1/5/2018 Poetry by Carrie Laski Naud/ CC since you asked yes, I will die in a Ford Pinto if that’s an option festering life! ineffective martyrdom! hours of sitting silent vigils in my bedroom for what? to watch the dark spot on the wall grow day by day? here I go swallowing juniper ash for the minerals or whatever it’s your fault that I ever felt alive that one time (you know which) but wow wow wow do these swing tunes pair well with your absence ritual gin, lillet, vodka with a twist then back to my best friend’s bed like no time has passed tall, black columns leading up to air conditioned nothing mysterious workings of the inner ear and chlorine (chlorine!) standing just out of reach of the insistent June waiting like I do wishing I was the Son of the Tree That Owns Itself but that’s in Georgia at the car shop they asked me where did all the rust come from? but I didn’t know I didn’t know ![]() Bio: Carrie Laski lives in Texas for the time being. Her work has appeared in Peach Mag, Occulum, Maudlin House, Spy Kids Review, tenderness, yea, Philosophical Idiot, and The Pendulum. She loves riding the bus and will do Sum 41 at karaoke any chance she gets. twitter: @heyy_carrie_ann website: https://serialfascinations.com/ "We all have aspects of smoke and aspects of sugar," writes Mari Quinn-Makwaia, but what comes from that in-between space is where all the possibility lies. Brooklyn based Funk Rock band Smoke and Sugar are reinventing the musical languages of community and artistic vitality. Against a backdrop of encroaching gentrification come the lively sounds of this impassioned five piece ensemble, adding to the spaces that they are in, soul addition, not subtraction, that's the key; "As long as the so-called transplants are infusing the city with their life as much as they’re taking from it then there can still be dyanmic growth" Mari says. As a native New Yorker Mari has seen first hand what has become of the city she grew up in; "It’s hard not to think that we’re witnessing the most extreme version of gentrification when five years can result in unrecognizable neighborhoods and neighbors. I hope that chains, clubs and high rises don’t end up defining my city because that would feel like conformity and status-oriented hierarchy driving out all the city’s weird kinks that I grew up through." Charles Bukowski once noted; "when you clean up a city, you also destroy it." Perhaps it's more apt to think of how our society has driven us, un-reflectively, into a constant, high stakes, all too wide profit driven market, and when this filters into art and into music, irrespective of diversity and of what's being made, neighborhoods which rely on and are infused with spirit through these artistic expressions become upended. But this isn't a defeatist story, it is one of immense hope, light and groove. After all, Smoke and Sugar are the embodiment of life and celebration. "To inspire people to dance - in their heads, their hearts and their bodies," Mari says, while holding the tensions and working through the difficulties, that is Smoke and that is Sugar. As any gardener knows, you have to prepare the soil for what comes next, Smoke and Sugar are planting the seeds, we each have to bring the water. AHC: Working together as an ensemble, with each of you having very distinct and different approaches to music and sound, what does the democratic dynamic of the band look and feel like and how does it play out for each of you? Band: It’s very fluid, and every band member brings something of equal value to the table. I love being inspired by my band mates, and their contributions are what bolster my own. The biggest difficulty is we prefer to take a lot of time to experiment, and we never have enough. AHC: In terms of influence, what bands collaborative, dynamic energy do you most admire in popular or underground music? When you guys were growing up, what were the bands you most wanted to be a part of, the music that moved you, stirred your soul and made it impossible for you to want to do anything else other than music? I'm talking transformation, not just the stuff we think is good, but the stuff we can't live without. Who and what are some of those artists who have irrevocably helped to shape, shatter and inspire you? Alex: My father introduced me to the large majority of my favorite music. The two groups that we would listen to the most were Santana and The Doors. Those keyboardists, Gregg Rolie and Ray Manzarek, definitely shaped my understanding of the role of the keyboard/organ in a rock band. Mari: Stevie Wonder has always felt like a prophet to me. As a child I listened to his words and the moods he created sonically as something like a sermon. I’ve laughed, cried and danced over the light and deep issues of the world thanks to Stevie. As a performer, listening to Jeff Buckley’s delivery was life changing. He emotes so viscerally that the listerner can’t help but to feel what he is feeling. AHC: Let's talk gentrification, what most agitates you when you see what is happening, not just in NYC, but in major city after major city, loss of the ability for artists and the communities they are a part of to have a sense of stability for their neighborhoods, their cultures, their life stories, their music and art scenes, what do you think we are losing and where do you think hope lies today? Do you see Smoke & Sugar as a way of leading by example, musically, ethically? Mari: It’s sad to watch local businesses disappear to make way for multi-million-dollar high-rises. Unfortunately, New York has always been the capitalist’s Darwinian jungle, the financially successful slowly pushing out those who cannot compete. I’m not sure what it would take to defend these communities against the corporations. This administration has made it quite clear that big business is king. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? Alex: My fondest musical memories are putting my father’s CDs in the stereo system we had in my childhood home. Brad: My love for music developed while playing video games while extremely young. I’ve since realized that may have influenced what I love to do musically, create an evocative mood or atmosphere through groove or unique chord progressions. Mike: I’ve been listening to the radio since I can remember. I remember the high I got when I heard a certain groove or chorus come in and I’d be in a trance. Lex: I fell in love with music in a deeper way when I started going to this performing arts high school that had a big music library and I would check out cd’s at random or by suggestions and I’d go home and listen to them many times over. Mari: Some of my fondest memories are moments when my sister and I would put on an album and make up interpretive dances for the full hour. It was a sure way into an imaginative world.
L to R: Alex Bradford, Michael Robinson, Mari Quinn-Makwaia, Lex Nordlinger & Brad Morrison
AHC: What's the best piece of advice you've each received, life advice, music advice? Mari: I certainly didn’t “receive” this advice personally, but my favorite life advice quote at the moment is: “I feel like you only come to this movie once and if you don't get something rewarding out of every minute you're sitting there, you're blowing your ticket." -Ken Kesey Sometimes I feel paralyzed by choice or ambition and need to releive the pressure in order to move. In those moments I remember this quote from George Harrison: “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” AHC: What have been your biggest heartaches and your biggest hopes when it comes to the music, the struggles and the triumphs of making sounds with your heart in a world that increasingly devalues what the heart makes? Mari: I don’t know if I could be living out the trope of an emerging artist in her twenties if I didn’t believe that though the world can devalue what the heart makes there are always communities of people who treasure it. Artists are dangerous for tyrannical leaders of any era because we rock the boat. We question the values of the system in place and just the act of asking questions can be revolutionary. My heart sounds are just the story of one person trying to open her eyes. I love how many new woke artists I’ve discovered just this past year. Not only do they inspire me and my music but they also prove to the rest of the world that there are a lot of heart valuers and critical thinkers out there! AHC: In your time in Cuba, did you get the sense that the Cuban people have managed to hold on to something we've lost in America, the festival of the people, where art and music are celebrated as inherently necessary components of local and social life? What was the magic of that moment and experience that wouldn't let you sleep until you did something with it? Mari: Cuba is an incredible example of how much vivacity you can create from stretching the fewest resources. When you and your neighbors switch off bumming and sharing your cigarettes there has to be some kind of fulfillment that can be found outside of money. With the Haitian and Afro-Cuban underground cultures (much like Santería) art and music were more than a pasttime or a hobby, they were vehicles through which identity and culture could survive. There are so many musicians who play musical chairs with multiple instruments so they can be paid for any possible gig opportunity. So many artists there who create for the artistry over the fame. Who could resist reassessing what music means when surrounded by all of that creative conviction? AHC: What do you mourn most about what is happening to your city, but equally, where do you see the hope that is not only still there, but that is also busy being born? Mari: NYC is a verb. One of the muscles that will always be flexing is that of gentrification. It’s hard not to think that we’re witnessing the most extreme version when five years can result in unrecognizable neighborhoods and neighbors. I hope that chains, clubs and high rises don’t end up defining my city because that would feel like conformity and status-oriented hierarchy driving out all the city’s weird kinks that I grew up through. However, there is a lot of community organizing centered around the history and the present of marginalized and native New Yorkers. As long as the so-called transplants are infusing the city with their life as much as they’re taking from it then there can still be dyanmic growth. AHC: What do you hope Smoke & Sugar's musical impact will be or is becoming already? When people leave one of your shows, what do you hope they take away, in their heads, their hearts and their bodies? Mari: My wish is to inspire people to dance - in their heads, their hearts and their bodies. Most of our songs incorporate both reflective and expressive moments. I want to show how we can all hold space for those kinds of tensions, even when it can feel dissonant, and dance through it. Whenever I find a dichotmy I try to frame it not as either one or the other but as “both and”. We all have aspects of smoke and aspects of sugar. When they are allowed to coexist and mix together what other aspects can be born? AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Mari: It can be really hard to be an artist in a culture that is so results oriented. So much of art making is about the process, since it mirrors life which is most definitely not a static thing. Whenever I hit a road block I try to see it as a challenge that my psyche will only be able to work through by tackling it in another realm. A playful, creative realm that is safe from the literal. I was recently shown Martha Graham’s letter to Agnes De Mille and think it is a beautiful call to action for doubting artists: “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.” Keep up with Smoke and Sugar by visiting their website, Facebook and Instagram. After Danez Smith's Dinosaurs in the Hood Let's make a movie called Lil Peep In Heaven Transpotting meets 8 Mile meets six xanax bars There should be a scene where Lil Peep climbs up a few flights of Stairs and makes it to the pearly gates, because there has to be pearly Gates Don't let Bella Thorne star in this. In her version she tongue-kisses Peep, Chews scenery in platform boots and bright pink Ripped jeans. Fuck that, Peep has a tattoo removed By a saint, his laser is proof of all that is good I want a scene where Peep throws his pill bottles At Ganesha, a scene where Allah tells Peep he'll Rot in his grave forever if he doesn't stop His antics. Don't let GothBoiClique hold a Funeral for Gustav. I don't want any of that Sentimental shit about love and how life is too Short. This movie is about a man/boytoy/ugly and dying thing, Restarting his life with all the real-ass gods and patron saints and Deities Of every religion and every afterlife I don't want some funny, dreadhead living in LA with a tattooed stick And poke commanding presence. This is not a vehicle for someone to Play Peep, this is a vehicle for Peep to play himself.] I want his bitches, white or not, praying. I want them far from their Knees. I want Lil Peep to ride in a Benz truck down from the clouds, Screaming with spittle flying from his mouth the entire time. I want Layla to post another video of Gustav slapping pans together Like a child. And I want Peep to see it all. But this can't be a death movie. This can't be a death movie. This Movie can't be dismissed because it's too dark, or that a dead man is Playing the leading role. This movie can't be about crying, or cause people to cry. This movie can't be about a long history of emo coming To an end. This movie can't be about dying. No one can say Peep is a pill-popping asshole who deserved his death Who wouldn't say it to his cadaver. No big pharmacy jokes in this movie. No bar, capsules or gels in the heroes, and Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies. Besides, the only reason I want to make this movie is for the first scene anyway; Lil Peep climbing up the cloudy stairs, his eyes dilated & empty the heaven before him filled with congratulations ![]() Bio: Sophie, AKA Sparkle Jumprope Queen of Hello Poetry loves rap music and hails from the pacific northwest. She loves slam poetry, and is influenced by music and other poets. 1/3/2018 Poetry by Grant GuyFalling Out of Love Falling out of love is easy When you are pushed Love expands and contracts In a battle between Our head Our heart Our genitils One talks one way Another an other way And the third It muddles everything up Falling in love is easy When you are pushed The head the heart the genitals Speak as one voice Until the head the heart the genitals Come to their senses The head The heart The genitals a breath a breath opened paths outside of herself a breath pointed the way to a wider world that could be hers yes hers & she took it not as a thing but of something beyond all of us something outside of herself us she knew it was not the earth she could take the earth owned itself but shared with her shared with her not a thing but something something ethereal & something real something inhaled with our breath the holiness of the universe holy like birth sex & death she opened herself like a coat & all things opened with her & us ![]() Bio: Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His poems, short stories, essays and art criticism have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has three books published: Open Fragments (Lives of Dogs), On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop (Red Dashboard). His plays include A.J. Loves B.B., Song for Simone and an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC’s Making A Difference Award. 1/3/2018 Poetry by Mark YoungLost, & looking for his sidemen When all else fails, he comes back to the music of Miles. It is a point of familiarity, something that has served him well in the past. But, too many trips to the well & eventually it runs dry. Dare he say it, but even Miles is Muzak at certain times. But…besides… He caught the subway out of Tombstone. It was as she'd said, the past is another country. Fortunately he'd come prepared, crushed ice in his jacket pocket, a survival manual in 35 languages counter- balancing the imprint of his wallet against his ass. Gunshots still reverberated in his ears, but he'd stayed on top of it all until halfway across the Atlantic, when his smartphone gave out, & his heart went with it. Back to / back back to shorts & a T-shirt & 22 degrees in the middle of winter back to the noise of birds back to a landscape brown with the lack of water back to Lauren whom I missed terribly back to the cat who should have missed me but instead seems really shitty I went away back to a pc without pop-ups back to familiar territory & a space I like to think of as my own back to the lime tree we bought last year getting ready to flower back to the books I like to have around me back to add the books I was given & which I bought while I was away back to unpack & put things away so it seems I was never away back to read the mail piled up waiting for me to get back back to a city without japanese restaurants back to the house for sale across the street whose owners seem to have given up on the sole agent idea so that now the front fence is decorated with half a dozen real estate agent signs like demented flowers back to smoking outside back to groovy little green frogs in the garden back to a place without a harbor, therefore no ferries, therefore no feeling of swaying with the sea even though you're on the land back to recorded episodes of Shameless back to the Saturday Paper on Sunday back to the journal & Series Magritte back to writing poems instead of reading them ![]() Bio: Mark Young's most recent books are random salamanders, a Wanton Text Production, & Circus economies, from gradient books of Finland. 1/2/2018 Poetry by Courtney LeBlanc2am knows all my secrets – how I wake and look at the clock, knowing sleep is over for me, how he reaches out and pulls me close, as if he could pull me into his dream. I wonder how long this will last – the insomnia, this relationship. I curl into him, my body an ampersand to his. I lay cocooned by him till the alarm I don’t need begins to blare. The next morning he comments on how little I sleep. He wants me to fall into dreams the way he does, his whole body relaxing into darkness. I try but each night I fail and each night he reaches for me, plants kisses on my skin, holds me so even if I can’t sleep, I can’t help but think maybe, maybe this could last. Horoscope You will meet an attractive stranger. By the end of the night you will know the feel of his muscled arms around you. By morning you will savor the taste of his name in your mouth, you will gulp him down like your morning coffee. You will embark upon a foolish affair but will call it fate. You will try to exist in the fantasy of his arms. It will not last. You will juggle it longer than you should. You will break hearts and end up broken. You will look for a sign but will not find one. This is your sign, this is your warning. You will ignore it but you cannot outrun it. You will try, but you don’t believe in horoscopes anyway. Afloat We lay heaving, sweat still sticking to our salty skin. Our breath slows and I begin dragging my nails lightly across his back – sometimes tracing the tattoos that swirl across his shoulders and cascade down his spine, sometimes writing messages he will never decipher. We sleep curled together, his body forming a question mark around me, all the things he hasn’t asked blanketing us. This island is our sanctuary, the only place we exist. I draw maps on his skin, write love letters the tide will wash away. We are not safe in our cathedral of sand but still we worship one another here, oblivious to the relentlessly crashing waves. Eventually I’ll leave, fly above the blue quilt of water and return to dry land. He’ll stay behind, my tears mixing with ocean, holding him afloat. Bio: Courtney LeBlanc is the author of the chapbooks All in the Family (Bottlecap Press) and The Violence Within (Flutter Press) and is an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Public Pool, Rising Phoenix Review, The Legendary, Germ Magazine, Glass, Brain Mill Press, and others. She loves nail polish, wine, and tattoos. Read her blog at www.wordperv.com, follow her on twitter: @wordperv, or find her on facebook: www.facebook.com/poetry.CourtneyLeBlanc. With Ear Pressed to a Cylinder, Overheard Worry, worry, worry and worry, until what’s worried about has worn to less than a nub. Then, pause a moment. This can’t be; yes, yes, that is it. Close your eyes and shut me out, says the wide round dark cylinder overflowing with worries, that are not really there. Ah, good. Yes, that’s right. Teeth painful and throbbing from gnashing hard through the thick brush of wood-ticks mosquitoes and sweats all night, at last can rest. See, it’s true, it couldn’t be that bad. There’s no need for that last push to rake up and bag what the teeth sliced through and away and let fall to the grass all behind. Garbage. Garbage. Nothing could cause so much garbage. Thank God there will be no more. The place to put is was almost full. There was never any garbage at all, actually; it was just a cheap overly long play perfectly performed as though almost real, but now past the bushes any size or strength of grey-brain can see that it was all just make believe on a false stage set under the kliegs. So, this is when the stage crew pulls the rope that glides the curtains together and this is when the actors’ eyes are all supposed to pop open and pull back away, and there goes the stage, sliding pulling over the dark of the bedroom before the cast, who breathe deep sighs of relief. Wow, hey, shit. It wasn’t real. But the last tiny words from the last tiny bushes lying on the grass, cut and dying, need to be all heard before the last word opens the last set of eyes. These are yours. It will take the words forever to open the eyes, yes it will there’s ages to go, this is a nice peaceful breather of a spot, nice warm words goose-bumping cold that will pry loose for many years, surely, listen the words say, Life’s just one big moment. Eternity holds its breath; life starts and stops; then eternity exhales and strolls on. That’s what the Doctor said. That’s a healthy way of seeing all around as life rolls by, one sidewalk concrete square, after the other. Life is one big dog-walk. It’s a quest to find the perfect dog, and the perfect way to walk. That’s all your desires boil down to, in the end. The end is meaningless when one has got everything that one ever desired. The fun ride is over. The play park gates will be shut up locked. You got to just pull your head out of the mud right now, wipe the stench from in your hair with the towel handed you by the surprise of an attendant, and as you search for coins to pay the attendant this unexpected tip, this last fact razes everything that’s gone before. Up until just before eternity exhales as a factory bell-buzzer signals the blue-men, it must be time to go. The everyday mortal invisible tripwires have all been avoided. There were close calls but just brushes they were. The tip? Huh? Something about a tip what, where, oh well; there’s no need to tip the sudden frozen dripping with thaw water chocolate bird, whose left wing brushed down over a sun-sized solid brass ball all hung there. In one hundred years the wing will brush again. And over and over until the ball is worn to a point so small it just quivers and evaporates. The bird brushes once more and thinks the ball is still there. The one-eyed bird blinking brushing down once every hundred years forever, until the bird is so far ahead no one could possibly see it again. Has it been taken and will not need to brush down again? Or is it just too far away to see? That’s a good question. Yes, class. That’s a good question. Anybody know the answer, class? If you think you know the answer raise your hand. Come on, come on. A guess at least? What? Hey! No questions? What kind of class is this? Holes for eyes are in all sixty-five young students. All the holes expand growing together pulling up inky liquid from way deep inside. The best potters let the clays form themselves. Deep under water, its dark and confusing on which way is up. Follow the feeling of that air bubble to the surface above which again panic settles in; what panic, why panic? These shut eyes can’t see anything to fear. Just still solid absence of noise. Too hollow to stab cut hit kick or curse. Curse is a word. Sure it is. Curse. Curse. Curse, but a breath must be taken eyes must pop open taken breath opened eyes taken breath and open eyes, sure; the truth’s icy bare curved steel all around. After all that, it is still around. The watched water never boils. Never. And at the never point here, Panic sets in but; don’t yell. Oxygen don’t use up oxygen; please don’t yell. Please, my face, pray for me in the Church lobby before mass. After six o’clock Mass, wander out. Been in there too long and prayed perfectly knifelike to everything; each sit, stand, and Kneel also, done perfectly, precisely. Life is over, you say, Peter? Life is really over but how can it be still marching? How can the ball have been thrown when here it is palmed tight and hot? If the boots were thrown in the fire why do I hear them marching? No, no, no, not! Life over; step by step, extreme panic builds, breaks through, explodes but words come a will to keep it back. Quiet, relax. What’s living? What’s dying? What’s this horrible in-between place? Why be given life if it’s going to end like this? Honest out of school childhood sweetheart can’t get work no no no no no interviews please no none no not; we just got time to get down and go in the daily laborer pool. Run down the steps with shoes just half on; when kneeling, the good book says, do not lean your butt back on the pew to rest. No, never do it. Like in Catholic School, the large mysterious frightening black-draped being of a nun that wanders and watches, and would poke any boy on the side that it caught dozing or leaning their butt on the pew, kept the class honest, and will single you out. The have to shit bell is rung, and the need to piss bell is rung, but; need to go, as taught; get there, as taught; can get out to a rest room to go, but how? Oh, sure, how about I ask this other guy waiting on the corner across from the Dunkin’ Donuts I’m suddenly at for the thousandth time, whose name is Lucas. On the hit list to the rubout is where he is sure, says Lucas talking to one of the other regular gang of guys waiting for day work on the street. The other guy is a large man named Walter, uh, oh, but can’t go into that now because I feel I have peed myself in my pants, cripes almighty. Need to leave, get new pants, sound stiff as if rolling around the steel drum what steel drum, no God, no—stay where you’re at, smile at Lucas. Lucas! Hey Lucas. Big wind today, eh? Oh sure, sure, says Lucas, turning from Walter—and he goes on to rattle off, Hey man, do you know it is a fact that every fetus begins urinating into the womb very early, and once started pees every forty or forty-five minutes? So, don’t worry about it. We understand. We can see your—well, your problem. No need to hide it. If I were you, I would do the same thing, what the hell. Go on to the bathroom in Dunkin’. They won’t make you buy anything. But, Lucas, it’s not just the periodic wish to pee. It seems like mere pee, but it’s actually a wish to not ever have been born. If I could go back and catch mother and father copulating, I would stop them like dogs and yell, No don’t do that don’t you are condemning me to this! It would be far better for me to have never lived. You know what I mean, Lucas. It is damned cold out here. No, chewed Lucas from his cracked lip. I don’t get it. How about you, Walter. You heard. You get it? Oh, sure, I get it, said Walter in a deeper slower voice. I Get it. Why Can’t you? They spoke nonsense in my view, so I turned away and pushed my hand down my pants, and felt around. Dry—everything felt very warm and soft and absolutely dry. I could not find my penis in the bushes, like finding a needle in a haystack it was, but since everything was dry, we called off the search. The penis in there must be shrunk all flaccid, but there’s one there, yes, last time we looked there was a pretty well defined penis there. Please, please, Mother, do not give me birth! Be like me I cannot do it. Half the world can do it and half cannot. I know, I know. So, in this handwritten letter I can truly say, I am developing okay. Why had I felt myself urinate, she replied? So in honor of my long gone Mother, I opened my eyes and Lucas and Walter and Mother and all went totally flat black mixed with absolute silence and my hands moved feeling everything all around; just in the dark we felt hard cold curved steel, and the flat under me was a puddle of something, I didn’t know what until the urine smell from the flat bottom strengthened, and I struggled to feel down in the dark, and everything, yes, everything below me was drenched; bad, bad, bad; bad was all around; see what I mean Mother? Oh, please, please, Mother, do not condemn me! Eyes pressed shut to escape behind, as it gradually became harder to breathe. Very hard. A big growing tight wheeze. Eyes shut and again, we’re in the gang out for day work before the Dunkin’ Donuts, and Walter and Lucas were in the middle of yelling something. —wake up! Lord God, man, how do you sleep standing up like the that? You, I swear to God, I never seen the like of it before—sleeping standing up! Me? Yes, you. Okay, okay, but tell me what. What where is Miss Sweetie? Huh? said Walter. Miss who? Sweetie, I say. Miss Sweetie you know Miss Sweetie don’t lie! Walter’ eyes softened and tossed to the side, Hey Lucas, he’s back now. He’s okay. But he’s talking shit, some kind; of shit! Yes, smiled toothy Lucas, there you are. Hey, why you pretend to be asleep to scare shit out of us—hey, I bet you guys didn’t know, that toward the end of its term a fetus will defecate in the womb too? What are you trying to say? Asleep? How asleep. I was not asleep, I-- Eyes sprang open cutting everything quiet, as giant fire hoses’ worth of darkness gushed in my eyes, all going down through, flushing me raw, and coming out, and before I could help it, it was coming into my pants, and it was hot; and there came Mackie again, across from me at dinner, up on his heels, doing the big boss toast! Men, a BAC level of point thirteen to point thirty percent leads to this stage, which borders on alcohol poisoning after consuming an unreasonable number of drinks in just one hour. And, the resultant confusion gives way to emotional upheaval and extremes. Coordination is markedly impaired, to the extent that the person may not be able to stand up, may stagger if walking, and may be completely confused about what’s going on. So watch your drivin’, goin’ in! Uh, but, I thought he made this toast already, but there he is, doing it. The eternal toast. He’s doing it. It changes over the next few days to, Johnny, you are the best! You are the best-- Maybe I’m back there? Could I be back there to stop them before—before you know what, and so, am I safe? Oh, yes, very safe, Johnny. You have done what all we, plus more! Right boys? Yes! He has. Yes! Oh my dear God, yes God, I can stretch, stand, sure; it’s a miracle to be able to walk, God I am stiff as shit, where was I, where was I, think where I left off, before the—don’t say it. Keep it like it is that there’s no barrel all dark and cold and around anymore. No need to say it anymore because it’s gone and over. Good God—no more a horrid dying body. God was wise to make us so there’s no feeling after death because being dead must be unbelievably painful. The boss’ speech told multiple times that those in this stage of intoxication are highly likely to forget things that happen to or around them. Blacking out without actually passing out can happen at this stage. That’s all it was, was blackout. No death right behind. No more steel side top bottom sealed I guess, no more holding my breath and closing my eyes to make it now never had happened! Yes, Mackie! God, yes, go on! Yeah, said the tipsy large boss, raising a goblet—here’s to you, Johnny—hey, everybody, wait a minute. Johnny, why’d you stand up in the middle of my toast? It’s not polite to stand and wave your arms, and all, when I, the very Godfather, am giving my speech—you know, Johnny, a truly drunk person may not be able to feel pain. This makes the individual more susceptible to severe injury during this stage of intoxication. So, Johnny, are you all intoxicated with needing to shit? You got to go take a piss and a shit? It’s something like that’s why you can’t wait ‘till I’m done, because you’ll slime your pants in back and front inside, and end up wearing trousers that got a professionally hand-embroidered multicolored technicolored surrealistic kind of butt! The room erupts laughing, screeching and clapping. Yes, you may begin to feel your baby move, since he or she is developing muscles and exercising them. This first movement is called quickening—say Johnny, is that it? You feeling your insides quickening? What. you trying to give birth to yourself? Huh? That does not work, Johnny—hey, boys, what you think—should we let him go or what should we what hey! I ran mortified toward the exit to escape the great thick wave of laughter, that pounded across the room, with Mackie’s words drowning inside shapeless, saying, Yes, hair begins to grow on baby's head. Baby's shoulders, back, and temples are covered by a soft fine hair called lanugo. This hair protects baby and is usually shed at the end of the baby's first week of life. The death sentence is over, baby speeds off toward the age where it will know it is condemned! Hah! Out the exit the dark fell again drowning Mackie and all his boys upon the shore, up past Dad through all the fifties summers, struggling to spear the earth to death through the beach, with the tip of our not rented but owned ancient looking great big tall beachy as shit umbrella, all flecked with mold, waving up to the sky. The shaft pushed in, the sand parted to accept it, and so here’s the product, its skin covered with whitish vernix caseosa. The cheesy substance that protects the product’s skin from the long exposure to the amniotic fluid. This coating is shed gone, lost and unneeded, just before birth. What? Where? I thought you were dead, Dad—I thought you were dead! I—what, fingernails? Already, I got fingernails. Look at my hands look. I got fingernails! All’s well in your growth’s what that means, stated Father, out the cadaver-box sunny beach of yesteryear. So, by the end of the fifth month, baby is about ten inches long and weighs from one-half to one pound. Yes, one single pound are you, even though I am much, much heavier. So, go away. Back to the side of life you belong in. You have years yet to come over here. Look in the mirror you’ve got a human face. That’s a good sign you are developing nicely. I stood. Developing? Yes, developing. The laughter washed solid all tarry and gooey and threatening to drown—I watched it watched it take him down, but, what am I talking about thinking about laughing? I made this whole world of endless greasy goo engulfing everything, by my own laughter. Yes, my own. But no, I’m not laughing. Why do I sense I am doing a million things that I’m not? Nothing is to see. Nothing is to hear. I’ve a fourteen point eight percent chance of survival. And about half of these survivors are brain-damaged, either by lack of oxygen in the airless moist womb, or too much oxygen from the ventilator. Funny they save them, then just let them die again; but, no time to talk more. Everything’s around everywhere cold and solid. I live, but the solid steel walls are—no, can’t know. Don’t know. It’s not, there’s still a way out. Listen, no more heavy thought. Sleepy. Go on, sleep, you want to sleep—gone over gone over gone—going too sleepy to care. But, what’s that? That’s Mackie. Where is this? Still the toast? My God, any time closed eyes come up shoots the crazy toast again. Boy, said Mackie, goblet still waving, after tonight you’re going to get what you got coming, Johnny! Yes, you’re sure going to get what you got coming, he repeated, and maybe some more! Okay that’s it, I’m done. No need to cheer. I got to go shit now. Got to pee. It’s been weeks up here. Everybody then, so, stand with respect. Good God, thank God, the way out is here, stand, no; see stars crash on something all hard erasing the ballroom, a fire hose of black India ink fills in the steel. Up, down, all around it’s filling with black India ink, otherwise known as the absence of light, or the dark, or the cold, or the silent, the no. My God! My God! This can’t be, where are you Mackie? Please don’t do this Mackie, I don’t want your money Mackie; I swear to God I don’t want it at all, please? Please, because this joke is starting to hurt a little bit. The air is bad. Sure, calm down, just ask Miss Sweetie. See, here she is. I’m not sucking my thumb. She is sucking hers. See her here all curled in her ball? All lying on the wet cold ice steel puddle of filth thickly dumped in the bottom? Doesn’t the help here ever mop the floor? Oh, that’s right. To mop requires light. There’s no more light. Nothing but light will soothe. Where is Miss Sweetie again, you ask? No, she’s not lying there because she did me. No, she didn’t do me like it looks like, Mackie. Not Miss Sweetie, no, no; Miss Sweetie is only for you. Always has been since we were all born. Years ago. Months ago. Weeks ago. Days ago, plus hours, all minutes then only now, in this instant here where I finally sleep. ![]() Bio: Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Calliope, Offbeat/Quirky (Journal of Exp. Fiction pub,), Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Witness, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. His E-book "Inferno" has been published by Underground Voices. His novels, "Mount Everest" and "Eli the Rat", are available from Amazon. Visit www.jimmeirose.com to know more. 1/1/2018 A New Diaspora by Sarah ElgatianA New Diaspora Annig had a face like a knotted tree. You could hear dust on her tongue when she spoke and she spoke like a crow—flat and shrill and always half yelling. Her life was built like a folk tale with poverty, war, running for her life, refugees, exotic islands, and a mail-order marriage to a man she didn’t know. She held a country between her shoulders and ten children in her womb. A life of survival taught her mind-over-matter in all things. Her morning sickness she treated by playing cards. Her hunger she treated by turning rocks into dice. I remember her in her small kitchen shaped like a crooked L. She had three chairs at a lopsided square table covered by a clear plastic sheet and a pile of junk mail. One chair was in a corner blocked off by a counter, another was in the way of the walking space when in use. The third chair nearly touched the front door when pulled out and a yellow rotary phone hung on the wall above the padded teal chair. This is where Annig sat and shuffled cards and drank tiny cups of thick coffee. Over the table was a small, plastic covered window with a sun-bleached curtain hanging over it depicting happy orange mushrooms in a line. Annig (Ah. Neegk.) was as survivor, born during a genocide, learned to read and write at a refugee camp in Syria, and came of age in Batista’s Cuba. She had browned olive skin, thick coarse black hair, and an undisguisable accent. I knew her seated in that chair by the door with a demi-tasse cup tilted toward her and a stack of frayed red-backed playing cards in front of her. Annig was my grandmother. I don’t want to deny her when people look at me. I know that I have her eyes and her nose and her skin and her cheeks. I know how she survived. Her children were embarrassed by their dark skin and their poverty and their parents’ thick accents. They changed the way they pronounced their last name. They called themselves Eastern European. They learned to eat canned vegetables and soda. They married blond haired and blue eyed without exception, it’s uncanny, they must have known that whiteness was the best thing they could give to their children. Only one of my cousins could speak to my grandma and she was born colored like her dad—blonde and blue. Her skin is darker than his but I wonder: does she feel like I do? Growing up in Iowa the only people who looked like my grandparents were related to me. No one else had dark skin, coarse, wavy black hair, or a nose like a bird of prey. My dad let people assign his ethnicity to him. At the Family Restaurant he was Greek, at the pizza place he was Italian. There was one Lebanese woman, whose husband was white and worked at John Deere, who likely still believes my family is from Lebanon. My dad shared his office with a Mexican woman for two years who sometimes spoke Spanish to him. I don’t want to do that. I want to own my Grandmother’s squiggly alphabet and quit tweezing my face. I want to tell my uncle who fears Syrian refugees that those same Syrians gave his parents refuge. I want to see the mountain prominently displayed in every Armenian’s house, and call it my own. The first time I saw Armenia on a map the news anchor was talking about war. Terrorism. Oil. My whiteness may be the greatest gift my father ever gave me but it feels like a lie. Dad said “part of the former Soviet Union.” He said “Mediterranean.” He gets stopped at airports. Do my cousins feel Middle Eastern? Do the people of Glendale and Fresno tell their neighbors that they’re white? Do their neighbors believe them? Are we all halfsies now so our off-whiteness or assimilation takes precedence over the accent you brought over on two boats carrying nothing but your younger brother? I can’t get it back. I can’t tell someone I’m like them and then ask them what it means. I feel her mountain, her cross, her 36 letter alphabet in my heart but I have no access to it. I can’t go back to her country with my light hair and pink cheeks and tell the natives there that I’m one of them. Do my cousins feel other? I’m afraid to ask. I don’t want to ask my anti-refugee uncle if he feels Middle Eastern. Maybe his Christianity will save him. Maybe his unpronounceable first name is an accessory. When people ask him where he got his name, what does he say? Where is our diaspora? Where do we, second generation, thirsting for connection to our grandparents and our stories, white-washed and assimilated and unable to make pilaf, where do we gather? Why, when asked where my name came from by someone who looks like my grandmother, do I say “my father’s family” and not “me?” I feel an emptiness in my stomach and block in my throat when I realize I will never know. I will have white children who will not know the resilience in their blood. I may look the most like her and I am the only one of her grandchildren who can see the story in the coffee but it gives me little solace. I take pride in coming from a people whose greatest tragedy was the killing of their teachers and doctors and artists but will they welcome me? I want to find a home in this culture of intellectuals, of women who cope with pain by playing cards or men who survive because they are mistaken for dead. I see this whole history of survival but I can’t touch it. ![]() Bio: Sarah Elgatian is a second generation Armenian-American with a lot of questions. She has a wife and a cat and beautiful family. Sarah likes bright colors, dark coffee, and wicked clowns. She believes in live music, wild animals, and homemade soup and lives in Iowa City, IA where she gets to experience all of these things every day. |
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