the rain. I shall be launching some pages
bounce, always good to bounce, though I do not always comprehend the echoes. Write
something and then ask him at spotting weaknesses, including some that aren't there.
I'll file the performance pages together with mine and then if I can remember where
they are filed they won't need to be recopied.
I lump all you potential breeders together as if you were some amorphous amoeba of
fecund obscenity. Must watch that. Image-making aspect of myself creates such horrid
visions that sometimes don't get brought back down to reality but lurk insanely in my
depths. Sorry. That's a quote from Nekyia. I could get into being an amorphous
amoeba of fecund obscenity. Return path. Invoked from network. I wouldn't deny that.
Paul's insistently heterosexual work is alien. I lump all you potential breeders together
as if you were some amorphous amoeba of fecund obscenity. Must watch that image-
making aspect of myself... creates such horrid visions that sometimes don't get brought
back down to reality but lurk insanely in my quotation.
What I might otherwise have done was qualified by our joint effort, I was increasingly
aware of sending up.... well, male self-pity... but human self-pity... I used things that
women have utteredsaid... but the role I was using was male hetero. Horror and
fascination... arrogance, sense of other, lack of sense of other, sense that one fucks
the other rather than both fuck with each other; and so on. nice. Certainly the sense of
comedy. Sarcastic comedy. Came over me. Strongly. What you did. So I'd say:
sexuality and writing, I suggest, is so odd, finding out now what was, always, but is
only now being made... conscious, I suppose, or more conscious, or conscious
enough. I have just tried going through different aspects of it and the sense. It is about
the SAME and the OTHER was very powerful. It was also what I was reading at the
time: Levinas, Totality and Infinity; Lacan. These OTHER voices talking through my
voice. Or vice versa. Return Path. And they were very complimentary. Almost
embarrassingly so. We really do seem to have done something quite special. For those
could take it. Interjected words or phrases while everybody else was performing away,
or suddenly launched into a loud version. Sometimes I talked so quietly that only
people standing very close could have heard. Most of the time I was erasing myself. I
was fodder for her. I was very pleased. At least one person had got what I was up to.
Another was impressed at the interweaving of our vocal lines. Return path. I could get
into being an amorphous amoeba of fecund obscenity.
Alaric Sumner has produced a set of verbal and visual texts, mainly using the treated
words and images of others from published sources, which present potential dialogues
about the nature and process of the constructs of sexuality and writing. The structures
of Sumner's texts inhibit attempts at conventional reading and invite unconventional
and transgressive readings in which meaning becomes contingent upon past and
future reading without permitting a narrative to be generated; even along the timeline of
performance the texts' energy remains present. The reader(s) who wish to be told
meaning are pushed back towards itselves and their own meaning as the text interacts,
not just with the reader(s) but, with the concept of reading. I like it. Where does it go?
Can it go? I will send it.
I suppose I feel that I don't have quite a gun. I have a job I would do for free, if
necessary. Like giving away books. I am not sure that gets you out of it. In some ways
those who do not feel the control of the system are freer of it. St Augustine (no
intended relation) at the front door, I believe. There is a contradiction in my position.
Not so much in yours. I actually ought to stop worrying about money in relation to
publishing and just produce vast numbers and distribute them wide. That's when I feel
that gun resting lightly in my temple.
Subject, little bit of joy. Mime version. Content, type. Content-Transfer-Encoding.
Priority: Normal. I didn't notice any strangeness; and I didn't have any sense that you
were trying to block me. You seemed open in that you told me the news. You haven't
said everything that you could say, of course; these are intimate and private matters.
And if you said everything your message would be unbearably long. I referred to my
private life, but I gave no detail and that's my privacy. But, also, on both sides I
suspect, there is confusion in that one is dealing with things one hasn't fully worked out
and cannot work out except with the passage of time... One goes along with hopes and
wishes and possibilities; and, if you're like me, you play it. So comments about one's
friends and lovers is interim and tentative.
You do well to differentiate between love and sex. One can lead to the other, but I
know, now, where I put the emphasis. As someone I knew would say of sex: It's
everything and it's nothing. Not that original when you write it down, but it seemed
revelatory, though familiar, when she said it. Between exchanging bodily fluids. All the
best. Original Message. Little bit of joy, yes. Thanks for the care and concern and quite
understandable assumptions. I am reacting strangely to your emails because I know
my history and you don't and I haven't told you. I am not trying to block your thoughts,
but explain why I don't respond. Easily to them.
A little bit of joy. Take it easy, and enjoy whatever follows, taking it easy. The new
signature will run a while. After all my moaning, I thought I would tell you about this.
Even a correspondence, without ever bothering or needing to how the other party
would react if you made a pass, can be highly enjoyable, erotic even in its way. A little
bit of joy. One of my friends once drove to Rome for a party and I know that another
flew to America on the off-chance of fucking a woman he had met on the net; me, I
have my Doris Day pictures, even if they are stuck together. Who knows who he is
now. Very nice. I think we're talking at cross purposes. I shall try to repair it. I keep
being out in the evening. I'd appreciate links. Mutual benefit. Wow. Cor! Did I do that?
Yes, said the furry godfather. I think this is very good. It's a bit flowery; but there is no
other way.
I am going to change a comma into a semi-colon; but I may be misreading your
meaning. Is that last sentence not delightfully overbalanced. I can think of expressing
it. I'd like to remove my processes. Alaric Sumner has produced a set of verbal and
visual texts, mainly using the treated words and images of others from published
sources, which present potential dialogues about the nature and process of the
constructs of sexuality and writing.
Voice pauses, not looking directly at anyone, until it becomes uncomfortable.
Voice: I find I still have my images. connection fails. I am still here, unhappy with the
way my work is going. On the tape. & though I intended to try out semi-improv I was
unable because of low tech problems and a long phone call tonight which has stolen
my time, pleasurable as it was... and that means a lack of an enormous amount of
information I had expected to have. I am willing to take risks; but this is failure. I've had
a cup of tea and eaten a carrot and listened to recordings of myself several times and
decided that until I know more about the piece I am making I shan't go ahead with that
and will do entirely live performance. I hope you haven't gone to a lot of trouble. If you
have then I'll think again, but my inclination is strongly against the idea of doing
something that doesn't fire at all at present when I am only hours away from departure.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I know, but I thought you might change your mind. Thank you for the directions.
Look at these two same different thing. If you think you might think there is something
in them. Colour. Or if it's just screen glow... I am rather attached to these texts and
their semi-visible undertows... and the toner is getting thinner and thinner. It'll arrive
while I'm away or at least without a notebook; or in the rain with a pen which uses
soluble ink. If not, then leave it. I mean if you can't imagining suspending your disbelief.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Which bridge? Verbal / non-verbal? We can talk. I was thinking of soloing, but
we could do em two voice. See how we all feel. I know you are in part being careful
with me; and rightly; but I am also aware that you probably mean it too. I meant what I
said. I wasn't aware of any distinction of being careful and of meaning... And it is not
that I couldn't sound inkblots. I can't, any longer, see the sounds I should? want to?
make in response. If I could find that, I would like to do it again though I feel no
urgency about it. I do quite like my current sound piece, found from taking the voice out
of a text and layering of my voice. It is sound. But it comes from words and some you
can decipher. On second or third hearing perhaps. It was quite good to find a way to
make what some call sound poetry again after having been away. The sounding of fully
non-alphabetical marks remains suspect and there needs to be a reason for doing it, a
reason within oneself I think & when two are performing together then there needs to
be, whatever one would call it, more a symmetry of vocal behaviour between them
rather than sympathy & certainly more than just a desire to perform. I don't see
sounds... the sounds come... but the degree of improv out of marks rather than reading
of marks is high Return Path.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Problems, problems. I know you are being careful with me, but I am also aware
that you probably mean it. Very vulnerable still. Link to the unbelievable tombs. Come
again? Don't be too nice to me. You might try and make me do something I am not.
Expecting to do. That would be good. Just don't give me a sheet of inkblots and say
make a sound. Anything that I know what I could do would. Be fine. I don't want to
stand up holding a sheet and find I can't utter. Though that might also be worth
pursuing! That was the main reason that I was sending you. I am all for us pushing
each other but after all this work and expense I don't want either of us to be stranded. I
won't give you inkblots etc. except as a consenting artist. I'm not being nice to you at
all. Showing respect and consideration perhaps... I know myself that being asked to
make too great a leap isn't helpful & that has nothing to do with ability or potential... I
should think there are very few things you can't and couldn't do... but insofar as
collaboration is concerned we need to support as opposed to carry and encourage as
opposed to being nice. It looks fine to me. I know that I shall learn a lot from the
collaboration and in that relationship we both have to start from where the other is or
has been. It's a strange space to be. Odd layout, odd colours. Don't talk to me. I am
doing away. I shall sit down and do it again because I think there may be something to
be done. You could if you wish link to the unbelievable tombs. I am looking for pieces
with words in so you aren't too alienated. I am keener on being a performer in what you
want to do than choosing myself. I am happy with the colour one and there was a
slightly... there will be enough. Treasure upon treasures. Thanks for all this. All this
effort. They all look useful and interesting to work on. I am keener on being a performer
in what you want to do than choosing myself. I'm going to waggle my hands. Flipping
my hands and tilting my head slightly to indicate change of voice. You said I should.
Then we could do it together. Do I need to? If I'm going to waggle my hands. Maybe
you don't know. It's not as if both of them are here now.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: But can you split them now? This experience was thus. If the next experiences
will not be the same, to what extent do the words, whatever they are, remain the
same? Derrida on iteration might come in here. In reverse? The words are only words
as they are interpreted by a consciousness. Otherwise they are variations in chemical
composition of paper, perhaps. No experience can be the same as any other. At a
basic level, a poem read once can never be read again as if it had not been read in the
first place. It will inevitably be a repeat reading and therefore the experience of the
words will be different from a reading in which there is no sense of recognition. Where
is this poem printed in the book? What stability does it have in relation to its readings?
Does it exist other than in its readings? Stanley Fish makes the text disappear in Is
There A Text In This Class? and it is good thing too. Return Path experiences will not
be the same. To what extent do the words, whatever they are, remain the same?
Derrida on iteration might come in here. Words are words as they are interpreted. And
therefore the experience of the words will be different from a reading in which there is
no sense of recognition. What stability does it have? Told Bob how good your book is
and how well we interacted and that I hope you will get to the workshop at some time
in the future both to do try solos and to do multivoice so it could be a matter of turning
up, but it'd be good if it was said as a firm date to Bob some time ahead so he doesn't
double book something else extensive. Answer: dunno.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Haven't been seen for ages. Why not ask? If there's anything around they'll
know and I don't know who knows the most The chaos etc. goes on.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I shall get back to Totnes as quickly as I may and go to my lodgings, phoning
you on the way if there is a phone or else after. Apologies for disruption worry et cetera
I may have caused. I am pissed off myself. Hope if we were going to meet tonight to
prepare. I didn't record that bit in my memory. Sufficient unto the afternoon. Bucking
Curtains was made last summer I think. Though I had previously forgotten this, I now
believe that the initial impetus for the whole project was to explore the possibility of
making a book from multiple enlargements which would then have had text added. At
that stage I wasn't sure what that text would be. And that book may still come about.
As I experimented with ways of working with the enlargements, I found that moving the
enlargements on the photocopier created images that struck me as looking like
curtains which then sent me to Paul Buck's magazine and then to Paul's own texts in
the two issues I have. I reinforce and disrupt his meanings by selection of three words
down three lines. For the same photocopying session, I had printed out the Samuel R
Delany introduction from the internet and cut passages out of it and stuck them on
sheets intending to photocopy them as another visual/text book, again disrupting and
reinforcing Delany's meanings but the mode of selection. I think you would need to
read the text to see if you could tell why I had done this. Tennyson comes in at one
point and Derrida at another. The Tennyson happened because I was writing the piece
when someone started reading it on the radio and aspects of it collided usefully for me
with the ideas and the distressing of the ideas that I was working with.
I don't think it is useful for me to go on.
In performance, I felt unable to vocalise visual material, but the pages clearly (to me)
refer to the Cobbing / Upton use of visual material as sound material and I was very
pleased to have Lawrence read those pages.
Paul Buck was an important presence. Cobbing and Upton have both had a lasting
effect on me, as have Delany and Derrida. Einstein on the Beach and various other
Christopher Knowles texts have been fundamental influences as has been watching
him being interviewed on television. My brief work with Shallal Dance Theatre (in
particular when Tim Churchman danced error studies and portraits with me at the
Performance Writing Conference) was a powerful influence on my way of thinking
about people, the world, text and behaviour. The texts from this piece are available at
Cartograffiti (ed. Taylor Brady)
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I am much less interested in what I might have been trying to say than I am in
exploring what might be sayable. All decisions will have had reasons. Nothing is
careless. Glad to imagine it's none of my business; but I'd be interested in anything you
can tell me. Unwilling to leave the stage, suddenly entranced. Then we can speak of
what we do. Gotta keep my authors happy.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I wouldn't deny that, for me, Paul's insistently heterosexual work is alien. Me
too. In the way that he says it impossible to identify where I am speaking, because
there are so many other voices I should have emphasised. Don't think this is me.
Speaking. The sense of confusion I get in producing a poem that is not about gay
experience. I know so little about heterosexuality. What could I have useful to say
about it! There are some clichd phrases. In there. Male female relations. I don't give
them much help! I started off just saying text to myself. I tend to forget. bvm is full of
personal references but most of what is in there I shall keep to myself... I can read it
slowly and remember them... but when I crank up the speed and perform it to an
audience I am hardly conscious of the references (most of them to do with desire for
one or other of two women) and performing the text without preconception... ... but as
the piece developed in performance, and as what I might otherwise have done was
qualified by our joint effort, I was increasingly aware of sending up.... well, male self-
pity... but human self-pity... I actually used things that women have uttered / said... but
the role I was using was male hetero... Another writer I view with horror and
fascination... arrogance, sense of other, lack of sense of other, sense that one fucks
the other rather than both fuck with each other and so on so I'd say sexuality and
writing, I suggest don't give em help but don't feel the need to say this is not me is my
advice. Return-Path. For me, Paul's insistently heterosexual work is alien. I seldom
think about cunts or breasts or any aspect of women that is the material for sexual
interest by het men / gay women. So when I came to work through his work, I kept
being aware of its images / ideas / language. There is little about homosex (which is
what I see in my stuff whenever I mention sexuality). It may well be that there is a
universalism to be found, but for me, it is very much not my voice, yet with the choice
of using the three words with the emphasis I do, they produce intensity of experience
(in me) due to the breathing system working the way it does. I like the way that it is
impossible to identify where I am speaking, because there are so many other voices in
the piece. I suppose that is why I have emphasised the sources and also the sense of
confusion.
I don't know why you are doing it. Who-I-am-what-I do. I like it, think there's a lot in it.
Not sure if I can say why thought I could or might be able to; and then there came this
sexuality thing, which titled what I thought it was... I mean tilted which you didn't
respond to? Apologies if what I have done is inappropriate. Can't undo what I have
done. Is that deliberate? If so, forgive me; but, I hope you have dropped it positively
and because you want to... I thought it was sexuality and writing; but there you go No
no no no oh no not at all. Not criticism. Not even irony. All that happened was the way
you had phrased it.
I don't know why you are doing it. Return-Path.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: You are a nasty piece of work. I'm not the first to say this, of course. Your
agenda, your elitism in the guise of rigour sickens me. This has nothing to do with
anybody here. There is nothing vicious about this. Choices always have to be made.
We all have to work within limits and I'm sure most of us, including Lawrence, find the
limits a frustration. From mime instead of using the marks. Very few things are either /
or and I do read but the reading rules are improvised thanks. I didn't know that till I
typed it. Having books etc. to lean on can be very useful one problem. One has a
frame of expectation of words crafted very sparse, contemplative space.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Using the treated words and images of others, from published sources, Alaric
Sumner has produced a set of verbal and visual texts which present potential
dialogues about the nature and process of the constructs of sexuality and writing. The
structures of Sumner's texts inhibit attempts at conventional reading processes and
invites unconventional and transgressive readings in which meaning becomes
contingent upon past and future reading without permitting a narrative to be generated,
even along the timeline of performance the texts' energy remain present. The readers
are pushed back towards itselves as the text interacts not just with the readers but with
the concept of reading. Original message invoked from network. Or can't articulate to
myself. [To audience] Can you? Try a little description and I will try to respond.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I do not intend to diminish my thanks
I learned a great deal, amazed and angered by the egotistical accusation of ignorance
upon the audience and the apparent dismissal of verbal work.
Mime autoconverted from quoted-printable to subject. Poetry was not central to these
scenes. UK precedence. I think when cris says poetry was not central to these scenes
we have the point where the differences are heard. He, more than I, is involved with
the teaching of performance writing and it seems to me that what he, Bergvall,
Williamson, Catling, and Sumner are up to at Dartington is categorically different
whatever antecedents. All these use writing in their own different and expanded
senses, but I would argue that if a LIMITED interpretation of the word poetry is in use
then poetry is not central to this work. But who am I to argue for a limited interpretation
of the word poetry?
It seems to me that we do need to know that we are rewriting this stuff. And if we are
knowing and meaning our rewritings, then there are purposes, agendas, controls that
we are seeking to impose on the material of memory (and of course we need to be
aware that others have these agendas). Sometimes I find it hard to work out the
underlying agendas of some of the historicising. I have no 'privileged' memories). I
hope in my work with Carlyle that my purposes are clear (in all their ambiguity). And I
hope that readers will not assume that uninflected memory is at work.
It is inevitable that the memories of cris and Lawrence (with whom I had quite a lot of
contact in 76/80) will seem like a distortion, variation to me. How does one work
through this ridiculous need we seem to have to make the past into a singularity and
then to write it down?
I am getting the overnight train. Let's agree a civilised time and place to meet. Hope
you're feeling better. Talk to you when you get back.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I am not well today. I can't make decisions. I can't get the train to Cornwall. I am
in complete paralysis. Not well in the head or not well as colloquially i.e. physical pain
etc. AND paralysed. I was unwell at the beginning of the week LOTS of garlic + tonic
water with the quinine added -- seriously... I've been told this has no effect but I feel
myself coming together like a plant that hasn't been watered for some time when it is
finally watered & herb tea or it could be put another way I didn't drink & you don't
much, do you? Maybe you ought to drink a bit and then stop because it I clear to me
that my health improves when my drinking stops I recognise what you are
experiencing; no panaceas; but in case it helps, I think I've been there. Go to Cornwall,
go to Cornwall -- I was v pleased when you said you were going. I thought "at least
someone is going there". I'm going to go to bed now so I can get up at dawn. Right. We
have one which has a light in its base and the light goes on to the screen blocked by
the dark bits on the transparencies (i.e.. you would get light coming through the pasta
possibly but it would probably show as silhouettes. That's what I want. We also have a
'true image projector' which means you can take a book and put it on the o.h.p. and it
will project the image of that book's page on the screen (you would therefore get a
picture of the pasta rather than the silhouette of the pasta). that's not what I want. I
shan't buy the bits and pieces I need till the last minute if, when you can decide, it
seems too much trouble incl. just carting the stuff there, tell me, and I'll drop the idea.
No problem. Life's too short and I like to unburden my friends but I don't like doing
these things. I always use them like this to justify myself in relation to the accusation
that I am not well enough known to push myself forwards and I am saying 'yes I am,
look at all these people who think I am ok'. It is sick. Relax.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I want to make a realtime nonfilm movie... I may lay hand-written
transparencies on; and, through that lot, I may hand-write the transparencies there;
and then I suspect the posh one will impede such creative activity.
I don't want to be encumbered or to encumber you. What do you think?
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Merely suicidal so not bad today. Unless you are telling the straight truth, that
doesn't help me be the supportive friend I am trying to be. If it's the straight truth, well,
hang in there -- I look forward to seeing you again. There would be no charge. I think I
recently observed that you a treasure. thank you.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Confusingly different from the usual way things work.
Is not the cramping of creativity that is going on in legal attempts to restrict
plunderphonics and sonic-sampling in the music industry an example of the way that
copyright is used to prevent the flow of ideas rather than protect and promote
creativity?
The printing of poetry on to a blank page DEVALUED that page so that it no longer had
any commercial value.
The law concentrates on work with commercial value; it is to do with the protection of
the owners of the organs of power and distribution, not to do with the circulation of
texts and ideas. The point for me is that of a complex network of thick descriptions
based on personal takes be put out here for all to read. The more accounts, the more
differences, the greater the cumulative sense not of one version but many many
histories.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: There have been times elsewhere when I have felt great frustration that
histories are being claimed and that those histories surface later as an indisputable
record of the time. And so often those histories can be traced to particular ways of
viewing related not even to the time written, but to the time in which the history is
written This is unavoidable, but if it is also unacknowledged then various
entrenchments follow from it
It is the consensus that worries me -- the containment of the uncontainable.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: It was a vibrant time, with all sides alive, active and defending their interests.
Had it been left to sort itself out, it would have been an extraordinarily active and
intense collection of poetries. There was never any sense that I got from it that non-
experimental (ugh!) poetries were being prevented from getting on with it, simply that
other poetries were (for once) getting a look in.
Those who were intolerant of experiments would be frightened away, but never
pushed.
What's curious about such sources and resources is that the work mentioned in them
is not that which was most interesting. It is that which got written about, for various
reasons as above, but sometimes simply because it was easier to write about, easier
to absorb quickly blah. These sources act as distorting mirrors.
And this is exactly why I spend time above on the printshop/workshop. What is so often
written about re: the poetry sock is the boardroom machinations and the movers and
wheelerdealers. For the people who USED the society then, these were politickings of
little relevance (until everything collapsed). It suddenly occurs to me that one of the
reasons I am so interested in her performance work may be because my experience of
it is entirely through Carlyle's memories and cris's memories. Perhaps Lawrence has
talked to me about it too. I never saw her perform, though I have seen her read
frequently (a performance in itself) and I have observed her working (another
performance). So my experience of her performance is entirely mediated by memories
- unconnected to history.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: I thought your sensual evocation of the words where signifier became close to
signified -- not the sort of thing one could show to one's servant -- was superb I do find
pain a pain though. one can't even write in support! well, yes. But what can one do?
My message about cunt and fuck was meant to back up and develop what you had
said. I started earlier and wrote reams and then there was a power surge here, slight
but enough to wipe the ram and I couldn't be bothered to start again; and then I saw
that no one seemed to respond -- I wanted to both encourage you to keep contributing
and... and also to try to build on what seemed to me to be a valuable posting.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Re: bigger bangers I cant compete with stanley fish. Sad. I want to understand
this cryptic comment.
Yonks ago at a day festival organised by Virginia Weinberg, I spent hours building an
installation, went off to lunch and came back to find that the musicians had demolished
it because they didn't like it... that was odd too. I was so angry I went off to be on my
own and Virginia got terribly upset because of my anger; or so it seemed... which only
annoyed me more because I was dealing with my anger... however, more recently, I
have met only the sweetest musicians... December before last at V I - I can't remember
who it was now, but they couldn't do enough to cooperate with the poets and we went
over and over the plans until everyone had got an optimal-for-them arrangement... but
always at my back I hear the possibility of musical palaver. It is actually Jo Hyde who
did Nekyia with me (and confusingly is a heteromale, despite his choice to use the
female version of his name). Of course, now I recognise the name. My brain doesn't
work properly today. I will argue for you. I am actually quite content. I have found a
technique which is amusing me in the recording studio, to read a text into a
microphone without breath (almost) so that all I get is the plosives and fricatives etc. I
have layered a number of tracks of this and the sound is really very interesting. It is a
way of ALLOWING myself to make noise (or perhaps of giving me some 'intention' in
relation to sound). I can't just start improvising, but if I have something I am reading
then I can make that into sound instead of words. Weird the way I have to trick myself
into things! Yes mike abuse is good. Remind me of what technical equipment you
would like.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Courteous and kind as usual, Ric has shown us the way to behave courteously
and kindly -- and shown us that if we are courteous and kind we have no need to raise
the nasty, messy, issues around the subject of ownership of texts, because they are
irrelevant to the courteous and kind. For which let us be grateful. I am particularly
grateful for the reference to Bernstein's "My Way", since my poor memory had been
unable to identify where I had picked up the delightful passage.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Question 1 How are you? Answer: merely suicidal so not bad.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Solution to kitchen corners. Dear Miss Nomer, I think I'm a spiritual person, and
I want to give thanks for my life, but I'm too depressed. Last week, my best friend was
gay-bashed.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: In all poetry the appearance on the page can affect how we read in the same
way that the quality of the voice can affect how we listen. Carlyle Reedy's writings can
be retyped by her on to different sheets of paper, but each will then begin to take on a
life of its own and the changes to that sheet may not occur to other sheets with the
'same' poem on them.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Which would you rather have -- an illuminated manuscript or an email version
of the same book? What would change in that transformation? I read the small press
books for pleasure (feelly-feelly, sniff-sniff, snuggle-snuggle). To see representations in
light in glass of scanned versions of some of her paper works that I have seen her
holding and marking seemed like formaldehyding butterflies and pinning them down
behind glass. If you say so. I think I preferred it when you called yourself a pink thing,
but I wouldn't want to cramp your style oh I see -- you're processing my text well carry
on carry...
Pygmy arselicker adolescent weirdo. If you say so.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: Well, hang in there. I don't know whether I am telling the truth that I FEEL
suicidal (I think so), then you are telling the truth I know this kind of space very well. I
empathise though I've only been low in the last few days (even though for me too there
is much to look forward to); but, as I said, I am looking forward to seeing you; so hang
in there, Lawrence... So hang in Lawrence.
I don't care for myself. I just dislike the fact that those who are helping us are also
ripping us off. I am grateful for their generosity and wish they were more generous.
Unless you are telling the straight truth, that doesn't help me be the supportive friend I
am trying to be. If it's the straight truth, well, hang in there. I don't know whether I am
telling the truth that I FEEL suicidal (I think so), but equally I know well that I am not
going to do it. I am just in one of those depressions that I get and when I get them I
have (as you know) been known to curl up on the floor in the corner of my kitchen and
sit there for hours trying to 'decide to open my eyes' (I think that's how I put it last time).
But it is merely physical, some chemicals. Everything is going OK. Performance
Research have sent the proofs of my article on CR and interview with her about
Monkey and they look great. cris should have the next Language aLive edited by La
Bergvall out soon with a piece by me in it. It is just that it doesn't mean anything when
in bright sunshine the world is black sump oil. I think I recently observed that you are a
treasure. Thank you.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: It seems to me that they would be interesting very sparse as well as
fast/quickfire (indeed a bit of both). but I would prefer a few tryouts Let's get anything
sorted that either of us is worried about as a priority -- not quite worried, but... whatever
the word is. I shall go on working at what I might do with you etc. and getting my bit
sorted... but you set the agenda for rehearsal Lawrence Return-Path.
Horridest holiday ever: all my own fault (not understanding self or world). So what did I
expect? At least I am understanding the degree of obsession that I am embroiled in. I
suppose I had fun. I had quite a lot of welcome silence and a lot of peace. The hardest
choice I had to make was decide between "Time Bandits", "Citizen Kane" and "The
Italian Job". The greatest labour was cooking food in a well-equipped kitchen and
washing clothes with a washing machine. Companionship of cats. Satisfaction rather
than fun. Like you, I didn't have sex with anyone; but then I didn't expect to. I had a
number of cuddles... The entire thing still without understanding myself or the world. If
you want to talk about it, and the fact that you mention it suggests you do, I can
promise discretion and sympathy. I wondered where you'd gone. There was a
message asking if I was around and then nothing. I think this, in the scheme of things,
the great chain of us all being pillocks, is very low level. It's quite interesting. Having a
beloved is usually a one way state. Having said which, from what you say, it probably
wouldn't do any harm to lower it! Like blood pressure. I regret the frustrations of my
unrequited obsessions, and I've had a few; but I do not regret having learned to live
with them -- leaving them running like demon mental processes, but able to share a
room and conversation with the object of obsession without a perturbation of breath or
heart, genitals being something probably best left to themselves, unmonitored.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: btw are you reading Poetryetc? They described a poet as superb and I said a
polite bollocks. Stirred up the nests. One sent a patronising little sneer. So I found a
poem of hers on the net and tore it up. Silly and nasty thing to do but I was angered by
the one word argument by assertion. Is that the best we can do? Little flurry of
responses, not one quote from a poem among them. I have to say that the word
"superb" has given me an entirely new slant on the world. Perhaps I am a recent
changeling or my brain has been modified... I'll say no more because I would hate to
have my own writing prejudged. I shall look the book out and apply myself to it... Well,
I'll have a look. I don't think I've said what I think, in terms of my reasons, because --
well, as I said, I wouldn't like my own work pre-judged. Having said that, I must have
come across many of the poems already. I accept her work is in a different register to
much that I admire. That's not a problem for me. I think my range is fairly wide. My
criticism -- as it would stand, and on what I have experienced -- would be not that of its
difference to others, quite the opposite, but that it just isn't very good. I hesitated at
sending that post because it was dismissive. However, I reflected that she gets a great
deal of coverage compared to much that I admire. Voices of hushed awe announce the
name on Radio 4. & I have never been able to see it. Given the relative fame, I thought
I'd just express my disbelief publicly in response to public praise. But I'll get myself into
a bookshop and have a read and report back. I am quite prepared to say I am wrong,
much as it hurts. The panic is being brought under more control now, forces are
reassembling and I am sure that no quarter will be given me; but fuck em. Seems a
nice little canter of the sheep at the sight of a fox. As usual they don't know WHY they
know you are wrong (is it because they have been told it by THOSE WHO KNOW?). I
understand that, the problems. I'm exactly the same, and working on it; and no one has
hit me, well apart from the ex wife. This is getting rather interesting, don't you think?
The sneerers back down re their sneering (excluding O'Brien, who, understandably,
just keeps silent) and begin to dig out their previous attempts at criticism, including
grudging agreements that there are problems with said poet and with the whole
"mainstream" edifice. Now one who is no ally of mine, saying yes he's got a point and
Roddy thing? full of Forbes-wank -- if he thinks that's me pulling wings of a fly... etc. --
and saying that the pathetic grudging ground given is "harsh" criticism. I suspect such
analysis (attack! you nasty man) gives a number of wannabees a sense of their own
potential failure to achieve. I had no idea I would start this. It was just knee jerk "You
cannot be serious" to the umpire... & again thanks for the review. Much appreciated.
Course, you didn't see the last time I did overreach myself. I think I still got away with it,
but that was the loneliest 15 minutes I've ever spent, knowing I was in deep shit from
the moment I started! This leads me back to my comments about Lawrence. Is "adept"
"works" "engage", "persuade" the validation of a poem/performance? Or would people
go with Chris Hamilton-Emery and me and prefer "risk", "shaky territory" "extension
outwards and beyond what we've tried before"? If a work disturbs me to the extent I
don't trust it, I am sure it is doing something I need to look at -- I can't yet cope with it...
exciting. I could say "persuades me to keep reading" but it doesn't, I have to persuade
myself to keep reading despite my discomfort -- because it is doing something to me.
But if a work persuades me, comforts me, agrees with me, what am I getting from it
that will shift me somewhere interesting? I am comparing Fisher, Lawrence with. work
that risks less. You can get disturbance in other ways. For example, I would argue
Lawrence often gets the same sense of danger in his less apparently risky work. Fisher
is also seldom (if ever) comfortable. Is this the crux of the question? Persuasive work
v. Challenging work? Applying to college this year? Apply online at Embark.com and
enter the Embark.com Tuition Sweepstakes! I have decided that the poet you really did
attack is quite an interesting writer of short prose stories that don't make any great
demands on her audience -- that's based on the poetryetc selection exactly. I think I
may have heard some on the radio... ignorable. Interesting they would rather splutter
indignation about her than attack me for liking your work. But maybe I just don't phrase
things so that they can take note of them and perhaps I just don't talk about the things
they are interested in (to what extent has this stuff been useful? to what extent was my
Lawrence stuff useful? I think most of what is going on is entrenchment... no one has
said anything to shift my attention towards her or away from Upton (nor even to refocus
me on a different aspect of your work)). These flurries on the list end up boring me to
tears. One of the reasons I dropped out. I may do again shortly. Not even Fisher got
many hits. They are obsessed with the defence of a 'nice' writer. Let 'em stew. I don't
have energy for their self-protectionism. I am spending my energy on protecting myself
from their onslaughts. I am not a threat to them as me though I am apparently
perceived as a threat to her, especially when I do the straight suicide run bit, not being
diverted for long by comparisons and sociological contexts -- it's been interesting to
see something like desperation to stop someone analysing one of their totems on
technique -- I am going to bite into that tired diction, the fear of where her flirtation with
cutup takes her, her wooden ear, close my jaws and smile at them like a Cheshire wild
cat I suspect, seriously, that the phrase book sequence is the first time he's come
across that sort of stuff and he really thinks it is risky... & I've just given his wife a gig.
I've given his wife a gig because she's a good poet. Hardly breaking obvious
boundaries, but she's more interesting than he is. I doubt they could cope with you
coming in and praising me. I was fairly quiet for ages, then I started banging away at
something or other last week and then in the last 48 hours I leapt on a one word
remark and annexed it like Iraq going into Kuwait & then on top of that you come in and
say here's an alternative way to look at all poetry and I think that's the way we should
look at it and if you agree then Lawrence is important. I was challenging the validity of
one of their main totems; you were challenging the system that needs totems. It's
obviously not going to go down well with the slimes who are brown-nosing. You don't
get much response to anything. To get a measure of the panic take a lot at the chat
just posted. It's like that Carry On film with Sir Sydney Rough-Diamond hosting a
dinner party while the fuzzywuzzies blow up the building. No one has said anything to
shift my attention towards her. Well, there's nothing much there is there? It's quite good
in some ways. Kind of its own sub-genre. I'd place it more in the stand up performance
way than on the page. her ear seems full of cotton wool. There is no defence. All they
can do is say "yes, but it's my opinion it's superb" Not even Fisher got many hits. Did
you expect him to? That's why I dropped him in and also ( + self-respect) why I
changed Geraldine to Maggie. Not sure anyone noticed. They are obsessed with the
defence of a 'nice' writer. As are most people. Let'em stew. I don't have energy for their
self-protectionism. I am spending my energy on protecting myself from their
onslaughts. I understand something like my views most of the time; but I am enjoying
this one -- always useful to have to justify one's certain certainties and I have enjoyed
your company anyway. I've done a first draft of my final thing -- not very long -- based
on the recent selection and shall have a read tomorrow or Wednesday... I'll drop it on
them in due course and then turn my attention to writing a brief history of British sound
poetry which includes you. No. I have no intention of drinking camomile tea. I do
sometimes. My doctor suggested it as a counter to my passionate engaged response
to everything, but I wouldn't think of it for a get together. I am here at work at 7 on
Friday when everyone else is out partying and I have no good excuse. I had planned to
go and have fun. I have found ways to prevent myself from doing so. I find myself
incomprehensible. I can't think of anything I'd like to do less than party. I would need
an excuse to have done it. And as for fun, don't talk to me about fun. I'm trying to cheer
you up, btw. I have always had deep doubts about parties and fun. I would endorse the
reliability and positivity of finding oneself incomprehensible; except that I think I am
beginning to comprehend myself. Ah well. Do you mean you would like to be different
or do you really mean you want to be someone else? I asked how you are. How are
you? (Camomile tea was a joke.) I must remember that for you words have definite
meanings. I must remember to use them as if I also thought that, so that we can
communicate. Words have definite or rather definable shared meanings I DO want to
be different but the different that I want to be is not myself different but someone else
different. I want to defer from my life into someone else's. Not anyone quite specific,
but I could identify some features (but wouldn't... I might feel too exposed even for me
if I did that). It might be worthwhile, for you, to pursue that. I don't mean "tell me about
it"; but maybe you should tell you about it. time is passing you know well, you sound
ok; I was a bit worried about you L I tried to make some initial enquiries re my journey
Got nowhere with the phone they couldn't hold the separate ideas in their heads long
enough to give me an answer. The website either presents a blank page and
announces "done" or tells me there is no direct connection between Tadcaster and
Totnes. I'll try again in 24 hrs L Excited by the prospect, if it is something I could sound
adequately (ie. not 'visual only' - which still blocks me) but when you say "sound" do
you mean non verbal or do you mean speaking rather than uttering Christopher
Knowles' face -- so logically I suggested I read one of Christopher Knowles' texts (if it
can be called logical to read a text in relation to visual work -- which I think is illogical,
and indeed unsustainable, but might be ok) Oh right. I would have said, ok transfer my
"objections" to him, but you've kind of said that yourself. Objections is of course too
strong a word. I'm up for just about anything. Them in the book into sound, or keep
going with isolated words from before or after while you vocalise (this last sounds a
little more promising?). Very promising. I am not going to NY until first April at earliest
i.e. a change of plan. Switch your brain on and maybe thoughts about collab won't
crash the system this time. *This first of April?! I was talking about your plan to up
sticks, not a jolly. Clarification please? Lawrence I was referring to BC visual pages
which I can't vocalise, but I hope might permit/prompt you to vocalise. They DON"T
prompt/permit me to. Yes, I understand. This must have been sloppy writing on my
part. I was thinking that I did / would prompt -- I take it as axiomatic that you would feel
permission or at least not feel excluded (although I do go into a kind of aware but
predominantly autistic space when the non verbal utterance is going full tilt) i.e. that
any multivoice non verbal performance needs to be collaborative -- if you start to utter
then I am uttering in a performance space which includes and is partly made up of your
voice and vice versa but but but I don't want to push you into anything you're not happy
with. Yes, but it is an aim to go to NY rather than a plan. It may not come off. I don't
want to close off options. I understand that. I thought you were pretty certain of your
desire to move there and that would have a way of making it more likely that you will
make it... I probably don't listen enough to you when you speak of this because I think
it's a daft idea (!) But if we were to get into collab, I would be very happy. I feel I am in
a more... certain(?), confident(?)... relation to my writing than I was with
Blancmange/Fall. Let's try again, and think performance and NOT separation. The
problem was that we made separate things in relation to each other which meant that
they remained 'the author's', instead of becoming ours. I would like to see somethings
that we lose the sense that this text could have been made by either of us separately. I
remember getting very muddled by it, the organisation of it and I don't know know
where that came from. You'd have thought that I'd have been like a duck to water given
the number of collaborations that I've been in, but that didn't happen. The last bit of
what you say, about things that could have been written by either of us, is interesting
and exciting, given that we are so far from each other, in some ways, in our individual
output. Let me know when you know FOR CERTAIN the dates you need the b&b for. Is
it the nights of 29/1st? Or do you want to come earlier/leave later? Those are the dates
I am thinking of. If I journey either from Helston or London, I would arrive too late in the
day to feel comfortable about performing that day -- I would not be at my best -- and so
need to have that day to prepare ideally If I make a longer trip, which I had intended, it
might have been different. One plan was to walk from Lizard to Mevagissey - no great
distance... another included around the Fowey; but as these collapse I have to think in
terms of a long journey to Totnes... I am no great lover of east Cornwall though it sure
beats London, well some of it -- I mean etc. The idea of making a longer stay is also
interesting -- but it's the same thing really that if I can pay a b & b in Cornwall then I
can do it in Devon... but then my mind tends to reverse the equation... Maybe if I have
48 hours there then I shall have my mind changed... spending time in Totnes would
potentially make collaboration possible. As I say I am watching myself at present. I am
in a very odd and muddled state and mistrust my own responses... I may have some
clarity about my finances over the forthcoming months in a few days and if that
happens then I may find that some of my ambiguity over travel evaporates; though I
am generally cluttered; but I may be inventing the muddle because I can't work out
what to do But, yes, I shall let you know asap. Please forgive me for being so vague -- I
think this is unlike me. I usually have reasons for any prevarication and maybe I have
now; but my overall feeling is of being unsettled Heh ho, I'll give some thought to
another collab, how it might start. Or, like DAN, it could have two starts. It may not be
in writing. When I stayed with you in the summer, I think, you talked about NY and how
you'd like to live there for all the reasons you give below and I said I'd rather --
whatever I said. I have now referred to that, in my head, with the word "mad". Telling
you that you are mad, is not like me saying Alaric, you are mad to stand in the middle
of that road. More it means I cannot comprehend that anyone would want to live in NY.
I said that to Barry Mac and *he said that *I was mad. I am intrigued by "quiet". Quiet?!
Good luck to you if you want to move to NY. I guess I wouldn't mind visiting it again,
but... I would have my hand on my ticket home all the time. I live in an interesting
writing scene city and am still plotting to get out of it and do wonder how that will affect
me... I can understand the attraction to someone who doesn't live where there's lots
going on. I see that would be important to you. People, yes... Ha! Remember you are
talking to someone who, if he thinks about where he would live had he freedom to
purchase what he wanted, would get as far away from most people as he could. My
idea would be to *try to keep a spare room ready for people I like to stay and to do the
rest by email. I think that it's probably a good idea for you to go to NY if you want to do
that. It's just incomprehensible to me. My Australian mate tells me his dad may be on
his way out so I am trying to do something with several dozen cubic yards of important
crap. This may put paid to my suspended plans for Cornwall. It's funny, I got the news
shortly after I had decided to go to Cornwall!... It'll take days and days and days to get
things clear in case he comes. But it'll be better to have done it; I could offer you
shelter, for instance; if I can manage not to undo it; and I have to do it for him... So...
When I am more clear on this I shall think on The Journey i.e.. What I am saying in no
way affects the gig. Be patient with me. I need rewiring. I can't find where you say I am
mad to want to go to NY, but I am sure I read this from you. I would like to read your
reasons. 1) interesting writing scene 2) interesting gay scene 3) interesting people
(morgan ohara, jennifer ley, charles b, jackson etc.) 4) sophisticated, quiet, elegant,
vibrant, dangerous, sexy, mixed, centre of the known universe. OK everything is up for
grabs (except the gig) My friend Richard's father has died and Richard will be over next
week. I doubt he'll be here long and I may not see him again ever. So that has priority.
I've emailed back to see how long he's staying, if he knows. So... I shall gladly accept
your offer of b & b. When I am rich I shall do things for you. 29th so I can prepare for
the gig and 1st so that I am sheltered after. Get a cheap one, mate; don't spend undue
money on me. You might enquire about the possibility of being there before or after;
but I cannot yet commit to that. Lawrence. That's probably what I would have brought.
But whatever I bring you aren't compelled to take them to America. No one is buying
them here any more so it makes sense to use them. It's interesting work. I like it as a
book. & I guess I'll slowly drop little batches on you until it starts selling or until it is o.p.
Lawrence. Fine. Thanks. No one likes my work (with a few notable exceptions). I must
be doing something right. In other words, few people like your work. It's a less dramatic
but more precise way of saying it. No one likes my work (with a few notable
exceptions). I must be doing something right. I too have thought this, that unpopularity
indicates aesthetic sense; but it is, I am sure that you realise, a flawed argument. Also,
with the net it is very difficult to know how many people know about your work. I think
the thing about your work -- to turn something like what you have said of me and Allen
Fisher back on to you -- is that it doesn't make people comfortable and may make them
uncomfortable. That is certainly doing something right. & you do it very well. L In other
words, few people like your work. It's a less dramatic but more precise way of saying it.
But as you know I am a Drama Queen and very imprecise. Oh boo. I too have thought
this, that unpopularity indicates aesthetic sense; but it is, I am sure that you realise, a
flawed argument. Yes. But it gives some solace to the forlorn. I think the thing about
your work -- to turn something like what you have said of me and Allen Fisher back on
to you -- is that it doesn't make people comfortable and may make them
uncomfortable. That is certainly doing something right. & you do it very well. An
uncomfortable seldom-read poet. Yes. That sounds about right. Merely suicidal so not
bad today. Unless you are telling the straight truth, that doesn't help me be the
supportive friend I am trying to be. If it's the straight truth, well, hang in there. I don't
know whether I am telling the truth that I FEEL suicidal (I think so), but equally I know
well that I am not going to do it. I am just in one of those depressions that I get and
when I get them I have (as you know) been known to curl up on the floor in the corner
of my kitchen and sit there for hours trying to 'decide to open my eyes' (I think that's
how I put it last time). But it is merely physical, some chemicals. Everything is going
OK. It is just that it doesn't mean anything when in bright sunshine the world is black
sump oil.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: It took me some time to understand that you found my deluge of emails
confusing. I intend you to have as much of mine as you can stomach and I can spare.
Your enthusiasm is part of its source. Merely suicidal so not bad today. I don't know
whether I am telling the truth. I FEEL suicidal. I think so, but equally I know well that I
am not going to do it. I am just in one of those depressions that I get and when I get
them I have (as you know) been known to curl up on the floor in the corner of my
kitchen and sit there for hours trying to decide to open my eyes. I think that's how I put
it last time. But it is merely physical, some chemicals. Everything is going OK. It is just
that it doesn't mean anything when in bright sunshine the world is black sump oil. Have
been hiding, crouched in the corner of the kitchen trying to decide open my eyes. Much
better now. I think I have despaired so I am quite jolly in discrete strata.
Voice pauses and then continues.
Voice: No one knows, so from whom do you hide? given that there is no one walking
in the garden (even a kitchen-garden) in the cool of the evening . I mean from what
you've said it's your perception of yourself rather than anyone else's perception.
Powerful enough, and I speak from experience. But despair? Really? If you say so.
Anyway, you seem to have survived and fortunately (though it won't seem fortunate)
not unscathed. Thus do we learn -- just in time to bloody die.
Alaric Sumner, some basic facts
Alaric Sumner (1952-2000) was a writer and performer, an artist, an editor, critic and
educator.
A one time Writer in Residence at the Tate Gallery, St Ives, latterly he had lectured in
Performance Writing at Dartington College of Arts in UK, where he was also
undertaking doctoral research.
He was editor and co-founder of words worth (Journal of Language Arts) and founder
and editor of words worth books.
He edited the Writing and Performance section of PAJ 61 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1999 which includes an interview with Reedy and work by Reedy,
Upton, Cheek and Bergvall.
He was UK Associate Editor of Masthead Literary Arts Magazine (edited by Alison
Croggan in Melbourne, Australia).
Of particular note, the prize-winning Voices (for 9) was performed at the Royal Court
Theatre, London, in 1994.
His collaboration with Joseph Hyde, Nekyia (for speaker, singer, electroacoustics and
video) toured during 1999-2000. It's last scheduled performance took place at Nunnery
Gallery in London, shortly after Sumner's death, with Joseph Hyde and Steve Halfyard
and with Lawrence Upton taking the place of Sumner. Hyde presented a recorded
version of Nekyia at the later as celebration at Dartington
The Unspeakable Rooms (a collaboration with Rory McDermott funded by the Arts
Council of England) was described by Frank Green in the Cleveland Free Times as
"one of the most powerful performances I've ever witnessed, and I've attended
hundreds. A difficult masterpiece".
His collaborations with sound artist John Levack Drever have been broadcast and
performed in concerts around the world and published on CDs from ISEA and Doc(k)s.
Joseph Hyde used Alaric's texts from Nekyia in his CDRom work for Performance
Research.
PUBLICATIONS:
Bucking Curtains (Mainstream Poetry 1999),
Aberrations of Mirrors Lenses Sight (RWC 1998),
Waves on Porthmeor Beach (Illustrated by Sandra Blow RA) (words worth 1995),
Rhythm to Intending (Spectacular Diseases 1994),
Lurid Technology and the Hedonist Calculator (Lobby Press 1994),
Songs of Nonsense and Experiment (Zimmer Zimmer 1976).
Alaric's work is anthologised in Word Score Utterance Choreography (edited by
Cobbing & Upton, Writers Forum 1998), My Kind of Angel: i.m. William Burroughs
(edited by Loydell, Stride 1998) and things not worth keeping (edited by Cheek &
Lavers, things not worth keeping, 2000 - posthumous publication).
At the time of his death, Alaric was working on a long piece - Letters for dear Augustine
- letters to a fictional person of unstable gender.
Introduction to A Song, through Alaric Sumner
As well as A Song, through Alaric Song, I have also considered A Song of Alaric
Sumner, A Song for Alaric Sumner and various other similar variations, as well as
substituting hum for song. None quite carry the meaning that I suspect I want but
cannot quite name. This title is a compromise.
The text is largely sourced from the extensive email correspondence between
Sumner and Upton and some other material breaks in. There is a lot of reordering
and some new writing by Upton, especially repetition.
Alaric Sumner can no longer say his words even though he wrote them; so I must
speak for him. (The survival of his words after his death is the accidental consequence
of the persistence of digital and paper records and a function of my memories.)
Thus, in any particular section, you may be reading, in terms of their origin, my words
or Alaric's or both. It is a conversation in a head.
There was a character, Vice-Admiral "Burbly" Burwasher, played by Jon Pertwee, in the
radio sitcom The Navy Lark, who would vocalise debates with himself: Where am I? I
don't know. Distract them... Hallo... Right that's given me a moment or two. That's
clever of you. Thank you. Not at all. Now why am I here? I don't know.; and it would go
on. Sometimes there was very little narrative in the episode with a series of such set
pieces.
That quotation is made up. Something like that single-multiple voice is going on here
there is no story as such -- though I had not heard the broadcasts when I made the
text. There is also a man who often gets the same bus as me who carries on a debate
over a mobile phone though he has no receiver plugged into his ear and no visible
phone.
Some of the time he is speaking and some of the time 'listening'. Something like that
may be happening here.
Alaric and I carried on a fairly constant email discussion in the latter half of the 1990s
and would meet now and then. (I had known him since the mid 70s.)
Much of the material here, but not all, comes from the last months of his life, he at
Dartington, me south of London, both writing in one sense or another fairly
continuously, when we were debating collaborations between the two of us and the
launch performance of his book Bucking Curtains in late February 2000. That gig did
happen although there is no material here from after it. Both of us had catching up to
do after that few days; then he became ill; and he was dead before the end of March
2000.
The emails and the song made from them concerned how we might perform a variety
of texts, including the new book; and also how we might beneficially collaborate further.
Underneath that, and it is discernible in the song, was quite a strong sense of
apprehension on Sumner's part about the risks of improvisation: he was very much a
person who liked a full script.
The first performance of this text, in an earlier form, was given at the as celebration at
Dartington College in, I believe, June 2000.
Clearly, the reader will read the text differently depending how much they know about
Alaric and myself.
It is not my intention to present a literary puzzle. Nor do I wish to produce an annotated
text. It is a piece of writing which is often far from easy to take in.
Therefore, I offer a few notes to help you understand something of the background to
our collaged discussion, the song. If they help you avoid hunting for red herrings, then
the notes will have served a purpose.
Stanley Fish was a writer whom Alaric valued greatly.
St Augustine, the Christian saint, is, here, not Dear Augustine of Alaric's fictional
letters. Beyond that, I am not sure.
Bob (Cobbing) the poet, who ran Writers Forum which Alaric had attended in the
70s and who, with me, published Alaric in Word Score Utterance Choreography.
Totnes Sumner's base whilst teaching in nearby Dartington. His permanent home was
in west Cornwall. During the years of our collaboration, we met both in west Cornwall
and Totnes.
Bucking Curtains Alaric's last book before his death.
Samuel R Delany a writer Alaric valued.
Christopher Knowles a writer Alaric valued.
Shallal Dance Theatre Local to his Cornish home. Alaric worked with them briefly,
as described herein i.e. the I there was him, not me, in its origin.
error studies and portraits a performance piece by Sumner circa 1995
bvm a declarative poem by me circa 1993
Carlyle (Reedy) a fine poet based in London, whom Alaric had published at his own
considerable expense Alaric greatly admired her writing.
V I a reading series + based in London
Nekyia a performance piece by Alaric Sumner and Jo Hyde
Blancmange / Fall an unpublished collaboration between myself and Sumner
Unbelievable tombs is one of several joke titles by which Sumner chose to refer to
one of his more successful pieces The Unspeakable Rooms which was performed by
Rory McDermott in UK and USA.
cris is cris cheek
The peculiar mention of pasta in the context of overhead projectors refers to a
performance Erik Vonna-Michell and I gave at London Film Makers Coop all kinds of
material, including pasta were thrown over an o.h.p. platen as part of our live film.
Alaric did not see the performance, but I had told him about it; I thought, correctly, that
he would be interested.

Lawrence Upton
 Spring 2017
Meg Kelting

Bone Man

His shambles rattle in his clothes

creaking a story everyone is tired of
yes Bone Man,
they say
the wind howls through your heart
but your catacombs call.

It is not his time to rest.

Instead he wanders green hills

chittering to the trees about his long departed fingers
I used the be a poet,
the Bone Man says,
love letters to the world, those were my words.
but the trees listen to none but the birds.
I used to be a poet his ribs whisper.

His bones groaned the tale as he went along,

searching for someone to show shaking fingers.
But the Bone Mans story was one the lot had heard before
an old skeleton forsaken by the wind and embraced by the howling
the more he held his arms out
the farther the wind took his racket
until all the world knew his tale before he could tell it.
The Bone Man looked up into a storming sky and lurched farther,
showing his old fingers
and in the wind the splinters shrieked and shifted.
Great Time, you took my tale and now what is there?
I cannot make words, I am only bone,
let Wind reunite the rest of me!
Time saw the Bone Man
and the wind went silent.

The Bone Man slunk on and soon all who had heard his tale on the wind
forgot it, for the wind is fleeting.
Bone after bone, unable to keep them quiet,
he wandered, waiting for dust.
Then one day the Bone Man came to a field
completely flat but for a figure in the middle.
The Bone Man shook through the corn and regarded the straw
I used to be a poet, his fingers said.
I used to be a pilot. the straw murmured
 Spring 2017
Abby Minor

SUMMER IN MAINE

I.
All I wanted was to be one of the great childless
American women poets, aesthetic as an acorn and linen-

clad in a photograph, perched

in a brainy dress on the breakwater laid down

like a giant ogres finger in green glass, in Rockland Harbor like Edna Millay. (Dear Granter

of Poetry Wishes, now, awake!all I wanted was to be sitting close to a part of the ocean
and not be on vacation.) In this photograph its obvious

that sometime after she moved to Greenwich Village she acquired an ivory dildo which her sister

attempted to incinerate after she died; in this photograph where I

cleanse my eyes I am sitting lightly on a great granite digit slapped and sucked

by the harbors green, and where it meets the hand of land I see the crinkled heaps of leaf

and pink and paper-colored rose, the gulls flicking down dry pearl. All behind me
in ball caps my fellow countrymen who might even be great

poets trudge out

to the lighthouse & I
notice a black ant smaller than a second crawling on the breakwater, not here
for a tour of the lighthouse but not a poet, either. All I wanted was to be with poems

and starting to show, so people would see me in the grocery store and ask
what kind of poem is it, and Id say I dont know it was honestly just a gift

from God, in whom I really do be (a) leaf, but everyone would still stare at my poem and think about me

having sex, anyway.

II.
On the t.v. in the lighthouse museum they are playing
a scene from my dream: Im trying on a coral-

colored dress with intricate black

patterns on the chest which fitst.v. dream zooms

in on it zipping up the backlike a cock. (Thats

a phrase Id like to see enter the colloquy: As soon

as she showed up for the interview we knew

shed fit like a cock. That blouse

fits like a cock! These socks fit

like a pair of cocks!) Now into this historical

coastal t.v. program my mom

texts, Want some long white tab top

curtains?, and so into these dream scenes

long white curtains blow

like dressy clouds above the harbor.

III.
I knew a kid who came to summer art camp every day saying
Im so busy, Im so late. Will, kid Will. I loved this kid. He knew

everything about space, except he didnt. He said there were Martians

on Mars and that it was made of thunder. The other kids were really learning

about space in school and they got mad.

What kind of stone is the moon made of, Will?

The most expensive kind.

In this photograph Im on the most expensive rock, in the most beautiful poem.
Im standing like a saint unsmiling

among crabapples, like great American poets holding their mournful chins
in the heels of their mournful palms. From the breakwater I can see

within the green the ghost

line plotted plumb from a buoy to its trap glow thick

like a white root

diagonal in the dark. I send my mind

down to the purple-black lobsters there: it turns out theyre not really

trapped, they come and go snacking, caught only if theyre in

when the traps hauled up. In this photograph

I have my ankles crossed, my eyes tide-ringed, my waists a silver lock. Poems slick
as oiled pegs click within the spotless sponge

and bone of my ten pound, indivisible head. Dear Granter of Poetry Wishes: click, take
my claw. Dear Countrymen: Dont leave me here with this poem. Dont leave me here

in this dress.
TENDERLY DIARY

If I had a kid I could

write about how great that is
but instead I just live
across from the half-size
basketball court with global
warming all around. Now its late and beautiful
night rain comes tenderly and last
night there were white &
orange stars hissing high
enough to hurt your teeth, which
by the way I could see in
spite of the street
lamp which the Civic Club says
I can buy a shade for as long
as it still shines light
on the flag. Personally I
wouldnt want to be lit
all the time but is the flag
really fragile or it must be
like a beauty queen. Over at
my neighbors house I like
to walk over there in the dark
get dripped on by trees share
a beer & look at a poem in
The Oxford American that doesnt do
much for us. There

we were in a lit
kitchen in a brick
house near a small walnut
forest next to a
limestone mine all
of which also got
dark. Like the paper on
my dead fathers shiny
tobacco tins I love the rain
at night its teal
and gold but mostly
silver and black. Walking
back to my house I
got dripped on by leaves I
registered the new real
estate sign in the dead
Irish guys yard I
thought I heard a snap
In my step I thought if I
had a kid where would
it be right now.
 Spring 2017
Alpine Copntale

Secret Agent Man

The doorbell rings and you wait for me to scream out.

I tell you that you will not get away with this.
I try to reason with you while I am caught in your trap.

I struggle in the chair that I am roped into.

It makes you laugh.

You shoot at the door. Your aim is poor.

The bullets are black and white film props.

I ordered you not to interrupt me again.

You will never share our secrets with the others.
Nuclear scientists have continued on with the plan.

They burst on through.

They shut down the computer
The room is on lock down

Love is a small result to produce from so much labor.

The Summer of Love 50 Years On

Time crashes into the corner table like a rampant dog.

It is hungry for dinner yet there is nothing but broken glass set about us.

It was not his fault!?! Then whos fault was it?

I never want to see that horrible animal again.

Picking up the broken pieces of my water pipe

I dream of days I danced naked in Californian fields.

I dream of friends faces as they were decades ago, unwrinkled

un-gray, un-fat adventurers that filled in around so much promise

So much potential.

We lost every political battle

We gave in for money, we grew

Up, maybe.

I say fuck under my breath and wonder where Ill be able to buy another pipe.
I love dogs and avoiding reality. I should mow the lawn and fuck off back to the TV.
 Spring 2017
Zinnia Plentitude

Slipstream

Crazy golf is not crazy

Fun runs are not fun

There is a thorn in my side

There is also a thorn in the side of roses

I have poetry in my blood but

I wish more of it would end up on the page.
Silly Boffins and the Wisdom Quotient

We cant fight an enemy from behind a desk.

We are heading into the wolfs lair.

We dont control the skies anymore.

Operation paper clip is just a Band-Aid.

is all we have simply our voice?

is nothing all we can do legally?

It is getting hard to tell if you are the best friend I actually have.
You infrequently throw your toys out of the pram. I hate that.

to optimize the emotional moods of themselves and their collective,

to empathize with self and others,
to imagine solutions for personal and collective problems that do not do violence
to self or others,
to awaken and inspire the self and others.

This cant go on, but if it does no one will be the wiser.

Everything we encounter is still as mad as a box of frogs.
 Spring 2017
Daginne Aignend

Tree of Truth

If I could grow
a Tree of Truth
where all confessions
are judged
on their veracity
and every time
when a lie
is ascertained,
the tree would
burst out
in a thunderous roar,
then I would probably need
a hearing device by now
Prejudiced

Blinded by prejudice
because they taught her so
as she grew up
in the small fisher's village
'You can't trust these -
they are different -
have other standards
and no moral at all'

Enjoying the early April sun

while sauntering
on the embankment of the
Minosaur River,
Suddenly she slips away
into the unruly stream

Strong arms hold her

and bring her back ashore
She looks into the concerned face
of a black man
'Are you alright, miss?'

Meanwhile, all her white folks

stood there ...
and stared
 Spring 2017
Paul White

Western Pastoral

I really didnt want to go

on another round-up this year,
firing our guns into the air
and herding a river of cattle.
I can hear their guttural lowing
under the crooked moon
as we camp around the fire
in his eyes drinking steam.
The bulls of our hearts go leaping
against the rails of their pens
down the chute for the slaughter.

I tried to tell my father

I am more of a Shepard.
I respond to the bleating
of each last lost one.
I stand on the highest rock
wearing a white tattered robe.
I will not miss one of them
who has gone off alone,
down by the burbling water,
to listen to the music of his soul.
I have a hard time hearing my voice
when I spend time with my father.
His war boots muddy my song.
 Spring 2017
Kate Noble

Banking on Breadlines

If food banks were run by high street bankers

What bonuses then?
Would they gamble tinned sardines, speculating caviar returns?
Or oxtail soup for chance sirloin?
Turn water into wine, when those parched seek simple thirst-quenching?
Or would their games lose their edge if not about sating such appetites?

Whilst low returns to investors resonate in hollow emptiness

Could they dream in person-shaped yields?
Could they nurture safety deposit nutrition portfolios?
Act to protect asset-shaped shower gels, teabags and deodorant?
Perceive who cannot compete, when asked to head a queue?
Their longer-term investments paling away in the face of immediate cravings.

What profit could they turn on dusty past-sell-by cornflakes?

Would dividend payouts mean clearing the shelves at year-end to reap their allotted share?
Whilst justifying to hungry souls about attracting those right people?
Could they recognise the famine in themselves?
The starving emptiness behind their eyes?
Whilst moral bankruptcy sports new tattered hues.
 Spring 2017
Karl Miller

Sacrilege

Past
anecdotal the battered
accounts held stop sign
the storm had been so brutal off the narrow
that even yrs later hunters road down the
would find skeletal remains steep embankment
amid undergrowth & into the shimmering
near cenotes in the harsh
interior
Window

Passing
the
pawn shop -
my face
superimposed
w/
forgotten
watches
Interlude

Deer
tracks in
the snow
pass through
the
old forts wrecked walls
its
quiet
here, now
 Spring 2017
Mark Young
A line from Willie Nelson

When finished being

polished, the Mayor
of New York has a
warm red color & is

often used for jewelry

by the Bantu. It is one
amongst many mani-
festations of him in their

mythology. Sometimes
he is depicted as a female
nude, big-breasted, long-
necked,wide-hipped, with

all the orifices one would

expect from a blow-up
doll made from synthesized
Romanticism. Elsewhere he

is seen as the last surviving

member of an ancient
group of gymnosperms. But
those the popular aspects.

The priests have greater re-

gard. To them he is the
pinochle of perfection, a
messiah already come. One

who has achieved enlight-

enment but still remains on
the human plane, ready
to put the self in sacrifice.
there & here

in-
tent

or accident

either
way

"a splash quite unnoticed"

"Had somewhere to get to & sailed calmly on"

wings' wax
melts in
a maze meant

for a mini-
tour

blitz

krieg
lights

strung out along the

high-
way

Joy
Division's

panzers
I get a little nervous

The Yucatec Maya say

that a broader audience
for astronomy can be
reached when the cows
are not wearing jetpacks
& flatulence is allowed
to wander free. Popcorn
causes new windows to

pop up on the eyeballs,

butterflies to flutter in
the brain. Classic movie
theater candy, the Maya
say, is a precursor or cata-
lyst for the end of times.
to enable human flight

She undertook a biomimetic

study of the political influence
of cytoplasmic partitioning, &
why the hook as a shape occurs
very early on on the evolutionary
scale. Spirit products appear.

A crossword puzzle has been

marshalled to explain why the
combines vintage glamor with In-
dian design clue has been spotted
more than twenty times out-
side its traditional homelands.
geographies: Mesa, AZ

There are no originals,

just tremulous foliage & an
indefinite suspension from
practicing law. Our universe
is one of many, as purely
objective journalists keep
pointing out, slyly inserted into
an angry dialog between
the fruits of war & the stereo-
typical gender portrayals of
most third-person pronouns.
 Spring 2017
Roger Craik

Retirement Variations #4

"The sun streams down into your coffee":

(That's conventional enough)--
But fairly soon it's afternoon,
Duane Eddy and jacking off!

Bardic

Beyond all men I walk alone.

The wisdom of the willow tree. The wisdom of the stone.

Voicemail

Talking of signs, which I was

you werentwhen my father and I
were in the long black funereal car in New Brighton,
opposite Liverpool, to take my Auntie Bertha
or maybe it was my Auntie Gertieto the crematorium,
I saw the pub called The Criterion, and I dont
know what maggot wriggled in my cheese-like brain,
but I looked to see what the sign was, and there was a man
in Roman garb, Elizabeth. Theyd confused it with centurion.
I told my father this and we both began to shake with mirth
right in the dark car, to the drivers befuddlement, doubtless.
But that was in another country. You take care.
ENVY

A sea gull sails across the sky.

I watch it from my balcony

in a city where I've always been happy.

But it has nothing but itself.

DATING SITE GUILT

He's cheating on someone who isn't real

with someone else who isn't real.
 Spring 2017
Colin Campbell Robinson

the kafka variations - part 4

No, essentially disappointed.

37.

Things are becoming desperate. The further he walks the less distance he
covers.

Suddenly he comes to a cliff edge and his despair evaporates as he falls

through the air toward the rocks beneath.

From a certain point on, there is no going back, he whispers.

38.

A number of possibilities occur to him all at once.

Firstly, the tower without stairs could be built, then, if the leaves are
not swept soon they will be sodden and, finally, there are places he's
never been where breathing is different.

Once again he took to his bed, agitated.

39.

You are the task. This has been said before.

40.

Perhaps this is the wrong place, he thinks that Berlin might be preferable
or maybe Edinburgh.

The film he saw about Venice also impressed him but to go to the Venice
he'd seen in the film required time as well as space travel.

See the workers celebrating Gramsci at a festival organised by UNITA. Days

long gone. Now crooks, with the sole aim of fleecing the impressionable,
will be running any celebration.

41.

He will not be tired. He will plunge into his fate even if that should
shred his face.

Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind, he says and rolls over, like a dog.

42.

Who succumbs to the devil's distractions?

Who engages in his dialogue?

Know thyself, he says and turns away leaving you to your own devices.

Invitations to see the stars by day are not forthcoming. Miracles are off
the menu.

Perhaps the worm-stew will do.

43.

What is true, then void?

The closed circle is pure.

Judgement of the word is true.

44.

He lies in bed waiting for the duck down to suffocate: Downhill to eternity.

It's not that the party's over it's just you have to leave.

45.

A trilogy:
The book of trembling and palpitations;
the book of assertion and possession and;
the book of understanding.

46.

Gravity is not an absolute value, he says as he falls.

Do not believe the rumours about yourself.

I can't actually tell a story; in fact I'm almost unable to speak, when I
try to tell it, I usually feel the way small children might when they try
to take their first steps.

47.

Taking the infinite way you try to measure your footsteps.

48.

There is the constant dream of deserts, mountains and inevitable exile.

Never is exile explained.

What does he mean? What does exile mean?

And the dreams continue as if they meant nothing or next to nothing.

Later, he wakes like a butterfly.

49.

To be throttled on a torpid afternoon.

50.

He wondered about the benefit of reading newspapers particularly on

November 27th.

51.

What did he have in common with himself? An important question few would ask.

52.

If you sleep, wake, sleep, wake, is this a miserable life?

Of course we all freeze when the train goes passed.

Do we surmount all obstacles or do all obstacles...(unfinished fragment).

53.

Delivering messages, written by no one, to no one but themselves.

The same song sung at the same time by those with nothing to do but honour
the oath they made to non-existent kings.

It is a wonder we wonder.

54.

Who comes not on the last day but on the last day of all?

Is any of this necessary, he asks over and over?

Forget the sight, remember the gaze until the final moment of pain.

Men are as children, making noise to prove they are here.

December 8: cat in the room.

55.

This, then, is deception; he says telling as few lies as possible because

he tells few lies not because he doesn't have the opportunity but because
he tells few lies.

Meanwhile, truth slips out the door and is never seen again.

56.

Is there nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind?

How is he to tell? How is anyone to tell in this bleak forest far from home?

57.

Who heard the rustle? Who heard the cry? Is that all we have in common?

58.

Can you be the truth?

 Spring 2017
Claudine Nash

I Keep Checking My Samsung Galaxy for Meaning

as if the universe
had fingertips
that were not far
too vast to type

or its messages
could swirl
through cloud
and silicon

then materialize
in my inbox;

as if I will
awaken
to a divine text

wrapped

in a glowing
bow of light
that says Child,

all these
fraying ends
will someday tie
together
while

the clues
I seek
burst into a

seamless display
of codes and
strings;

as if

everything
I need to know

isnt already
sitting in the
icy stillness

of this moonless
field

or swelling
in the gap
between

two breaths.
Since You Left

Today I walked in
on the house robot
whispering your
favorite sonnet.
This, after tracing
your name in day-old
oil all along
the attic walls.
I try to comfort her,
though she would
sooner see me
swallowed by
the moon. I
lay my hand
upon the crack
in her back that
she suffered the
first time you
took her ice
skating, but she
spits obscene
strings of zeros
at me as though
I am a pile of
wasted silicon,
as though my heart
isnt already
twisted into a
mournful jumble
of spent circuits,
as if I alone could
have stopped you
from running.
How to Flirt in the Multiverse

Baby,
theres
a
galaxy
spinning
in here
and
when
you
looked
over
at
me
a
trillion
lifetimes
just
spilled
between
us.
You
are
a
glorious
atmosphere,
an
infinite
matter.
Yes
baby,
that
one
look
lifted
all
my
mislaid
pieces,
you
breathe
and
all
the
dust
in
this
strange
and
random
universe
rises.

Though,
honestly,
all
I
really
want
from
you
is
yes
or
now
or
alternatively
just
a
plain
old
infinite
will
more
than
likely
do.
Anatomy of a Moment

Should I ever
slip and
split open,
I am certain
that this
stream
of light
that is
winding
its way
around you
would spill
from my skin
and Id find
this rising
wind
woven
through
tissue
and bands
of still
tendon
beneath.
Then deeper,
where bone
should be,
I no doubt
would see
cattail,
tall grass
and your
hands
harvesting
a patch
of wild
tulips.
Pretend that You are Talking

Pretend
that you are
talking

just

to me.

I will
kneel here
while you
tell me all
about
the stars

stuck

in your
heart. You

can loosen
your tongue
and let
their cold

light spill
into the space
between us. I

will listen to
your quiet
wind rise, I

will stay
here when
this storm
fills your
mouth with
ice and
sky.

You can
bring your
lips near
and let the
dark

slip

into my
ear.

Pretend I
see nothing
untouchable.
Pretend

that I am
holding

all these
icy parts
of you,

that when
I look
you in the
eye I am

watching

wild grass
sway,

I am
touching
a stunning

bit of
night.
 Spring 2017
Lisa Clark

MODIFICATIONS

1) Hair
The first unsettling change in Claires appearance came shortly after she ran away from home after
her stepfather tried to rape her and she left him groaning and bug-eyed on the garage floor, clutching his
hand to his left arm. She was sitting in the station, waiting for a bus to take her to the nearest big city, where
she figured she might have a chance. There had to be agencies who helped kids like her, right?
Ive been watching you, said a guy with a Vandyke beard, smiling in a way that made Claire squirm.
His leather cowboy hat and tinted glasses made him look sleazy. When he leaned toward her, the mingled
scents of B.O., bad breath, and patchouli pushed her back into the molded orange bucket seat, which forced
her into a slump. She turned her head away without responding.
He repositioned himself to catch her eye to ask what she needed, telling her he could take care of her.
Hey, asshole, beat it. A man a few seats down leaned forward, his fist clenched. The first guy stood
and, with palms held out toward the second, backed away.

Three hours later, after retrieving her backpack from the bus luggage compartment, Claire found a
gas station and asked the check-out lady if she could borrow a pair of scissors.
Hmm. The womans eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed as she examined Claire from head to
foot. Finally, she drew scissors from under the counter. I guess theres no harm. Just bring em back when
youre through.
In the restroom, after hunting for a clean spot for her backpack, Claire ended up hanging it from the
doorknob. Then, section after section, she lifted layers a stylist had spent an hour creating and snip-snip-
snipped. Afterwards, uneven stubble poked out next to two-inch long neighbors that hung limply nearby.
The lady whistled low when Claire emerged. Hope youre not counting on winning any beauty
contests.
Claire gave her a miserable smile.
Listen, honey. You need anything? I can give you a couple hotdogs. Those have been sitting there for
hours. I gotta put fresh ones on, anyway.
Thanks. Later that night in the branches of a tree, Claires eyes stung thinking about that lady.
2) Lips
After three nights and four times slipping off a branch and dangling by her belt, Claire found the
soup kitchen a homeless woman directed her to. Claire knew that washing in the restrooms of gas stations
was a poor substitute for a shower, but compared to a lot of the down-and-outers that shuffled around the
charitys food bar and tables, she figured she smelled like Chanel. Some of the people hadnt bathed for
months, maybe years. Besides that, several were on mental journeys into worlds a few light years away. In
the end, Claire figured the price of hanging around them wasnt worth a hot meal.
Her options, however, were limited.
She found out quickly that buying a cup of tea for ninety-nine cents at a fast-food restaurant doesnt
give a person the right to suck up the businesss heat or sit on a real chair for hours on end. This isnt your
home away from home, kid. Get out and dont bother coming back or variations thereof slashed at Claires
already low sense of worth.
Within a couple of days, shed burned through $20 of her $105 with nothing to show for it. Shed be
facing hunger, fear, loneliness, cold, and imminent sickness if she didnt figure out how to survive soon. She
tried a couple homeless shelters, only to find that kids who stayed there could be as short-fused as her
stepfather had been and lots more violent. The street was no better, where people yelled at, veered away
from, and insulted her. She didnt need anyone else telling her what she already knew: that she was a waste
of air, water, food, and space.
Then she found the Jboys.
The Jboys were started by three brothers, Jace, Jet, and Jay, after their mother died of an overdose.
That was maybe ten years earlier. No one knew what had happened to them, but kids had been joining and
dropping out of the group for as long as current members could recall. The Jboys became Claires new
family. After she met Tricky, Ralph, Muffin, Sam, and a bunch of other homeless kids, Claire was still
hungry and cold most of the time, but at least the Jboys didnt abuse her. In their company, she felt safe.
The group was composed of fifteen to twenty-one kids. A new kid found them every couple of
months. Others left the group because of sickness, trouble with the law, death, mental illness, or departure to
join pimps and drug dealers. To survive, the Jboys regularly begged, stole, and dumpster-dived. At night,
when they huddled to sleep in abandoned buildings, under bridges, or in parks, various kids moaned and
whimpered, and mumbled nonsense while others shouted in their sleep.
The Jboys were kids like Claire. More or less.
There was Monkey, the girl whose happiest finds were sheets of paper still blank on at least one side.
Monkey also found an abundant supply of stubby pencilsno erasers, but she didnt carein the backs of
pews in a church where a couple of the girls would go and pretend to pray when they wanted to get out of
the rain or snow or wind or cold. Monkeyd grab five or six mini-pencils and use them until they were an
inch long (one of the boys sharpened them with a knife when they got dull). Then shed return to the church,
where her art supply had been restocked. Monkeys drawings werent great, but Claire saw improvement
over time. Folded in her backpack, she kept one of Monkeys drawings of a kid named Kermit, who spent
hours each day playing marbles alone. She took it out whenever something reminded her of the way theyd
found him one morning, stiff and lifeless.
Fourteen-year-old Ralphieshort for Raphaelslept with a raggedy stuffed lion, one of the only
things he had left from his previous life as a suburban son. No one hassled him about this, including Joe and
Sam, two of the older boys, who wore knives tucked into their boots.
Marissa, who seemed too sweet to be homeless, wore a necklace made of blue squares of Swarovski
crystals hidden under a t-shirt she never changed the entire time Claire knew her. Marissa said she stole the
necklace from her moms jewelry box before she ran away. It cost $300 and Marissa planned to pawn it if
things ever got desperate. Claire wondered what desperate meant to her.
Then there was Tricky. If you give me that scarf, Ill fix you up so peoplell give you more when you
beg, she told Claire. The scarf, a heavy wool knit Claire had wrapped around her neck before exiting a
department store, was no small price. Tricky was the only one in the Jboys who came with a marketable skill;
Claire eventually agreed.
Tricky had learned the art of piercing from an aunt. This same aunt refused to take Tricky in when
her mom abandoned her, but then you dont have to be generous and loving to be a body artist. Tricky knew
how to pierce eyebrows, nipples, ears, cheeks, belly buttons, tongues, genitals (Claire passed on seeing those
particular samples), and other body parts. There are thirty-six separate piercings I can offer clients, Tricky
explained. Lip piercings would make you noticeable in an interesting way to people you beg from, and Im
not just talking about the type who want to wham, bam, and thank you. Ill doll you up with three pretty
studs. Once people come close enough to check out your new jewelry, you can use your charm to get a buck
or five or ten from them.
After numbing Claires lips with ice and sterilizing a safety pin with mouthwash, Tricky punctured
Claires upper lip once and the lower one twice, then fed through silver ball studs with tiny red crystals in
the center. Sure enough, people moved in closer to see. One guy even gave Claire a twenty, which she used
to treat Tricky to a milkshake as thanks.
3) Tattoo #1
Even if youre part of a street family, you have to start looking ahead, asking yourself if you want to be
homeless for the rest of your life and turn into that old woman with gray wire for hair who wears slippers
over heavy socks and a dusty trench coat sans belt year-round and whos always chewing on her gums and
muttering as she shuffles around the city pushing a shopping cart loaded with junk. Claire didnt.
When Enzo, the aspiring artist of all things discarded, with his sly smile, dreadlocks, and jeans with
holes that gaped wider by the day, asked Claire if she wanted to move in with him, she agreed. A life that
included a bed, a shower, and hot meals was too attractive to pass up. She was tired of snow and cold so
profound she could think of nothing else. She tried not to let it bother her the first timethe night she
moved inEnzo wanted sex. I like the way you say thank you, he said afterwards.
She continued to squelch her unease as Enzo begged, bribed, and bullied her into sex every day,
sometimes a couple times a day, for the next few weeks. And when he began getting rougher. Then he forced
himself on her even after she said no, when the only thing she wanted to do was curl up and have someone
tell her everything would be okay and things would get better soon.
 Please, Enzo. I dont feel like it. Please, Enzo. Im sick. Tears. No, Enzo, I dont want this.
Pushing him away. Pulling away from his grasp. Stop it, Enzo. Ill leave if you dont.
Thats a laugh, you pathetic bitch. Like you have anyplace else to go. Im doing you a favor letting
you stay here. She tried to run from him, literally, but he caught her. When she pummeled his chest with
the sides of her fists, he backhanded her across the face, hurling her into the wall before yanking her up by
the arm and holding her a couple inches from his face. Ill do whatever I fricking want, you ugly whore.
And, as though her struggles were nothing more than a mosquitos whine, Enzo tore at her, slammed into
her with grinding, pounding intensity, penetrating layer after layer of her remaining dignity with each
thrust.
The tattoo on her stomachthe black and blue life-sized pistol pointed at her groin and paid for with
money Claire stole from Enzos secret stash in the bottom of a dresser drawerbecame Claires message to
any guy who tried that shit on her again.
4) Tattoos #2 and 3
Other women at the Hope Battered Womens Center tried to help Claire after she escaped from Enzo.
They did their best to encourage, care for, and counsel her, but Claire descended physically and emotionally.
At the depths of that mind space, she added her next tattoo, a mangled heart on her arm, followed soon after
with one that looked like a toe tag on a corpse.
5) Three ear gauges on each ear in graduated sizes from smaller at the back and increasing in diameter as
they moved to her lobes.
The time it took to stretch the holes in her ears marked the days, weeks, and months Claire needed to
regain a small part of her self-respect and a modicum of confidence.
You sure you want to have that done, Claire? one of the counselors asked her when she heard about
Claires plan. It might limit your job options in the future.
To which Claire answered, Its not like Im looking to join a Fortune 500 company. They can deal
with a few piercings at any job Im likely to land.
6) Bifurcated tongue
You gotta try this, said one of her coworkers at the diner where Claire washed dishes. The
sensation when you kissfor you and for your partneris out of this world. Its also the ultimate way of
testing your limits and telling the world that youre the one who controls your body. Emily, one of the
prettiest girls Claire ever met in person, stuck out her tongue, split in the middle, and made each side writhe
and dance a weirdly erotic rumba. At that point, Claire wasnt interested in increasing a partners enjoyment
while kissing. The bruises Enzo had left on her psyche would take a long time to heal. To tell the world that
she had control of her body, though? That was appealing. It was the kind of thing the Womens Center tried
to instill in the minds of all the Claires who stumbled through their doors. She could do this.
Emily followed instructions from a YouTube video. Painful as the procedure was, it wasnt anything
like the pain her mother and stepfather and Enzo had inflicted on Claire.
7) Two tiny pinpricks
Claire, Im trying to tell you that youre well enough to live on your own, one of the counselors from
the womens shelter explained. The womans brow furrowed as she held Claires hand. I know it sounds
intimidating to search for a new job. It sucks that your boss fired you. But its not your fault. Thats what he
told you, right?
Anyway, it opens up great new opportunities. You can go anyplace you want to look for a job now,
not just in this part of the city. She squeezed Claires hand and forced a wry smile. We have ten or more
others who need a safe place and protection from abusive people in their lives. We cant have capable, strong
women like you depriving them of the chance for help, right?
When Claire was little, she and a friend swore to keep a secret for the rest of their lives and never to
speak of it to another soul under pain of death. They sealed their pact by pricking their thumbs with a safety
pin and squishing them together. Claire couldnt remember the secret anymore, only the way they sealed the
promise, and she wanted to make another pact, this time with herself, before she left the shelter.
A pinprick on the thumb is nothing after youve been pierced and tatted and your tongues been
bifurcated. She jabbed both thumbs, hard, so that a thick red bead appeared on each. Just when the bloody
orbs grew heavy, ready to slide off, Claire jammed them together and twisted, whispering, I, Claire Keller,
promise to take back my life. I am no longer a victim. I call the shots. Ill never let another person hurt me
again.
 Spring 2017
Michael Gregory

five pieces from Pound Laundry:

Radiant instances radio corpses

tagged on the toe of so much dirty linen
fascist modernist anti-Semitic
money-crank intellectual snob
revolutionary simpleton

a sensibility without a mind

vainglorious dogmatic ridiculous
opinionated wobbly in the head anal-
erotic anal-sadistic grandiose
metaphors of metaphors for the act

yet something specified as experience

translative transmissive transumptive transformative
cumulative detail spontaneously
come busting through the quotidian into figures
indicative of alternative dimensions

so some feel it enough themselves to believe

or short of that at least see a path
to where the light may be taken up
the stones come together on their own
after the musician has stopped playing.
Mnemosyne his true Penelope
godmother of all imagination

whose daughters helping us winnow out the chaff

help us too to bring love into all our art

dress the stone skim off the dross

forget all we once set out to learn

remember our memories of a paradise

we never did real time in

All the sense-impressions in her keep

released at her discretion or not and when

to be incorporated by will and desire

projected outward by reason and intellect

the whole production process symphonic

a systole/diastole breathe-in/breathe-out hermetic

all ones faculties about one

dancing in peace and joy to sirensongs

All the idioms dialects

diacritical remarks intonations

this unforgettable taste and aroma

this breath of air in the maelstrom

this thread of this color traced back

through these cats cradles of unspun wool

played out all at once on the walls of the skull

totalitarian in the sense of coherent

A fluid entanglement of economics

politics ethics art you name it
touching all bases all ps and qs
all prevalent mannerisms minded

cosmos and even the consciousness

inherent in that cosmos the whole

kit and kaboodle set close to the wind

some sense of pride in the clean cut of her jib
Flotsam and jetsam gists and piths
drafts and fragments ply over ply
all that glitters in the backwash
agitating the moonlit shingle

Upward working with the ear

more fanciful than Isidorus
in an effort to antecede
old Skeats primordials

Fenollosa with the eye

intricating identities
stick figures and moving pictures
between nouns and pronouns, both eye

and ear more or less liberated

from the idea that the beautiful
is the hellenic caressible
the physically attractive,

both directing the readers perception

to subsets of sense-data
not conventionally thought to be
units of meaning, both accounts

paying phenomenological
attentiveness to phonetic and graphic
linguistic paraphernalia
in their attempts to grant language

an inherent empathetic
immediacy by by-passing
as the intentional structures revealed
by Agassiz fish out of water

by-passed hit-and-miss evolution

historically specific
dialogue that argues for meaning
as a collective achievement.
What are you, box? I am
goddess of all foreigners
diety of the Land of Punt
daughter of Horus daughter of R
wife to Horus wife to Ptah
a woman a cow a tree a sistrum
both seven and one goddess of the moon
of the earth of the western hills of the dead
goddess of joy and love queen
of merriment of music dance
laughter song the sovereign.

Yet with all the lower kingdom

goddesses available
to animate the final pages
where justice is said to lead up to
a non-artificial paradise,
choosing to fabricate his own
Nile princess Ra-Set
of two male gods morphed
into a goddess figure by simple
hyphenation of masculine names
a juxtaposition of hieroglyphs
composing a father/daughter androgyne.
Theory given the lie by practice said some
who might with just cause execrate him,
the conscience of reason and art founded on rejection
of the will to power foundered on the will to order

the luciform swiveling city built by voices

striking the air glinting in the sun ever more
luminous in the light perfectly beautiful
in its formal realization each word

conserving consubstantial with the person it names

or who utters it (the authority of the author
privy to special knowledge of how to restore
antediluvian hierarchical social values)

a house of fame storing rhetorical flatulence

a house of glass in splinters from a bent axle
transformed into a contradictory message:
not a one-way radio transmission

but a verbal economy of exchange

language not as logos but as communication
a democracy of words histories
cultures impossible to exhaust or rank

every grain strain and swatch its own truth

a constantly site-specific text with no center
a chordal simultaneity at pains to put off
any coherence save that of its own provisional nature.

Not exactly the possums forlorn prayer that salvation

come after death but acceptance on faith hope
karites that art might evade the overreach
of the one true church might find perch and purchase

unconfined by the skull might spread the word that

belief in difference for the sake of the different
is our power to resist provoke re-think take sides
in a reflection of a conception of meaning.
 Spring 2017
PT Davidson

Poem 2195

this
poem
doesn't
leave
anything
to
chance
Poem 2011

this
poem
boldly
goes
where
no
poem
has
gone
before
Poem 4230

this
poem
should
not
be
judged
prematurely
Poem 2619

this
poem
is
a
work
of
pure
fiction
Poem 3051

this
poem
is
really
big
in
Japan
Poem 2273

this
poem
has
a
happy
ending
Poem 3150

this
poem
is
totally
uncut
and
uncensored
 Spring 2017
Craig Fishbane

Molly Webber Has Arrived

When Debi Storm first contacted Charlie Epstein last month, he could never have imagined that it

would lead to the chain of events that would get him kicked out of a charity auction, banned from an art

gallery and threatened with legal action by a well-known actress. He certainly never pictured himselfa

flabby four-eyed couch potatohaving to all but carry a grown woman through a parted crowd and get her

seated in a taxi that had been hailed by a security guard. All things considered, Charlie figured that he had

gotten exactly what he deserved for inviting this woman to be his first date since his wife had left him.

Im afraid I made quite a spectacle of myself, Debi Storm said, running pale fingers through

strands of shoulder-length hair, each lock dyed jet black. Several wrinkles were visible through layers of

rouge as her lips curved into a thin smile. I admit I have a bit of a flair for the dramatic.

She moved haltingly as she led Charlie up the fourth and final flight of stairs to her apartment. Even

in her current state, she managed to look fabulous: a ruined beauty to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. Her

red dress accentuated the curvature of her hips as long legs continued towards the landing, black pumps

clicking on one step after the next.

Throwing the champagne was a bit much, Charlie said. But I guess I should have expected it.
 You may not believe this, Debi Storm said, especially now that Ive ruined your evening, but Im

truly flattered that you invited me tonight.

What choice did I have? Charlie replied, brushing salt-and-pepper bangs from tortoise-shell

glasses. Its not every day you meet the woman who could have been Jan Brady.

Her name was a footnote in Charlies self-published trivia guide, Dont Play Ball in the House: The

Untold History of The Brady Bunch, available on Amazon for two dollars. Her story earned a place in the final

paragraph of chapter two. Debi Storm was one of six actors who might have become TV stars if only their

hair had been the right color.

Before Robert Reed and Florence Henderson were cast as the Brady parents, no one knew whether

the boys or the girls would, as the theme song put it, have hair of gold. So the producer, Sherwood Schwartz,

picked two sets of children to be available for the pilot.

The first group featured the kids who went on to become celebrities, faces familiar to generations of

fans. The second groupconsisting of three blonde males and three dark-haired femaleshad been all but

forgotten, lost in the vagaries of the production schedule.

Dont mince words, Debi Storm said. I should have been Jan Brady. Wait until the world hears the

sordid details. Well have a best-seller.

Charlie grimaced. He was no author. He was an accountant at a cable company. The book was his

way of filling time since the divorce. His shrink told him it was a way of returning to the safe memories of

childhood afternoons spent in front of the television.

Charlie was a connoisseur of vintage reruns: The Partridge Family, Gilligans Island and, most of all, The

Brady Bunch. Although he was well aware of how cheesy these shows seemed in retrospect, he would never
deny how the characters from each series had once been his friends, his babysitters, even his role models.

During post-divorce therapy sessions, he agonized over whether it had been more difficult to live up to the

expectations of his actual father or those of Mike Brady.

His marriage had been the typical sort of relationship that people like Charlie often found themselves

in. His wife was the caretaker who was looking for someone to mold and he was the lump of inert clay

looking to be animated. She got him to move out of his parents basement and pursue his associates degree.

He helped her to relax and enjoy quiet nights in front of the TV.

For over a decade, this had been enough. Then came the fights, the arguments over everything from

his lack of ambition to her desire for children. After a winter of marriage counseling and nights spent mostly

in separate rooms, Charlie finally came home to an empty house. The note from his wife was discretely

placed on the DVD-shelf between the special editions of The Brady Bunch, seasons one and two.

He spent the next several months working on his book and then started a blog to promote it. Charlie

had assumed it was a practical joke when Debi Storm contacted his twitter account. He discovered that she

had left five-star reviews on both Yelp and Good Reads. Their relationship progressed from direct messages

to texts to long midnight telephone conversations, where she assured Charlie that he was the man who

would tell the world the truth about her stolen destiny.

I dont blame you for holding a grudge, Charlie said as he stepped onto the fourth floor landing,

but did you really have to toss an entire flute of champagne in Eve Plumbs face?

He knew it wasnt a good idea to bring them together: the woman who aspired to be Jan Brady and

the actress who got the part. Eve Plumb would be signing autographs at a charity auction at a downtown art

gallery. Charlie had won two free passes at last months Brady Mania convention in Detroit. Debi Storm sent
two or three texts a day, imploring Charlie to take her as his guest until he finally gave in. The evening had

been a heady whirlwind of flirtatious banter until the announcement went out that Eve Plumb had arrived.

Debi Storm rushed to the bar for the glass of sparkling wine that would lead to their early exit.

It isnt like I tried to kill her, Debi Storm said.

She reached into her handbag for a key and then unlocked her door. The apartment was heaped with

what seemed to be the detritus of every Brady Bunch convention Charlie had ever attended. Piled on

tabletops and wooden shelves and even on the cushions of the sofa, there were unopened containers with

plastic figurines of Greg and Bobby, cups and mugs with color photographs of Cindy and Marcia, metal

lunch boxes with cartoon drawings of the six Brady kids and even a cardboard cut-out of Alice the maid

propped-up against the back wall.

Nice place, Charlie said, lingering at the threshold.

Debi Storm waded through the waves of accumulated memorabilia. She dropped her handbag on the

coffee table and pulled out a disk from beneath a pair of stockings on the love seat. She inserted the disk into

a DVD player and then gestured for Charlie to join on the sofa as a familiar theme song began to play.

I thought we might share a bit of ancient history, Debi Storm said. My one appearance with the

Brady family.

Molly Webber, Charlie said as he stepped into the apartment. The plain Jane that Marcia Brady

made over into prom queen material. Season 3, Episode 22.

My finest taste of life in front of the cameras. Its been a struggle ever since.

Moving gingerly past an oversized plush version of Tiger, the Brady familys dog, Charlie approached

the sofa and squeezed next to Debi Storm. She took Charlies hand and sighed.
 Do you know what I hate most about these actors? she said. They give us a glimpse of heaven and

then mock our desire to join them.

Charlie glanced at a poster of the Brady sisters framed on the wall behind the television. Their golden

locks had been replaced by crude strokes of black magic marker.

We still have to discuss the terms of our partnership, Debi Storm said.

Charlie took a deep wheezing breath.

You still want to work on the book?

Why wouldnt I?

Charlie adjusted his glasses.

Debi Storm has a house in Florida and a restaurant in Dallas, he said. She had a successful career

as a TV extra.

Debi Storms lips curved into a precise smile.

I see youve been investigating my life, she said. You know you cant believe everything you read

on the internet.

It was the official website.

How long have you been conducting your research?

Ever since you first wrote to me, Charlie said.

Im not sure I understand. Why would you lead me on?

Lead you on?

Why would invite me to meet Eve Plumb tonight if you had so many doubts?

Charlie lowered his head.

 Because I couldnt find anyone else to go with me.

Charlie braced himself for a slap on the face. This was what he deserved for following the advice of

his therapist, who had instructed Charlie to ignore his concerns. After all, the reasoning went, it had been

years since Charlie had been on a date. He should just go and enjoy himself, questions about her identity be

damned. Charlie would have to fire his shrink as soon as he got home.

Debi Storm did not seem angry, however. She gazed at Charlie with a kind of compassion that

bordered on condescension, pinching him gently on the cheek.

You poor boy, she said. So confused. If you let me, I can help you. We still can come to an

understanding.

What kind of understanding?

A little conspiracy against the established order of things. We dont need those faces on the screen to

tell us who we are. Its time we take control of the script.

Debi Storm held both sides of Charlies face with perfumed palms.

I need your words to confirm the validity of my narrative, she said.

I wish I could help.

Then why are you stopping yourself?

Charlie couldnt believe she was going to make him say it. He kept waiting for her to send him on his

way, to preempt this episode before it came to its inevitable awkward conclusion. But her pale fingers kept

pressing against his throbbing temples until the words emerged from Charlies lips.

Because youre not Debi Storm!

 Canned laughter erupted from the television. Debi Storm narrowed her eyes as a splash of organ

music indicated the transition from one scene to the next.

You do realize that saying those words wont make them true.

Debi Storm reached for her handbag.

So disappointing, she said. I thought you would be different from the others.

Before Charlie could move, Debi Storm had pulled out a pocketknife and brandished it in front of his

face.

Not quite as pretty as Eve Plumb, she said. Not quite so much to lose.

Charlie briefly considered what might have happened to Eve Plumbs champagne-soaked profile if

the security guards had not arrived so quickly. Debi Storm thrust the blade towards his left cheek and he

blocked it with his elbow, knocking the pocketknife onto the carpet. Charlie reached for the handle an

instant before Debi Storm made her own desperate lunge. The blade penetrated just above her wrist, slicing

a thin red line a centimeter beneath the base of her thumb.

Im not going to make it, she cried, sprawled out on the floor next to a day-glow t-shirt embossed

with the slogan Its Going to be a Sunshine Day. Charlie climbed down from the sofa and squinted at her

wound. It didnt look much deeper than a paper cut. He began wrapping the shirt around her hand.

Youre going to be fine, he said.

Im not going to make it, Debi Storm insisted. Ill never be invited to 4222 Clinton Way.

Charlie nodded at the recitation of the Brady home address. As he had noted in chapter seven of

Dont Play Ball in the House, the address was first mentioned in season one, episode seven. The story featured
Jan, naturally enough. She received a gift in the mail from a mysterious secret admirer: a golden locket that

became precious to her until she lost it.

4222 Clinton Way, Debi Storm intoned. The Clinton Way of the Mind. Theres always a swing in

the patio, a seat at the dinner table, a space in the family room. 4222 Clinton Way, I return to you every night,

but no one hears me knock.

Charlie finished tying the t-shirt around her hand and then reached for the knife. He picked it up by

the handle and stared at the bloody smudge on the tip.

I suppose youre going to look for your next victim now, Debi Storm said.

Victim?

You like to think youre sweet and innocent but youre not, Debi Storm said. You build your

women up, make them think theyre a star. You give us a taste of the glory we all crave. And then when you

discover that were not what you think we are, you kill us.

Charlie got to his feet and stumbled towards the kitchenette. The sink was filled with dirty dishes.

Charlie turned on the faucet and began washing the knife.

You dont want to be with us unless were television characters. Debi Storm said, her voice fading to

a whisper. I cant fathom how someone lives such a dishonest life.

Charlie winced. He had heard such accusations before. He remembered his ex-wife lamenting during

one their counseling sessions that he would never pay as much attention to her as he did his blessed reruns.

She cried when he told her that at least his television shows made him happy every night.

I think you know a thing or two about dishonest living, Charlie said.
 Youve probably figured out by now that Eve Plumb was just one in a long series of betrayals, Debi

Storm said. There wasnt any one episode that brought me to where I am today. Some of us are fortunate

enough to emulate the actors who succeed. The only part left for me to play was the one who failed.

Charlie dried the knife with a paper towel and placed it in his shirt pocket.

Before you leave me, Debi Storm said, I need to ask you something.

Yes?

Do you have any doubts I would have been a fabulous Jan Brady?

Charlie turned off the faucet.

I dont have any doubts at all.

Debi Storm closed her eyes and smiled.

Thank you for the marvelous audition, she whispered.

The only sound remaining in the room came from the television. Debi Stormthat other Debi

Stormwas portraying Molly Webber in her moment of glory, sporting a striped polo shirt unbuttoned at

the collar. She had been transformed by Marcia Brady into one of the most popular girls at Westdale High.

Her makeover was so successful that Molly Webber was now competing against Marcia to be the hostess of

the senior banquet. The eldest Brady sister could not believe the ingratitude, but her raven-haired rival

would have none of it.

It doesnt make any difference how I got here, Molly Webber said. The point is Ive arrived.
 Spring 2017
hiromi suzuki

three poetry collages 'eternal loop'

eternal loop

creeks are carrying silent water

toward your body and heart.

the index finger wet with the rain

is pulsating like the vein
and plucking the guitar in low tone.
 Spring 2017
Becca Lundberg

Just Delaney

The waterbed needed to go, Delaney decided as she lay in bed late Friday afternoon. It was far too

old-fashioned for her taste. Plus, there were so few acceptable linen options for waterbeds. If she and David

owned a classic innerspring mattress, they could buy some high thread count sheets and pitch these

scratchy, oatmeal-colored ones. These made their lovemaking rather uncomfortable.

Delaney watched the ceiling fan spin round and round, doing its best to cool down the spacious

room. It was still awfully balmy, so shed slept without the corduroy duvet once David pecked her on the

cheek and left for work at 6 a.m. She didnt mind his early departure; he was in high demand as the best

software developer at his startup.

It was almost time to get out of bed, but she decided to critique the paintings hanging on the stark

white walls first. The pieces were done by Picasso or van Goh or whomever the artist whom painted The

Starry Night was. She was being productive, you see. Starting her day with a bit of culture and analysis.

With her dark curls fanned out against the pillow and her petite frame sprawled about the mattress,

she felt like a model. Shed call up Barbizon or one of those other agencies later.
 With a reluctant groan, Delaney sat up and slid out of bed, the cold wooden floor a rude awakening

to her bare feet. She could use another hour or two of shut-eye, but the sheets felt like cacti on her skin.

Besides, she had work to do.

Before she started making calls, she wanted to feast her eyes on the glory of the day. She pulled apart

the curtains, which were made of the same dreadful corduroy as the duvet cover, only to see a typical dreary

Seattle afternoon. No matter. Shed go downstairs to drink some coffee and start making calls to customers.

She took her time making her way down the carpeted stairs. She felt as stately and beautiful in

Davids Brooks Brothers button-up as Scarlett OHara must have felt in her ruffled gown in the opening

scene of Gone with the Wind.

The leftover batch of coffee David brewed earlier was cold, so she poured it into the porcelain sink

and scooped some fresh grounds into the coffee maker. She pressed the brew button, waiting by the coffee

pot for a moment to allow the sound of the liquid brewing to fill her ears. It was beautiful, just as everything

else in her life was beautiful.

Once shed settled herself at the kitchen island on one of the vinyl bar stools, she grabbed the almost

antiquated cordless phone and dialed a number from her list of prospective customers.

Yeah? grunted a deep male voice from the other end of the phone.

Hello, sir. My name is Delaney and Im a representative for Carlies Cosmetics. Im calling today to

offer you or someone in your residence the chance to have a whole new look in time for the New Year! From

ruby red lipstick to electric blue mascara, we have something for you!

Do I sound like I wear ruby red lipstick, lady?

Well, sir, I would never assume that you dont based on

 The line went dead. Some people just didnt know proper phone etiquette. Though this man wasnt

nearly as vicious as the woman who wasted 10 minutes of her time with a rant on the pitfalls of corporate

America last week.

Delaney looked at the phone screen and then at the number on the list, realizing shed dialed a six

instead of a nine. Whoops! Oh well. Shed start fresh in a little while with the correct number.

She poured herself some coffee in Davids Mount St. Helens mug and sipped it slowly, wanting her

palette to fully experience the flavor of the coffee beans.

Or the bitterness. Yuck! She looked at the container on the counterFolgers. What was David, a

successful software developer, doing buying Folgers? From now on, they would drink nothing but fair trade.

Delaney was about to get up to pour the coffee down the drain when she noticed a flash of pink near

the trash can. She walked over to have her suspicions realized: it was, in fact, a pair of underwear that was

certainly not hers. Disgusted, she rifled through drawer after drawer before she found a pair of tongs. She

wrinkled her nose, retrieved the fuchsia panties, and dropped them at the center of the kitchen island. David

would explain this to her later.

The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. A welcome distraction. She walked into the foyer and opened

the door to see a balding mail carrier at the stoop.

Hello, maam, the man, whose nametag read, Jerry, said. Ive got a package. Youve just gotta

sign.

Delaney clapped her hands together excitedly. Ooh! I love packages.

As she took the clipboard, she felt Jerrys stare.

So, you Davids girlfriend or somethin? I havent seen you here before.
 Delaney finished signing with a flourish of her pen on the y of her name. She didnt bother

including a last name. She never did.

David and I prefer the term partners, she informed him.

Wow! He moves quick, Jerry said. Just last week I saw him with another broad.

Delaney shrugged. Thank you, Jerry darling. Ill have our package now.

Jerry handed her the package and made his way out the door. He was a sweetheart. He really was. But

he was too inquisitive for his own good.

Before she could close the door, she saw David, his hair askew in the exact adorable way it was the

night they met.

What the hell are you still doing here? he demanded. I told you Id be home at four!

He was acting out of character. It must have been a long day, she decided.

Yes, sweetheart. I so looked forward to seeing you all day. You look exhausted. Lets drive into the

city and get some dinner.

David shook his head.

I told you when Id be home so you would be gone. I didnt expect you to be waiting here all day. Im

sorry, but I cant even recall your name.

Oh, David, she said, delicately touching his stiff shoulder. Are you all right? Its Delaney. Just

Delaney.
 Spring 2017
Rebecca Melson

Cultivating Nations

As I headed out to the Tuscarora Nation, on a grand mission to interview Chief Leon Locklear, I would
like to say that I didnt know what I was looking for, and the clich of finding something amazing could
predictably bleed through what I was going to write. But, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to see
nostalgia. I wanted the people of the Nation to welcome me, and smudge me with sage. I wanted us to
convene in some sort of ritual that revealed the grand future of America. I wanted a stereotype. I wanted a
place that was separate from the world I know, and everything that is generic and cruel. That is not what I
got as I entered the Tuscarora Nation, in Robeson County, North Carolina.
I drove on the long and sandy road that lead to the Nation, feeling mild anxiety about going down there
by myself. But, I had met these people before, and they knew my family. I have the Aunts with the pretty,
light faces that talk too loud, and I have the Uncles that carried alcohol in their coffee mugs. I dance. They
know me.
Chief Leon and my grandmother Jessie Lee Locklear were first cousins, but my family did not meet any
of these relatives until her grandchildren were all adults. When My grandmother was growing up, Native
Americans did not have advantages that whites had. They were segregated from restaurants and
establishments, they were taken advantage of from crop owners, and they were not viewed as equals in
society. Savages. There was little nostalgia, or opportunity, for Americas natives. In fact, what many
Americans do not realize, is that when Martin Luther King Jr. fought for equality in America, he opened
closed doors for the Natives as well. Their voice is sometimes only a whisper.
 My grandmother had preferred that her children grew up with a chance, so she married the meanest
white man she met, my grandfather Alford Melson. Grandma Jessy was his second wife. He already had a
wife that he was forced to leave in Oregon, along with six other children. Alford Melson beat my
grandmother with an anger that was not naturally of this world. He beat his children until he was too tired
to beat them anymore. His children had to fight off his legacy from becoming their own for decades.
Generations of us would know his legacy; always drowning a winged rage, clawing at us from our own calm
selves.

XX

I was shocked to find that cages upon cages of roosters now took up residence with the Nation. This
was new to me. On the left side of the road, mildly hidden behind some tall grasses, they crowed at me
through the open windows of my passing car. These majestic birds were not here several years earlier when
I was, but now it seemed there were at least 70 of them, each in their individual cages, nobly awaiting their
fate.
I did not remember our Chief, Leon Locklear, as a man who caged such beasts. I remember him
welcoming us, and orchestrating powwows. But Leon was getting old now, and a new generation was
making the decisions for the Nation. In fact, there had been many changes since I had visited the Nation last.
A small makeshift production of a factory farm was off to the other side of the property as well, where all of
their submissive hens were kept in wire cages. The tribes nostalgia was fading into the practices of the
world.
Leon built the Tuscarora Nation. As I pulled into his parking lot alongside his house, he welcomed me
with grace and curiosity. His frame was showing ware, as time does to us all, and I wondered if his vision was
still strong with all the residents in the Nation. Do they carry on his gentle and determined spirit that I
know? As I saw his dark eyes, I wondered.
He is of Tuscarora decent, and he has surrounded himself with what he believes is a right of his
people. Over his lifetime, he continued to buy land in the sandy back woods areas of Robeson county. Many
trailers occupy, and within them are what Leon thought would be important structures for his declared
Tuscarora Nation. There is a Tuscarora library, the Tuscarora office, and a round-house style museum
dedicated to local Native American artifacts and Leons life as a young traveling musician. Scattered about
are also the planted trailers belonging to any Tuscarora who wanted a plot. Some are nicer than others, and
all get to be a part of the community.
At the very heart of the Nation is a huge, low fenced circle arena for the sacred dances. The
supernatural religion of the clans. I have seen hoop dances there, grass dances, and I even took my oldest
daughter around in a circle dance for the children when she was very little. This is sacred land for me, this
place and what I believed it held. What it does hold. Now I wonder if that ring is used for the beautiful
Roosters that waited in cages, offering a blood sacrifice for our degenerate souls.

XXX

Chief Leon didnt say the things I had wanted him to. I really like interviewing people, and excavating
what I feel needs to be extracted from their mouths. I have done this before, by framing my questions, and
courting them with conversation. As I followed Chief Leon around the Nation, and sat with him in his
trailer, he did not tell me the things that I thought he would.
What would you say to Americans if you had a voice to reach them? I asked, expecting to hear the
story of my very own heart. Something like we are destroying the earth, our medicines are in this land, and
we need to connect with it again. Stuff like that.
Well, I would tell thum that we did not crucify their God. I been told all my life, that I was a goin to
hell. But, the white man crucified their own God. Let me ask you, he said, leaning up in his chair, where
do you think we went when we died before the white man come here?
I didnt really know.
We went to what we called the happy hunting grounds.
Chief Leon continued to answer my questions with the acknowledgement that the Indians did not
crucify Christ, and that they should be allowed to practice their own religion, because that was what God
had intended them to do. I told him of my own supernatural experiences with Christianity, and that there
was still a true path regardless of what men do throughout history. He nodded and agreed with me, but it
was unclear where he really stood.

XXXX

Chief Leon showed me his bus. Yes, he had a bus, and he painted it with Native American scenes.
There were rivers, and animals and the Tuscarora shield. He took me inside of it, and I got to see where he
had turned it into a fully functioning RV. There was a spacious room in the back, a shower and bathroom. A
small kitchen with a sink. I imagined him and his old finger-picking band traveling down to Florida and
playing shows, moving from place to place and flying down the highway at 80 mph. Indian braids and
everglades. Chief said he would sell it to me for $11,000, and I said I would consider it.
He built many of the structures, like the longhouse and the inside of this bus, with his own hands. He
used his natural understanding to create the things that he felt were necessary, like the passing down of
ancient blood.
Chief told me several times that he could not read or write. I would start talking about American
politics and the global gravity that everyone (mainly myself) was experiencing, and he would look
apologetic. I felt that maybe my language was making him feel as though I was judging him. He must not
have realized that I didnt care how he talked, or what he did or didnt learn in school. He knew things that
most Americans dont, and that is how to build a nation. He must not have realized that I needed to know
myself.
In those days, we dint have time for a schoolin. It was too much work to be done. But it dint bother
me. My mother had nineteen heads of youngen when I was commin up. he said with quiet gravity. Then I
asked him if he would play a song for me. He had taught himself how to play music when his soul was
young. On the half-banjo-half-guitar that was hand-made as well, Chief played me Amazing Grace.
Chief Leon had seen American time pass. He knew what the country thought of Natives as his family
struggled to make ends meet. But, Leon always knew what he had wanted. He wanted his culture back, an
existence without the confines of the world that had tried to erase him, suppressing his people into division
and ignorance. Chief Leon Locklear has spent his life looking for his America, soldiering for recognition and
rights while illiterate, yet knowing, and building the Tuscarora Nation.
All the roosters crowed at me as I drove away.
 Spring 2017
Robert Wexelblatt

PETITE SUITE DES ERREURS MINUSCULES

1. Un Mot Manquant - Scherzo Ruineux En Do-Mineur pour Violoncelle et Percussion, Svre et Dcisif

Thomas Szabo stood all by himself in the empty mailroom. He took an envelope from his slot,

almost the only item in any of the slots. An actual letter on paper, and an envelope, was about as rare as

a cassette tape or a celluloid collar. Szabo held the envelope and, for a moment, his breath. The return

address was that of The Journal of Global Diplomacy. He unzipped his backpack, slipped the envelope in,

and made for his office, four floors up.

The stairway was as crowded and noisy as the mailroom had been empty and silent.

Hi, Professor, said Betty Kim, going down as he went up. Betty had earned one of only three As

hed given the prior semester.

Szabo nodded at her, remembered to smile a little too late.

Tenure. The grail. The ever-receding, dwindling distinction, once guarantor of academic

freedom, now obstacle to management flexibility. Tenure made teachers indifferent and expensive; it

made scholars lazy too because, as everybody knows, security kills productivity. Plumbers and hedge-
fund managers didnt have tenure; why should academics? The vox populi and the administration sang

the same melody. The financial commitments prohibitive, complained the Provost. Its an antiquated

practice, the President proclaimed, but so long as our peer institutions use it to hold on to their best

talentor to poach ourswell have to have tenured faculty. But its only for the very best. Borrowing

an idea from the Vatican, the Provost appointed a devils advocate to each tenure and promotion

committee. The presumption was to be one of inadequacy.

Szabo was about to become such a case, a dossier. But his chairman had been candid. The case

was not unimpeachably solid. He was not the very best, at least not demonstrably. His service was

more than adequate, and everybody was grateful for it. But no one really cared about committee work,

so long as there was some of it. His teaching evaluations were outstanding, but excellent teaching was

just a sine qua non. For pleasing the customers, you might get your contract renewed; you didnt get

tenure for it. Socrates didnt publish? Yes, Ive heard that a few times. But Socrates never underwent a

tenure review, unless you count his trial, and look how that ended. No, its scholarship, publications,

what the external evaluators write about you. Above all, its whether theyre willing to say that youd

get tenure where they didthats what matters.

Your monograph is fine; but itll be seen as a revised dissertation. The reviews were solid, not

spectacular. The three articles will help but the journals that published them arent at the very top.

Your conference papers are good too, but they arent publications. To have even an outside shot, Tom,

youll need to add at least one more article, a major one in a top-flight journal.
 Szabo had worked it out in daydreams. Hed get tenure and then propose to Caroline. Shed

throw her arms around his neck and say yes and then hed buy a condo, maybe even a house. If he got

tenure, hed have a career, not just a series of gigs. And if he didnt get tenure? Qua non.

Szabo closed the office door and sat at his desk. The article was audacious and timely. Hed

leapt into the quicksand of the Middle East, armed with a promising and wholly new idea. For weeks,

hed mulled over the mess then it came to him in the shower, and hed dashed, soaking wet, to write it

down. There wasnt much time. Hed rushed the research and the writing too, but got the submission

in before the deadline. He had aimed high with The Journal of Global Diplomacy, JGD. The worst they

can say is no, Caroline had said airily. What have you got to lose? Caroline was not an academic but

liked that he was. She was an actuary for a middle-sized insurance company. The difference between

your job and mine, she once told him, is that when I do good work they give me more money.

Caroline could be, by turns, breathtakingly level-headed and squishily sentimental. Szabo found not

knowing how shed react to anything from a Valentine to a head cold stimulating rather than

frustrating. And then she was so pretty. Caroline smelled good, even in the summer. Sometimes he

imagined they were a pair of vines twining around the trunk of their relationship. He feared the tree

could be uprooted, though. If he had to find another job, even if he were lucky enough to find one, it

might be a thousand miles away in some small town with too many churches and too few bakeries.

Would Caroline move to a place with lots of hymn-singing but no bagels?

Szabo had a French mustard jar on his desk that bristled with pens and pencils. It also held a

letter opener one of his students had given him as a present. It was made from some kind of Hawaiian

wood. He had never used it before but, for luck, he used it now.
 Szabo unfolded the letter, and saw at once that it was too long for an outright rejection. Two

pages. It was signed by the editor-in-chief himself. Was he going to be asked to revise and resubmit?

Dear Professor Szabo:

We are pleased to inform you that your article has been accepted for publication.

As you will see from the appended reviewers comments, your submission has been well

received. It is also about an urgent matter and likely to prove controversial. That is why I

have decided to break with our usual procedure and allow you to jump the queue. Your

article will be featured in our next quarterly issue. Further, we intend to invite three

distinguished members of our Advisory Board to prepare responses, which will appear

after the article. As soon as I receive a positive response from you, I will set all this in

motion. Time presses, so please reply at your earliest convenience, and I will send you

our standard publication agreement.

On a personal note, it is heartening to see such original thinking from a young

scholar. As this will have to be a rush job, let me know if it will be acceptable to dispense

with the usual page proofs.

The letter delighted Szabos chairman. We can go to the Dean with this, he said, removing his

glasses and beaming. Make me a copy. Thomas. No, make three. There are some more people Id like

to see it.
 Good news, said Caroline. She gave him a disappointingly pedestrian hug, said Mazeltov,

then suggested they go to a movie. Apparently, there was a new one with Hugh Grant in it.

The new issue came out in just over a month. JGD was so well endowed that it still published

printed copies. Szabos name was featured on the front cover. He turned immediately to the three

responses. There were only two. One was from a former Secretary of State, the other from the

Whitmarsh Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. Both were brief. The latter began with this

sentence: Professor Szabo must be one of those charming American academics who live each day as if

it were their first. The other was worse.

He was mocked, ridiculed. They seemed to think he had bitten off even more than he had, far

more, that he was proposing something absurdly sweeping. Szabo was horrified and baffled.

He turned to his article and read it all. Still perplexed, he turned back to the first page before he

saw what had gone wrong. His title had been How to End the War, but the one on the page before

him read How to End War. No the.

He phoned the editor-in-chiefs office and was told to try again in two hours. Two bad hours.

The great man had a plummy voice and an accent that suggested some place north of the

Midlands. Sorry. I did have my secretary give it a quick glance. As I said, there was a time constraint.

My sincere apologies, Professor Szabo. I didnt catch it. But who checks titles, eh? Look, not to worry.

Well get a correction into the next issue.

But that wont be out until spring.

Ah, summer, actually. Were doing a double issue, you see. On East Asia.
 Chairman, Dean, Tenure Committeeeverybody was informed of the typo. All were

encouraged to read the article. It didnt matter. Szabo was already a punch-line, even to Caroline, who

found the whole business hilarious.

Szabo had one more year on his contract, which was now terminal.

His next full-time job was two years and eight hundred miles awayone-year, non-tenure-track.

2. Le Grand Cru - Concertino pour Hautbois et Orchestre de Chambre en Sol-Majeur, la Main Leste et

Accidentellement Heureux

Toby Kraftweiners happy childhood ended abruptly when he was twelve. The racially anxious

predicted the decline of the old Germantown section of Philadelphia in which Toby had grown up like a

healthy animal unburdened by self-consciousness. His nervous parents decided to move to the suburb

of Abercarn. Abercarn had been effectively founded by a post-war developer named Rosenberg who

lobbied hard to have it assigned a Welsh name, like exclusive Bryn Mawr and classy Bala Cynwyd. The

decision was taken while Toby was off at summer camp. As he was not consulted, Toby behaved

accordingly.

His parents enrolled him in Louisa May Alcott Junior High School. Ironically, the famous author

of Little Women had been born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, not in Concord, Massachusetts. Toby,

sulking, would have detested his new school on principle, but principle proved unnecessary. On his

first day, Miss Cianci accused him of talking in her English class. New boy! Whats your name?
Whats that? Speak up. Let us all hear you. She then administered a public dressing down, warning

him about getting off on decidedly the wrong foot. The accusation was not only false but absurd, as

Toby didnt yet know anybody to talk to; besides, it was the boy sitting behind him whod told the dirty

joke. Toby took the blame without protest, not to spare his new classmate, but out of resentful

indifference. It was this same attitude that kept him from speaking up when a clerical error on the

schedule he was issued sent him to Mademoiselle Mallins Introductory French class. He had signed up

to take Spanish like nearly everybody else. When Mademoiselle wrote Franais Un on the board,

Toby shrugged, a gesture that was fast becoming typical. So it goes, he thought. Espagnol, Franais

what did it matter? If hed known as much French then as he did later, hed have said Je men fiche.

Toby continued taking French all through high school, counting off the days of his captivity. He

read the assigned stories in Contes Modernes, every tedious page of Pierre Lotis Pcheur d'Islande, and

dutifully wrote the dictes for which Monsieur Teal used recorded speeches of Charles de Gaulle, the

only Frenchman ever to speak slowly.

Toby isolated himself, or, more precisely, did nothing to end his isolation. He consoled himself

with Russian novels and German music. He excelled in French but, curiously, couldnt take anything

spoken or written in that language seriously. For him the very word French connoted frivolity. In

translation Camus and Flaubert absorbed and challenged him but, in the original French, they made

him laugh.

Tobys parents fretted over their sons adolescent withdrawal; and, when his older sister went off

to college, they fretted more. Toby wanted to believe that, deep down, they felt guilty for having moved.

He liked that thought.

 In the fullness of time, he escaped the leafy corruption of Abercarn for the more congenial life of

the University of Pennsylvania. He surprised and pleased his father by registering in the Wharton

School of Commerce and Finance; however, he thought it would earn him some distinction among his

assiduously networking classmates to minor in French. There were no other management majors who

could quote Baudelaire. It was in his French classes that he met all the girls he dated. Yet, when they

spoke French, he couldnt take them seriously. Si ce nest pas lamour, alors largent, he told himself

sententiously and buckled down to econometric problem sets, supply and demand curves, the pass

simple.

After graduation, Toby was hired by a rising Boston accounting and consulting firm. He found a

decent apartment on Marlborough Street, went to concerts and plays, drank and dated in moderation.

The women with whom he was fixed up did not speak French; theyd all taken Spanish. Nevertheless,

none of these relationships had much staying power. When his friends asked him about whichever

woman theyd seen him with last, he produced a stock reply: Unfortunately one of us was too

neurotic.

The economy boomed, tossing up bubbles like champagne. Business became sexy again. Toby

moved up three times; yet with each promotion the work became more boring.

His firm prospered. No more cold calls; new clients were phoning every week. American

business methods now had cachet overseas, and the guys with their names on the door decided to go

international.

There was a difficult client in Paris, an exporter of pricey cheeses, artisan jams, mustard, and

wines. Things werent going well; profits were flat. At the weekly meeting, Tobys boss asked if
anybody in the room spoke French. Toby raised his hand. Oui, he said to himself. Monsieur le

francophone, cest moi.

Toby had traveled through western Ireland with his friend OBrien during spring break of their

senior year. His passport was still current.

Stay the whole week, his boss said grandly, handing over the airline tickets and a company

Amex card.

In Paris, Toby had to keep himself from chuckling inappropriately. Everybody spoke French

and much faster than Charles de Gaulle.

The French clients were irritating, needy, and intractable, though not notably hard-working.

Everyone took long lunches, and they all cleared out by four oclock.

On his third day, Toby was taking on the crowded Mtro heading back to his hotel when a thin

young man suddenly shouldered people aside, shouted something not in French, and pulled out a

pistol. People scattered, screamed, cringed and tried to hide behind each other. The gun was pointed

more than aimed. How could he miss? The gun didnt fire. Toby thought he heard two clicks. Without

giving the matter any thought, he launched himself at the skinny fellow, knocked him headfirst to the

floor of the car. He grabbed the gun and twisted as hard as he could, like tightening a tourniquet. He

could hear the wrist break, a sickening click. The man shrieked and let go of the gun. Toby handed it to

another passenger and continued kneeling on the mans back.

Toby led off the morning news. The American ambassador invited him to lunch where the

Marquis de Lafayette and Black Jack Pershing were both mentioned. The President of the Republic
gave him a medal on camera then kissed him on both cheeksnot air-kisses, either. He was

interviewed via Skype on The Today Show and in person by Tlmatin.

When he finally was able to return to work at the exporters office, everybody stood and

applauded. They also stopped being difficult.

A young woman happened to there that morning, the charming daughter of one of the

companys suppliers. Permit me to present my god-daughter, Mademoiselle Emmanuelle Marais, said

the chief of the company. She teaches English and does translations.

Mlle. Marais thought the hero deserved a home-cooked meal and invited him to her apartment

that very evening. The apartment was large and elegant and in the fifth arrondissement, close to the

Sorbonne.

They established that they both liked Poulenc and Gide, but not Franck or Proust.

I love Conrad, she said. In fact, just now Im translating The Rover. Its one of his last books,

set here, in France.

As was Conrad himself, for a time. He led three lives, each in a different language, didnt he?

Ah, vous savez? Mais, exactement.

In short, they were delighted with each other. Not only had Toby never met a woman who cared

at all for Conrad but The Rover was among his favorite books. He wondered if the French translation

would make it seem silly.

Emmanuelle spoke her impeccable English with an accent piquantly halfway between

Montparnasse and Oxbridge. Perhaps thats why Toby took her seriously. And maybe she took him
seriously because he could speak French, had been twice kissed by the French president, and had a

business degree from the Wharton School.

They didnt want to say good night, though, at three a.m., they did.

On Thursday, Emmanuelle called and invited Toby to meet her parents. On Friday, they took

the Very Fast French Train to Chlons, capital of the Champagne region, where her familys small but

distinguished vineyard was located. Over dinner, everyone was charmed by Tobys spot-on impression

of Charles de Gaulle. Later, Monsieur Marais suggested a walk in the course of which he confided that

he had lower-back trouble and was looking forward to cutting back. Emmanuelle was his only child

and, while she might not object to leaving Paris to live in the country, she preferred translating novels to

running a family business. So, when Toby and Emmanuelle were married a month later, he took over

management of the vineyard, which flourished and expanded under his steady hand.

And he never went home.

3. LAgent Secret - Marche Funbre pour Flte et Alto en Do-dise Mineur, Assez Romantique mais Tout Fait

Brusque

Look, its February. Send her a Valentines card, Charlie suggested before hoisting his brimful

glass of Guinness.

What? said Owen. Anonymously?

Dont be ridiculous.
 I dont have her address. I dont know much of anything about her, actually.

Charlie chuckled. Well, you know one thing. You know shes hot. Oops. Excuse me. Two

things. That shes hot and you want to know more about her.

True.

Charlie glanced upward, as he always did before pontificating, the skyward look being his

version of the raised professorial finger. Like physics and biology, he declared, love begins with

curiosity, that urge to see how things work inside, to penetrate. Those toddlers who grow up to be

scientists arent exactly sociopaths. In fact, they usually love the butterflies whose wings theyre tearing

off.

Youre feeling philosophical tonight.

Oh, that was nothing, pal. Charlie lifted his half-empty glass. Get two of these in me and Ill

out-Aristotle everybody in this bar.

Okay, Aristotle. You say love begins in curiosity and that curiositys a kind of aggression, right?

Sorry. That just doesnt sound right to me.

Of course its aggression. Theres always a little bit of an assault in lovemaybe even a dab of

downright cruelty. But, of course, theres much more beside. If its really love.

Owen smirked.

Charlie laughed. No, Im not denying theres such a thing as love. Im not that old yet that.

Owen leaned on his elbows, pensive. Maybe youve got a point, especially about us guys. A lot

of women get killed by the men they dump. Rejection vaporizes the tenderness but the aggression

sticks.
 Sure. Then theres the primitive ownership thing. Some guys need to hold on, just cant let go.

Hot-blooded, full of passion. Strong feelings can flip just like that. When men made the laws and sat on

all the juries, they handed out lighter sentences for crimes of passion. Or none.

And was there any legal excuse for that, counselor-to-be?

A fairly sound one, actually. See, with your crime passionel theres no malice aforethought. By

definition its a heat of the moment thing. Any competent defense attorney should be able to get a

murder-one charge lowered to murder-two. A really good lawyer would get it down to manslaughter.

Owen took a deep breath, sipped his pale ale, looked around the bar. It was a place for twenty-

somethings, young professionals, the citys not-yet-burnt-out. After a couple of rounds you started to

see what they were a year or two ago. Twelve months earlier, Owen and Charlie had both been college

seniors themselves. In September Owen had started at Beckley and Stein, Graphic Designers. He was

doing well, liked the work he was assigned for the most part, also the pay and living on his own. Charlie

had been a philosophy major and was now in his second semester at Columbia Law. He had all the self-

confidence Owen didnt. Charlie could be pompous but Owen respected him. Anyway, he needed to

talk to somebody about Claire Dupont.

Send her a Valentine, Charlie urged again.

But I dont know her. I mean weve only spoken once. I dont even know if shes one of those

Duponts.

So what? You told me she works for some production companymovies, TV. So, shes artistic.

And you know she goes to parties by herself. So, shes sociable and single.

Maybe she doesnt like Asian guys.

 And maybe shes got a thing for them. Come, on Owen. Youre not in high school. This is the

big bad city.

A Valentine card.

The right kindnothing lewd or mawkish. Something to make you look sweet and not like a

stalker. Or, worse, needy.

Owen sighed. Shes gorgeous.

Youre thinking shes out of your league?

Yeah. Probably. A Dupont.

Charlie scoffed. Grow a pair, Owen. Whatve you got to lose?

Owen was about to say his dignity and his as-yet unbroken heartbut didnt.

Charlie polished off his Guinness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Look. Ask the

people who threw that party where you saw her. Go online, do a little research. Maybe she just broke

up with somebody and shes vulnerable. Valentines Day is, as they say, fraught. For you, its an

opportunity.

Owen couldnt get comfortable with the idea. You sent a Valentines card to somebody you were

already involved with. But he was lonely and couldnt get Claire out of his mind. Her hair was long,

darkalmost black, like his. She had shown up at the party late, wearing a mans fedora, tight black

jeans, a tight purple pullover. Shed been alone, and Mary, their hostess, took her around.

Hed held out his hand. Im Owen Lee.

And Im Claire Dupont, she said in an alto voice as deep and thrilling as her brown eyes.

Claire as Claire de Lune, Mary laughed.

 Claire smiled. Mary thinks Im crazy. But really Im just a harmless eccentric, a bohemian with

lots of affectations.

Poor people and ugly ones go crazy. Rich pretty ones are eccentric. That was just one of the

thoughts Owen had later.

He slept on Charlies suggestion of using a Valentines card as an opening gambit. He thought it

was ludicrous. All the same, the next day he looked up Bill and Marys home number and Mary

answered. He had to explain that he was the Asian guy that somebody theyd actually invited to their

party had dragged along.

Yes?

So, there was woman there. Claire Dupont?

Oh, Claire. Sure.

Well, I was wondering if you might have her cell number or her address.

There was a pause. Women didnt give out their friends information to men they didnt know.

Owen hastily added, I mean her work number, or the address.

Oh. You work in film too?

Graphic design.

Owen felt he was teetering on the cusp of a lie, letting Mary think his interest in Claire was

professional when it was anything but.

Sometimes we do titles and credits, he fibbed.

I see. Well, Claire works at SoHo-Tribeca Productions. Know it?

Sure, said Owen, swallowing hard, trying to feel aggressive but not managing it.
 Claires a talented girl.

Im not surprised.

Well, good. Look. Im sorry but Ive really gotta run.

It took a bit of hopping from link to link but Owen was able to track down Claires home address.

He picked what he hoped was the right kind of card, nothing remotely sexual or even romantic, just the

sort of generic thing you could send to a child. Happy Valentines Day. Above his email address, he

wrote the briefest note possible: Lunch? Coffee? Heres my email. Let me know. Owen Lee.

He decided not to say that he was the Korean-American graphic designer shed met at Mary and

Bills party but to simulate self-assurance by pretending shed remember his name. It was the sort of

thing Charlie would do.

Claire Duponts building was a big new one on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. One-

bedrooms ran $3000/month. Her apartment number was 1210. Because of the holiday, the postman had

an unusually heavy load and was behind his schedule. In his rush, he made an error. Instead of putting

Owens card into the box marked C. Dupont, 1210, he placed it in the one that belonged to C. Dulac, 1510.

That the C in both cases stood for Claire was just a coincidence.

Claire Dulac had become ill during her junior year at Smith. Her roommate moved out. Her

parents were called and she had to take the spring semester off. Claire spent two months in an excellent

facility before returning to finish her degree. She was fine so long as she took her medications which

she did faithfully. Her parents agreed to subsidize her post-graduation life in New York. They found

her the apartment on Montague, also, through friends, a job at a trendy restaurant, all kinds of fusion

food. Claire spent New Years Eve alone, thinking that she didnt really need the meds anymore, and
she sure didnt need their side-effects. On New Years Day, she threw her pills away, her resolution. A

couple weeks later she was fired. There had been two incidents, the second worse than the first. Claire

had accused some customers of spying on her and screamed at the whole table. She threw some rolls

and a plate. After that, she hadnt left her apartment except to get coffee, visit the ATM, and pick up the

mail. When her parents called, she told them everything was just fine and made sure to ask about the

dog. When she remembered to eat, she ordered take-out.

Claire Dulac opened Owens card and tossed the red envelope in the trash without noticing the

wrong surname and apartment number.

Whats this, she thought. Had to be some trick, a ploy. This Owen Lee was trying to get at her.

The whole thing was sinister. Coffee? Lunch? She had no doubt this was the same man who had bugged

her phone and hidden tiny cameras all over her apartment, even in the bathroom. Owen was that man

in a pea jacket with the camera whod been lurking outside Starbucks. He must work for some powerful

organizationthe CIA, an oil company, a terrorist group, the Chinese.

Claire was scared. She set the card up on the kitchen counter and fixated on it. It was blood red.

Burning it wouldnt do any good. Hearts and flowers. Happy Valentines Day. Shed been sleeping all

the time but now she couldnt sleep at all.

At three in the morning she took the decision to send an answer to Owen Lees email address.

After she clicked on the send button, she recalled something Fitzgerald, her favorite writer, had written

in The Crack-Up: . . in a real dark night of the soul it is always three oclock in the morning, day after day.

Okay, Owen. Coffee. This Saturday. Starbucks at the corner of Court and Joralemon. Three

oclock.
 Owen arrived five minutes early. He didnt recognize the woman who jumped to her feet and

rushed up to him as soon as he came through the door. Her hair was wild, her eyes too. She wore a big

green parka and her hands were shoved in its pockets. Maybe something had come up at the last

minute, he guessed. Claire couldnt make it and had thoughtfully sent a friend to apologize to him in

person.

You Owen?

He only had time to nod and open his mouth when everything happened all at oncethe hands

shooting out of the parkas pocket, the knife, the screaming.

 Spring 2017
Olivia Grayson

The Excruciating Promise Of Exchange

There is no letter to open, no heartrending

Script or post missive invoking niceties
Any fool might understand.

There is no poignant notelet or bastard

Type followed by instructions:

Make a sharp left, turn there; its just past

The Shell station where youll see a girl
Hyperventilating under a haystack.

There are no magic charts or bookmarks,

No royal alphabets or promised lands,

Only footnoters injecting explanations;

Pencil abusers stealing from you gradually,

Then suddenly, like Columbian gun powder,

Like Chinese snow, like the friend of a friends

Friend from out of town who hangs around

Too long.
He Had Fallen In Love

They met in front of Berninis Ecstasy of

Saint Theresa; an angel in bodily form.

Her names Sally.

Like Sally Tomato?

I drew a breath so hard it made me moan.

I envisioned her prone, wildly struggling,

Hands bound behind her back, while one

Of Keyser Sozes henchmen leisurely

Eliminated her.

Once, I read his fey, agonizing ballads

With all the fervor I could muster, once,

We sang Fred Rodgers songs:

Its you I like, every part of you, your

Skin, your eyes, your feelings

Recently, I met someone I really liked,

But was so anxious, I got plastered and

Told him to go to The Automobile Club

Of America (confusing the acronyms),

Although I detest those 12 step programs

Where you are meant to believe:

Your personality is a character flaw.

DRIVE, HE SAID

See that wildly gesticulating man

flailing in the rearview?

Hes been jerking & shaking like

that for blocks;

You hit the gas hard, but heres

the light. Hes getting closer,
hes right next to you.

His face has so many shapes.

You roll down your window

roll-roll-roll. Its punishing,

like hand-churning fat globules

into a single chunk of butter.

He wails, Cant you leave

the people alone!? Youve backed
up right against my bumper!

Thats impossible, you say, because if I

had, it would mean I was going in reverse!

Which you were, & usually are, but theres

no way youre going to admit that. No way.
Instead, you insist he collided with your bumper,

and this is just after that kid at Union Square

accused you of touching his ____ ; you cant say it,

but it starts with a D, as in the 37th president,

the only one to ever resign office; the muscles

in his face pulsating, you swearing he was

touching you with his 37th precedent.
His face had so many shapes.
Packing For A Trip To The Rocky Coastline

Suicidal ideations? Check.

Primary support system? Must inquire

(what was that wretched womans phone
Number)?

DNR note? Got it.

Confirmation letter proving Im high on

The continuum of dementia praecox?

Its in there. Somewhere. I think. Maybe not.

Cant remember. What did I just say?

Sounds shaped expending deliberate incongruity?

Right. Check.

Jaw-breakers? (Damn these molars)!

Floss? The enchanting dental assistant at Dr. Levys

Likes Translucent Frost, but I like Toms Naturally

Waxed; its from Maine. How I love Maine! The

Honey bee is the official state insect, and its

The only state in the United States that has one

Syllable.

Well, lets get on with it! The Supershuttle will

Be here any minute. Now.
PATTY

The heiress empathized with her captors,

Thats why she participated in her sexy
Outfit,

Believing that what was happening was

A new and better identity of traumatic
Bonding,

That what she was doing was good, and

Important, because when a victim takes
On the same

Beliefs as their aggressor, they no longer

Become a danger, merely a body of similar
Bodies living

In deep and loving harmony in the best

Interest of reason.

But when she tried to get others to see,

It disappeared,

And people called her vicious, sentencing

Her to seven years

In prison. President Carter communed her

Sentence

Thats when its done out of grace, not right.

Later, she acted in movies like Juror No. 8

In Serial Mom,

And Traci Lords mother in Cry Baby. I was

Never what people like you wanted me to be.

 Spring 2017
M. Kaat Toy

Academic Indiscretions

Dispensing information to vassals who misuse it, using generosity as a deflector,

its implicating to teach those inappropriately prepared for their environment driven to be
present by economic conscription. Rejecting nonviolence, groggy with confusion, these
low-level offenders exercise their right to play with guns, blowing off steam in
entertainment arcades instituted by the cabalistic leveraging of the assessment and
accreditation cartels commandeering a contemptuous generation: Treating thoughts as
aliens, stereotypes roam the shuttered streets of their servile explorations. Though they
struggle to comprehend fundamental seismic shifts, theyre sure with the right
application theyll become masters at manipulating surgical strike technology. Their
time-lapse negation of content and context is a study in mainstream resistance as
rabidly they eat their futures away as if they were insufficient yellow cake--half uranium,
half desert. Its hard to remediate the reactionary.
Unholy Alchemy

Distraction is your favorite house: Pursuing the white optimism that flies from
your overstepping imagination, you avoid where each real thing stands. The skipping
world rings on the crystal ball of your ambitions, opening portals where, looking for a full
ride, you weave your metamorphosing success stories into whirling magic carpets,
explaining Maybe this isnt true about me, but right now I need to believe it is. For
these seminal prospects, you recarve all your faces, casting conflicting wishes over
them until they disappear back into the ether. From the rejected bits that fit together,
you fashion masks to adorn the idols who intermittently suppress their judgments by
demanding increasing sacrifices from their estranged worshipper: You. Confusion is a
choice.
Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Strapped with duct tape and locked in an under-underworld for wanting to save,
redeem, and be charitable and forgiving, we are guarded by our accusatory crypt
keepers from their cartoon-enhanced classrooms crying out their legal threats of how
we--wishing they were different--have subtly failed to nurture them by justifying their
rooted sense of irresponsibility and submerging ourselves in the innocent desperation of
their ways, holding obsolete roles of enslaver and enslaved in place.
AP American English

Compounding her multicultural literacy at her dialect dispensary according to

safe zone protocols and taking her tonic--the one that breaks down margins by code
switching with impunity to match communication norms--she disambiguates her
thoughts until they tumble into their discipline-specific analytical functions, consigning
behavior wherever they go: Situation dominates disposition; role trumps personality;
optimism overlooks inaccuracy; idealization overpowers truth. When religion, like racism,
fills the space of what is missing in the echo chamber of abstraction, the unreality of
belief is what exists.
 Spring 2017
Diarra English

Black Faces in Private Places

From the minute I stepped on BB&Ns campus, I became the token black girl that would know

everything about the latest trends, dances, and music. BB&N is one of those private schools that boasts about

its wildly diverse community of students that achieve at an extraordinarily high level, and go on to only the

most prestigious colleges. Its the type of school that has more gluten allergies than black students and gives

its students and urban setting by placing it on the outskirts of Cambridge, MA, before they retreat back to

their suburban towns every night. It was never a place where conversations about race happened inside or

outside of classrooms until a racial slur penetrated our perfectly diverse halls. After that, teachers couldnt

stop throwing the words cultural proficiency around. I think I was expected to enjoy the fruits of these

conversations, but all they brought me was stress, discomfort, and more ignorant comments from my

classmates.

I dont think we have a problem with diversity here, I feel like everyone is different and we all

appreciate the different backgrounds we each bring to the table. I watched Annabel proudly profess this

nonsense to my class, clearly without any consideration of how wrong she was. What would a white girl who
plays soccer, hockey, and lacrosse know about diversity? Everything in her life is monochrome from her

family to her friends, and sadly my school. I made eye contact with the other black students in class and

proceeded to raise my hand, keeping eye contact with each of them. Since this was an African American Lit

elective, it was one of the only classes in the whole school that had more than the usual two black students.

I would have to argue that we have some of the worst diversity I have ever seen. In each class picture

I have no trouble finding myself or my friends because we each stick out like sore thumbs. I paused to look

around for reassurance and noticed nodding heads from each of my friends and even my teacher. I

continued on with more confidence, its not uncommon for me to be mistaken for another black girl by

either a teacher or another student, nor is it rare for me to be asked to play black music during a sports

practice. Were in a bubble and if you think this is real diversity, youre wrong. I sat back in my chair and

looked around at my classmates faces.

~~~~~~~~

BB&Ns mission is to promote scholarship, integrity, and kindness in diverse, curious, and motivated

students. The school prepares students for lives of principled engagement in their communities and the

world.

~~~~~~~~

Due to my affinity for small class sizes and my consistent need for extra attention from my math

teachers, my parents decided to focus on private schooling for my high school years. The class sizes at

Cambridge Rindge and Latin High were too big for me to literally not get lost in between my classes, and

attending a private school like Buckingham Browne & Nichols would give me more educational

opportunities as my parents repeated over and over again. What they didnt tell me was that going to this
school which sounded like a corporate law firm, would be one of the most confusing, mind-blowing culture-

shocking experiences of my life.

On my first day at BB&N, I was unusually excited to start high school. I had heard rumors about how

different it would be from my other schools; there would be no black people, my classmates would have

Kardashian money, and I would never feel comfortable no matter how hard I tried. How hard could it be to

go to school with people that came from different economic and social backgrounds than me? What I failed

to think about in that last question was the range of differences between me and my classmates.

In my junior year history class, I finally realized what everyone had warned me about. We were

having one of those generic discussions on slavery where everyone looks at the single black student for the

answer. We began to talk about the Negro spirituals slaves used to sing on plantations and their hidden

double meanings. My teacher read us the lyrics of Wade in the Water and then asked us our thoughts

about the possible meaning. One of my especially white classmates confidently answered, I think Wade in

the Water is a spiritual about the slaves swimming from Africa to America and them drowning because it

was too far. Yes. This was an actual response in a junior year U.S. History course. The confused stares from

my teacher, myself, and the black boy sitting next to this girl gave her absolutely no inkling that this answer

was very wrong. Instead, she looked ahead with conviction, patiently waiting for my teacher to validate her

interpretation. It didnt happen.

As I moved through my schedule, I paid close attention to each class, mentally noting the amount of

students that looked like me. It didnt take too much of my time or attention since I was usually only

counting myself and one other boy or girl. Before completely discouraging myself, I waited until our first all

school assembly where I could completely scan the whole student body, only to find that the number of
people that looked like me was still relatively low. There were a couple spread out through the bleachers,

but a small group of brown faces sitting together caught my attention in the high corner of the bleachers. I

decided to count that group as a win. I figured if they all found each other, I too could find a group in this

sparse student body.

When Miley Cyrus introduced the rest of the world to twerking I could have killed her. From that

moment on, I couldnt even count the amount of times someone asked me to teach them how to twerk or

asked me to comment on their twerking form. When I had the nerve to inform one of my classmates that I

didnt even know how to twerk, she looked me up and down in disappointment, shook her head slowly, and

walked away. I didnt realize my blackness was supposed to provide a gateway to pop culture for these

suburban white kids, nor did I realize the growing disappointment I kept serving them each time a

stereotype was disproved. It was like they were hoping I taught a free course in blackness, but they were

highly upset when they found out I was severely under-qualified.

One of the worst parts of going to BB&N was coming back to school after summer, winter, and spring

breaks when I knew my classmates had devoted all their time to sunbathing in hopes of looking less pale. I

dreaded the moments I would hear, I got so tan over spring break, Im almost as black as you! from girls as

they held their forearms up against my to compare complexions. The first time it happened I thought it was

a joke, but after studying the concentration in her eyes as she gazed back and forth between my deep brown

skin and her barely sun-kissed milky skin, I realized she was completely serious.

Yeah, almost, I would respond back to satisfy them. In just my first year, it became very clear to me

that every conversation one of my white classmates had with me or another black student was monumental

for them at the very least. It was easy to see their pupils dilate as they would walk up to me with their latest
comment. Not only did they make it very apparent that they didnt have many interactions with black

people, they expected each to be somewhat theatrical, like right out of a low budget movie that romanticizes

the hood and provides cultural appropriators with enough material for decades.

They say that birds of a feather flock together, so I guess it makes sense that me and the three other

black girls in my class found ourselves being close friends. After each of us unsuccessfully tried to infiltrate

the impenetrable cliques that were built in middle school, we gave up and settled into a group of misfits.

Every day before school we met in a study room and talked about hair, music, and other aspects of our

culture without having to stop to explain anything.

Today Ms. Makrauer confused Nick for Gerryagain.

Ms. Smith just asked me if my hair was real or not.

All the white girls keep asking Koby to teach them African, but thats not even a language.

We spent our free blocks throughout the day meeting up again to share the latest micro aggression

from our teachers or peers, and our lunch block observing the world our parents convinced us would be

better for us in the long run. We held on to each other like life rafts.

Since the majority of girls at BB&N had long, straight hair, it was almost entertaining to watch them

attempt to figure out my sometimes curly, sometimes braided, sometimes straight hair. Some would just

stare, others would ask a series of questions that just left them more confused, and some would be so bold as

to reach out and touch it like they were petting their puppy. In these instances I had no choice but to laugh it

off and excuse them for not knowing, after-all, the black female community is like Fort Knox when it comes

to keeping our hair care secrets under wraps.

 Our busiest days were Mondays. Not only did we have our usual gossip to discuss, we also had to talk

about the extravagant weekend escapades our classmates went on: skiing trips to Vail, a boys weekend on

the boat sailing around Nantucket, or the nonchalant spa day for one paying girl and 3 of her closest friends.

It was almost impossible for us to not turn green with envy, but we held each other together with our basic

movie nights and sleepovers. We didnt talk about school, our racist classmates and teachers, or even

homework. We just existed like normal high schoolers that did facemasks to keep up with their acne, gushed

over Michael Ealy, and braided our hair at night before falling asleep while listening to Beyoncs latest

album.

My classmates never realized what they were saying, but their words hit me and my friends too hard

too often. At times it seemed like getting out was the only thing that would make things better, but we had to

remind ourselves what was at stake here. BB&N tried to break us, but we didnt. We bent over backwards,

held our heads up high, picked up our pencils, and kept moving.
 Spring 2017
Christien Gholson

Day of the Dead

Sage-smoke weaves around yellow leaves, wraps a bare, black trunk. I hear the continual heat-crack of
hollow stems. You appear out of the smoke, stand there, mute. I want to return to that dim-lit kitchen again,
watch your arthritic hands knead dough, flour-dust across your apron, while you tell your stories. (But this is
not you as I once knew you. This is you as you are now: half-smoke, vague guide, weaving something new).

Years after your death I found some of your notes in the yellowing margins of your copy of Labyrinth of
Solitude. Incomprehensible scrawl, written after you were more than half-blind. I thought: odd, so
uncharacteristic, to be reading that book. What did I know about you? I thought: if I can decipher those
words, I would have the key, some key, some important key. Why were you reading Octavio Paz? I say into
the smoke. (But this is not you as I once knew you. This is you as you are now: half-smoke, half-guide,
weaving something new).

Please tell me a story tonight. I will follow you as you ride the flying elm leaves out in the street, wherever
they lead. When was the last time I heard a true story? We trade bits and pieces from television, movies,
comedy routines. Borrowed words, other lives. (I dont care if its not you, I still want you to thread the world
together so I can emerge as a dry leaf, a burning leaf, the crack from the heated space inside a hollow stem).

Tell me a story about the family, about your childhood, about the origins of the human race. Tell me a story
about this world, how it emerged from the mouth of night, smoking, infernal. Love and fire. Horror and
water. Agony and earth. Beauty and air. Beauty and air and smoke.
Inside the Cave

For years, I would wake in the middle of the night, unable to breathe. Id stare around the room, feel milky,
blind eyes and nicotine-stained fingers reach through the dark, trying to touch me; and mouths, lipless
mouths, baring rotten teeth, whispering a spell ten thousand years old.

Last week, Id had enough. I screamed into the closet, the dark bathroom: No more! No more! My neighbor
beat on his wall Shut the fuck up! and that sent me out into the night, down to the switch tracks behind
the station at the end of the street. I watched the Amtrak and Union Pacific lines pass each other in the fog.

The noise of steel on steel lured me back the next night, and the next, and the night after that, standing ever
closer to the passing trains, trying to see something, to hear something, to feel something that would give me
a clue as to what hunted me.

Last night, I arrived early, before the trains arrived, and made my decision. It was time. I needed an answer. I
stood between the two rail lines and waited. When the first train passed Amtrak the noise was
extravagant, blessedly absorbing my ears, my eyes, my body, my mind. Steel sparks flew by my face, close
enough to kiss.

When the second train passed Union Pacific and I was sandwiched between the screaming walls of steel,
I was so terrified I closed my eyes. My legs trembled, almost gave way. If I had moved forward an inch, or
back an inch, I knew I was dead, scattered into the dark.

When I finally summoned the courage to open my eyes, I saw immense shadows moving across the steel
wall shooting by: Baal, Lamia, Tlaloc, Abyzou, all the vicious and beautiful child-eaters of the night world,
copulating and blending with all of us, a panoply of death and transformation, producing something new.

And I realized I was the torch-bearer, the first inside a new kind of cave. Like the boys whod stumbled into
Lascaux, suddenly witness to dim shapes that had been stalking them for forty thousand years, I was bearing
witness to a steel-shaved flip-book of the future.

And I carefully raised my shaking hands in praise. I raised my hands in praise.

Once There Was Spirit

1.

For a year of Tuesday nights, I took coffee and sandwiches made by Catholic school kids peanut butter and
jelly, baloney and mustard down back alleys, into the subways around center city Philadelphia, hunting for
the homeless.

I worked alongside a group of nuns who ran a shelter for mentally ill homeless women; and, oddly enough, a
Common Pleas Court judge who made her rounds with long, red-lacquered fingernails, heavy mascara,
clacking bracelets, dangly earrings, and the clip-clop of her high heels echoing off dark city walls. I swear she
knew everyone on the street by name.

2.

Around one of the South Broad Street stations near city hall, Id usually run into a six foot, skinny guy, black
plastic bags tied around his feet. He usually had several people in tow (Why they followed him around, I
never found out). His eyes were constantly moving, without focus. Every time he saw me, hed shout: You
know me! You know me! The first time it happened, I went along with it: Sure, I know you! Later that
night, when I surfaced onto Broad Street, I told the Judge about him.

She knew him no surprise there said his name was John, used to be a volunteer, just like me, and had
been badly beaten on one of his rounds near the library. He recovered physically, but something deep inside
him had unraveled, drifted away (her words).

3.

Once there was spirit, inseparable from the body, woven into every cell, spread across each cell wall, the
pancreas, the lungs, all the intricate hand bones, the tongue, the heart. You know me? That mans spirit
had risen, prematurely, up, past the night clouds, past the stars, in a futile search for a safe hiding place.

After a year, I quit. I feared ending up like John: spirit gone. It can happen whether youre lost on the street
or not. Everywhere I go I carry a bag full of change for anyone on the street who asks. Ive seen the people
who hurry past the bodies lying in doorways, and I know their spirits have become untethered, too; fleeing
the earth, desperately following the spirits of those who just asked them for change; up, up, across the stars,
hungry ravenous for a safe place to hide.
In the Foxs Eye

The fox sniffs the base of a few trees, then climbs the bank up onto the rail line. Thin, orange, he trots down
the center of the tracks, between the rails, towards me. Beyond the fox, headlights and red tail lights pass
each other on an overpass. Lights from the houses on either side of the tracks flicker through bare branches.
The fox stops ten yards away, studies me. How long has it been since Ive seen myself through wild black
eyes?

The fox shrugs me off, slips back down to the tree line, decides to forage among house garbage. I descend off
the tracks a few minutes later, lean against a hollowed-out cottonwood. Sirens. A dog calls out. Other dogs
return the call. Dead milkweed pods rattle against each other. How long has it been since I looked at the
world from inside the detail of dead winter weeds?

Two deer cross the tracks. There are so many living inside the city, moving along the tree and weed
corridors, ditches, empty lots. Yet, its always a surprise when I see them. They pause, blow smoke. Someone
throws a bottle against the overpass wall and the deer disappear. A celebration or an argument. Snow begins
to fall. How long has it been since I moved in this dark land between predator and prey?

I wait until the ground is covered with a thin layer of snow before moving out of the shadow of the
cottonwood and ascend back up onto the tracks. An owl glides over me. A quarter mile down the tracks,
under a streetlight at an empty crossing, I find three drops of blood on the new snow. Brilliant red against
white. The red of summer in a grey time. How long has it been since I felt snow on my skin, the cold night
sinking in?

Its almost time for the freight to pass. The owl is out there, sailing over the roof tops, wings pulling
everything beneath it into the silence that guards the borders of death. More sirens, closer now. Somewhere
out there, an eight-year-old girl is dreaming she is an owl. Her feathers are pulled off by invisible fingers, one
by one. She inches down a tree, stands in the moonlit snow, alone, her cold skin glistening. Shell wake with
a lifelong desire to roam railroad tracks in the middle of the night.
Andrew Jackson in the Albuquerque Airport

1.

I heard about the suicide while we were driving across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge into San
Francisco. O had killed himself sitting in a car in the short-term parking lot in the Albuquerque Airport. H
turned to me, incredulous, when she found out I didnt know: It happened a week ago. How did you not
know? He shot himself in the heart.

2.

Someone in the car threw out his dissolving marriage as a possible reason. Ive gone through a divorce and
knew that wasnt it. I kept thinking the same thing: who shoots themselves in the heart? If you want to die,
and die fast, you dont shoot yourself in the heart. What did he think was inside his heart that could only be
silenced with a bullet?

What about his childhood? He spoke about it in half sentences, vague images. I remember one: stale
cigarette smoke in an outhouse, how the smell made him recoil with fear. Did that mean something? Could I
make a coherent narrative out of that?

3.

Did he want to stop the pain crying out from his parents? The parents who had tried to break his heart
because theirs had been broken? Or the pain from grandparents, great grandparents, all broken themselves?
Why didnt his ancestors help? The Choctaw, the Irish

I imagined a white man, encouraged by the common man speeches of Andrew Jackson, standing with a rifle
at the entrance to Os heart, blocking him entrance to a Choctaw cabin inside, claiming it as his own.

4.

So many lights surrounded the dark water of the bay. Their reflections skidded across the surface. But none
could penetrate the depths below, down to the rooms where Gray Whales have hidden their songs about the
beginning and end.
The Crow Tree

1.

The city crows have been using the ash tree in front of my apartment as their roost for the last week and a
half. Theres nothing stranger than a bare tree full of crows. I find it oddly comforting, though, waking up
late at night, and hearing them rustle together, dreaming their crow dreams: pizza scraps and road kill, the
chanting of flies.

Some think that a tree full of crows is a bad sign, a dark omen. The last time I lived near a crow-tree I was
working in a dish room with boys on loan from a school work program and sad women on subsidized half-
wages from a home for the mentally disabled.

2.

Whatever happened to Mike? He stood at the end of the conveyor belt, sorting dishes into stacks. Stocky,
mostly muscle, a thick neck, his dark eyes roamed across the dish room, taking everything and everyone in.
Every once in a while, hed open his mouth, shout out a couple of lines from some pop song, then stare at me
like hed just said something significant. I would grin, clueless, and hed shake his head as if Id failed some
test.

3.

Where is Cedric? The opposite of Mike. Cedric never stopped talking. A tiny, skinny thing with big horn-
rimmed glasses, the lenses so thick they made his eyes look bugged-out in perpetual wonder. He sometimes
pointed out people he claimed he didnt like - the girls who served on line or some cook in the kitchen - say
how he wanted to see them slip on the wet floor, go sailing into the air, land on their asses. Then he would go
into a mad little dance high on the Mountain Dew he drank for breakfast grabbing the hem of his apron,
using it like a swishy skirt, while his knees shot right and left, all the time making this idiotic hooting sound:
Wooooowooooo wooooo, baybaieeee! How could he have not liked them? He didnt know them. They
didnt know him. He didnt know anyone.

4.

And Donna - Colostomy-Bag Donna, Intellectually Disabled Donna - who waddled back to her sorting table
with her load of silverware, always shaking her head, muttering to herself, where is she now? Cedric once
asked her how old she was and she shook her head, perplexed, and said: They wont tell us! What does
that even mean? I said and she shrugged and shook her head, like we both knew that something was
obviously amiss but no one else seemed to be bothered by that fact so let it go, let it go.
5.

We were the not-quites: not-quite right in the head, speech not-quite coherent, not-quite ready for life with
normal people, not-quite living up to our full potential. Not-quite human. As if we were changelings, without
human souls, fresh-formed from logs, or from algae floating on the surface of a still pond, and no one
wanted to get too close, thinking maybe wed change back at any moment; children of dark shadow-magic.

6.

The crows in the tree arent like human beings, endlessly looking for their souls, because they find bits and
pieces of ours in the trash they eat every day: chicken legs and cupcake icing, Fritos and a ketchup-soaked
hamburger bun, a plastic fork covered in chocolate pudding.

Every day, I watched Cedric scrape all the excess food off the plates, into a trash can, then spray the plates
down, his glasses fogging with steam. Bits and pieces. If only wed known what the crows have always
known. Why hunt for our own souls in that dish room when there was so much excess of it passing by, right
in front of us. Woowoo bayiiibeeeeee!

7.

This morning, near dawn, just as the crows were beginning to take off and spread across the city, I left some
bread at the foot of the ash tree.
 Spring 2017
Daniel Altenburg

Apollo Mission

Esm, give me the bodies, and youll get a landscape.

The cockpit at dusk. The interior
of a mouth, anothers,
that gallops in a tongue
to break one in.
A porch light through the horizon
golds-up.

Dont worry: Tomorrow,

youll be a girl and Ill be a rabbit.
Tomorrow, youll be a girl
and my wrist will still crane a snifter.
Youll be the girl tomorrow
out searching every hole in the oak
through the feather grass and cicadas, saying,
I told you Id be back.

But Im now approaching lunar sunrise,

marching my mouth along its ridges
and eating her over-ripe nectarine.
Serene, I can no longer pull myself from this hat;
the flag doesnt flutter from wind
and theres proof. That Frank hadnt photo-imposed
crosshairs on you.
You say, But you havent a star
in the photo. Honey,
adjust your shutter speed.
Theyre there. There, there. There
Clap for my disappearing man act. I applauded
your flight.

Through the static, Esm, Yes,

I live you too.

God bless all of you. All of you on the good Earth.

And I will end with a reading from Genesis.

Genesis Rock

I am the man picking up the teenage daughters

and murdering them by roadside.
I am the man disarmed
by the boys youve chosen over me.
Esm, Ive now read myself into this club song, cabin song;
theres the 60s sampling!
Im sorry. I know you were asking of our NASAed planets.
But if youd just help peel this flight suit.
But weve only just reached the moon.
But SOS is so unnecessary.
But our recovery missions are nowhere near as epileptic.
But The most successful manned flight ever achieved.
Impressive. But
say this through the breathing tube of an upturned glass.
Esm, quit wriggling. I just want one selfish choke.
When I say, Esm, die, I mean
lets celebrate you like a severed teenage girl.
The ss sucked up in a smile like, yes,
something has been spilled.
Grin pretty your glimmer.
But restrict the air
to enrich the fuel-air mixture.
This engine has lasted for years.
But shaky. I choke my dick three times daily
and tell you.
Feel the dead technology.
Hear the bass bump superseding heartbeat.
Patrons cough on the exhaust and plug their ears
but not their other orifices.
But you wad your florals like Im skipping through a forest.
I am the man pressing your best dress against spilt liquids.
I man my craft just fine, pull out in time,
and plenty of oxygen to kill off millions.
But I sell off my moon souvenirs to put my kids through college;
sustained the pride of our Anorthosite
(despite its faulty lineage).
I grin my pride into the girls at night,
hammered in the backroom.
But proved Galileo with a feathering towards vestige.
But planted our Fallen Astronaut
plaque and statue.
Aggrandized victim: these are not the men weve lost.
Eight American. Six are Cosmonauts
with two left off.
Just as equal, these are different.
My children hate your children.
Well have it out in Hadley Rille.
Satellite 11

Havent touched your veggies yet,

my sweet.
All things healthy reduced to their sex:
The Barramundi swim up your dress.
The Enceladians about your waist then neck.
And its all sounding so good in blueprint.

In this transmission, you stop driving at whats killing you.

The gin down the drain, and drain
not a euphemism.
Pipe not the sly.
The meat fats a drip
in the pan
unclean
and trashed.

You remark about your early morning beach run.

The shaved coconut.
The names that remind
how well one can do as a non-malcontent. Your word,
sweetness, at least
for now.

Inside this transmission, your oils run clean,

the earth, pure.
Your god
as something a part of you.

And the phrases vaguely aware of their correlates: apart from,

trashed before, shaved.

The beach runners note your eyes above the dusked up earth.
Everything reduced to its sex, the sperm
that leaks in
and leaks out,
as these are separate instances.
Such actions, however, arent a part of this transmission.
Every Apollo makes it,
takes you to dinner, the salads,
the one glass of wine, the taste
of dessert, the peck at your door. Names
that retain
and retain, despite the weather.

Pajama bottoms on,

the Enceladians to cuddle up to.
Their care, like parents,
build you a planet
only needing one Apollo.
And when they slip from your bed,
almost out the door, in dark, you beg
to hear of your god again.
In breath: If I recall, yes
is good and strong
like gin
Tarmac & Snow

The wet stamped shower rug.

The clutch of mango laundered into your towel.
Your morning coffee; drying fog.

Esm, Im trying to catch our history under glass. Im sorry,

it left us
like the dust off a blade.

The prop spins clockwise. Your sweet face.

Youve got pretty eyes.

I let go, the sound of birds.

No, I let the turbines
go churning their brothers along.

The resin stripe pulled up.

The blackened lost crowns of tread.
The teeth, the drinks swelter to cologne.

How can one describe curvaceousness

without first exploring how fats stored,
the peopled ground?

Esm, you can follow. You can follow

if you want.
Satellite 19

You light the rocket on the top, string the fuse clockwise down the mountain, and wait for hours. For night.
As the rocket will know when to fly. Wearing something magnanimous and yellow, youre off to another
sovereign moon, and tell me its called a sundress.

In this last transmission, you decide which crew members are expendable. You have offed the ironic,
terrified navigator; sent the sergeant out the airlock to conserve oxygen. Turned to him, just once, as he went
airless. These acts, of course, are as dramatic as a plug of light. Im tired of asking you to keep your hands to
yourself, you said. You said, Ill turn this ship around. Thats what I liked best.

But, you ask a window, what of my Apollo? The SoCo and gin pulls from a medicine bottle, not as
mockery but as a reminder that he is sick. Dying. Dead and aborted out the cargo hatch.

It would be fitting for this transmission to allow his name, just once, without your cutting out. But Saturns
far side, and youre still stuck knowing me, our exchange via oxygen mask.

In this last transmission, youve grown up. You can reach the throttle now; can understand if one Apollo
goes, all capsules follow. So you think hard of how to create a new capsule of man, note a womans mouth
and mans are separate entities until pressed, bled. So thats just what you plan, and dress the capsule in
intricate clothing with simple speech, as he will be a proper brainchild.

While he gestates, you find another window with your mouth and expel hot fog onto it. Draw a heart shape
and initials. You ask the jet engines what they know of love and how much thrust theyve got left. They dont
answer, but your drink mouth radiates like its nuclear. And sweet progeny, there arent precipices in this
space, just winglets and girdles and yes, another drink, thanks.

In time, the capsule births an Apollo. And you call him that to clear your head, only once considering some
last name like beta-test. At first speech, his eyes entertain so much you neglect to correct your capsules
pronunciations, intonations, Nu-clear, and, at best, he sounds like an idling machine. But the man is kind,
built, and oh god, handsome.

You return to the window and wonder if youre like me, out conflating love and live with your fresh-pucker,
seeking something less common, less vulgar. You consider your now family, the capsule of perfect you
intend to birth something with. There are planned children in your future. Nuclear family, you chuckle.
You have made it. But you pronounce it nu-CU-lar when you mouth it.

Upon landing, you say, Theres just something about the southern sky, something old. And
your Apollo walks you off into the Saturnian sunset. In his mountain of arms, he asks if he may bed you, is
genteel and ever-alluring like, yes, nuclear fusion.
But you roll your eyes like landed tires, already channeling a common tongue. Already corrected your own
voice. Simple fuck, you say, Its nu-CLEAR. And doesnt it feel good to be right? Rather correct?
Ether

We are swimming in a lake on Enceladus, but the whole planets a lake. Ocean,
rather, is under ice, but weve found ice caves. And no, Esm, we still have our
clothes on in this dark cold water. But god, the ice is thinnest towards the
southern roof, and I can just see the sweat off your eyelid, the light opaquing off
Titan.

The Enceladians see you with your body shaking within the water. Theyve
seen you light years out. They love you like the child they cannot have: our bias
wet on their foreheads like a loosening kiss. But they love you, and will only ask
to see your parts if you are so willing.

I have finally wrestled your top from you, and now you in chilling light. The
word erect does not come to mind, the scarps turning dark in the ever-winter.
And I do not care, and you do not care, splashing the child in me like a child, a
child who has just learned how breasts function, and is rude.

You take off your clothes and show the Enceladians just everything. This is not
sexual. You lay back against the rock formation that reclines comfortably, your
feet even atop a wide ottoman, and let them open you up. Again, this is not
sexual. You are the god in the lack of light, the hum of an overhead projector,
explaining the crevices, the tubes, the ducts, the folds, the things that go
unnamed in the dark. But the Enceladians, ever-curious, crane a naked bulb
like a sun, washing you out with all their vitreous bodies, and blinks.

Esm, Id been floating on my back in the dark lake, squinting my eyes to make
out the stars through the ice, the scrambled channels. And when I imagined
Pleiades you were no longer treading. Youve splashed out. Youre at the shaved
ice beach, bringing a towel to your chest like a child. In the most recent
transmissions, you look back at me.
*

In this transmission, I spell girl with a u. I spill a girls history onto you, and, in
this transmission, the radio goes warm with handling. But the Enceladians have
figured it out: birth out of sex and the whatnots of courtship, a pickup line,
lingered stare, your rufied drink. Willingness aside, in this transmission, youre
willing. They glance your whatnots as study, pointing at, as if at glass, your
uterus, fallopian tubes, labia, and all the ovum, even your clitoris; the pleasure
in this; the vulgar in the body. You confess your history, favorite drink,
mothers maiden name, that you are a girl, written with an i. Unaware of its
meaning, they appreciate this distinction, and you think: I really have yet to
confess anything.

Esm, I know you dont think space crafts as ships, but I have heard the sirens
within the cave. Even on my back with my ears dipped, their voices reverberate
like two pelvis bones striking. I know you think this is a story, but in this
transmission, all the pain and tears and sex are real. Even the liquids. Esm, Im
sorry, but I came in the lake, and now all the sirens are pregnant.

You thank the Enceladians graciously for their gentle hands, but not in a way
any womans ever thanked before, because on Enceladus they dont have sex;
they gawk at the redundancy of the cumshot, the incessant hair-pulling, bodies
rolled into brick or your mothers fresh wallpaper, how glue works between
fingers, even strobed club walls coloring as easily as ice. You thank the
Enceladians for their curiosity of the body, of the body that makes, of the
difference between sex and fucking, because the Enceladians have never buried
anything before, besides their dead, and so you cave when they ask you to lie
back, once more, this wont even pinch.

Esm, in this transmission, Ive conflated the ands with buts. The sirens are
actually nymphs with darling voices. They are not pregnant; they wail that
theyre from Venus, and take pills that kill semen. Esm, this is good, but every
time I dive underneath and a star shines up a gurls body, I cannot help but
think the loss of children. It must be something in the water, something slowly
melting by the mounting heat of a star. And these nymphs now look like sisters,
the seven of Pleiades. Yes, even the faint one.
*

You think about the Enceladians dying out like how gods die out. You mouth a
most recent pickup line about heaven, but only the did it hurt part, and some
Enceladians hum over your open mouth like a florescent, some by your legs,
open as well, the projectors fan on. They say, be calm, and you mouth, be calm,
but this is all coming out like a damn pickup line. And when you close your
eyes, you feel the familiar push you equate to pulling on a t-shirt, but youve
been topless from the get go. And you moan this concern nebulous. And this is
everything swirled, and loved, and abandoned, and and, and and, and and.

Esm, I hold my breath like a small child. I carry the water about my body. I try
not to present myself as distended when speaking to the nymphs, who, in this
transmission, tell me they are sisters, each glowing like a rave tube under water.
Esm, Im sorry, I mean the flares that stay lit when wet, the stars that light, for
years, even after death. Whats it I fear, Esm? I fear my shotless mouth. I float
like a radio in water before the water finds its casing. This is not the case this
time. Im sorry, this time it is sexual.

The Enceladians introduce you to the being who was just inside you, the
darkening shadow, who looks like me and feels like me, has my salivas
flavoring, but isnt. He kisses your forehead because thats what is expected.
And sweaty Esm, your green eyes dilate, heave, your nose itches with residual
swells in skin pigmentation. The world so cutaneous, he kisses you again. And
youre still, lying, hair at a static cling, still quiet like a blueprint, your daily
phone alarm going off, and you, another orthotricyclen, another way out.

Esm, the sistersve named me nacreous darling after my jawline, or semen, or

rocket or soul, all in the depleting cave light, but I just cant seem to distinguish
their tongues. I kiss ones forehead because Im a nice guy, my finger still in her
vagina. But they ask me not to term it that. Perhaps cunt. Perhaps just inside her,
and wink. But this sister, the faint one, faints and sinks her abandoned hull to
the bottom, and her sisters shriek to tell me its because of my fingers: their
work on the upturned rocks, on scarps, the faces touched with makeup, some
mustard under nail, on a bus handrails, your fathers auger, your pet dogs
dander, the seatback headrest in the rocket, on the rocket, Nacreous Darling,
pushing my worlds names into her.

The experiment a failure. The Enceladiansve confused organism with orgasm,

and your 5th grade heart snickers. But you forgive them, kissing one on the
forehead like a sister, as this is their first attempt at breeding pleasure out of
sex. And youre off like a joke. You gather your things and catch the next
shuttle to Earth, leaving a note that would explain the nature of fertility if their
tears didnt freeze, werent so cumbersome, if sterility and fertility didnt rhyme
in this transmission.

Esm, the sisters ask me if Ive ever seen vitreous bodies like theirs before, but I
know the joke and stare each in the iris. One gurl doesnt look back, but mourns
the loss of her sister. One clears her throat and hums like a false moon. Four
others join in in chorus, and the cave begins to shake. The ice coming down like
decompression sickness. The last one, though, blinks twice, explains that
though her sisters gone, she still wont use condoms, as the pleasure of being a
woman is risk. I dont either, I explain. But Esm, in this transmission, I leave
out the i, even pronounce it ether. The one, such a darling, replies: When you are
ready to blame your parents, just Just fucking dont.
 Spring 2017
Simon Perchik

*
Finished -no new graves
though yesterday you counted boats
side by side, adrift

breaking apart under the rocks

done! here you are
adding rafts to the way

each sea long ago learned

how deep inside the storm
there must be a very big number

a half-finished arithmetic
where you cant carry over by one
the hand so close to the other

pulling on weeds
so you can include your fingers
take hold as if these dead

would never let go

and their great weight, their place
waiting in line.
*
Before she got the chance! this canvas
fitted to a wooden frame though her hair
is hid by fragrant oils and waves, the comb

not yet bone -its enough

a damp brush will shape it
over and over the way every mask

has the scent you expect from graves

the artist tried, wiped her forehead
with a shadow that is not dirt

lets her disappear unfinished

and the drought already winter
clings to this wall and lower.
*
This rock no longer tries
though you give each grave
the tool it needs

does it matter
you havent looked here in years
you bring the dead

and your forehead each day

closer to the ground
easy to grab, hold close

let it harden, already

scraped for the powder
that cures, can stop the breathing.
*
This cup grows nothing
and though you add more water
it boils away, half

tighter and tighter, half

wants you to get some sleep
has become your darling

found a home for your lips

used to fever, smoke
and the slow climbing turn

that stays moist

waits for the rim to cling
left open and shaking.
*
Empty and the sand
follows you along Broadway
as if some dampness

was left for shoreline

moves the IRT up
then down the way clammers

use their feet to rake

you walk on tracks
careful not to miss

while the train underneath

breaks open its doors
all at once -no, you dont jump

nothing like that

these shells are the same
the mad feel for

though their sweat takes the place

water grieves into
and their mouths are the same

let you yell down

and not a mark inside your body
to call you by.
 Spring 2017
Joseph Veronneau

Sunken Song

Snake bites in the field

a sharp trance overcomes-

fondling jagged holes,

he sees the porch

as a dock, awaiting sail.

Bayou Deposit

Twilight grass reflects

a mailbox's remorse,
untouched, dust-ridden
county vehicles on the prowl.

A paperboy tosses a story large

enough to feed the looming raccoon.
Spirochete

Silence protects nausea,

roaming
static untraceable.

Five heartbeats pass,

a malnourished season remembers-

titer levels fall with the tide.

Agoraphobia

Dream
as an alibi,
sins
as life lived
a hail like hellfire
bounces and shimmers.
No engagements this afternoon,
an outsized mind can't fit
inside the undersized room.

Ornament

In the yard,
glanced and registered
across a neighbor's
lowest degree of thought,
a doll's flickering eye
like a movie projector
of the mind.
 Spring 2017
Acta Biographia Author Biographies

Abby Minor

Abby Minor writes, teaches, and drives a vegetable delivery truck in rural central Pennsylvania, in the same
county in which she was raised. Her poems, lyric essays, and essay reviews appear in CutBank, So to Speak,
The Fourth River, Calyx Journal, and others. An alumna of The Rensing Centers Artist-in-Residence Program,
author of the poetry chapbook Plant Light, Dress Light (dancing girl press), and a graduate of Smith College
and Penn State, she directs creative writing programs that raise up under-heard voices in her region.

Alpine Copntale

Alpine Copntale is an ichthyologist during the day, poet and philatelist in the evening. Alpines work can be
seen in underground indie journals such as: Six Months Ago, Two Silk Ties, Hidden Gin Bottles, and Poets Ink
Pens. Her forthcoming book, Butterflies Painting Butterflies will be released in 2018.

ana cancela

Ana Cancela. 36. Born in Vila do Conde, Portugal. From an early age, and motivated by her parents, she
always had interest in travelling. Asia is her true passion and from Japan she has brought the wish to open
the first Japanese shop in Portugal exclusively dedicated to the country of the Rising Sun Kuri Kuri Shop.
She likes shoegaze, shooting concerts, and writing about them. She also enjoys reading and permanently
rediscovering literature.

ABOUT THE WORK: Since the first time I read Bartleby, The Scrivener, by Melville, I was both puzzled and
fascinated by the constraints the scrivener imposes on himself. So, during a course on experimental writing
at the Faculty of Letters of the University of Porto (a session dedicated to Oulipo), I employed a formal
constraint to the short story. I applied the Fibonacci Spiral to every single page of the book and erased all the
words falling outside the spiral, as to make a series of erasure poems. Every page is presented in 2 versions:
text + Fibonacci Spiral and an erased version.
Andr Spears

Andr Spears is the director of the Maud / Olson Library, a co-founder of the Gloucester Writers Center, and
a co-editor at Dispatches from the Poetry Wars. His works include Xo: A Tale for the New Atlantis (1983); and,
from work in progress, Letters from Mu (Part I) (2000), translated into French, with an Addendum, under the
title En Terre Perdue (2013); Fragments from Mu: A sequel (2007); and Nexus of Evil: Fragments 1-7 (2009).

Becca Lundberg

Becca Lundberg is a media professional currently residing in Washington, D.C., where she moonlights as a
standup comic. She earned a Master of Arts in journalism and public affairs from American University in
2015. "Just Delaney" is her first short story.

Billy Cancel

B Billy Cancel has appeared in Pouch, Boston Review & Skidrow Penthouse. His latest body of work
PSYCHO'CLOCK is out on Hidden House Press. His collection MOCK TROUGH RASPING CROW is to be
published by BlazeVox. Billy Cancel is 1/2 of the noise duo Tidal Channel. Aberrations at
www.billycancelpoetry.com

bruno neiva

Caitlin Conroy

Caitlin Conroy has had an interest in both astronomy and writing from a young age, both of which were
started and encouraged by her mother. While a poor understanding of mathematics put a swift end to her
career as an astronomist, Caitlins love for writing led her to attend University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. At
UW-Whitewater, she studied creative writing, taking special interest in queer womens literature in both her
assignments and undergraduate research project. She graduated in 2015 with a B.A. in English and minor in
Womens Studies. Today, at age 24, Caitlin continues to write and spread interest in queer womens works.

Colin Campbell Robinson

Colin Campbell Robinson is an Australian artist living and working on the Isle
of Bute, Scotland. Recent work of his has been published by Shearsman,
Molly Bloom, Indefinite Space and Empty Mirror. His book, Blue Solitude,
is a forthcoming publication from Knives Forks and Spoons Press.
Charlie Hill

Charlie Hill is a novelist, freelance writer, and dog walker from London. His work has been published in
Letters to Ourselves, Fever, the Z poetry anthology, and The London Spoken Word Anthology. He is
currently editing his first novel.

Christopher Ozog

Christopher Ozog is a Youtube Horror Narrator and poet from Ann Arbor, Michigan. His poetry has
previously appeared in Crack the Spine's 2015 anthology , Blazevox, Burningword, Commonline journal, and
hello horror. For more information about his youtube channel, please search phantomofdarkness on
Youtube.

Christien Gholson

Christien Gholson is the author of two books of poetry, All the Beautiful Dead (Bitter Oleander Press, 2016) and On
the Side of the Crow (Hanging Loose Press, 2006; re-published in the UK by Parthian Books, 2011); and a novel, A
Fish Trapped Inside the Wind (Parthian, 2011). A chapbook of the long poem, Tidal Flats, was recently published online
at Mudlark: http://www.unf.edu/mudlark/mudlark63/gholson.html. He blogs at:
http://christiengholson.blogspot.com/

Claudine Nash

Claudine Nash is an award-winning poet whose collections include her full length books The Wild Essential
(Aldrich Press, forthcoming) and Parts per Trillion (Aldrich Press, 2016) as well as her chapbook The
Problem with Loving Ghosts (Finishing Line Press, 2014). She also co-edited the collection In So Many
Words: A Collection of Interviews and Poetry from Todays Poets (Madness Muse Press, 2016). Her poetry
has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a wide range of publications including
Asimovs Science Fiction, Cloudbank, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Foliate Oak and Dime Store Review
amongst others. She is also a practicing psychologist. www.claudinenashpoetry.com.

Clive Gresswell

Clive Gresswell is an innovative poet working out of Luton in Bedfordshire, UK. Last year he obtained a
Masters in Newspaper Language in Innovative Poetry and is a regular reader at Writers Forum (New Series)
based in London. A collection 'Jargon Busters' is due to be published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press
shortly.
Craig Fishbane

Craig Fishbane is another one of those writers who lives in Brooklyn. His short fiction collection, On the
Proper Role of Desire, was published by Big Table Publishing. You can find his work in the New York Quarterly,
Gravel, The Manhattanville Review, New World Writing, Drunken Boat and The Nervous Breakdown. His next
book will either be a novel or a collection of scandalous essays, depending on which he finishes first.

Daginne Aignend

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music,
photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals.
Daginne started to write English poetry five years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page
and on her fun project website www.daginne.com <http://www.daginne.com> , she's also the co-editor of
Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine
She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi),
'Where Are You From?' and in the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dandelion in a Vase of Roses'.

Daniel Altenburg

Daniel Altenburg holds a BS in English from the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire (2009), as well as an
MFA in poetry from the University of Arizona (2011). He is currently pursuing his PhD in creative writing at
the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where he teaches English and works as an assistant poetry editor for
Rougarou. Daniel is interested in space, life, and the vulgarities of colloquial and gendered language. His
work has most recently appeared in Spork Press, Caffeine Dirge, The Offending Adam, Deluge, and
Yalobusha Review (forthcoming), and can be found at his website: www.lettersofwreck.com.

Daniel Y. Harris

Daniel Y. Harris is the author of 11 collections of poetry and collaborative writing including The Rapture of
Eddy Daemon (BlazeVOX, 2016), heshe egregore (with Irene Koronas, ditions du Cygne, 2016), The Underworld
of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015), Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons
Press, 2014) and Hyperlinks of Anxiety (erven Barva Press, 2013) Some of his poetry, experimental writing,
art, and essays have been published in BlazeVOX, The Caf Irreal, Denver Quarterly, Eratio, European Judaism,
Exquisite Corpse, Kerem, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine,
Poetry Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Stride, Ygdrasil and Zeek. He is Editor-in-Chief and Co-Founder of X-
Peri.
Diarra English

Diarra English is currently a third year student at Loyola University New Orleans where she studies English
Writing and Sociology. She resides in Cambridge, MA where she enjoys spending time with her family and
friends.

Dilip Mohapatra

Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran started writing poems since the seventies . His poems
have appeared in many literary journals of repute and anthologies in the English speaking world. Some of
his poems appeared in the World Poetry Yearbook, 2013 and 2014 Editions. He has five poetry collections to
his credit, A Pinch of Sun & other poems, Different Shades, 'Another Look' and Flow Infinite and
Taming the Tides, all published by Authorspress India. His non-fiction book titled P2P nee Points to Ponder
is a departure from his poetic passion and is a collection of his musings on various managerial, social and life
issues. He holds two masters degrees, in Physics and in Management Studies. He lives with his wife in Pune.
His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com <http://dilipmohapatra.com> .

Doug Bolling

Doug Bolling's poems have appeared in Posit, Niche, The Missing Slate (with interview). The Deronda
Review, Folia, and Indefinite Space among others. He has received several Pushcart and Best of the Net
nominations and is working on a collection. He has MA and PhD degrees from Iowa and has taught in
colleges in the Midwest and Kentucky.

Ed McFadden

Ed McFaddens poetry, translations, and reviews have appeared in Gulf Coast, RHINO, Kyoto Journal, The Rumpus,
Open Letters Monthly, and Cerise Press. He currently lives in Rhode Island with his wife, her bees, and two small boys.

Elga Logue

Elga Logue is a Chartered Librarian and past graduate of Queen's University Belfast, graduating with a
Bachelor of Library and Information Studies Degree with commendation in English BLS MCLIP. She has
professional experience as a Staff Development and Training Manager, People and Development Specialist,
Senior Schools' Librarian, Branch Library Manager, Inter-Library Loans Librarian and School Librarian, to
mention but a few areas of her expertise. She lives in Eglinton, County Derry, Northern Ireland.
Elika Ansari

Elika Ansari is a humanitarian and activist who hopes to one day make a difference in the world, however
small. She loves writing anything from articles to childrens fiction, and she does not shy away from the
occasional rants about societys downfalls. Sometimes when things gets too overwhelming, she is likely to
retreat into the safe online haven of cute panda and turtle videos until her strength to face the the rest of the
world again is replenished. Question she dreads the most but gets all the time: Where are you from? To see
more of her writing, check out her website: http://www.elikaansari.com/

Emilia Rodriguez

Emilia Rodriguez is a native Texan and was raised in the Mexico-bordering city of Roma, Texas. She is a
graduate of Texas State University where she earned an MFA in Fiction and served as the blog editor for
Front Porch Journal. Her writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Cleaver,
Hypertrophic Literary, and Eureka Literary Magazine.

Daniel Ross Goodman

Daniel Ross Goodman, a writer, rabbi, and Ph.D. candidate at the Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS) of
America in New York, is studying English & Comparative Literature at Columbia University. A contributor
to the Books & Arts section of The Weekly Standard, he has published in numerous academic and popular
journals, magazines, and newspapers, including The Wall Street Journal, Tablet, Haaretz, and Harvard Divinity
School Bulletin. His first-published work of fiction, a short story (The End of Days, Bewildering Stories, 2015),
won two awards (the Spitzer Prize and the Mariner Award), and his second short story (Prlude l'aprs-midi
d'un rhinoplastie: or, When the Rabbi Went for a Nose Job) was published in the Fall 2016 issue of aaduna.

Georgy Cohen

Georgy Cohen lives in Somerville, Mass., with her husband, daughter, and two cats. In 2005, her poem "Old
Woman in a Housecoat" was included in U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser's American Life in Poetry project.

Greg Baysans

Greg Baysans co-founded The James White Review in 1983 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and was awarded a
Lambda Literary Award for Publishers Service in 1991 for his work with that publication. In 1995 he
relocated to Portland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Coe Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Twin Cities
Pioneer Press, The Gay & Lesbian Review, Oyez Review, Gival Press anthologies Poetic Voices Without Borders (1
and 2), and elsewhere. After a thirty-five-year absence, he returned to the stage, appearing in a production of
Steve Martin's "Picasso at the Lapin Agile" in 2014. Forthcoming this summer two illustrated chapbooks, one
called "The Spermbot Blues" published by OpPRESS, and tentatively in autumn "The Headpoke" by Alien
Buddha Press.

hiromi suzuki

hiromi suzuki is an illustrator, poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. A contributor to the Japanese poetry
magazine "gui" (run by members of the Japanese "VOU" group of poets, founded by the late Kitasono Katue).
Author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013 ISBN978-4-901850-42-1). Her works
are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Experiment-O, M58, DATABLEED,
Black Market Re-View, Burning House Press, h&, BRAVE NEW WORD magazine, DODGING THE RAIN,
Jazz Cigarette, TAPE HISS zine and NationalPoetryMonth.ca 2015 / 2017 amongst other places.
web site: http://hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com/

James Sherry

James Sherry is the author of 13 books of poetry and prose most recently Entangled Bank, environmental
poetry from Chax Press and, forthcoming from Palgrave, The Oligarch, rewriting Machiavellis The Prince for
our times. He is the editor of Roof Books and started the Segue Foundation in 1977 in NYC.

Joseph Veronneau

Joseph Veronneau holds a BA in Psychology. His works have appeared in experimental publications such as
Lost and Found Times, Otoliths, Offerta Speciale (Italy), Counter Example Poetics, BlazeVOX, Ditch, and
others. His chapbooks include More Than Promised (Pudding House Press), Within The Grand Scheme
(Alternating Current Press) and Ill-fated Solutions (Alternating Current Press). He Resides in Burlington,
Vermont.

Joshua King

Josh King is a British writer and graduate from Adelphi University's MFA program in New York. He writes
articles for Newfound Journal in Texas and when he isn't writing fiction he is making comics.
Karl Miller

Karl Miller's fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous periodicals, including RE:AL, Portland Review,
Subtle Tea, Cold Mountain Review, and others; his play, A Night in Ruins, was produced Off Off Broadway
in 2013. A 2016 Best of the Net nominee, he lives in Coral Springs, FL.

Kate Noble

Kate Noble's professional life has been spent in the UK world of social inclusion and disability advocacy;
developing community and education projects and supporting individuals. She has particular interests in
issues of social justice, womens issues and mental health and well- being. She is 51 years of age, lives north
of Lancaster, England, and is a keen amateur classical singer and gardener

Kate Koenig

Kate Koenig is a writer and photographer studying History, English, Childrens Literature and German at
the University of Pittsburgh. Her writing has previously been published in The Original Magazine and
NewPeople Newspaper and her photography has been published in NewPeople Newspaper, Hot Metal
Bridge Magazine, Three Rivers Review, and Gulf Stream Magazine. If Kate won the lottery, she would
probably adopt thirty dogs and spend the rest of her days writing, napping, and photographing the world
around her. Her photography website is http://www.katekoenigphotography.com

Kevin Ryan

Lana Bella

A three-time Pushcart Prize & Bettering American Poetry nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three
chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear
Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 380
journals, 2River, Acentos Review, California Quarterly, Comstock Review, Expound, Grey Sparrow, Ilanot
Review, Notre Dame Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, Waccamaw, Word/For
Word, among others, and work to appear in Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3. Lana resides in the US and
the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.
https://www.facebook.com/Lana-Bella-789916711141831/ <https://www.facebook.com/Lana-Bella-
789916711141831/>
Lawrence Upton

Poet; graphic artist; sound artist: curator. Memory Fictions (2012) -- Argotist, UK; Pictures, Cartoon
Strips (2010) -- Sound & Language, USA; a song and a film (2009) -- Veer Publications, UK; Wire Sculptures,
(2003) Reality Street Editions, UK; Commentaries on Bob Cobbing (2013) Argotist.
Co-edited Word Score Utterance Choreography with Bob Cobbing (1998) Writers Forum, UK.
Curated Some variations on a theme of Bob (Space Studios, London) and Bob Cobbing and the book
(UWE Fine Print, Bristol both 2011. Singing Marram (for solo viola, CD, 2013 Subverten played by Benedict
Taylor); Dark Voices (CD, Cram 2013 with Benedict Taylor).
Solo exhibitions 2012 from recent projects (St James Hatcham, London) & 1981 Deteriorating texts
(LYC, UK) . Many exhibitions with Guy Begbie, UK & USA.
lawrenceupton.org

Lisa Clark

Lisa Clark's work has appeared in various publications including The Alligator, The Gnu, Scarlet Leaf
Review, Strange Fictions, and Best Modern Voices, v 2. She's winner of the Glass Woman Prize for fiction
and the Mia Pia Forte Prize for creative non-fiction. Bulgaria has been her home for over eighteen years. She
is currently working on a YA novel about AI sentiency. Her only modifications are pierced ears. She couldn't
make it through the YouTube video that showed how to bifurcate a tongue.

Leigh Ann Cowan

Leigh Ann Cowan is currently a starving college student, struggling to survive the harsh elements of the
English Department and toiling under a workload of epic proportion. Sometimes she sleeps. She enjoys
writing both poetry and prose in a variety of styles and genres, and has published an Arthurian epic poem in
18th Walls After Avalon.

M. Kaat Toy

M. Kaat Toy (Katherine Toy Miller) has published a prose poem chapbook, In a Cosmic Egg (2012), at
Finishing Line Press, a flash fiction book, Disturbed Sleep (2013), at FutureCycle Press, novel selections, short
stories, flash fiction, prose poetry, creative nonfiction, journalism, and scholarly work. She has taught college
English in twelve states. Taos, New Mexico, is her permanent residence.

Marc Carver
Mark Young

Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for almost
sixty years. He is the author of forty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo,
& art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of
languages. His most recent books are Mineral Terpsichore & Ley Lines, both from gradient books of Finland, &
The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago. A new collection, some more strange meteorites, came
out from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York, in early 2017.

Meg Kelting

Michael Gregory

Michael Gregory has published several books and chapbooks of poetry, including The Valley Floor, Hunger
Weather 1959-1975, re: Play and, most recently, Mr America Drives His Car (Post-Soviet Depression Press, 2013).
His Pound Laundry (from which the pieces in BlazeVOX are drawn), an extended book of verse based on the
life and work of Ezra Pound, is forthcoming from Post-Soviet Depression Press (postsovietdepression.com).
For many years an internationally-recognized environmental activist, since 1971 he has lived off-grid in the
yucca-mesquite grassland of the Sulphur Springs Valley ten miles north of the US-Mexico border.

Olivia Grayson

Olivia Grayson creates prose and poetry that combine pop culture with autobiography, and recently learned
she suffers from migrainous infarction, AKA Alice in Wonderland syndrome; a neurological visual
distortion presenting as prolonged optical auras.

Her work has been published in such journals as (the most excellent) BlazeVOX, as well as Bombay Gin, 4th
and Sycamore, Talking Book, Requited Journal, Fog Machine, Grief Diaries, and others. She teaches and
writes in Brooklyn NY.

Paul Brookes

Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with
"Rats for Love", his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. First chapbook was
"The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. Read his work on BBC Radio Bristol,
had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in
Blazevox, Nixes Mate, Live Nude Poems, The Bezine, The Bees Are Dead and others.

Forthcoming this summer two illustrated chapbooks, one called "The Spermbot Blues" published by
OpPRESS, and tentatively in autumn "The Headpoke" by Alien Buddha Press.

Paul White

Paul White works as a Registered Nurse in Buffalo, New York, where he takes care of critically ill children.
He began writing over thirty years ago, as part of a survival strategy, after being diagnosed a paranoid
schizophrenic at age seventeen. in 2011 a chapbook of his poems entitled, "The Difficult Gift", was published
by Jeanne Duval Editions. He was also a winner of the New York State Poetry Unites Contest. His winning
essay and a short film about him is posted at the website Poets.org. His work has been published in The
Chattahoochee Review, The Cortland Review, terminus Magazine, and The Buffalo News.

Petar Lozanov

Petar Lozanov 33 years old Bulgarian poet and abstract artist living in Ireland. Still trying to change the
world.....

PT Davidson

PT Davidson is originally from New Zealand, although he has spent the past 26 years living abroad in Japan,
the UK, Turkey and the UAE. He currently lives in Dubai. His poetry has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVOX,
streetcake, After the Pause, Sein und Werden, Futures Trading, Snorkel, Clockwise Cat, Tip of the
Knife, foam:e and Your One Phone Call. His first book of poetry, seven, is due out soon.

Rebecca Melson

Rebecca Melson is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico. She currently lives in Virginia with her four
children, and is on a mission to produce writing that will work to unite a divided nation. She recently
graduated from the University of Mary Washington with a BLS in Creative writing, concentrating in
Journalism. Currently, she is starting her own dance production, where the art of story-telling through dance
will be taught. Though she often second-guesses herself, she is quite honored to be published with
BlazeVOX.
Robert Wexelblatt

Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston Universitys College of General Studies. He has
published the story collections, Life in the Temperate Zone, The Decline of Our Neighborhood, The Artist
Wears Rough Clothing, and Heibergs Twitch; a book of essays, Professors at Play; two short novels, Losses
and The Derangement of Jules Torquemal, and essays, stories, and poems in a variety of scholarly and
literary journals. His novel Zublinka Among Women won the Indie Book Awards first-place prize for
fiction. A collection of essays, The Posthumous Papers of Sidney Fein, is forthcoming.

Roger Craik

Roger Craik has written three full-length poetry books I Simply Stared (2002), Rhinoceros in Clumber
Park (2003) and The Darkening Green (2004), and the chapbook Those Years (2007), (translated into Bulgarian
in 2009), and, most recently, Of England Still (2009). His poetry has appeared in several national poetry
journals, such as The Formalist, Fulcrum, The Literary Review and The Atlanta Review. English by birth and
educated at the universities of Reading and Southampton, Craik has worked as a journalist, TV critic and
chess columnist. Before coming to the USA in 1991, he worked in Turkish universities and was awarded a
Beineke Fellowship to Yale in 1990. He is widely traveled, having visited North Yemen, Egypt, South Africa,
Tibet, Nepal, Japan, Bulgaria (where he taught during spring 2007 on a Fulbright Scholarship to Sofia
University), and, more recently, the United Arab Emirates, Austria, and Croatia. His poems have appeared in
Romanian, and from 2013-14 he is a Fulbright Scholar at Oradea University in Romania. Poetry is his passion:
he writes for at least an hour, over coffee, each morning before breakfast, and he enjoys watching the birds
during all the seasons.
Rp Verlaine

Sana Asif

Sarah Roehrig

Scott Wordsman

Scott Wordsman's poems and criticism appear in Coldfront, Colorado Review, THRUSH, Forklift/Ohio, Reality
Beach, and elsewhere. This past year, he received nominations for Best New Poets and Best of the Net. Scott
lives in Jersey City and teaches English at William Paterson University.
Seth McKelvey

Seth McKelvey teaches at Southern Methodist University. His poems appear here and there with
irregularity. He co-edits S/WORD (sslashword.com <http://sslashword.com> ).

Shirley Jones-Luke

Shirley Jones-Luke is a poet and a writer. Ms. Luke lives and works in Boston, Massachusetts. In addition to
honing her craft at various conferences and retreats, Ms. Luke instructs the next generation of writers as an
English teacher for the Boston Public Schools System. She has an MFA from Emerson College. Shirley was
a 2016 Watering Hole Poetry Fellow and a participant in the 2016 Colgate University Writer's
Conference. Her work has been published by Adelaide, Deluge and Fire Poetry.

Simon Anton Diego Baena

Simon Anton Nino Diego spends most of his time on the road with his wife, Xandy. His poems have already
been published in Osiris, Catamaran Literary Reader, Indefinite Space, The Bitter Oleander, Rust+Moth, Gravel,
Into The Void, Eos: Creative Context Glass: A Journal of Poetry, UCity Review, After the Pause Anthology, and many
more.

Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The
New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada,
2016. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled Magic, Illusion and Other
Realities please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Tiffany Flammger

Tiffany C. Flammger lives in Buffalo Ny with her Husband. Has Been writing for years and this is her first
time being published.

Vanessa Sylvester

Vanessa Sylvester lives on a small island off of the coast of Maine. Her work has been published in White
Crow, Animus, Words and Images, Drought, River Poets Journal, On the Rusk, and The Island Reader, among
others.
W. Scott Howard

W. Scott Howard teaches poetics and poetry in the Department of English at the University of Denver. He is
the founding editor of Reconfigurations: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture. His collections of
poetry include the e-book, ROPES (with images by Ginger Knowlton) published by Delete Press in 2014; and
SPINNAKERS (The Lune, 2016). Scott lives in Englewood, CO and commutes year-round by bicycle,
following what crow dost.

Zinnia Plentitude

Zinnia is a nom de plume which is a pseudonym (or, in some cases, a variant form of a real name) adopted by
an author and printed on the title page or by-line of his or her works in place of their "real" name.