Green Hill

queens

2012-01-28T14:58:00.000-05:00

poem by Tyffany Richards

2012-01-13T14:59:00.001-05:00

Colored

What are you?

Call me colored but I won’t be offended.

Just means to me I’ve got more shading

Than a black and white portrait

Different shades

In one picture

But aren’t you black?

In a way

More like mahogany

Smooth almost dark brown with a red undertone

Not shiny blue black

Brown like the soil

Or tree bark

Like cardboard boxes

Like coffee and milk

Where are you from?

Not here not there

Everywhere

Where are you from?

I’m from many places around the world

But I am from my mother and father and the earth itself

Who are you?

I am me.

Mahogany brown skinned me

Who identifies with everything and everyone

Colored.

Not Black entirely, nor White

Not Asian or Latino

Nor Indian

Not entirely.

Just

Mahogany brown

Colored girl

Congratulations overdue! to Tyffany Richards, for having this poem chosen to be read at the ASAP Celebration of Young Writers at the Washington Town Hall in 2011. The poem was recently recovered and we thank Tyffany for sharing it with us.

project/installment 4. by Yea Weon Kim

2012-01-10T11:10:00.000-05:00

Poem by Sarah Shulman

2012-01-06T10:31:00.002-05:00

Cry baby cry.

Actually no, you’re giving me a pain.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

Your dog is rude; it bit me in the face.

Yes it hurt.

Cry baby cry.

Your unshaven face is a playground for my fingers.

Your baby blue eyes, a universe, which pulls me.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

Travel the world, and try new things.

I’ll culture your belly, like it or not.

Cry baby cry.

Eight days a week I would make my self available.

While you check your twitter,

Slowly progressing sometimes depressing.

Please, the sand is running thin,

Get off your screen, and let me in.

Cry baby cry.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

songs, photos and writing by Thom Hart

2012-01-04T18:43:00.001-05:00

Recommended: Thom Hart's bandcamp site. Have a look and listen. Also, check out Thom's writing here.

Three from Facebook Notes by Thom Hart

2011-12-15T13:55:00.000-05:00

pieces

by Thom Hart on Thursday, June 10, 2010 at 1:38am

I hand pieces of me out.
they rarely
if ever
are returned
it's a funny process

getting away with murder

by Thom Hart on Monday, May 17, 2010 at 8:11pm

romance is dead
chivalry is dead
Latin is dead

what else have
these modern times killed?

thinking moving wasting.

by Thom Hart on Monday, May 10, 2010 at 11:07pm

wasted time
wasted faces
look around
and see the places

you could have been

[Editor's note: Thom Hart has shut down his facebook account.]

From the long overdue (re)readings (XI)

2011-12-10T10:25:00.000-05:00

Occasionally, at different times of day toward the end of the week, one can see groups waiting at a crossroads for a train. One is never sure whether the train will come at all or where it will stop if it does. It often happens, therefore, that people wait in two different places, unable to agree where the stop is. They wait for a long time standing in a black, silent bunch alongside the barely visible lines of the track, their faces in profile: a row of pale cut-out paper figures, fixed in an expression of anxious peering.

Bruno Schulz, "The Street of Crocodiles" (1934) in The Street of Crocodiles (Penguin, 1977) Trans. Celina Wieniewska. 107.

The Trusty Horse (after Hawthorne) by Ian Riley

2011-12-09T13:09:00.000-05:00

As I neared the end of the pass, the bridge which I knew to look for came into sight, soaring majestically into the sky with the cables drawn taut, so unlike the skin of the ancient face with which I looked on. It had been designed in my youth, when the birds flew high in the sky and the sun shone gloriously as they swept past on their migratory course, unaware that man had now conquered the expanse of the skies above the canyon as well. My horse beneath me gave a cry as we drew closer, for the road was blocked ahead by several fallen boulders, which stood guard as the pass drew toward its end, closing all that was open, closing indeed as well upon my only way of departure, for the way back had been made impassable by a cacophonous rockslide which occurred as I rode by and my horse let out an even more obstreperous burst of flatulence. This was likely the result of a meal of beans eaten each day for the previous fortnight, and yet I saw how this could be an advantageous situation as we approached the newly fallen barricade. I turned my horse about, with his posterior facing the boulders, and prepared to wait as long as necessary for another bout of vapors to come over my animal. It was not a long interval before I noticed that my horse’s countenance had assumed an appearance of great distress. The sound echoed for miles around, and the way to the bridge was clear of boulders, though now blocked by a cloud of noxious fumes. I held my breath and ventured on, happy to be on my way.

My Clock Pants (after Vallejo), by Renee Waller

2011-12-06T10:47:00.002-05:00

My clock pants cripple me. I can never get them off even when I try to break them with a hammer. I try to run out of them, away from them, but nothing works. I'm trapped, entangled in a fabrication and no matter how much I grow, I never outgrow them. The sun tries to give me directions to its house. Out there my pants can't exist and then I can be free. Every day for a good twelve hours the sun keeps trying to help me but on the thirteenth hour it gets tired and gives up. I stay glued to Earth waiting for the sun to show up again. My clock pants limit me and often scare the sun away. My clock pants know I'm trying to get rid of them and they can't stand the idea. Jupiter helps my pants by putting me to sleep so the pants can grow tighter around my waist. I desperately shoot a bright red bullet wanting to pierce the fabrication but it doesn't work. I'm trapped in time.

project/installment 3. by Yea Weon Kim

2011-12-05T11:29:00.000-05:00

fragment

2011-11-30T09:23:00.001-05:00

I am a stargazer
I ride on the wings of angel's prayers
And craft works of art from angry tirades
I carry my heart in a slingshot
And wrestle with the aggression of others

- Tyffany Richards

photo by Thom Hart

2011-11-29T17:52:00.000-05:00

Poem by Tyffany Richards

2011-11-17T13:01:00.000-05:00

Corporate Office

He beat her last night

So when she came to work

Sunglasses on, head lowered, hands folded

We knew something was wrong

But no one wanted to question

And she wouldn’t say a word

She just stayed silent the whole time.

Just took her sunglasses off

And was oblivious to the whole office’s gasp

She was raped last night

And she went home and told him, but he didn’t believe her

He wouldn’t let her get an abortion

So nine months later

The office celebrated the new child’s life

While she sat in a corner

Tears staining her face

Dripping mascara marks

Dark streaks on her pretty face

He killed her last night

And we all attended her funeral

And gave praise for what a wonderful person she was

And cried tears for her

Even though in actuality

We didn’t care

We knew nothing about her

She meant nothing to us

She was just another girl in the office

artwork by Miriam Canut

2011-11-15T11:51:00.003-05:00

Poems by Thom Hart

2011-11-14T14:26:00.000-05:00

(The Blonde)

Dangerous times

Especially to be

A blonde of seventeen

Or so

Surrounded by

Business associates

And drink.

(I thought not)

Did you do any work today?

I thought not.

Did you stimulate your mind today?

No, that doesn’t count, be quiet.

Did you care about anything?

I thought not, you’re far too apathetic.

So. What did you do today?

(The wind)

the trees dance

fields move

leaves float

waves crest

and the wind,

well it sings ‘round my house

(Venus, my lover)

I made love

To Venus last night.

In a dream the goddess came to me.

She said, I will show you ecstasy

And I followed her. Her face

Was never the same, and

As I recall she towered over me,

Some barbaric Amazonian,

But she was beauty,

And beauty was she,

And lust,

And I thought of all the things

That could have been,

And will be.

The Introduction to the Riley Anthology, by Ian Riley

2011-11-11T07:52:00.001-05:00

The Introduction to the Riley Anthology seems to be in essence a history lesson. It provides a background for the stories which follow. It allows for a fuller understanding of those stories, an idea of the motivations behind them. With these ideas, with knowledge of the motivations, we are better able to read and appreciate all that is behind these stories and letters. I like using non sequiturs to end paragraphs.[i]

The creation stories are certainly an interesting take on the matter. Juhwertamakhai[ii], the god figure, does not hesitate in the least bit to “drop the sky” on creation when he deems it necessary. The idea of the great flood is certainly present here, but the multiple occurrences seem unusual. They suggest a god who is not easily pleased. The final creation implies the importance of the coyote, a direct result of the landscape the people call home. Dolphins are quite intelligent animals.

Another creation story includes the idea of a dark, lower, realm. The monsters of this realm include a large turtle who comes forth to carry woman and earth on his back. The turtle grows to the size of a great island and the woman’s offspring grow to be the good mind and the bad mind. The good mind creates humankind along with many other things which the humans consider to be good. Conversely, the bad mind creates things objectionable to humans.[iii] In the end, the good mind triumphs over the bad mind, but the bad mind retains power over death. Jerry Seinfeld has had quite a successful career.[iv]

The letters from Columbus are an interesting look into what he has to say, a look into what he actually thinks he has discovered. His use of the word Indians to describe the natives confirms his belief of where he thinks he is. When he talks about the naming of the island Espanola, he reveals his real imperialistic motives. This ties into the other creation stories because it too is a story of creation, but this time it is the creation of a new empire in the western hemisphere. Beware Jimi Hendrix as the bell tolls one.[v]

[i] And long walks on the beach.
[ii] His brother’s name was Steve.

[iii] Like Monday mornings.

[iv] He makes several million $ per re-run (The Internet).

[v] He’s very friendly at 4 o’clock though.

project/installment 2. by Yea Weon Kim

2011-11-07T14:03:00.000-05:00

Poem by Mebane Robertson

2011-10-28T17:33:00.001-04:00

This Stupid Dig

I've been out here out on the summer working the same map --
The topology of tribes, beads, bribes, and brides.
It was adequate, where I went and first ran into in a class
My truest love, granddaughter of the joint head of staff

Dab in the middle of Nam. I bought her a ring of blue pearl
With a tinny little diamond set center. Even though that's all history,
If you ever see this in a conspiracy documentary, please
You meant more than St. Charles Street to me. But she's fazed,

Another face laid in memory. Should we fronting all this to go on?
The pairings, and vintages that show rare spices had been imported.
Black labs with their wild pink tongues, the site overseer walked
Between the twine that was my love's pirouette and the laudatory

Trading of fourths the band took to please the challenged visitors.
Ho. I'm getting this wrong. The dogs were when we were in an undisclosed
Location. I guess I'm writing to please a friend away.
Someone unlike me who prefer morse to ouija.

And pearly late October skies. Things live (and die) by schedule, at least
In the looking back. I have been given some gifts by friends I love.
And I have been given likewise by enemies far, I thought, in the offing.
And I fold my hand sometimes, and ask that this be good, goofy enough.

thanks to Mebane for this poem. Read more by the same author here.

project/installment 1. by Yea Weon Kim

2011-10-25T18:48:00.000-04:00

Poem by Veronica McStocker

2011-10-17T14:54:00.000-04:00

Lost.

Have you ever been so lost,

That you don’t know where to go?

Not in the sense of

Needing directions on the road lost,

But the kind of lost when you aren’t really sure who you are.

Well,

Maybe you know who you are.

Or who you’d like to be.

But you aren’t sure of how to get there?

Everything is so complicated,

Sometimes I sit and think.

Who am I?

What am I even doing?

It keeps me up at night,

This constant worry that I won’t be

Everything that will make everyone proud.

I won’t live up to everyone’s expectations,

I can’t make everyone happy.

Sometimes I even try to see myself from outside.

If I didn’t know me, what would I think of me?

Would I think that I am the perfect daughter?

Would I think that I am the perfect student?

Am I a perfect citizen?

Would I be proud of me?

I don’t know.

Am I even good?

I know I try,

But is that good enough?

A Winter Tree by Yea Weon Kim

2011-10-11T11:04:00.001-04:00

A mother’s love shining on weak light and a brown tree.

There,

No leaves, no birds or squirrels ... only black

Lost flowers, floating shifting in a dew

Created by brown horse hairs Oh, Lonely and

What a lonely tree nothing around it, only a white white

Wonderland that greets black, flower, dew, tree.

Touching the two clouds -----------------high upon the sky

Why torture yourself you poor thing that’s why

Your hand has no circulating blood Yes, I know

I know your loneliness, I might be your mother, Please

come down from that cloud that freezes

Your life; it will hurt you; cloud promises no harm,

But they are all lies; I know your loneliness; I am your mother, Please

come down from the cloud before

I drop tears; I can’t lose you

I’ve lost others in whiteness already; clouds’ cold hands

Took them away -------- evaporated;

Don’t tell

Me to live without you. I am your mother, I’ve known

You very well; I was always there right

Next to you touching your shoulder, shoulder to shoulder

Come down my dear, our beloved one, your

Hurt will be gone; your heart will be back; Bump

Bump. Can you hear? Can you hear this? I see your

Fingers tapping on the air.

I hear you. Yes, yes of course,

I know you. Don’t worry; I can read your eyes

Your eyes

Are beautiful; it will be more beautiful if you come down. You must

Be afraid! Hush! but don’t cry remember? I’ll be with you

I’ll hold your tiny fingers that I love to hold;

Please now

Close your eyes and come down

Come down my dear Come down just remember

I know you;

Come down I want your sunny smile

Smile smile

[watercolor, ink, and tissue on paper illustration by Yea Weon Kim]

photo by Ria Han

2011-10-10T11:07:00.002-04:00

Opposites by Jay Bonti, remixed by Sarah Shulman, Green Hill, and Renee Waller

2011-10-06T13:56:00.001-04:00

Two weeks ago, Jay Bonti gave his class a poem entitled "Opposites." He was ready for revisions, but maybe not as many as he's going to get — fourteen of them, if everyone in the class does their own version. The only rule is not to put in any new words. Words can be taken out, and everything else is changeable.

Here are three remixes of Jay's poem. The original, you ask? It's gotta be somewhere...look for it here soon.

BOUNTI
by Jay Bonti / Sarah Shulman

Every day, sometimes,

almost always, sometimes,

I think of you.

We can accomplish anything,

Everything.

Being "us" is the reason.

Day becomes night,

night becomes day.

Here we still stand.

Different pieces of everything,

clustered within, come out

during times of rejoicing.

Us. We have peace.

We live in a world of opposites,

but you and I are not one.

❉

Every day by Jay Bonti / Green Hill

I spend every day with you

Sometimes, almost always

I think of you

We swim in the sun

Ants march between our toes

Watch out gentle giants

I caress your hair so lush

I peer over

Your tops untied

Sweat rolls down your spine

night and day become one

and moon and sun

There’s an opposite to everything

There’s an opposite of everyone

I am my own ransom

❉

As by Jay Bonti / Renee Waller

As I caress your hair, to the touch so lush,

the smell, so sweet

it could be a crush.

As day and night become one,

everything has an opposite.

Are you mine?

As I look into your eyes,

I see the sun rise

against the starry night,

and we are still together.

We can accomplish anything.

Everything is possible because of us.

Poem by Tyffany Richards

2011-09-28T10:33:00.007-04:00

The Hair Story

Once upon a time, there was a blond hair on my shoe,

And no matter how hard I tried to get it off

It just grew and grew and grew

The more I tried to cut it

The bushier it grew

Until, one day it finally swallowed me and you

Inside it was quite cozy

We got used to living there

But all the while we had this constant underlying fear

What did this blond hair want from us?

What was it going to do?

How long would we be subjected to living on the underside of my shoe?

One day I finally figured it out

Suddenly it popped into my head

We could cut all the hair

And stuff it in my nice new comfy bed

We chopped and chopped and chopped

And we stuffed and stuffed and stuffed

And finally my bed was extremely super puffed.

But the blond hair had more plans

It continued to grow and grow and grow

Until my new bed looked like a hairstyle

From the Bronner Brothers Show

It took over the apartment

It took over the street

Until we all realized we just couldn’t compete

So everyone took a flamethrower

And then….

2011-09-17T16:46:00.000-04:00

The eighth volume of Douglas Messerli's encyclopedic anthologies of international poetry includes twenty-one poets of renown, including Adonis, Ilse Aichinger, Dino Campana, C.P. Cavafy, Julio Cortázar, D.H. Lawrence, Olga Orozco, Robert Sosa, and Tarjei Vesaas. Biographies and complete listings of books in the original languages and English are included.

Purchase the digital edition here.

2011-09-15T18:38:00.000-04:00

from the long overdue (re)readings (X)

2011-08-21T13:05:00.000-04:00

Alberghi, città, scale, sempre in sogno
varcati al dir: "qui resterò e la pace
mi sarà data alfine." Nulla resta
di quegli anni che un dolce e lungo errore
e la memoria d'essere straniero
a tutti fuor che al cielo apparso ai vetri
bianco di luna.

Hotels, cities, steps that in my dreams
I always pass through, saying "Here I'll rest
and peace will be granted me at last." Nothing's left
of those years but a long sweet blunder
and the memory of being foreign
to everyone except the sky appearing at the windows
white with moon.

— Alfonso Gatto, from 'Room in Darkness' ['Stanza al Buio'], translated from the Italian by Jack Hirschman, in MAGMA (Los Angeles: Caza de Poesia, 2009), 58-59.

Hommage à Professeur Tryphon Tournesol

2011-07-31T22:19:00.000-04:00

Poem by Cola Hines

2011-07-28T12:57:00.000-04:00

Secret secret

our fictions become real

don’t say that you said

you need to become

an admirer or else

you are lost — what you prize

above all else is

clarity — but what you

must have is harder

to determine

flagrant moonlight

craving for peacocks

air pouring down

horrific mofo

or no one; the problem

always sticking to

what’s determined

or imagined; you shouldn’t

do that, you’re a tool

following nacre

when you know it’s uncool

to insist on continuity

in this night curiously

without coyotes

they overdid it last time

day decanted

the nothing that happened

reality and dream

while you’re away

photo by Taylor Silk

2011-07-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

From the long overdue (re)readings (IX)

2011-07-16T21:37:00.001-04:00

I have heard them all. I do not have a favorite. I do not know what they mean. Though "Cake" sounds to my ears like the English name "Kate." A "Kate" who is good enough for GertrudeStein to eat is a "Cake," I say to myself and smile. Bão would be proud. "Slip your own meanings into their words," he said, a bit of advice that has saved me. Language is a house with a host of doors, and I am too often uninvited and without the keys. But when I infiltrate their words, take a stab at their meanings, I create the trapdoors that will allow me in when the night outside is too cold and dark. When I move unnoticed through the rooms of 27 rue de Fleurus, when I float in a current swift and unending, and I hear Miss Toklas offering to GertrudeStein, "Another piece of Cake?" I can catch my breath and smile.

— Monique Truong, The Book of Salt, pp. 155-56

sonnet by Cola Hines

2011-07-12T21:46:00.000-04:00

you might say (she did say) it’s a pleasure

(and a treasure) exotic and certain as death

(and as original) — that’s why we keep quiet.

what do you want me to talk about. How about

the exhausted, 'ulcerous poodles and pekes

on the promenade,' the backlit colored-glass mural

of the waves. What do you want me to remember?

Start at the beginning. I am too tired to say. Toot

toute down the hallways. You left your door open in

those days. I was always frightened of the next bright

smile, the next normal thing. I stayed in the elevator.

When we kissed, I thought how long before she needs

to take a breath? And we went beyond what we knew

and circled back, outwitting ourselves. Like cigarettes,

Poem by Mebane Robertson

2011-06-24T14:05:00.002-04:00

Driving Out of a Dry County

How much I still wish you were here to help

This dream go smoother, to help wipe off with a rag

All the bad things that went down.

You are right. I respond best to cognitive behavioral

Therapy. But other schools have something to offer,

And all I did was turn it on automatic and spray.

No idea of getting a medal—no, no nothing.

The cleaning lady had already come.

Intelligence can run away, but

When it comes to saving the life of a brother,

Thinking itself is my enemy, and when you were lifted out

I felt the words you could not say.

And the post trauma leaves me vacant,

Just a transcendental Jones Very ambulating around the room,

Which some call heaven swept bare of agency itself.

You know I’m a bad liar.

Truth is I wonder who has possession

Of these fingers as they jitter over the keyboard,

Waiting for her to fall into my life I don’t know why.

Truth is in the How You Been? as my heart’s bartender

Pops the top with the bar key,

And the fair lady sets things up with something sweet and dark

From the hell of her reaching

Out to me in her Scottish hair

For something to drown out these conversations

That prattle on forever down below the well,

You know, just between us.

Stray Shot 2011

2011-06-06T15:19:00.000-04:00

view & download

From the long overdue (re)readings (VIII)

2011-06-04T20:04:00.000-04:00

Translation of poetry is that pigheaded effort to convey in words of another language not only the literal meaning of a poem but an alien way of seeing things. Since poetic imagination cannot fully be detached from the place of origin, no two languages share identical associations. Can one truly convey in English the elements that elude the translator’s complete understanding and yet contribute to the character of the work for the native reader? In short, can one translate another person’s view of reality, which, as it happens, is already a kind of translation? If all writing is a conversion of some subjective or objective reality into language, translation is the most philosophical of all activities. To translate is not only to experience what makes each language distinct, but to draw close to the mystery of the relationship between word and thing, letter and spirit, self and world.

- Charles Simic, from ‘The Spirit of Play,’ review of works by Anne Carson, in The Renegade. Writings on poetry and a few other things (Braziller, 2009), 164-76; 167. Originally published in The New York Review of Books.

2011-05-30T13:57:00.002-04:00

Poem by Mebane Robertson

2011-05-21T13:22:00.000-04:00

Before Drifting Off

I don’t think this one is ripe yet. Like wineberries in the clearing,

It rings a lurid taint, bitter to the tongue, hard—not ready for harvest

When they brim over red plastic pails. I have been concerned of late

That I have not kept up with technology, that my processor is a robin

That hops three steps and cocks its head to listen for worms. Everyone else

Seems a red hawk swapping bootlegged software and knowing how

To keep funky viruses from swamping their systems. A subject, yes,

It would be nice to have a subject, but a purpose is the thing —

Like the waves of synchronized green lights that, if you hit them right,

Just right, let you flow down the hill to The Bottom unimpeded, like you

Are in Venice, either or, and are cutting the surf all in beauty or the other

Where the black gondolas ripple your fate while your life crumbles around you.

Youth just is, it happens—green like a melon or the ‘cush’ on Cortelyou Road

My stoner friends call the ‘kind bud’ they get from the corner boys.

Does mentioning this mean I won’t get into the more conservative journals?

But life—it’s like jumping aboard a little, marble swirled dingy and trying

To make it to the middle seat while the brackish water is waving moonlit flags—

Omens to you with all the sunken galleons gathered in the vertiginous cove.

And there are stories the guide tells you and your future ex, and she

Turns around winningly to imply the sharks curving in from the bay to find

A place to breed will have no purchase with their rows of teeth after

The flower girl sprayed stray Heaven in her wake. Here’s the news, Hon,

Our love was devoured in spats. We, the ones who had found

The fat wineberries bitter to the tongue. And then—I still can’t trace how—

Everything went polarized before our eyes. And it was hard to tell

What belonged to whom as we bickered through a swath of rye.

[click here for more poems by Mebane Robertson.]

From the long overdue (re)readings (VII)

2011-05-17T09:07:00.000-04:00

When I consider my own nature, my conscious, thinking self, my soul, in other words, I find that it contains the idea of the most perfect being - the idea of God. Since I myself am not perfect (the very fact of my doubting is proof of this, if proof were needed), I could not have come up with such an idea on my own, so it cannot be a figment of my imagination. But it must come from somewhere; I can only conclude, therefore, that it must have been implanted in my mind by the very being of which it is the idea, namely God. Therefore God exists.

- Leszek Kolakowski on Descartes in Why is there something rather than nothing? Trans. Agnieszka Kolakowska

Reality is not something that allows itself to be completely contained in form. Form is not in harmony with the essence of life, but all thought which tries to describe this imperfection also becomes form and thereby confirms our striving for it.

- Witold Gombrowicz, Cosmos. Trans. Danuta Borchardt

Poem by Parrish Young

2011-05-16T11:33:00.001-04:00

Alejandro

Brother of mine
Where have you gone
To sing songs with the dead
Or perhaps to yawn
To trifle with us mortal folk
Trembling over the holy yoke
That you held in your
Hand, and damned it to hell
No one ever did it so well
I love you as family and always will
Please return soon,
For mine eyes are jaded
And my heart is awry
My mind is a fucking pigsty
A mess of thoughts
And swollen goodbyes
The image of seeing your mighty self cry
I weep for those tears
That eluded my sight
I long now for you with all of my might
Hold fast my friend
With your charismatic grin
Scour the beaten path
For markers leading home again

Riddles by Karen Layman

2011-05-13T13:29:00.003-04:00

Riddles of the Fox Demon

Fox Demon 1:

The more you take, the greater I grow
The more you replace, the quicker I go
What am I?

Fox Demon 2:

You see me in the water.
You see me in the glass.
On the edge of a fine dagger,
In an instrument of brass.
What am I?

Fox Demon 3:

Dusk and dawn, I follow you
Shorter, taller, often askew—
What am I?

A Thousand Steps to the Skies

This is the riddle that Thylian gives you to get to Taran’s domain—Skyes. Taran and other divinities can simply Relocate themselves there—mortals like Min’hira are not so lucky. Since Thylian doesn’t give a straight answer to anything, for anything, the party was stuck solving (and Tei was stuck writing) something that begins like this:

For what you seek,
Look to the skies.
When the moon sets blue,
So shall you have what you need.

“But I alone cannot impart
The power that thine mortal hearts
Doth need to venture to lands in light
And step out of eternal night.”

That was what I was instructed to say
For wise, were my mentors,
And knew that there would come a day
When your kind would need to pass beyond
The shores of where Darkness is bound.

Four things you need,
One from me,
Strong souls,
A beginning,
And two blessings be.

…I told you Thylian wouldn’t give you a straight answer for anything.

answers to these riddles will be in a future post!
for more by Karen Layman, see here, and:
http://teiraven.deviantart.com/

http://teiraven.deviantart.com/art/Heiro-Fukaiira-208600924 http://shadowdancergames.weebly.com/

Five poems by Thom Hart

2011-05-10T20:24:00.001-04:00

Modern Art

We are monkeys
We make things
Shiny things
We look at them
Epiphany.

Class in the garden

I sit. The dampness of
The earth below me
The persistent knocking
Of the woodpecker
The ambient noise of
Cars. Sunshine. Nice.
Very nice. My black
Nehru blazer absorbs,
Sponges heat from
Rays. Brilliant. I shall
Seek shade.

Moon Dream

I dreamt a dream
It did not seem
To be a dream
But a pale moon beam
The light beneath
My closed eyes.

Identity

I do not know who I am
Do not try to help me
Do not define me,
Stereotype, or prescribe
To me
Some sort of form
I am shapeless
And do not know
What I look like
I do not know who I am
Do not try to help me.

Gray

Gray.
I wonder what it sounds like.
Rain muted by fog
Heavy clouds, a cold breeze
Drizzle, sleet, freezing rain
A snowy day.
All of these are gray.

2011-05-06T10:22:00.000-04:00

artwork by Danielle Tunkel

Clay feather fossil tarnished with shoe polish on a beaten and burnt board.

Poem by Parrish Young

2011-05-05T08:37:00.001-04:00

The Sea of Sightless Serpents

The piety of one who rules
Is punctuated by a throng of fools
Who babble about with serpent tongues
Persecuting the righteous ones
Who answered the call of sword and steel
Who worked their hands raw for every meal
I am the one who rules
The man who swims in the sea of fools
Gently though, I do not thrash or flail
For I know the mind, spirit, body
I know how soft and supple skin is
How brittle bones can be
My heart thumps like my mind
Vivid and real for all to see
As I patiently sit atop my throne
I finally am free
Free to breathe and navigate the sea
Because when I come ashore
There is only me

Poem by Ian Riley

2011-05-03T09:17:00.001-04:00

Freedom Has a Stench

Ten of them move in unison,
Free to dance about.
They are happy, carefree.
Working together is an afterthought,
A sad rarity today;
But they don’t know they are rare,
So they remain content.
At least until their master coops them up again
Like they are children,
For their own “protection.”
And when they are once again set free
A stale odor begins to permeate…

from Streets. Museums by Nick Benson

2011-05-02T19:24:00.000-04:00

these two men who were well acquainted were
talking to each other, each in
his own hole

in the pavement
actually drilled into the substrata
comfortably leaning against the sides,

and smoking cigarettes -- well, one was -- the other
had a tall rasta hat -- cig smoker had
an orange hard hat

tilted to the side, over
copious dreads
and around them, work was going on, or it appeared

some weren't taking their break --
a large white dude emerged
from an adjacent manhole and bounded

dangerously across the mouth
of a diner dragging cord perhaps
cheerfully? the crumbling earth didn't

collapse, the bright lights fixed
it all into place as passersby
passed by. How I would've liked

to listen forever to that space
that human station sculpted
from the debris of Seventh

north of Fourteenth
in crushing repose,
the city's long wick lit

under our nose

Loving You (Sestina) by KT McVeigh

2011-04-29T21:35:00.000-04:00

I love
You.
Letting go
Is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.
I feel like I’m putting you to sleep.
I’m euthanizing my dreams.

My daydream,
My love,
Is falling asleep
Next to you
And waking up whenever we do
With no other places to go

Because we feel no need to go.
We awake from our dreams
(I before you do
to steal seconds of free love)
And I turn on my side and see you
And it is as though I am still asleep.

When you go to sleep
Having ended our conversation hours ago
Do you
Ever dream
That we are in love?
I wonder if you do

I do
Sometimes I only sleep
So I can feel that love
That is where I go
So real in my dreams
I can almost be with you

But it isn’t true. You
Are so far away from me, do
You understand how distant a dream
It really is? A night’s worth of sleep
On a plane across the universe we’d go
For love

At least, I dream that you
And I will meet and fall in love, do
You believe it too? Or content with sleep do you go?
I Can’t.

Two poems by Sam Kelly

2011-04-28T08:11:00.000-04:00

Prison Walls

ashen
void
a familiar emptiness,
your pale body
weak from constant bareness
the whites of your eyes
pushed far back into their sockets
unconsciously
you sink into the colorless land
seeing nothing
noticing little
a face so blank
yet a spark of warmth lives deep within
yearning, wanting, hoping, desiring
black prison walls far off,
what may flow beyond this pallid emptiness?

trip far past the world of Never Never land
glimpse young children flying with guardians
a young boy in love with his youth
and radiating Stars
gaseous wonders of magenta teal yellow
swirl around each other
they engage you,
pull you into a memory
remind yourself of those years
merry-go-round upon merry-go-round
turning, Never Never ending,
yet somehow
you’re no longer there

step into the cold night’s water
bright hues dying pallid skin
swim around the corner
whimsical water splashing color
that moist spray
dripping down your face
a look into moon lit reflection
shows a zebra grazing alone

Wonderland
where Alice skips along a path of illogical life
the Mad hatter sits at tea with rabbits and playing cards
such an unnatural thought
nothing more than a mysterious vision
it makes you wonder
where have you gone so fondly, dreaming?

Dandelion Field

I peer into your eyes, glassy pearls sitting above the bridge of your nose and below your finely-tuned brows.
I can see myself in you like a mirror of all my sins.
I know the world is a hazardous place but I feel safe trapped in your eyes.
My soul has committed itself to you.
You eat away at the flesh.
A feast for you, a famine for me.
My irises burn as the sun reflects off the glass shield over your eyes.
I am blinded for a moment but regain sight of you quickly.
Your reflecting eyes and beautiful lips sitting among a field of dandelions.
How can a place so serene exist in a world of so much hazard?

Two poems by Cecilia Young

2011-04-26T20:15:00.000-04:00

Why must you run?

Your senses go numb

You need that high

So you can hide

It's never beautiful enough

Dull your senses til the sun comes up

Your problems won’t go away

Images distort your brain

What is it that you hide from?

What on earth will you become?

Back to earth, how do you feel,

High or low, none of it’s real

When the time comes will you know

Or will life waste, lose its glow

You see, you won’t be the same

Only have a similar name

But even that won’t mean a thing

Get that fix, the buzz, the sting

Crazy nerves and hungry head

Who you were is almost dead

How will you ever find yourself?

Just one more trip? That won’t help

This confused age clouds your eyes

But you can’t always be on cloud nine

Come back to me, come back home

I am yours and yours alone

Is it that feeling you want and need?

I’ll be your addiction, you will see

Laugh and show that beautiful smile

No one’s seen since you were a child

■

Let it mist

Blinded by fog

Turn the sky into a bog

Let it drizzle

Soft and smooth

Pitter patter like horses’ hooves

Let it rain

Strong and steady

The clouds are looking much too heavy

Let it pour

Bring on the rain

It washes away all the pain

Let it flood

Rivers flow high

They will pour back to the sky.

Butterfly, open your wings!

Your colors have a song to sing —

A song unheard in dark of night

So regale the world while it is light!

See the blazing sun it sets

And water calmly reflects

The last few rays of fading light

Giving way to growing night.

Something about the first sunny day

Stirs the storm cloud heart

When the first blooms touch the hills

No rain can make a day too gray.

The sky smiles at her reflection on the water

With cottony clouds framing her face

And the breeze tickles branches of trees

Taunting them to sprout their leaves

The sun will beam warmly down

On this day and many others

But this day, this day is special

Because it is the first.

Poem by Lauren Castaldi

2011-04-21T09:02:00.001-04:00

We try too hard for that low class teenage angst

Cry about every secret leak
Any trust circle breach
But I know you love to watch
Your mistakes be talked about
The center of It all
Walk into room and hear the silence start to fall
Because we love each other’s problems
So much more entertaining than our own.

And we find any reason for a disrupted mood
Or self-inflicted wound
We try too hard to brood
Over some pathetic dude.
We get attention because we whine.
Over every single time
I’m told I fall short of a dime
Not a ten but just a nine
And scrutinize over what the hell could I do to shed that image of a nine??
Surely nothing natural.

I fill my empty heart with inadequate distractions
Layered with false hope, knowing what I’m lacking
I stare at fictional characters through disconnected screens
Numbing my brain until real thoughts can leak through by any possible means

And maybe I’ll imply
That the real reason why
We feed off others' weakness
Like some great huge swarm of leeches
Is to safely hide our own
So our secrets are never known
But I’ll admit I laugh at others
Who face the same regrets I have known
I’m just a better secret keeper as I have clearly shown.

Two poems by John Alter

2011-04-19T19:18:00.000-04:00

Old man you offer me the gift

Old man you offer me the gift of

recurrence the way the wind through the

curtains brings with it tonight the fragrance

of kites as if in some library a

blind poet is moving the pages of

a beloved book that is you we watched

your eyes turn away from us at the end

of your days with us you were bored already

with that nonsense about a king and

a one-eyed man with all the nonsense of

moderation and sometimes only we

heard you speak to us from where you are now

Prayer Flag, Deodar

The first pale light of a new day

at the windows like water-color. I

understand why these trees insisted that

we associate them with the gods.

Prayer

began as

a tree, on a morning like this

the first pale light at the windows

like water-color,

on the edge of a mountain

where, swaddled in mist, the gods

are born

and prayer thrusting itself

up out of the muddled mind.

Before and beyond words

the mind is a mountain where

gods are born.

A small breeze moves

in the branches. Somebody has hung

a prayer flag there, the words obliterated

by mist.

A prayer flag begins

with legible words from

the sutra

a man can read,

each syllable clear. He

knows the words by heart.

And the words

flutter then in the morning

light,

alone for the first time. Mist

enters the

household of syllables. Slowly

the walls will dissolve,

the furniture of meaning.

The prayer flag

remembers a man reading

the words by heart and the man is

like a dream, he

dissolves in the mist, and the prayer flag

turns now

to the wind…

Poem by Thom Hart

2011-04-18T11:03:00.001-04:00

Switchback

If you were even to consider
trying out my point of view,
you would have to reverse
your entire outlook on life
several times over.

You know what?
switch time zones for a while
then come back.
Wear what I wear with
the same pride, that only
comes from a favorite pair
of pants worn several days
in a row.

And when you can't figure it out,
ask me "hey, are these glasses on right?"
and I'll say "Damn straight,
you look just like you always wanted to,
ever since you saw that video on MTV."

What if, while flying around
in your automobile, you saw
yourself walking down the
yellow line, and you turned
and caught your own terrified
eyes in the headlights.

Don't get me wrong now,
I'm not saying you ran you over.
Maybe you're just seeing things.
I wouldn't blame you for
perhaps believing
that you're fucked in the head,
just don't start wearing
tinfoil helmets and sitting in class,
staring at the ceiling,
while acting like a mute.
Not one word escapes you,
as you focus on blocking
extraterrestrial, or
government-sponsored mind probes.

I'm sorry if this cookie-cutter
community isn't what you thought it was,
We looked happy you say? Are you sure
you were even visiting on that day?
Oh right, last month we were all good,
slapping five as we walked by.
But I'm estranged now.
You all point, stare, and whisper.
And I know there really is no
problem, it's all me, it's just
that the little kids who cannot see,
they're the ones who need be set free.
Free from all your animosity.

And here I stand
on my little soap-box,
cardboard actually,
it's caving in at the sides,
all the angst is too heavy
and only builds
as I shout high up
from this street corner,
at the intersection
of "not interested" and
"who gives a flying fuck" street.

But look what I made you
from all my doubt and despair.
Clear as day, but out of sight,
you know it'll do you oh so right
to remember, just remember
where we all were two years
before tonight.

Poem by Erin Sullivan

2011-04-13T08:54:00.000-04:00

To Separation

The heart and the head, what kind of a separation
Is that? Is it brains disjoined from unthoughtfulness?
That is something I want to know: what causes
That split. My head is telling me to stay, to try
To work. But my heart wants me to wait,
In the cold and the wind for you to pull up.
Illegally, breaking so many rules. I want to go with
You, somewhere, anywhere. Down the hall, down south.
Pick the destination and I will meet you.
The separation? Is it just the distance? I wish
That’s all it was. Everything to me, oh how
I wish you knew. I joke, I kid but I just wish you knew
When I say I love you, I mean it. When I say
I want to see you, I mean that I would do anything
In the world for you, just to see you, to hold you. That separation
In us: are we kidding? Are you serious? I need to know.
That is my heart talking I guess. Screaming at me
Shouting, pick me. Love me, be with me. My mind is telling me
Run, don’t look back. Forget about it all.
Forget the memories and the times that we had.
I want separation to disappear, to fade
Into blackness. I want it to be right. Show
Me the way to end the separation.

To Distraction by Cecilia Young

2011-04-05T13:35:00.000-04:00

Distraction, why do you follow me?
Evening now, time for real work
And instead I sit down
To work on thinking...
Thinking about not working, and THEN
Writing it all as the sun sinks down,
Down. What was that homework I didn't hear about?
Nevermind. Nevermind. I'd rather just
write.
As thoughts come and go
Clouds smear the sky, which is so many colors
But a blank canvas
Like my mind, right now, early evening.
The clouds are my thoughts.
I have a letter to write
And polynomials to factor,
History questions that must be answered,
This and that,
The digestive tract,
Anatomy review tomorrow.
And English? Distraction.
Because this is work, but not really.
I could be working on work
But I prefer
Working on thinking
Thinking about not working
Everything in between,
And writing.

Poem by Sagine Corrielus

2011-03-30T10:08:00.000-04:00

To Patience

You are a virtue which
many do not have, which I do not have. Waiting and waiting
as the tiny clock ticks away the time we have left.
Thus, your lack drives me crazy. Making me wonder,
making me think. And in your absence,
I am a stone cold wind of fury. Capable of demolishing
anything in my path. A soft silent yearning,
a harsh summer’s heat, an ungraceful Giselle.
I am everything and nothing all at once, each tiny
discrepancy causing me unrest. But really who am I to deny
your healing, gracing me with your prowess.
Your keen sense of stability conducting me away
from the wind, the destruction, the self-loathing, the hate.
And into the soft, quiet, maudlin center of a thousand lullabies,
making me want. Yearning for the calm, I am everything and I am nothing.
A flame slowly extinguished, with a deep sense
of profound knowledge and prudence.
Relaxing and Relaxing, drifting into the cool blue light.
Relaxing…relaxing… relaxing…

Poem by Ian Riley

2011-03-29T13:55:00.000-04:00

Imagination

When I was just a little boy, I used to play pretend.
Never did I give a thought that happiness would end.
As I became an older boy, imagining became the norm.
Pretending was for little kids, an immature art form.
Now that I am all grown up, it’s only dreams I keep,
And even then I only dream, unknowingly, asleep.

Symphony no. 25 by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-03-15T13:25:00.001-04:00

I had continued to practice my art most dutifully, garnering about three or four subjects every other fortnight. My art, as well as my heart, were swelling to the most sublime depths, like the strings in a symphony. It was a most exciting time, what with my studies at the conservatory and love blossoming in the stagnant Tuscan wind.

During the mornings I would dive into the melodious sublimity of instrumentation, and in the afternoons I would relinquish all thoughts and put forward all of my available attention to her, my swan queen. We would spend the hours in a state of pure ecstasy. Whether it was love or lust, I dared not press my advantage past that of pure courtship, with hopes of marriage in the near future, of course. It was a delight watching her eyes spill fewer and fewer valuable tears. In fact, I believe that after that first night she never spilled tears at all. It was not only I who had done that, but the music that pulsed through my veins, the frequency of which penetrated her bones.

My hidden art was, of course, a touchy subject. Although I wished to show her my masterpieces, I could not be persuaded to believe that she had the capacity to fully understand such crowning artistic achievement. So, I didn’t. It was, shall we say, exciting to my person and my art to harbor these glorious achievements. It made it all the more fulfilling knowing that while she went home in the evenings to take care of a dying aunt, I was out, making art for the whole world to relish. To keep such a fantastic secret from an innocent girl who had no secrets was both terrifying and wonderful; forbidden, in a most titillating way. There can be no love without deceit. This little knowledge in my mind helped me through a great burst of artistic output. As if in a procession, one after another after another would fall to my instrument, with the same care taken each time. As a violinist, my arm would race back and forth across not strings, but the neck of artistic vigor. I was a factory of pure, unembellished art, and my own god.

This spur allowed me to take a chance in performing my greatest and grandest piece. I entered into a rather large disagreement with my most mediocre maestro, and my fellow colleague who acted as more of a lapdog for him. I decided that I would save them from their own mediocrities, and do them the favor of allowing them to become immortalized in art. Doing this, of course, required some planning, as I was dealing with two subjects this time.

On the first day I bound and gagged my colleague in my apartment, and held him sequestered in my boudoir. Luring him into my flat was no large feat, as all it took was the weak promise of sambuco. My professor, the mediocre maestro, was a bit harder to reel in, naturally, as he actually used his mind to think, and not to follow, like my colleague. I had figured out that the man was fond of the many fallen women that plagued our fair town. So, I offered to host a night of musical discussion accompanied by drink and ladies of his choosing, a custom of young bachelors. Knowing that, as he was the proud owner of a faulty memory, he wouldn’t remember to make such a call to a woman, I jotted down the address of my domicile on the Via Antonio Alfieri on a thick sheet of parchment and handed it to him.

The next evening I awaited him dutifully, wearing my best waistcoat and breeches, as I sat in my study with my colleague bound in the next room. When he arrived, we chatted about Brahms and Bach and then, once he was filled with vino rosso and limoncello, I began my latest masterpiece. So grand a piece required an act as bold as leaving my front door unlocked, which I did, and began to prepare the two men, laying side by side on my large oak table, by disrobing them and sharpening my instrument.

To Evening. Sonnet by Ugo Foscolo

2011-03-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

Perhaps because you are the image of that fatal quiet

so dear to me, you have come,

O Evening! And when happy summer clouds

and the gentle west wind are your escort,

and when from snowy restless heights

you send shadows and darkness into the world,

you descend summoned always, and gently hold

the secret ways of my heart.

You make my thoughts wander forms

that vanish into eternal nothing; meanwhile

this cursed time flees, and with it, the throng

of cares with which it me destroys;

and while I gaze on your peace, that warlike spirit

sleeps, that yet within me roars.

translation by Nick Benson of Ugo Foscolo (1778-1827), ‘Alla sera,’ published 1803

Un Amor by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-03-01T08:34:00.002-05:00

It was a glorious afternoon in Firenze when I first laid eyes on my beloved. She was holding an old wooden rosary in her porcelain hands as she walked out of Il Duomo, with bright red lipstick on her lips and nail polish to match. After my first masterpiece I had gravitated around the cathedral looking for new inspiration. Artistically speaking, this quiet Tuscan town was the ideal place for art and artists such as myself to flourish. The city once inhabited by Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci, masters of their craft, truly, would serve as nurturing mother to my art; an art that would have enchanted the world had I lived in the time when I could have the patronage of the Medicis.

She walked slowly, with purpose and yet with hostility down the twisting narrow passages of the city, as moist eyeliner made a zigzag down her round cheeks. I followed her to a yellowing derelict building on the Via Ghibellina, and stood watch outside what I guessed was her window from the cobbled streets below. Several men of no particular importance or significance, especially to my art, made their way in and out of the building in timed procession. Very musical, I thought, and gave the matter no more thought.

After about midnight, she left her abode and strolled down the streets with fresh tears in her eyes. Not letting such beauty pass up, I persuade the enchantress into a dim Spanish tavern, Salamanca, with wooden floors and blood red paint on the walls. Flamenco filled every corner of the room as I walked in and took a place next to her at the bar. After some persuasion and charm, of which I have an abundance, she granted me the honor of buying her a glass of the establishment’s sangria. Her bright red fingers circled the rim of the glass as she spoke; her neck bowed and twisted with every sip and clenched every time she encountered a piece of floating fruit. The sound of hidden despair rang in her voice and filtered through the room as I fixed my eyes solely upon hers. 4/4 time of the handclap began the Catalan rumba that would become our first dance as inamoratos.

The guitar strings pulsed as I held her fair hand in mine; the vocalista’s heartache vibrated in her eyes, as the bongos and guiro lead our steps in time. Over the sangria I had learned nothing from her; over the flamenco, I learned everything. Un Amor. Without the utterance of words, our hearts conversed, matching a joy that perhaps only the practice of my art could match. At the end of our dance, the slightest glimpse of a smile twisted her face exposing pearl-white incisors. Her sadness captivated me, and my joy beguiled her. She glanced at the crumbling clock on the wall and announced to me that she had to return home for a previous engagement.

I lead her back to her home on the Via Ghibellina that night, hearing her steps click to the beat of our shared flamenco. Before she went in for the night I caught another glimpse of her pearl-white incisors pronouncing the resolution that we should rendezvous again soon. She went inside and I took up my spot under the gas lamp which limply lit the pathway, and watched at her window. A small man wearing a waistcoat much too small for his bulging stomach entered the palazzo some time after she did, which made me ponder if perhaps he was her previous engagement. I then started to ponder who my next artistic subject would be.

From the long overdue (re)readings (VI)

2011-02-26T11:53:00.001-05:00

Insofar as Stella's and Fried's historical reflections accurately mirror the character of contemporary art (and to a large extent they do), I may almost certainly expect, as I walk into a gallery, to confront either a bunch of autonomous icons pretending that I am not present, or a covey of 'difficult' autodidacts intruding into my space and making theoretical demands on me. After years of such confrontations, it has become increasingly clear to me that our twentieth-century characterizations of the work of art as this ravishing, autonomous entity that we spend our lives trying to understand, that makes demands on us while pretending we are not there, is simply a recasting of the work of art in the role of the remote and dysfunctional male parent in the tradition of the Biblical patriarch. Even art critics deserve some respite from this sort of abusive neglect.

—Dave Hickey, 'Prom Night in Flatland. On the gender of works of art,' in The Invisible Dragon. Four essays on beauty. Los Angeles: Art issues. Press, 1993. 39-50 (46-47).

Poem by Lauren Castaldi

2011-02-24T09:04:00.001-05:00

My Girls

We marched three in a line
Sipping frozen smoothie drinks
Tinted tropical colors to match our vibrant bathing suits.
And I can see myself in you, but I was more daring.
More intrigued with my dangerous side.
But your innocence is lovely
And I know you play ignorant because you are smart
One of the few kids who knows it’s safer to stay young
More rewarding to live in youth as long as you can.
I was the opposite.
I tried to grow up as fast as I possibly could
I thought it was better that way.
And I know you remember when I hugged you in the waves
Sand covering every inch of our bodies as we rolled around in the surf
Now you help me hold your little sister
But I keep it a secret that I hold both of you for dear life
Because the pull of the waves is that strong.
I put every muscle I have into keeping you from being sucked away
A little girl battling the persuasion of the ocean.
And although you are young for your age, you are wise.
But my favorite is when you laugh, oblivious to anything else in the world but your own delight.
And we walk down the sidewalk three in a line
Holding hands with our shirts on and wet bathing suit butts
Three blondies, my two girls in the Florida sun.

Poem by Lauren Castaldi

2011-02-20T15:40:00.001-05:00

Losing.

Call me the Queen of Losing.

I’m a pro.

I can lose hair ties, money, wallets, socks, and shoes

Earrings, brushes, clothes, homework

Car keys as I’m running out the door

My dog.

That girl I was babysitting two seconds ago

Basketball games, card games, board games.

Fights, disagreements, debates

Dignity, respect, self-control

My train of thought, my formulating idea

The disappearing images of my early morning dream

I can even lose you.

And none of this is even hard to do.

But none have quite the magnitude of losing you.

And if you want a reaction, I’ll give you a fucking reaction.

I’ll yell, scream, cry and crumble

I’ll give you tears with a slur of inaudible words.

That ugly uncontrollable What’s-Wrong-With-Her-Face cry, too.

Because silence isn’t satisfying

And it’s no fun to wonder at my cold shoulder.

But don’t ask to look me in the eye

If you don’t really want to see.

And losing myself wasn’t hard to do.

In fact it was quite easy when I had you.

But now I’ve lost you too.

[after Elizabeth Bishop, 'One Art']

Requiem by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-02-18T11:15:00.000-05:00

Introitus. As he lay on the floor, I stood watching over him while the blood from the wound slowly spread out over the chocolate oak planks. He wasn’t dead, of course. I made sure of that. That part comes at the end, the finale, like a crescendo in a symphony. All of the curtains in the room were open, nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. I planned it that way. Everything must be accompanied by music, like a beautifully choreographed ballet. Death too can, and will be, an act of such sublimity, such operatic splendor, that calling it a work of art would be a grave injustice. But, of course, for that to become true, it must all go along with the music. So, I stood there, silent, looking down at the beginning of my masterpiece. The room was still, almost somber and then, as planned, the strings became striking and I set out for my next movement. Dies Irae. Now the fever grew, and the darkness began to show himself. I moved the body away from its blood soaked setting and placed it on top of the wooden table. I quickly shut all the windows and curtains, and locked all of the doors. I disrobed the body down to its undergarments, and quickly searched the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers and placed the articles on top of a chair. I removed all the jewelry, also put them on top of the chair, and then I removed his shoes and placed those under the chair. I grabbed a washcloth from the basin and quickly cleaned up the blood that had been spilled. The room was still once more. Rex tremendae. The madness in me, the madness of a man fulfilling and creating such beauty, was now controlling my body the same way that a ballerina loses control over herself with Tchaikovsky. Continuing on with my black dance of death, I turned off all of the lights, leaving only the light of candles to illuminate the rest of my opus, and I poured a generous glass of Bordeaux from a splendid vintage and drank the wine. The red glass matched the rouge of the blood, as if I was drinking the man’s own, and through that, drinking in the spirit of death. Slowly, to make sure that I was going perfectly along with the score, I walked into the washroom. I looked at myself in the mirror; face somber and unmoving with red streaks of blood on my cheeks, as planned, and stared into my eyes. Confutatis. Without taking my eyes off my reflection, I reached into the drawer and pulled out my straight razor. Methodically, I stropped my instrument as a violinist tunes his. One, two. One, two. Timpani. Bassoons. One, two. One, two. The feverish violins demanded that the blade be sharp. I raised the razor up to my eyes and examined the sharpness of the blade. Alas, the moment of true artistic beauty was soon to arrive! Offertorium sanctus, what beauty and splendor will befall my legacy! With the retreat of the pulsating instruments came the calm of the vocal forces. Lacrymosa. Soprano, tenor, contralto. In that calm I paced back to where the body lay. Slowly, deliberately. My glare was fixed on that pathetic slab of flesh on my table. His breathing was getting more pronounced now, indicating that he would be awaking soon, as planned. A soloist, no matter how spectacular, needs accompaniment to achieve greatness. Unbeknownst to him, he would not only become art eternal, but he would also service me as my corps de ballet. Soprano, tenor, contralto. The time was soon to be upon us as the strings became more and more nervous. I stood over the face of the man, peering down into his twitching eyelids. By this time I was worried that he wouldn’t come to consciousness in time for the grand finale, thus ruining my masterwork. This, of course, was a chance I could not allow myself to take. For this very purpose, I had prepared myself with some smelling salts in my breast pocket. Under his blood dripped nose I waved the container. The violas began to escalate as his eyelids began to flutter. I watched as one eye slowly opened and focused on my being. As the crescendo drew upon us, the other eye flung itself open. The moment of triumph—my moment of triumph—was finally among us. My eyes pierced into his eyes. I smiled as I lifted up my instrument as the music began to reach its climax. Soprano, contralto, tenor, bass, violins, trombones, bassoons, timpani, basset horns, trumpets, basso continuo! A glorious and beautiful work of sublimity and death! Amen! And then, the music stopped.

2011-02-12T09:50:00.000-05:00

English Journal 11 (2011) is now available for viewing/downloading as a pdf here.
Thanks for taking a look!

Luscious Frisian Fur by Jon Hill

2011-02-11T10:40:00.000-05:00

Luscious Frisian fur cascades down her back as she throws her head back in what would better be described as an angel changing the feeling of happiness to sound rather than simple laughter. That happiness spreads inescapably to anyone around her, and a single glance from her eyes, like pools of molasses surrounding dark chocolate, will bring anyone out of the deepest abyss of depression. When her perfect lips form the simple crescent of a smile, forgive the cliché, but the entire room lights up. And in me it brings out an incredible mixture of happiness and longing, because even though I know she’s mine every second I’m away from her feels like forever, and then whenever I’m around her it makes up for whatever I felt while she was gone. When people stare at her as she walks by she doesn’t understand that it’s because she is perfection, she is salvation, she is the love of my life, the reason I’m failing my classes, and everything in between.

photo by Ian Engelberger

2011-02-10T16:46:00.002-05:00

Vesti la giubba by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-02-06T18:04:00.000-05:00

The lights on the street were beginning to flicker alive as she walked into her dark and empty apartment on the Via Ghibellina. She locked the door behind her and didn’t bother turning on the lights in her studio. Why would she? She loathed the apartment and everything in it. Everything to her was tainted, and used, and unmentionable. She was not happy with the apartment just as she was not happy with her life, wallowing in misery and the depths of stagnation. She dropped the wooden rosary, which she had taken with her earlier to evening mass at the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, on a sparse wooden table. She had gone to pray; at least that was her plan. But, as every day beforehand, instead of praying she had ended up repenting and begging for mercy when her day of judgment came; a day that could not come soon enough. Defeated as she always felt after prayer, she had no choice but to continue down her path until that day came, and until then, as they say, the show must go on, no matter how perverse or unsavory the show might be. Thus, she reopened a bottle of cheap vino rosso saved from the previous night’s ritual, and poured some into her dusty Bordeaux glass with the twisted stem. She drank her wine in the dark silence of her apartment with only the rays from a street lamp providing a dim light that filtered through her blinds casting a shadow along her face. It was completely dark outside. Silent and brooding, she walked into her washroom and lit a weak light over the sink. She opened an old bottle of red nail polish and methodically began to coat her chipped nails in a red that had long lost its gleam. Next she picked up a black eye-pen, a sad excuse for eyeliner with about only two more sharpens left in its length, and slowly, but not carefully, drew out the outlines of her eyes. Why should she make the effort to be careful in applying the blackness around her eyes, she thought as she stared at herself in the oxidized mirror over the basin. Her eyes and lips sagged, and her hair rumpled. The laugh lines around her mouth had ceased to be laugh lines and had become a jumbled web of ridged dermis that ended upon thin, pale lips. Neither a smile nor a twitch did she give herself in the mirror. The show must go on and this is all part of the act. She did not care for this show anymore, but to her dismay, she had no choice but to let it go on and on! Smile and the world smiles with you, they say! She raised her red lipstick to her lips and began painting a smile on those lifeless lips. Laugh, clown! Laugh! Ridi, Pagliaccio! Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart! Her lips, now as red as her bloodshot eyes, twist into a distorted feigned smile; a smile lifeless and unconvincing. There is a knock on the door. She walks to her locked door and opens it. A man wearing a suit almost as dark as her lined eyes holds up a hundred Euro bill to her face. With her red, twisted, and feigned smile, she leads in her first customer of the night and locks the door behind her.

untitled by Ian Engelberger

2011-02-01T08:12:00.002-05:00

photo by Ian Engelberger

2011-01-29T12:19:00.002-05:00

Poem by Kirsten Bouthiller

2011-01-28T09:52:00.000-05:00

Within Dreaming

Little things recall us to Earth
Like awakening in the depths of the night
The brilliant shine of the stars
Freckling the ever expansive universe
Beauty booming
Beckoning with her nightly songs
To his breath on my neck,
His arm wrapped tight around my waist

Like when reality turns her cheek
And the sky turns a dark, ominous grey
Swallowing up the fiery sun’s
Lustful shine
And dementia takes over
Swiftly as a morning’s bird takes flight
Into the passing hours

But the buzz of the alarm
Wakes me from my quiet dreaming

It’s the little things which recall us to Earth

The Calzone Manual by KT McVeigh

2011-01-27T11:04:00.001-05:00

The Calzone Manual

[click here for recommended preparatory reading]
Your friend has just turned into a calzone. The first thing you need to understand is that turning into a calzone is no fucking joke. This guide is something that should be read in advance if you have a pre-existing condition or have had family members turn into calzones. In the event of calzonification, both you and your partner should be prepared for the steps that must quickly follow.

The Early Stages

1. Do not panic. You will frighten the calzone. It is not productive for either of you.
2. Be very careful when handling your calzone friend. If it ruptures, game over.
3. A constantly debated and highly controversial topic is how to keep your calzone at the proper temperature. Many have resorted to using microwaves, while others insist that this is cruel treatment of the calzones, although they are unable to come up with a more humane alternative.

When Your Calzone Becomes Self-Aware

4. Calzones are infamous for freaking the fuck out. Rock your calzone like a baby to coax it to shut the fuck up. Calzone cries can reach dangerous volumes.
5. Talk to your calzone. Calzone fear is the number one leading cause of calzone death. Do not contribute to your calzone’s anxiety, it is likely already pretty concerned.
6. Read your calzone a story. Calzones love that shit.

Life With A Calzone

7. It has been suggested that wishes tattooed on your lower back will translate into writing on your crust if you undergo calzonification. This can be beneficial because:
a. Nobody wants to eat a calzone with writing on it, and
b. It can help your spouse or whoever is with you at the time to understand how you would like them to deal with the situation.

8. Some important topics to discuss ahead of time and possibly get tattooed on yourself might be:
a. Your opinion on microwaves
b. Your favorite stories
c. Desired burial grounds

9. The decision to remain a calzone or to end it all is a highly personal one, which we do not wish to touch on.

Billy Button Bought a Bat by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-01-25T09:49:00.004-05:00

After several shots of whiskey, and about three cigarettes, Billy Button, real name William Garfield Buttonowski, of the famous Buttonowskis of Westphalia, fell asleep on his bed made from the finest cat skin in all of England, which is quite the feat considering he was in Cincinnati. You see, Billy Button wasn’t always living in Cincinnati, he was actually born in the great sprawling acres of Western Westphalia, to Eucredio Buttonowski and Incontinentia Morowitz, owners of the biggest and best fish circus in all of Europe, The Fish BM Circus. This was, of course, many years ago, during a time where animal labor laws weren’t in place and no one made a big fuss about anything, especially the circus, which was incredibly popular at the time. Their most famous act was at the end of the show, when all of the herring and cod and white fish and depending on the season, salmon, would get into a straight line and juggle tiny little ginzu knives. Well, as one can already imagine, such tricks don’t come without dangers, and one night tragedy struck. One of the herring, Fred they called him, filleted himself during the juggling finale. After that, the show never fully recovered; the audience waned and Eucredio and Incontinentia were forced to close down their circus. That’s not to say they didn’t try their hand at opening a similarly themed cow circus, but by this time there were cow unions, and after the accident they had trying to shot a cow out of a canon, not many cows were interested, but I digress.

Billy Button slept that night, in his cold, lonely, desolate, and kitschy Cincinnati apartment alone, wearing his wool pajamas with blue choo-choo trains embroidered on them, the same pair that was given to him by his grandmother, Svendska Optini, inventor of giant squeaky toys for moose. She made millions of her invention, and was even able to put her favorite moose, Robert, through medical school.

The reason he was sleeping alone that night was because his wife, Castrata Poglioni, of the famous Poglioni Bacon Rope family, had left him the week before for Billy’s best friend, Patricio Mayer, son of Oscar Mayer. Castrata left Billy because according to her, Patricio Mayer had the best, and longest sausage in the Mid-West, while Billy had the wurst. This was all perfectly fine to Billy. It was an arranged marriage, set up when Billy was just a kid, and he never truly got around to liking Castrata’s moustache. The only thing that truly hurt Billy when she left was the fact that she took their dog Albert along with her, because now not only was he without a wife, but he was also left without someone to play cards with.

Billy Button tossed and turned that night like he had never done before, and he awoke in a cold sweat, yelling for dear Mercy. Mercy, by the way, was the name of his first aquatic animal, a lobster, which also happened to be his favorite. What was the matter, he thought to himself? He served himself a little more whiskey, like any good man would, and sat down in his favorite chair, a brown leather armchair made by midgets in Morocco. He had originally bought it as a birthday present for Dr. Robert, PhD, but he liked it so much he kept it for himself. He pondered and pondered why he had awoken in such a fury. Had he had a bad dream? Was there something awful about to happen? Billy didn’t know. And the fact that he didn’t know scared him. He then tried consoling himself that since he knew that he didn’t know, he knew something which is always better than knowing nothing. Then, it dawned on him. Billy realized that his life had become stagnant, and eroded. What happened to all the dreams and promises he had made? Whatever happened to that house he was going to buy in England, with the little garden for the neighboring children to play in? Whatever happened to his business? That was the reason he was in Cincinnati to begin with. Billy moved there many years ago with his wife at the time, Castrata, to begin his own Multilingual, Multilateral, Binocular, Bisexual, Bicentennial corporation, as he called it. Taking a cue from his grandmother Svendska, Billy set out to invent a new toy for animals, just as his grandmother had done to great success. He invented stick horses for horses. Well, at first the product really caught on and was quite the success for the first couple of years, before it all started to go downhill for him. Billy was sued by the Clydesdale Union for equine discrimination after a couple of his toys shattered under the sheer mass of a Clydesdale. Unfortunately for Billy, the Clydesdales won the lawsuit and got his business in the settlement. To make matters worse, on his way home from court Billy’s car was battered by a disgruntled boar, which had just lost his job over at the Mayer Factory. He tried to have his insurance cover it, but they dutifully pointed out that his policy didn’t cover acts of swine. In one day, Billy had lost his business, and his car, and was soon to lose everything else.

So there, sitting alone in his lonely apartment, Billy Button, who had changed his named to Button from Buttonowski when he crossed through Ellis Island (Buttonowski didn’t fit on his passport), realized that his family name, once the greatest of Westphalia, as started by his Great-Great-Grandfather, Albouster, the finest flea trainer in Europe, had in fact waned and fizzled to a mockery. The great princes and princesses of Europe did no longer know the Buttonowski, neither by face nor by fame. No more galas or parties; no more name recognition by the entire European moose community. So, that night, with a limp cigarette (he’d rather not talk about it), and a stiff drink in hand, Billy Button, nee Buttonowski, of the famous Buttonowskis of Westphalia, made a resolution right then and there in his choo-choo train pajamas. Billy Button would return the splendor, the vigor, the adoration of the people to his family’s name, even if it was the last thing he would do. He would bring the name Buttonowski back to greatness, and back to Europe!

Billy Button packed with great vigor, taking all of his suits and shoes and belts and suspenders (as to why someone would need both a belt and suspenders, I don’t know), and socks and boxers. He packed with great haste and precision, slowing down only to carefully wrap a silver picture frame around a pair of woolen briefs so that it would not break on his great trip. The picture in the frame was of great emotional value to Billy. It was of his first love, Eleonora, his prize-winning goat. At first his parents weren’t too keen on the idea of such a union when he first told them. But after a couple of days, they didn’t mind…and after a couple of shots, neither did the goat.

He called a cab as he read through his old moleskin address book. The book was special to Billy, because he used to personally know the mole, but that was a long time ago. Billy scanned through his contacts, looking for the best person to go to that would help him in his glorious quest for re-fabulousnessisation. After a couple of minutes the cab arrived, and Billy found exactly who he was looking for. The cab drove Billy to the train station, where Billy bought a one-way express ticket.

Before he knew it, Billy was sitting in a train, sharing a compartment with an old Turk who smelled of smoked ham (which, by the way, used to be his wife’s favorite smell) on the way to St. Gustav, the city that never siestas, to see his cousin, Yiminy.

This was all very well, except the last time Billy and Yiminy saw each other was years ago, when Yiminy discovered that Billy had been viciously mocking Yiminy behind his back to family and friends. You see, Yiminy had a Caesar complex—salad, not Julius—and had a knack for putting Parmesan cheese in his hair. But, I digress.

What If by KT McVeigh

2011-01-22T09:06:00.002-05:00

What if we had tentacles for legs? Like, where we have legs right now, there were just two tentacles. They could function as legs because of the muscle we built up over time from walking with them, we could bend the ends of them to act like feet. See, that’s the cool thing, we could bend them every way. Maybe we could apply some kind of lotion to them every day to keep the suctiony-suckers from drying up.

What if someone had gray skin? Not sallow: literally gray, like the color of an old chalkboard or an old movie. Unnatural gray, like living, breathing decay. Their eyes would seem pretty yellow in comparison. Their teeth, too. In fact, say they had not only gray skin, but chronically yellow eyes and teeth. And black lips, and black gums. Picture them standing over your bed at night, and you wake up and see them staring down at you, watching you sleep. I would be terrified. I would be terrified to wake up to anyone watching me sleep, but I would be especially terrified if they were gray. What does that say about me?

What if we were magnetic? See, this idea was short lived because you wouldn’t last very long. It all depends on your polarity, I guess. You sit at your desk and you attract a paperclip, it pokes you but, it’s no big deal. You walk down the street and you get stuck to the side of a bus, that couldn’t end well. Unless somebody at the next stop notices you and tries to get you down, but then they’re pissed because they can’t get their watch off of your chest and they have to leave it with you or they’ll miss their meeting… but that does you no good because you just unintentionally stole someone’s watch and all of these magnetic memories from your magnetic childhood are coming back to you, along with the realization that you can’t even see the head of the watch because it is in fact on your chest, and you get stuck to the rail on the stairs up to your place of work while thinking about that time in elementary school when all of the other kids covered you in magnets and it took two of the nurses to pry each one off, quite painfully, one by one. No. It would really suck to be magnetic.

What if you were holding hands with me and you looked away for just a second and you looked back and you were holding a calzone? And I’m nowhere to be found… you’re completely stunned, but eventually it dawns upon you that, however impossible this may seem, I’ve just turned into a calzone. I am a flaky, delicious piece of dough filled with hot, creamy cheese, and nobody is going to believe you. What do you do?

Poem by KT McVeigh

2011-01-14T10:38:00.001-05:00

Cornfield

I navigated around the first few trenches and began to run
Blood pounding through my ears
Mud splattering the back of my legs
I stopped and lifted my face to the sky
And screamed as loud as I possibly could
Fists clenched
My whole body shook with the effort
My throat ached as my voice grew hoarse
But it didn’t even echo.
No birds flew out of the trees
And I realized with a chill that I was closer to the woods than the road
And I sprinted back to the car
My dad didn’t say anything, we just drove away
I made him pull over to a cornfield that day
But it wasn’t profound
I sat in the backseat
Panting
Adrenaline pumping through my veins
Feeling as empty as before.

What I've Done by Danielle Tunkel

2011-01-06T13:42:00.003-05:00

from Danielle's journal
click for larger

Breakfast of Cigs by Manolo Gonzalez

2011-01-05T11:50:00.001-05:00

As I sit at the gate, heading to Paris-Charles DeGaulle, as the information screen so aptly reminds me, I get a sudden need for a delicious, life-shortening cigarette. Well, as a fellow smoker might agree, one gets a sudden, if not expected, craving to smoke after one eats, especially something as hearty as food from the airport Burger King. Helps the food go down, they say. Well, I am craving a cigarette with nowhere to smoke it. So, I ask you this: where did all the smoking lounges go?

I remember a time where one could smoke inside the airplane. Ricky Ricardo in the airplane’s smoking lounge, Philip Seymour Hoffman at the airport smoker’s lounge. (He just looks like someone who would do that) The glory days where smoking bothered no one, and was even encouraged by the masses, have passed, and now, smokers of the world are trapped inside an overcrowded terminal with no way of indulging their inner demons. And that, my friends, is just rude.

Trapped. Trapped, I say. Because, when one has a consuming habit, that is what you relate to in a situation where you are closed off with no way to the outside world, and are bombarded with endless No Smoking signs on every pillar, every blank wall.

My legs, trembling from the need, the desire, shake up and down. I can’t stand it any longer! But what is someone like me to do? I guess I could go to the bar and have a drink to take my mind off my naughty vice, but when I drink I need to smoke. It’s all part of the look, so that’s no good. Starbucks? Eh, fuck coffee. One can’t have coffee without cigarettes. It would be like having Sonny without the Cher. Nothing is a better sinful combination than coffee and cigarettes, not even Spiro Agnew in a bikini, which would be priceless. Nope.

So, now the mind starts racing, trying to find a solution to this dilemma at hand; what would happen if I did light up my black Djarum in Gate 25? Would they sic the dogs on me? Would they taser me? Or maybe they would give me a complimentary cavity check? Whatever it is, it can’t be more than a fine. A lowly fine. It would be worth it, for a smoke. But would I have time to even finish one? Most likely not. I would probably be pounced upon faster than a nude Raquel Welch at a nursing home. Or maybe I’ll get arrested and miss my flight to Paris-Charles DeGaulle? Oh no, that must not happen.

So, now I seriously begin to contemplate leaving the terminal, going to the drop-off for a smoke, then do the security line all over again. I would have to remove my shoes and belt again, quite the pain. But, can one even do that? Do they let you walk in again after you’ve already walked in? The boarding pass is stamped and all. What if the line is obscenely long and I miss the flight? We wouldn’t want that. And, it’s also cold outside, and all I’ve got on is a measly sweater. That won’t do.

Three cops walk by, looking ultra-serious and solemn. They look constipated. As they walk past, I wonder if they intercepted my sinister plan of smoking? Well, that and the contraband matches that I so deviously snuck into the terminal, which, according to the lovely sign in the front, is a big no-no. But, what if I do go outside? I have 55 minutes until the flight is scheduled to board, and word in the street is that it is, unsurprisingly, running 20 minutes late. Fuck it, I’m going outside!

As I make my rushed way towards the smoke haven that is the drop-off, I take a peek and look at the security line that I will inevitably have to venture through again. It’s not too bad, not too bad at all, actually. Barely any sluggish faces pushing their carry-ons with their feet. So, with that information gladly in mind, I endeavor to go outside.

Those first puffs, the feeling of fulfillment, and even of gratitude is almost too much for me to bear. The joy rushes back into me, I calm down, my leg stops shaking. I spend the next glorious 20 minutes puffing away at two black Djarums. Standing by the trashcan, along with someone who appears to be Jack Palance’s father and a rather fat Canadian, I so feverishly enjoy the feeling of the supple filter between my chapped lips. I people watch and spot a sad blue Super Shuttle, and watch as a group of Koreans exit the van. At least 20 of them. As to how they all fit in that blue van, I will never know. Nor do I want to know.

Goddamn it’s cold outside, but I would stand naked in the middle of the Siberian wasteland for two fags. For two Virginia killing sticks. It’s ridiculous to even try to explain my exalted state; after so much planning, after so much scheming, I finally have reached the promised land. Still, it would be nice if those smoking lounges were still around.

I now have 35 minutes to get to the flight. Plenty of time. I walk back into the terminal, ready to face the long cock of the law. A couple of people, I imagined; exactly as it had been before I had left it. Little did I imagine, those 20 Koreans would be in line, and each of them appearing to have difficulty knowing what the hell having their boarding passes and passports in hand meant. This can’t bode well for me.

I now have 25 minutes to get to the plane, and I have just arrived at the formidable woman that stamps your boarding pass.

“You were already in here” she said.
“Yes. Yes I was.”
“And now you want to come back in?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“You can’t do that.” How dare she.
“I needed to go outside for some air.”
“Why were you outside?”
“I needed to smoke.”
“Well, sir, you should’ve smoked prior to passing the security check” she said. How helpful. I wanted to yell at her all the many reasons why someone like me can’t have a cigarette before they pass the security check, as there is no smoking area, but all I could come up with was a feeble “Ya don’t say?”
“We’re going to have to give you a special check.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you didn’t receive any contraband while outside.”
“But I was just outside. What could I have possible gotten outside? If I go through regular security they would pick it up, no?”
“Not if you hid it within your body, sir.”
“So you’re going to check that I didn’t shove anything up my ass while I was just outside?”
“Yes.”
“Who would possibly do that!”
“You’d be surprised, sir.”
“Is that right? Well, I only have 25 minutes to catch my flight to Paris.”
“Well, sir, you should have thought about that before you exited the terminal.”
“I wouldn’t have had to exit the terminal if you people had kept the smoking lounge…”

I won’t bother you with what went on next. Needless to say, the lovely Cuban security guard got to know me very well. Too well for someone who didn’t even buy me dinner or give me a reach-around. Rude.

I barely reached my flight. The woman was about to close the door, and as we all know, once they close the door God help them if they should re-open it for someone who had just gone through a serious dilemma.

The airlines must be playing some sort of cruel joke. The seats are of course vile, but the worst part is that they insist on including ashtrays on the arms rests. Ashtrays? Really? As if by some miracle one were allowed to smoke in the plane. Such cruel teases must be reserved for sexy girls with red hair and strippers in New Jersey, but certainly not for airlines. As if that wasn’t enough to bear, the fat man sitting in the seat in front of you refuses to sit still, thus shaking your tray and making it impossible to even type on a computer. Oh no, now we must suffer through the brandishing of relics from a golden age once passed. Remnants from the time when Ricky Ricardo was allowed to smoke in an airplane, negated by the ever-lit sign with a cigarette crossed out. A paradox greater cannot exist in God’s green earth than seeing a hungry ashtray under a No Smoking sign. How can one be expected to endure a dozen hours of this taunting?

After six hours, the ashtray seems to follow me everywhere I look. It seems to mock me for my past sins; it taunts me. The feeling is almost unbearable. Thank God I’m not a nymphomaniac.

Ah, Paris: a smoker’s paradise. When I light up there, I get no angry faces of disgust as one does in Los Angeles; no death threats for endangering the air of the majestic seagull. None of that bullshit. Smoking in the taxi, smoking in the bistros, the cafés, the hospital. It’s a dream come true for any hedonistic man of the world. Happy at last. But, little did I know, fate would fuck me in the ass again.

At the baggage carousel in Charles DeGaulle, I stepped through the automatic sliding doors for a couple of glorious cigarettes as I waited for that obnoxious alarm and rotating red light that signals the operation of the carousel to go off. As to why they have the red spinning lights, I don’t know. They’re more like party lights to me. As I stood outside, gazing through the glass panes at the carousel, waiting for it to begin moving and spitting out bags, I saw a woman standing by the machine that gives you the pushcarts. It was quite bizarre, actually. She was this gorgeous Holly Golightly type, with a black cocktail dress, high heels, and enough diamonds to appease Elizabeth Taylor. At first I thought she was one of those overzealous First-Class passengers who are perpetually over-dressed. Then I thought she was just French, and that was explanation enough. Truth is, I have no idea what or who she was. All I recall is her standing still, holding a brown paper box in her hands, and staring right at me. She didn’t move, she didn’t flinch, the only thing that was moving was her chest, up and down, as she took her breaths. As if that wasn’t strange enough, the movements of her chest coincided with the drags of my cigarette, as if they were in tandem. I looked down to put out my cigarette for a second, I looked up, and she was completely gone. Truly, she was gone faster than Megan Fox’s career. If I didn’t have my cigarettes at the time, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Bloody French.

I arrived at The Plaza Athene, excited to sit in my dark suite and smoke long, sexy French cigarettes with a bottle of merlot by my side. Needless to say, that wasn’t the case.
“I am sorry sir, there was a mix up with your original reservation for a smoking room,” said the diminutive French concierge, his lapel pen glistening into my eyes. How irritating.
“Well, that’s fine, just give me another room.”
“Absolutely, sir, but I am sorry to inform you that there aren’t any smoking rooms available at the moment.” My heart sank deep into the depths of my bowels.
“There is nothing available?”
“Nothing, sir. I do apologize.”
I wanted to rip off the tiny Frenchman’s lapel and wipe that contemptuous smirk from his frog face, but I didn’t, because I’m classier than that. No, instead I took the room. That sad, disgusting, Non-Smoking room where the only smoke coming out of anything is from the coffee that’s brought in every morning, and by coffee I mean Grand Old Parr’s Whiskey. No more dreams of dark rooms and long, sexy French cigarettes and merlot. One can’t even dream of a blunt and a wine cooler. Nothing. My French paradise had now become my French prison. Soapy Franco television shows and commercials about orange juice have lost their charms, as without cigarettes, there is nothing.

I spent most of my time out and about the streets of Paris, as one would imagine. I would roam the beautiful twisted rues of Hugo’s time, while enjoying myself a deliciously satisfying cigarette. How French. How droll.

It started to snow, one especially cold evening it was. As I was standing outside, enjoying the firsts puffs of a cigarette, a large wind gust hurdling mounds of snow effectively ended my romance with that lone cigarette. I had no choice but to return to my isolated tower of urges and prepare myself for a smokeless night.

Outside my room the wind ravaged the lonely boulevard. The shrills of the wind, yelling “smoke, smoke” echoed through my walls and reverberated down my spine. No better time to have a cigarette than during a cold night to warm you up, I say. A nice cigarette and a sip of whiskey can make even the coldest human out there as warm as a prostitute’s thighs.

But once again, I found myself in the same rotten situation as I did in the airport - I was surrounded, enclosed, without a way out for a cigarette. How do I keep getting myself into these situations will always remain a blur to me, but it is moments like this that I wish there could be a smoking lounge inside my hotel room. After about 4 hours of pacing around my room, aimlessly, looking, searching, hoping for a calm in the weather so I could go out to my balcony and feel once more the sensual pleasure of a filter in my mouth, the smoke in my lungs. The feeling of fulfillment in my life once more is all I asked for. But, alas, the weather did not clear up ‘til morning, and by then, I was at the outer limits of desperation: a place where no man should ever go. That morning I had an entire pack of cigarettes. My life was once more complete.

France has a great history of smoking; its glamorous ways comparable to the aristocracy. Once the capital of the cigarette by my standards has now devolved itself into this new “smoking kills” fad that seems to be nothing more than a way to push the views of one group onto another. If we want to smoke then let us smoke, but don’t you dare deny our right to do so. You don’t smoke wherever you like, so let us smoke wherever we like! You say that the smoke annoys you? Yeah, well, your clean air annoys us! The glory days of cigars and brandy are gone, and now we smokers are left to scramble to the nearest dusty corner where smoking is permitted, next to the streetwalkers and the degenerates. It makes my blood curdle, especially when these bastards say stupid things like “stop smoking and save your life”. You can’t save a life. No matter what or who you are. Whether you’re a doctor, or a paramedic, or a cabaret singer who decided to stop smoking, you can’t save your life. A life cannot be saved. At most, you can postpone death. Or, even as such, elongate your life. But never save.

After a lovely smoke filled week in Paris, my time in the smoke haven was coming to a close. I started to dread having to re-enter once more the dismal abyss of airports, where no smoker is safe. Not safe, as for a smoker being without a place to smoke is like a truck driver being without a place to drive to, or a drover without a place to…drove.

I didn't want to take any chances. That next bitter cold morning, I stood outside Paris Charles DeGaulle, and smoked an entire box of Djarum Noirs, as they say. I was in no position to risk not being able to enjoy my delectable vice once inside, for, unlike last time, I had a layover in New York JFK, and God knows the Yankees don't let a cigarette anywhere near their compound of scattered modern buildings, who frightfully so, look about as modern as Joan Rivers. So, after many hours of smoking and thinking the night before, I decided to smoke as many cigarettes as humanly possible, before I was obliged to resign myself to the debauched rules of the modern airport, and, this being France, you never fucking know if there are the ever elusive Smoking Lounges of previous times in the actual airport. I didn't want to take any chances...bloody French.

That disgusting, arid air filled flight from Paris to New York was only my halfway point in the excursion of hell. And now, now that that horrid excuse for traveling was over, I had 2 hours to kill, or to kill myself, in a terminal of JFK. I had one unopened box of Djarum Black in my coat pocket, which just sat in there, mocking me. My black and silver Zippo, all the while, would click nervously against my thumb, yelling at me to put it to good use. The Zippo was yelling at me. I needed a smoke at once!

But, of course, I was stuck within the tacky stucco walls of the John Fitzgerald Kennedy airport. Where is a sophisto, a bon vivant, a man of the world who enjoys a smoke, supposed to smoke? The world has gotten progressively tacky. Less adventurous. Less glamorous. Traveling in style, as they did in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, as James Bond, smoking in the first class cabin while wearing a suit and Ray Bans and sipping on rum. Remember that? These days, people travel in pajamas and bring their own sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil. Generic brand aluminum foil, mind you. It appears to me that with the acceptance of smoking and the riddance of all those tree hugging, PETA supporting, Prius driving pussies, the modern world may, quite perhaps, see the dawning of a resurgence of style, class, of glamour. But until then, we smokers are doomed to wait 2 hours in a stuffy, fluorescent terminal while waiting for our connecting flight to Los Angeles. Bull shit.

So, unable to smoke, I just sat there, in that cheap, plastic seat at JFK airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Los Angeles. If there is anything worse than the French in my eyes then it’s probably le Americans. The French may be strange, cowardly people, but at least they have art, delicious food, and nearly unrestricted smoking. That is much better compared to Americans, who have banned smoking everywhere from bars, to, get this, outside. Yes, it’s true. Smoking is banned in the open air, on the streets, in Santa Monica, California. It is illegal to smoke on the sidewalks of that now useless, and incredibly annoying city. But, that’s not the kicker, oh no. The kicker is that although one is not allowed to smoke standing outside, it is legal to smoke inside one’s vehicle with the windows down. Car exhaust is much better for the environment than a little cigarette smoke. Isn’t that right, Santa Monica, California? Douche bags. Let a man smoke!

The plane from New York to Los Angeles was, like usual, utterly and completely disgusting. I have seen cleaner surfaces on hemorrhoids than I have on commercial airplanes. It’s ghastly and appalling. Let me tell you, if I had my own private jet, one beautiful, luxurious, smoke filled private jet, with clean surfaces and endless, joyous smoking, I would be happy. I’d be happier than Liza Minnelli when she takes her pills.

I began to feel a little off, as in uncomfortable, or whatever, and decided to go to sleep. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but it was a strange sensation. Not necessarily pain, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Aging sucks. It sucks more than Linda Lovelace.

After a couple of grueling hours, we arrived at LAX, that sterile, white zone fragranced with the smell of soft shell chicken tacos, and self-tanning lotion. As I walked towards baggage claim, I felt my legs sluggish and weak, most uncharacteristic of me. I rushed as fast as I could to the exit, right outside of the carousel room, so that I could smoke a cigarette and calm down from whatever it was that ailing me.

It had simply been too long without smoking a life-affirming cigarette, I said to myself. Next time, I travel by land. Last time I take commercial aviation, my body can’t handle it anymore. I can’t go five, six hours without a cigarette, just as a baby can’t go more than three hours without eating. It is a human necessity, and if my body asks for it, you can be damn sure I’m going to give it to it. I’m going to give it to it like Ike Turner to Tina.

The weather was a splendid 70 degrees or so outside of the baggage claim. I leaned against the glass pane, much like I had done at Charles DeGaulle, and took out my beloved Djarum Blacks. I put it to my lips, lit my new Zippo lighter that I bought at the Moulin Rouge, containing a picture of a, shall we say, vulnerable French girl, and lit my strongly needed cigarette.

That unique rush of euphoria took over my body again, and all was well once more.

As I took a drag from my cigarette I glanced inside the baggage claim to check if the carousel had begun to spin, and then I saw her. The Holly Golightly, the overdressed Parisian with the brown paper box, was standing inside, just as she had been in Paris-Charles DeGaulle. At that moment, my heart stopped inside my chest: could this be true? Is that fancy bitch really here, in Los Angeles, with that outdated brown paper box? I was completely paralyzed by her sight; that delicate beauty just staring at me. I tried to take another puff of my cigarette, but my arms seemed to be unable to move in her presence. She made the most intense eye contact with me that I had ever experienced in my life, and that is saying a lot. I’ve spoken face to face with Tom Cruise…that man makes you feel guilty if you blink, his contact is so intense.

With cigarette in hand, and eyes locked, she began to slowly saunter her way towards me, without even so much as a blink. I, too, found myself unable to break my eye contact with her. Her incredibly large and perfectly rotund eyes put me in a trance, and at the center of those eyes were completely jet-black pupils; like a fly in a bowl of milk.

She kept making her way towards me, then stopped about arm’s length from me. Confused, and a little aroused by this mysterious lady in black and diamonds, I began to feel that strange sensation again; the same sensation as in the plane.

With her two delicate and petite arms, she held out the brown paper box. I tried to reach for it (and “accidently” cop a feel of her boob, but I digress), but my arms were as immobile as before.

She unwrapped the brown paper, slowly, almost painstakingly slow, and then opened up the cardboard box that lay within the paper.

Well, you can pretty much guess my reaction when I took a peek inside the box and saw two decayed lungs lying inside. They were my lungs, actually. At first I didn’t realize that they were mine, but our syncopated breaths made it impossible to miss. Then, suddenly, as hard as I tried, and believe me, I tried harder than a four-hour erection, the lungs stopped their cycle of inflating and deflating.

I dropped to the floor, and with luscious cigarette in hand, died outside the domestic baggage claim at LAX. And the worst part is, my dear gentlemen, is that there is No Smoking in heaven. FML.

Poem by Elsa Morante

2010-12-30T20:19:00.001-05:00

Minna the Siamese

I’ve got a little animal, a cat: her name is Minna.

Whatever I put in a plate, she eats,

and whatever I put in a bowl, she drinks.

Crouching she comes to me, watches me, then sleeps,

so soundly I forget she’s there. But if, then,

grateful, I call her name, in sleep an ear

trembles: her name casts a shadow over her sleep.

To give joy and grace, she has a little guitar;

if I scratch her little head or neck, she sweetly plays.

If I think of the centuries and all that divides us,

I’m afraid. Afraid for me: she knows nothing of this.

But if I see her playing with a string, if I gaze

at her pale blue irises, happiness is mine again.

On holidays, when everyone is merry,

I feel sad for her, that she doesn’t discern between the days.

So that she too will celebrate, for lunch I give her a little fish;

the motive she can’t understand: but joyous, she eats.

Heaven, for love of her, gave her nails and teeth:

but she, so gentle, only uses them in play.

I am taken by sadness at the thought that, even if I were to take her life,

I’d have no trial, no fires of hell, no prison.

She gives me so many kisses that to be kind to her I flatter myself,

but I know that another mistress, or me, to her it makes no difference.

She follows me, so I believe I am everything to her,

but I know my death could not touch her...

(1941)

Translated by Nick Benson from the Italian of Elsa Morante (1912-1985), Alibi. Longanesi, 1958; Garzanti, 1988.

Poem by John Alter

2010-12-15T11:54:00.000-05:00

Etymology
The angels in heaven
those who wear pearls and
vintage blazers gossip in Latin and know that when you add the suffix
-ous
to a word it means full of when they heard
the good news of your arrival
it is reported exclaimed one to the other

good gracious
have mercy

The angels in heaven
those who love to walk
from one end to the other of their home town
& carry
in celestial bags all that a good day requires
when they heard the good news of your arrival
exclaimed

good gracious
have mercy

For us who remain here
with our forlorn dictionaries
with the streets of our home town that seem
less inhabited
who are clearly not angels
what remains to some measure is what
you taught us

love’s etymology
how by adding the prefix com-
to the word passion
you discover a compassionate universe
how by replacing the prefix con-
with trans- you discover
love’s transformative power

O our need remains also
for those angels who insist on wearing
pearls
even when the only task at hand is to
rake the fallen leaves who know what it means to
say
vir bonum semper discipilus est

--for Margaret Addicks

A Letter by Manolo Gonzalez

2010-12-14T10:04:00.001-05:00

My Beloved Editor, Ms. Wintour:

As we both know, my glorious 300-page novel is due in about eleven hours. Well, there is just one tiny problem with making that deadline. Now, now, before you fret and gird your loins, let me assure you that the novel, aptly titled Untitled (very avant-garde, don’t you think?) is completely and one-hundred percent finished, and written in its entirety, from beginning to end. It has been proof read, water proofed, edited, illustrated and even indexed by yours truly, and I do most certainly believed that you will find it most adequate for publication. In fact, it was even dedicated to you by yours-truly:
“To a never ending Wintour.”

At first I thought it was too kitsch, but a little sparkle goes a long way, don’t you think?

Anyways, as you most certainly are aware I spent the last year in seclusion, writing this opus of mine in an extremely secluded location, Cancun, Mexico. There I would write day and night ferociously, with absolutely no human contact or distractions. At all. Ever. But of course, when decided on by pure necessity, I had to venture outside and chat with the locals while I gathered up my living essentials. The natives of Cancun, of course, speak Spanish. I, myself, being from Colombia and having Spanish as my mother tongue, I only spoke and thought in Spanish without even thinking twice about it.

In here lies the problem; because I was speaking in Spanish, listening to Spanish, thinking and living in Spanish, I was writing in Spanish. Unbeknownst to me, I wrote the entire novel in Spanish. Everything is completely in Spanish, thus being completely useless to your current needs.

Unfortunately, I will require another full year to properly and coherently translate my book, Untitled, into standard American English. This is a most regrettable set back, but I can guarantee you that I am doing everything in my power to make sure that the novel is translated in as little time as possible. To guarantee that it is done quickly and as efficiently as possible, and in English this time, I have secluded myself in the quietest American city imaginable, New Orleans, Louisiana. As I write I am currently locked up in my flat above the quaint Bourbon Street, in the incredibly charming French Quarter. In fact, it has proven to be such a perfect place to write, that I have already translated one full page of the novel. This page is, of course, available at your disposal at any time you so desire. And now, I must return to my translations.

Kindly,

I. C. Buttz

P.S. Since in essence I am actually writing two separate novels, one in Spanish, and one in English, I am going to require double payment. Cash is preferable, due to the scarcity of banks in isolated New Orleans. Cheers.

News Item by Manolo Gonzalez

2010-12-06T10:19:00.001-05:00

Valentino De La Mancha, 18, was killed yesterday in a series of the most unfortunate events. At approximately 2am he was driving his black Mercedes-Benz down Santa Monica Boulevard, with passengers Kleo Viterelli and Neguisa Bostani, when they struck a speeding, red SmartCar as they made a left turn on the intersection of Santa Monica and Beverly Glen. No one in the Mercedes or the Smartcar was injured but the SmartCar was completely destroyed. The driver of the red SmartCar escaped with cuts and bruises, and literally, we mean ‘escape.’ It turns out the driver of the SmartCar, an unidentified red-headed man, had stolen the car from the parking lot of Kisses–n-Hugs Children’s restaurant, located on Wilshire Boulevard and Barrington. With the police already chasing him, he made a run for it after the collision, and was finally apprehended hours later hiding behind an empty Blockbuster, a place where ‘no one would go and find him’.

When the police arrived on the scene, merely seconds after the crash and after the unidentified man escaped, they discovered that De La Mancha, as well as his passengers, were all completely naked inside the vehicle.

“They said they were Canadian,” explained Officer Guadalajara, who was at the scene. “There ain’t no law against driving while on the naked in Cali, so we just lettem go, esay.”

Left a little but shaken and confused, De La Mancha and passengers continued on their way, where according to reports, they stopped at a 76 Gas Station, Ralph’s Supermarket, and at Chi Chi LaRue’s on Little Santa Monica Boulevard before continuing their trip, heading towards Malibu.

“Our plan was just to have a picnic outside of Cher’s house,” said Bostani, 18, who survived the ordeal, along with Viterelli.

“We tried to figure out an outfit that would be something akin to what Cher would wear, but when we couldn’t come up with anything fabulous enough we just decided to go there nude,” finished Viterelli.

Once at Cher’s house, located in the northern stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, about 20 second from Pepperdine University, tragedy struck the group.

“At Ralph’s Supermarket we bought those fancy little Ferrero Rocher chocolates, because they’re delicious and we thought that they would be something Cher would eat, because they’re delicious,” said Bostani, “but then Valentino tried to eat two at once and he began to choke. Everyone knows that the correct way to eat a Ferrero Rocher is to eat one layer by layer.”

De La Mancha continued choking on the two chocolate balls in his mouth, with his two friends unable to, or unwilling to, help.

“He eats like that all the time,” said Viterelli, “we thought he was used to having two balls in mouth by now.”

Without the help of his two friends, De La Mancha continued choking, making very loud whopping noises bent over the car. In fact, his choking noises became so loud that at approximately 4am, Cher herself came out from her house to see what was happening outside.

“Those two huge, fabulously gothic yet, a tad Venetian gates opened up, and we knew that it was Cher, we just knew. When we saw it was her, we were awestruck. Actually, you could say we were Moonstruck. But Valentino, he was still choking and didn’t hear her walk out because of all the noise he was making,” said Bostani. “But once he did see her, still choking, and naked, he got completely surprised. Too surprised, I would say.”

After the appearance of Cher, De La Mancha was so surprised that even with two chocolate balls in his throat, he swallowed, and thus, ceased to be choking.

“That was all good, but then in his shock and amazement, he didn’t see where he was stepping and he got run over by a speeding black Prius. It was dark, and the car makes no noise; it was impossible to know it was there.”

The driver of the Black Prius, while still at large, has been described as a tall, red haired man, seen by a witness around a Blockbuster parking lot earlier that night. There are currently no leads on the hit and run driver.

“It really sucks, but at least we got our picture with Cher,” said Bostani.

“She’s fabulous,” said Viterelli.

Valentino De La Mancha died at Cedars Sinai Medical Center earlier this morning from the injuries related to the accident at 6am.

“A large shard of glass sliced his leg open in one clean cut. This would have been easily prevented if he were wearing jeans,” said Dr. Rhuman, treating surgeon at Cedars Sinai.

De La Mancha is survived by two illegitimate children, Amadeus, 2, and Rigoberta, 1, birthed by two different mothers. He was a beloved student and classmate, known for his big heart in supplying alcohol to the teachers and sharing with the class. He will be best known for his generosity in supplying illicit substances to his friends and colleagues.

“His motto always was Chering is Caring,” said his 11th grade teacher, Ms. Cox, with tears in her eyes.

He will surely be missed.

Memorial services are scheduled for this Monday at 8pm, unless a new episode of Gossip Girl is on, in which case it would be postponed until Thursday.

Poem by Cola Hines

2010-12-03T18:36:00.001-05:00

Against Description

Well I’d say in general there is too much in here

and when you open it up, it all falls out —

so why invite us anyway? To help clean up this mess,

or be impressed —

but anyone saturated with stuff and nonsense would agree

a breath of fresh air is far more useful

you carry the antidote around

in a pocket

amid the clutter this does not connect yet another

thing that shrieks unbidden —

the last refuge of content a high shelf above the door; watch out when you reach up

your smile is an airport and I travel far; but in the pleasant and cobbled streets

of Viscera I meet Migraine —

she has sexy legs and a face you can’t imagine. End of story

Sonnet by Karen Layman

2010-11-30T11:07:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I am crazy—I see things, I hear things.
I remember my dreams with startling clarity,
Wonderful, chaotic tangles of people and various other strings
But the real and mundane? I only bother with them rarely
But I’m not the only one—I can’t be
There must be someone, somewhere
Who is “weirder” than me.
Or do all of us “wierdos” live in our own castles in the air?
Maybe we’re all insane—
“We’re all mad here”
Every one of us, running around and raising Cain
Each in our own right a chevalier
And a hoper, and a schemer—
Or perhaps I’m merely a chronic daydreamer.

Poems by KT McVeigh

2010-11-27T13:26:00.002-05:00

The Sea

I’m sitting on the beach

With my legs out in front of me, bent at the knees

And my hands propping me up on the damp sand

And the red sun will never set

It’s stamped into the sky

The waves beat against each other

They are capped with white

Their friction is a furious motion

But they just fall into each other

They just sink and become one

They are the way things are

They are the way it is

They are not beautiful

They are charming

They have an abysmal charm

Like a long finger bending into itself

I watch you, waves

The shore is round and black

The sea goes on forever

Forever is the sea

I am a dot on the edge of the sea

* * *

I am in our room

With the thin velvet blanket

Which was a sort of pea green

And there were seagull decals on the sliding glass door

And there were shells we collected in the ashtray on the porch

And the floors were smooth, flat, white rock tiles bigger than my head at the time

And the porch was a box on the side of the building

And if you pressed your nose against the screen it went out of focus and you could see the ocean

But the camera could only do that once or twice

And those are the pictures I’ve misplaced that are burned into my memory

Of the blinding white sun with the orange and pink and purple and navy

And the black silhouette of the osprey in the nest at the top of the palm tree

The sun sliding down into the sea

How it looked like a runny egg

To me

But now that I’ve written this down

I’m going to forget it

Because I’ve somehow subconsciously given myself that permission

Up until now I’ve had to regularly summon back that memory

Those sensory details

And picture myself there

So I wouldn’t forget

So it would stay etched in my mind forever

That scene

Of sitting on that bed

And feeling those cool tiles beneath my little feet

And pushing back the curtains and….

That smell

When I push back the curtains, my nostrils flare and I deeply inhale the something that should be there

In my memory I can expect it

The sweet aroma of somewhere I haven’t been in years

But there’s nothing

That’s the saddest thing

The saddest thing of all is that I can’t remember the smell

Only when I smell it

Which I did recently

And I fell back against the wall and I felt like I couldn’t breathe

Because I don’t know what causes the smell

It’s unidentifiable with anything but that apartment

And when I smell it, there I am

I am in our room with the orange juice carton and the low chandelier above the round kitchen table

And the counter and the stove and the closet full of beach supplies

The umbrellas and the plastic molds of crabs and sandcastle molds and buckets and shovels and the boogie boards and the blow-up raft

And the blueberry muffins Dad used to bring home for breakfast

And the fridge and the bathroom with the light above the mirror and the TV in the middle of the room where we’d watch the Disney channel

And Mommy and Daddy’s room that was always dark and like a cave

And the carpet and the closet and the must and the shades

And the sound of our steps echoing down the hallways as we ran

And the smell of outside with the palm trees

And Uncle Bob’s

And the ice cream

And the red trolley

And the pointy #1 necklace Daddy hid under the rock for me

And the pirates and the other kids and the grass and the sun and the birds and the fishing poles and the smiles and the waves and the laughing, always laughing

And the thin velvet blanket on my bed

Which was a sort of pea green

But softer, sweeter

And comforting

And my bright runny egg, sliding down into the sea

And the smell of the curtains

Which is gone.

And if fate doesn’t happen to direct me to where it lingers

I might never know that smell again

dialogic interlude/coffee break by Nellie Simmons

2010-11-21T15:59:00.000-05:00

So who are you?

I'm not really sure. I go by a few names. Char, Charlie, Nells, Baja...and for a time, Ryann.

What would you like us to call you?

I suppose Nellie is good. That's how many know me. So yeah, Nellie.

Okay, Nellie it is. So what do you want us to know?

well...I'm drinking Pirate Death Coffee...I don't know if anyone really cares, but I am.

Pirate Death Coffee? What is it?

Well, I'm not sure. It's....deathly.

It sounds strong.

It is...It's strong enough to let you fight off a pirate attack...or, join one. At least, that's what I've been told.

But it's like...1:45 in the afternoon....you realize that, right?

Oh yes. Yes, I am fully aware of the time. Are you aware of what time it REALLY is?

Um...excuse me?

The real time. Are you aware?

Um...yes, of course. Anyway, let's continue, shall we?

Of course not. We have to drink our Pirate Death Coffee first.

But...can't you drink it and talk at the same time?

Oh yes, I'm sure I can. The question is, can you?

Can I what? Drink and talk?

No, of course you can't. They allow you to drink on the job? What kind of people are your employers?

Uhm...no, I mean...wait...what? Who's conducting this interview anyway? You or me?

You or me? Or you or I? Which shall we be? I am, of course. Here, drink this, it will help.

What is it?

I told you, Pirate Death Coffee. Real pirates don't cry. Come on now, get it together.

Journal entry by Kirsten Bouthiller

2010-11-19T14:42:00.000-05:00

I roll out of bed and stumble onto the hard, roughly carpeted floor. Cold and tired, my head is already throbbing. It is too early for this. Just found out that Andrew took the car last night so I can’t drive up to see Sean. Awesome. Oh, and now I’m in a screaming fight with my mom over her letting Andrew take the car. Lovely. My eye feels like it’s going to pop out of my head. Called Sean and he can’t drive down because he has to “paint the deck” like he’s had to all summer. If I want to see him I’ve got to drive myself up there. No, Mom and Dad won’t drive me. I’ll call Andrew, see when he’s getting home. He’s not up yet? You have got to be kidding me. A slight twinge crosses through my stomach and I begin to feel nauseous. Two hours later, after being in a terrible mood and wanting to both cry and kill someone, Andrew pulls into the driveway. He informs me that he’s going back to town anyway but I tell him that I’m driving because I need to get there NOW. He tosses me the keys while I mutter angrily under my breath. Head still about to explode, I weave through traffic at speeds that shouldn’t be discussed. When I finally make it to his house, I see that he hasn’t even pulled out the stain for the deck. I walk into the house and am relieved to see him. My body instantly relaxes. We play rock band for a bit until he has to tune drums for his dad. While he tunes drums, I play computer games. My headache only worsens from staring at the computer screen until it reaches a breaking point. I leave my computer on the coffee table and join Sean sitting on the floor. Trying to keep my cool, I smile. Do you need a hand? He’s angry. The drum he has to fix up is missing an important part, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. As he keeps ranting, tears stream down my face because the stomach has flipped and my head is pounding. He picks me up and puts me on the couch. Take a nap. What I thought would only be an hour at the most of a nap turned into four. I wake up at seven p.m. on his couch to the sound of a movie he's watching and the smell of lasagna in the oven. Feel better? A little, I guess. Not really though. Join me, I’m watching a movie. What movie? Not sure, but it’s really good. Okay, when’s dinner? Mom, Dad! When’s dinner? In ten minutes. In ten minutes. Great, I’m so hungry. Get over here and watch this movie with me. As I watch, my eyes feel heavy and I lose my appetite. His parents call us in to the kitchen for dinner. We sit down and his parents dish out our food, I try to manage it down. Excuse me for just a moment. I bolt to the bathroom. Reach for the sink knob and the toilet at once. All the water I drank down found its way back up. You’re okay. You are okay. I walk back into the kitchen and act like nothing happened. Don’t be rude, you’ve got to eat. I barely eat half my plate. After dinner, Sean and I walk outside briefly. We sit in the driveway looking at the stars. I think I’m sick. Why’s that? This is kind of really embarrassing... I feel like I’m going to puke. Are you alright? Well... during dinner... Oh no, you were sick weren’t you? I mean, sort of? How do you feel now? Awful. How about we go inside and you lie down a bit more. Okay. We begin to walk to his back door. One step. Two steps. Don’t puke, please don’t puke. Steady your head, clear your mind. You’re fine. YOU ARE FINE. Um, I’ll see you inside. I run up the stairs and into the bathroom. It literally feels like my stomach is flipping itself inside out. A demon roars from the depths of my chest. Hot tears flow down my cheeks. Stumbling out of the bathroom, Sean is standing in the middle of his kitchen staring at me. Uh, are you alright? Not really. Do you feel any better? I never want to eat lasagna again. You’ve got quite the demon in your stomach. He laughs. I crack a half smile. Don’t make that demon mad at you. Okay, pukey. Stop, you’re so mean. You’re the one who threatened to puke on me. Your point? So, do you want to finish that movie? Can we just hang out and not listen to loud noises? Yeah, sure. We lie on the couch. My phone rings. It 's my parents. Hello? I don’t think I can drive myself home, Mom. No, I’m sick. No, no, my head hurts so bad. Yes, Mom. I have to go. I’ll call you back. Hey Sean, can you call my mom back? Uh sure, and say what? Explain to them that I’m sick. Are you alright? Yeah, I’ll... I’ll be back.

...

I called your mom, Andrew is going to come pick you up. He’s going to meet up with your dad at Ruby road, and he’ll take you home. How do you feel? Better. My cheeks are hot and flushed. Tears running quickly. I’m sorry. For what? For this being our last time hanging out before you leave. Hey, don’t worry about it. I love you. I love you too. I am so tired. Then sleep. And so, I slept. Waking up alone at home.

free verse sonnet #3 by Cola Hines

2010-11-17T15:50:00.000-05:00

actually I am OK
for a while every day
night comes on then
boots tremble, tarp flaps about
trink essen blick
neon vanishes up
stairs toward
the castle where
voices rise
you can’t hear below —
scales from a window —
mountains send reminders down
glowing cabs emerge from town
other nights it’s the reverse

The Wall by Chris Clapis

2010-11-15T10:12:00.000-05:00

The fire outside burned a hole in the city
Left me to wonder how the wall would come down this time.
Not through the voice of authority, like in days past,
But by the voice of the people, echoing with love in the midst of the bombs.
Stop war, stop hate,
We cried.
But our tears couldn’t douse the flames;
Not quite.
Nor could they alone quench our thirst,
For a better world,
For a better life,
For peace.
But as they ran down our cheeks,
They washed the dust of everyday life.
They allowed us, with strength renewed,
To press onward,
Into the fire;
Into the crosshairs of the man,
sitting next to the politicians,
Just waiting for the order;
And to raise our voices,
Together,
So loud,
That the wall came tumbling down.
And in one last dying effort to obscure our sight,
The wall itself kicked up dust, and dirt, and anything else it could find,
But as it settled, and the sunlight broke through those floating particles,
For the first time in a long time,
We could see the other side.

Poems by Karen Layman

2010-11-11T14:39:00.001-05:00

Upon Reading Haiku/Commandments/Adamant Admonishments. Haiku
I apologize
For how terribly I just
Failed at speaking

Presentations. Tanka
You look quite confused.
Did you not expect comments?
That was really good,
And someone should tell you so.
(Anything to talk to you...)

Fight by Craig Wyszomirski

2010-11-09T14:44:00.001-05:00

Hands up
Hit me
Your first shot
Hit me
I counter
Fist like rocks

Breathe
And move
Breathe
And move
Watch me dance with my fists
A violent groove

Adrenaline
My drug
Feel pain no more
one hit
your eye
you see no more

Stronger
I am
Why did you start this
I finish
You're done
Why am I heartless

You lie there
I watch
Next thought: to run
Myself
I look
What have I done

Poem by Cola Hines

2010-11-05T13:03:00.002-04:00

the sun turn from the obvious
to the karmic dismemory of dreams
to capture the unobtrusive and seize
up, capsize the morning like a water dish -
this admonishment from somewhere
beyond the horizon of days What? resolution
never again to forget What? beside the bed
the notebook said What? why not
just ask me, just tell me, just be
next to me, why you come back like suspects
bits and pieces, a street scene sliding past
parts of speech leaked in from the street
taker of notes, medium carrying breath
from one life to another; the sun turn

Just In Case You Ever Wonder by Kirsten Bouthiller

2010-11-01T13:37:00.000-04:00

Dear Dad,

Just in case you ever wonder,

I’m doing alright.

My grades are decent,

Sean is good,

and hockey is hockey. You know how that goes.

Well,

I still don’t like that singing teacher. But don’t get the wrong impression.

I’m being good. Quiet. I swear, I don’t say a word unless she speaks to me.

I decided that singing like a man is the only way to please her and it seems to so far.

You know,

it’s weird, Dad.

This life,

this everything.

Sometimes I think it’s great. Everything is just working itself out. But this time, I don’t know.

I will never truly know.

But what if there is more to all of this?

What if I make the wrong choice,

or fail?

Or fall and can’t find the will to get back up...

Will you lend me your hand?

You once made a promise to me that you would

saying that you will

always love me.

always hug me.

always be on my side.

And you wanted me to know that…

just in case I ever wonder.

I do wonder sometimes,

as I stare out into the depths of space,

if you mean it.

If you mean each and every word

that you have promised me.

How do you know that you will always be by my side?

What if the distance is too great and I somehow lose touch? What then, will we do? There are so many questions, Dad.

So many that you seem to know the answers to.

And how can you be so sure?

Why can you see this great destiny while all I see is the uncertainty between my shifting toes?

And just in case you ever wonder, I never go a day without you here. Each choice, memory, and each run, you are there. Do you remember... do you remember my first cross country race? I ran so hard but wore myself out by the second lap and yet, you ran next to me the whole time. You told me I could do it. And I did. Look at me now, Dad. Look at how fast I am. How smart, tall, strong, and how much like you I am. And you told me to stand by my convictions and I’m doing just that. You told me that I’m a writer and I could write the world into a better place. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. If you believe it, maybe I can.

And just in case you have ever wondered, Dad,

I will always love you.

Love,

Boo

Ghost by KT McVeigh

2010-10-29T13:44:00.000-04:00

I think
Maybe
A little bit of pain is a motivator
Like rolling out of bed feeling stiff
And you walk around with your welded hips
It’s a catalyst
Well the ghost came to me again last night
I was sitting in my bed
Which was pushed out so there was nothing protecting my head
In the middle of the room
Stationary floater in the nebulous womb
I sat above the sheets
Knees flat against the mattress
And I felt the cold touch of death press against my flesh
Instantly in my mind I recoiled in terror
And fled for the sheets
But that would have disheartened him
So I stayed
and I let the cold fingers move up my leg
And I stared at the spot where I knew he was
Because
I knew he was staring at me
Reaching out to me
Subtly
I’m intrigued
But I’ve had enough
And it ends.
But when the sun goes down so do human sounds
The only thing that keeps me safe
When they’re gone, it’s him and me
And then it begins
He cracks inside the walls
He writhes a thin board away from my head
A layer of plaster
‘Twixt me and the dead
I ask myself
Why me?
I’m not that interesting
Is it because I’m receptive?
I’m allowing you to unravel some spectral truth
That I’ve always suspected but never could prove
You’re leading me to your mystery
I’m afraid you’re decaying somewhere nearby
But I’m not the one
Please, not me

Journal entry by Lauren Castaldi

2010-10-23T09:31:00.002-04:00

Walking up my driveway and seeing, for the first time that fall, the mysterious mushrooms sprouting through the cracks of my driveway. My brother and I would anxiously anticipate the appearance of these unusually large and oddly placed fungi, which for all the years of our youth walking to the bus stop, never failed to sprout. A ritual learned from our mother, we would wait until they grew to their full potential and then make a show of dancing and stomping on them, watching green fumes cloud around the pile of broken mushrooms. Puffy mushrooms we used to call them, because of the strange puff of green haze that exploded when they were crushed.

Weaving through the secret world of the woods in my backyard with my neighbor, looking for the perfect spot for a fort. Every fall a new one was built, in a new location with a new purpose. Gathering branches and twigs, and moving old furniture to be exposed to the elements of weather. We made secret undercover entrances, slowly built up these forts and eventually were completely enclosed in our private second world. Living in a home of nature, returning to civilization when we were pried back into our homes.

Catching dragonflies by day and fireflies by night. Mark and I would run through our field letting dragonflies crawl over our hands, comparing color and length and beauty of each. Naming them and giving them homes in our backyard, thinking those we saw the next day of the same color were the same dragonflies. By night, scanning the tree line for the flicker of light that exposed our prey. Running to the spot the light once was and standing still and silent until its next time to light up. Slowly we caught them and kept them for a few hours, releasing them when it was time to go inside.

Pretending to be lions when it snowed. Crawling on our hands and knees, protected by bulging snow gear through the mountains of our backyard. Naming rocks on the hillside and sneaking through paths we forced through the trees. Turning treacherous slopes into safe slides in the blanket of snow. Making lion homes in the hills and snow banks, living out lives of these animals until we were frozen, shaking, and so wet we were forced inside.

Elegy (interview of some sort) by Kirsten Bouthiller

2010-10-14T13:50:00.001-04:00

Where do you go when you want to be alone?

I crawl deep inside of myself hoping to never be found.

If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?

To be alive in this hopeless sea. And what about you?

What do you think? Do you think there is more to all of this?

I would like to say I do not know or have the faintest clue

but you are onto something to say the least.

And is this life nothing more than lonesome thoughts,

silent walks, and a hunger to become complete?

Do you know what I mean?

It is a tad absurd, and perhaps on the side of dark and dreary,

but this is a life that I assure you must be worth living.

Would you sacrifice for a loved one?

A loved one would be nice, if only this stone heart

could feel an emotion as filling and true as this

that you have mentioned.

Do you find yourself questioning your existence, often?

Often, I do. And why do you think?

I think so I can know and believe the thoughts in my head.

You know that is not what I meant, but of course. Now, answer it truly,

Why do you think you are so incredibly alone?

I can only blame myself, it is coming down to the sole fact that

for so incredibly long, I have hounded down that in which I love the most

and now I realize he is gone

like a kite with the string cut

on a windy day

No, I cannot cry. I am much too old for child’s play.

Your only regret?

Not having the courage to tell him all that I had to say.

after Gunnar Ekelöf

Kirsten Bouthiller: Journal Entry

2010-10-11T11:18:00.004-04:00

The three most important resources of life are love, journals, and nature.

It was four o’clock, and mid-October. As the doors to the bus gave way, I stepped into the dying world. Orange, red, brown, and faint green leaves littered the ground. Beginning my trek through the private way that cut a path in the thickly wooded forest, I felt a slight breeze that brought a chill up and down my spine. The smell of decaying Earth filled my nostrils. The nostalgia that followed occurred every time. A flashback of memories. Halloween when I was four, running down the crowded street as Princess Leah, being a bumble bee at the age of two, a ninja at the age of ten. Pumpkin-picking with the family and getting lost in the corn fields. Raking leaves from dawn to dusk because when you live in the forest those sorts of things happen. I continued walking down the isolated road. The sun shone down through the canopy above, bringing the dead leaves a whole new life. The sound of the calm lake, the water rolling up onto the shore and lapping against the rock walls found its way up into my ears. A calling – but I had other plans. As the road began to bend after a steep slope downwards, my eyes searched for it. The brush was thick but it was in there. Somewhere. I could hear the water running and see the dip in the road where it flooded the previous year. Dropping my backpack to the ground, I began to clear the brush with my hands and found myself beside a small brook. The water flowed quick and was perfectly clear. I always find myself standing here, standing on a stone wall that divides the brook, the forest, and the lake all at once. Sometimes I don’t think, while other times I cannot stop. Once, during the winter when I was fifteen, a blizzard raged on for a week but the argument with my parents drove me outside to find myself again. I lay in the snow looking up through the canopy, watching the white snow fall silently. The only sound was the wind through the trees and the echoing as bubbles burst below the ice with a loud, eerie noise. I stood there, looking at the brook, forest, and lake. I chased the frogs, caught big trout, and climbed every tree. And when my mom would call me home for dinner, I would linger for that extra five minutes because nothing feels more like home than the forest where you found yourself.

[a response to John Burroughs, 'The Art of Seeing Things,' in American Earth, edited by Bill McKibben. In this essay, Burroughs writes: "If I were to name the three most precious resources of life, I should say books, friends, and nature"]