7/25/2016 1 Comment The Wasteland Revisited by PM FlynnThe Wasteland Revisited “The wild animals honor me, the jackals and the owls, because I provide water in the desert and streams in the wasteland, to give drink to my people, my chosen, the people I formed for myself that they may proclaim my praise.” Isaiah 43:20-21 1. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD GARBAGE April Fool's is the deadliest day of the year, calling every Tom, Dick or Harry jester out of the woodwork. Like breeding termites they intermarry terror with remembrances of jokes past. Winter kept the autumn garbage from stinking up the neighborhood. Summer surprised us, the heat coming before spring this year. After the garbage decomposed all the way we stopped wearing swimmer's nose-clips and took a picnic through the pocket-door gazebo on the Sound, drank sun tea distilled from salt water spilled over filtered ice cubes and talked about sitcoms. I was a child once, Swiss, German and Irish. Being the oldest I always had to take out the trash, except when visiting cousins in the Midwest. Sometimes I remembered missing the first few minutes of “The Honeymooners” because some wounded refuse bag began to crawl through the house: starting near the kitchen door, and dragging itself across the battlefield screaming for a corpsman. Spring or summer in the Cornbelt you sneeze a lot. The stalks are tall, shedding pollen, all nature ready for one big blue, harvest moon. But most of farming is excess, leavings tilled under long fields; a wayside mowed once or twice a year. What of the crop that is spirit? What new religions grow from the stony wayside? Paradise fallen on hard times boiling 10-cent bags of noodles for nourishment. I dream of Jeannie’s body, soul and spirit: balanced before the Fall, before the Son took the garbage of life upon himself. Christmas shops cannot merchandize you. It doesn’t play in Poughkeepsie. No, sir. Hell is a very small place to fall out of. No earthen garbage pit could hold you to the grave. Poet's air their dead garbage in public in the hope it will somehow live forever. For poets hopelessness is the enemy; that and dirty old men, porn queens, and movie stars: the self-imposed, exiled dreamstuff tossed from humanity's doorsteps onto the garbage heaps of formulaic vision. Their fear of dusty, religious germs kicks at every passing wind through pulp gossip fiction recycled on afternoon talk shows during the water cooler rush of the business day. I could not mush her perfumed breasts at our power lunch late last year. I carried her fragranced heart for over a year before she transferred to Casting. Horrible Hagar's personal clairvoyant grossed out his relatives. A crystal ball replaced the tarot cards. His wife viewed her kin as Arian white trash, like a pack of wild dogs roaming the pages of the Sunday comic strip on Presidential search and destroy missions. Witches eat belladonna like steroids I suppose. No personality cards for insider trading. The Dork, the man who's never invited to parties. The Nerd, who sells blood to the Red Cross to pay for surgical tape to fix glasses, or to buy fresh pencils and calculator batteries. There are the Idols, male and female singers who travel the world with a price on their heads, though few ever meet them in person or know if they are any more real than the sacred HD pixels they inhabit. Finally, the deathbed Psychologist takes priestly confessions at the worst possible moment. Fear eternal death in a Lake of Fire. Universal City: so many actors and actresses have passed under your doors, rising and falling under a jet stream of publicity born from hands shaken in singing, gurgling Jacuzzis. Why doesn’t anyone pick his or her nose on primetime? The networks give the public what it wants. I suppose to keep right brains holding in Slo-Mo. "You were with me at the Oscars?” "That dud you planted in the schedule last year…has it begun to sprout?” "Do cows have magic wings?” Millionaire Bruce Wayne became a sleaze king after syndication. Batman's ward, the Boy Wonder, died of AIDS, not into Bruce, Vicki or the sell-through. 2. A GAME OF CHESTS AND BULGES The tube chair she sat in, like a polished throne glowing beside the marble entertainment center. A dead screen comes to life at the touch of a designer button on the matching ivory control box. The HDTV with DAT premiered without litigation. Casting was impeccable. Her golden hair and Carolina Blue eyes had nothing to do with the story at hand. They tasted each other's attributes. Predictably, interruptions followed one after another for several minutes. After their moment passed, lost for all eternity, I turned to the HDTV Repair Shopping Channel to get fresh quotes. Every window was alive in the mall. Plate glass everywhere breathed in unison with my own rising and falling chest hair. Into my own house I carted many exotic items shipped in from around the world for precisely this moment in time. "You have learned the plastic well, young Luke," the invisible teacher whispered to his young Jedi dressed as a metallic-suited knight on October 31st. "Is this a fraternity prank?" the cleavaged Clerk bounced out impatiently. "I believe in the Force, God, the Creator or whatever individual preference gives you at least one unique trait so as to keep him, her and everyone from mixing everything up,” the virile Jedi offered. (Words spoken by a Jedi always hang over a crowd an extra few seconds.) She accepted the purchase card and pressed routine keys with wide red, celluloid and pouting lips, for the fortieth time that day. The Jedi entertained the thought he was becoming predicable in some manner, a regular customer, a statistic in some business database or hacker’s memory bank. The Jedi had just spent thousands on therapy to assure humanity his minimum one, individual trait was still intact. "The world is a mixed up enough place as it is,” his beautiful, Princess Lea look-alike Bride countered. "You are my sister and my friend; straight from sex-ed class," the Jedi focused on her eyes. "Can't wait for an irresponsible sex-addict to keep life interesting." "Love is a relative, beautiful thing." The Clerk slid the Jedi's purchase into a seemingly bottomless bag along with a dozen or so, freshly inked receipts and advertising brochures. She slowly looked up and down the Jedi's rippled body while his newlywed wife stood stoically, a true Jedi housewife. “Goodbye” was all a bosomed Clerk would ever tell her girlfriends about those last, fleeing moments. "Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.” "What are you thinking of?“ "What thinking? Who thinks around here?” "What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.” "Therefore, I am.” “Am not.” “Are too!” “R too, D2.” I think we are in a run-down cemetery where the dead men scavenge body parts from corpses untouched by heavy metal music. "What is that noise down the hall?" "Probably groupies." "This is supposed to be a select, four-star hotel." "The wind…” "Exactly. "You mean nothing?" "Exactly. "Exactly what I mean." "Nothing?" "Nothing." "Nothing." I remember the bags under her eyes. "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" “O O O O that Shakespearean Rag—It's so elegant.” "My mind is a mass of confusion." “So intelligent.” "Oh that every marriage were made in heaven and moved as smoothly as Romeo and Juliet’s less, of course, the two death numbers at the end." "Of course. None pledge eternal love together, before the evening news ends anymore.” “Nothing pledged, nothing gained or dusted I always say.” "What shall I do now? What shall I do? Shall I rush out as I am, and walk the street and let all my hair down so, or should I be what everyone wants me to be?” “The glossies, the TV ads, the newspapers. The hot shower at ten. The 11 o'clock News, 10 Central Time.” “And if it rains, maybe I'll believe some weather reporter’s stories, others I won’t.” “And shall we play another game of monopoly, pressing greedy eyes together and waiting for a ship to come in?” “When Lil's first husband got divorced for the fourth time, I said--I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself…” “HURRY UP ITS TIME TO GO TO THE BANK.” “Now Albert's being paroled and going to remarry the live-in roommate he spent the last six months with in the co-ed halfway house, after he got out the first time, and made himself a bit smarter with refresher courses.” “He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you to get yourself educated.” “I did. He was there. Four years at a major university, Lil.” “And such a nice degree.” “He said,” I swear, “I can't, I can't bear to talk to you.” “And no more can I,” I said, “And think of poor Albert, he's been at MIT four years now, he wants a good job.” “And if you don't give it to him, there's other's that will,” I said. “Now there,” she said. “Something about the Fortune 500 firms that might appeal to him,” I said. “Then I'll know who to go on about,” she said “And give me a nasty look will ya…” “HURRY UP ITS TIME TO GO SHOPPING.” “If you don't like shopping with me you can go wait in the atrium, or the vestibule if you prefer.” “Others can pick and choose if you can't marry the man,” I said. “But if Albert elopes, it won't be for lack of a best man.” “You ought to be ashamed,” I said, “to talk so.” (And him only thirty-something.) “I can't help it,” she said, pulling on a Maidenform. “It's them books she reads from the publishers,” I said. (She's read five already, and nearly died of the last one when she listened to heavy metal records played backwards.) “The feminist shrink said it would be alright, but I was never the same.” “You are the proper fool,” I said. “Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is,” she said. “What did you get married for, if you don't want children?” “HURRY UP ITS TIME TO DO MORE SHOPPING. SHOPPING.” “LADIES.” “Well, that Sunday while we were there, Lil had a hot one.” “And they asked me to leave them alone of course, to get about while their song was still playing.“ “HURRY UP ITS TIME.” “HURRY UP ITS TIME.” “All the stores will close in a little while.” “Good night Bill. Goodnight Lou.” “Goodnight Ellie May. Good night.” “Ta ta.“ “Good night. Good night.” “Sweet dreams. Good night.” “Good night shoppers. Good night. Good night sweet shoppers. Good night.” 3. THE HIRED DEMONS The river's course is broken: the last bulldozer clutches the ground and sinks into the wet bank of dirt. The wind crosses a brown land, unheard over the roar of many grinding diesels. The nymphs have started across the walk in front of the construction site. The men whistle to their sweet things ever so softly, 'til the contract ends. This water on-site shares empty Styrofoam, floated bottles, crumpled papers, worn rubber tires, foaming wastes, cigarettes or other testimony of Satan's fall. The nymphs are crowded at the bars. And their friends: the loitering heirs of city heat having left no phone numbers. By the waters of the sea I sat down and wept… Fortune 500 poets travel so little through my house. Why am I so ugly to them, these sweet souls that run so softly along the roads they drive at night? Am I so arrogant like a black bird picking a corpse scattered across the road, chased away by every car, waiting as long as possible to be carried off by its wings? Write indoors in winter, exteriors in spring and summer and let autumn take its course. These are Poetry's first rules of success, or is that excess? I think to not write them down anymore but instead, remember the changes in this day. I envision myself king of Fortune 500 poetics, lord of every yuppie lover's heart. Yet, I am negative and critical with multi-national implications; arrogant sometimes and mostly withdrawn. Still, I remember the most positive emotions within myself and see all negative ones as chains yanked by spirits hiding in the shadows of the night. O the moon shone bright on the nymphs and on her daughters the Players that move too quickly on to the next poet. They wash their feet in rent-a-Jacuzzis, another idea past its prime. They wash their face in bubble gum. Unreal, wasted land visited for the last time under a spiritual fog and a lusty, winter moon. The land once flowed with milk and honey. How to reconcile perfect choices? Unshaven Einstein, with a pocket full of candy formulas shook the balance and opened up the military/industrial complex. A lush green haven of mind, body and spirit turned intellect, turned away for answers. He who would not swallow a Quantum pill. Now, once and for all, there is perfect hopelessness for one and all. Lack of perfection leads intellect to justify imperfection at every picnic table by the roadway of life. Turn upward from your tower where impressionable minds like fine-tuned racing machines, wait. I middle-aged though bored, exist between eleven universes with a life busier than most, to sit behind a desk writing. And still, those eleven universes may have eleven dimensions. And so on it goes until I am an ascended particle master of all I survey. I am with steroid breasts larger than most skinny women’s. I see past the happy hour. The evening hour promises bribes for those homeward angels bound over in flights of rush-hour fancy, and all that gives bartenders an extra hour's wage. The gypsy sports hero, home during the off-season, lights the one bulb lamp above his bank statements. He lays out the product endorsements, the many contracts a sportsman is expected to hustle after a day’s game. Anyone seeing the numbers would envy this ability to draw crowds. I, a middle-aged old man with wrinkled toes from standing in the river of dreams too long, no longer living in the wasteland, perceived the scene and was still able to explain it. The muses still twist one arm behind my back and tie strings around all my fingers so I won't forget. (I expect no guests in a desert void of imagination, housing war castles of sand or mud.) He, a young guitar repairman, arrived. A small businesswoman with one bold stare, one of the new neuveau, me-too so rich on whom name-dropping sits easily as a tenth-time hostess for the local fundraiser; the time now advantageous for foreplay, he guessed. The microwave meal is ended. She is bored and tired, sitting cross-legged on the couch picking her teeth. He endeavors to engage her in a caress that is unreproved, unrequited. He assaults at once. Callused fingertips encounter no defense. His vanity requires no response, and welcomes the hairy rankness of her indifferent, stale underarms and cigarette breath. (And I, a middle-aged old man, have been here before and left soon after. I, who have sat second row below Pink Floyd's wall of speakers, and walked among the lowest of the undereducated dead and lived to tell about it.) And bestows one final, patronizing kiss on the MC's upper lip, asking himself what this woman does for him. She stares a moment into an aluminum pan reflection, hardly aware of her departed heavy metal salesman. Her one remaining brain cell allows this thought to form: "He ain't no Valentino or rock music superstar." She thinks of needs and caring, paces the room alone, and never speaks of love. The lovers glow with oil and ventilate, heating the beaches blushing with a turning tide of desire for a wild ride, a pure kiss on the lips where it counts, straight up and true, pure, once more from the heart. Once more before I die. Elizabeth and Leicester bring out the worst in each other then rub the wrong way. She compares him to swollen flames and expects expectations--more true friends and family voices to flap at. E&L play their games of chance and inspiration laughing, or trying patience laughing all the time interwoven with love's most blissful spotlights; mostly doubting, still hoping perfection is like beautiful Cinderella and her fresh, Bel Air prince--too close for friendship, too unyielding to be soul mates; and both with lovers, and other internal scars only their egos see. They touch the wounds, and then rub their eyes. Both desire change and never find time, time to talk the talk, thinking they've wasted or lost the years walking a walk. 4. DEATH BY INTELLECT “Why does the public wait until after the death of an artist or writer until he or she is discovered?” “It has to do with the critics.” “They safely pick bones and theorize, and then without fear of authoritative correction or contradiction.” Ah, the life of a critic. A critic's life, gentile or Jew is one of air and expectations, except for the few exceptions. Only a university will take them in off the street and feed them. 5. WHAT THE SHRINK DIDN'T SAY "Eat your peas,” they both screamed at me. "Interesting,” he replied unemotionally. “What's it mean though?” The patient sat up on the couch alert, in expectation of this, his final session. “Very interesting your family life.” “What does it mean, Doc?” “Your family was conservative was it not?” “Yes, but what does it mean?” “As a little boy this happened, yes?” “Yes, yes. We've gone over that in detail.” “They always threatened to FedEx your dinner to all the starving children in China or Africa?” “Yes, their words exactly.” “Interesting. I've never come across a case like this in all my many years of psychiatry.” “Ahhh. This is crazy. What is it?” “Ah. Where's the time gone?” “You're kidding?” “Another day, another insight: that's my motto. Session's over.” “You're a fake.” “I would never tell anyone that, if I were you.” “I'm on the edge of a cure and you stretch it out one more session. You're crazy.” “Exactly my diagnosis. You're cured.” If nature were therapy and not rock? If there were rocks to stand on; and waterfalls; and water to catch us when we fall; a spring, a pool among the rocks to stand on and rinse off? If there were the sound of water only in this life? (Not the centipedes in the dry grass endlessly walking somewhere, walking; but the sound of water over a rock where the parrots mock from alloyed cages, "Polly is a Quaker…Polly is a Quaker.") But Mother Nature has no miracle cure. Who is the third person of the trinity always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together but when I look up Abbey Road there is always one walking beside you. I do not know whether a man or angel from our many conversations together. Quickly, who is that in the middle of the road, no on the other, other side trying to turn us just as we reach a crossroads? What is that sound on Mother's Day? Murmur of maternal lamentation, the same hooded hordes of bomb threats swarming together over endless, useless pay phone wires, stumbling in temporal, earthen houses meditating on the missed card or Mother's Day gift. Falling eardrums. Jerusalem. Athens. Alexandria. Nine out of ten therapists agree: "Don't repress feelings for your mother." Batgirl drew her long, black hair tight and fiddled popular music for the MTV video. Bats with baby faces in the caving light whistled, and beat their wings and made their way to the corporate offices. All bats out of hell are sent by former songsters when play rotation of their tune is questionable, money runs out, or songs peak too soon, when a thousand voices imprisoned in empty cassettes and exhausted vinyl sleeves sit in warehouses waiting for discount auctioneers. In this decayed denomination among the sidewalks in the moonlight, the choir is singing over the open graves about the chapel and the empty pews. The sinner's are all gone. There are no stained glass windows, and the door swings on its hinges. Dry bones collected. In a flash of enlightenment the last member of the congregation falls asleep. Ghandi's coffin was unearthed. Limp leaves were covered by dirt from the sunken-eyed diggers’ shovels. Over distant chanting faces whispering crouched, breathing heavily, expecting silent nirvana. Then spoke the thunder-- DUH TA DA. What have we forsaken? Blood surrenders to spirit. The awful daring of a shaking heart in an age of impropriety, depressed by this, and this only, we have judged existence not found in obituaries yet to be written or under seven seals broken by the angels in their empty, little heads. DA DUH TA DA. I have heard the fighting between camps. Freud vs. Jung. Jung vs. Spock. Spock vs. the Clignons. Timothy vs. the dead Leary, and so on. By the way, he knocked at my window one night, soon after croaking, him being chased I think, by every spirits he seduced for eternity. Turn the key once and turn once only. One ping only before we defect to the other side, to capitalism, where democracy campaigns with the food that would feed the motherland all winter. We think of the key, each in his or her prison, turning the key. He came to set the prisoners at liberty. Turn DA key Spock. DUH TA DA. Only at nightfall, rumors spread. Relive for a moment a heart broken for eternity. TA DA. TA DUH! People just off the boat responded to the census. To the experts the sea was wet behind the ears and responses completely predicable, well within statistical probability, and if invited to the lottery, to obediently follow Big Brother’s controlling hands. I sat upon the throne looking down with a view through the clouds below me. With arid desert plains below I lean on higher ways not my own. All the shrinks falling down, falling down, falling down; all the shrinks come falling down, my fair lady. Like London Bridge in Texas, these fragments are stored in short-term memory, maybe for eternity. I've left for the last time. Bio: PM Flynn is a North Carolina writer. He holds a B.S. in English from East Carolina University. His writing interests extend to poetry, fiction novels and screenplays. He owns a coffee house with his wife, which features live music most Friday nights. He has self-published a book on Creativity and Reason: THE CREATIVELY DRIVEN LIFE; and co-wrote and self-published ASSASSINATIONS: THE WORLD’S CLANDESTINE KILLER ELITE with Bob Chapman. Patrick has been published in many print and online literary magazines including Helen Literary Magazine, the Fictional Café, The Grassroots Women’s Project, The Mirror/Slush, etc.
1 Comment
Zombie Cowboy and the Girl Who Didn't Know How to Live
Bio: Tamsen Grace is a published author and poet, inspirational speaker, martial artist and a cancer survivor. She lives in the Midwest with her three children. 7/23/2016 1 Comment Two poems by Barry Fentiman HallTHE BALLAD OF MICKEY TWO SUITS Mickey wore two suits to pass his happy hours One day he wore morning grey Another mourning black Bathed in frosted dust beamed from Mock tudor central casting A long afternoon light thrown Through stained glass On to stained cloth Showing hard won Marks of distinction And by 5 o’clock They burn a little brighter now - Mickey went on the road a while After the shit went down y’know But the white lines caught Up with him till he wore them On his black back like Magpie feathers Badged as thief and liar Blind curves brought Him back to where The smoke still hung Thick enough to hide his Burning very brightly now - Can in hand confident Mickey counts his days From grey to black to grey Songbirds murmuring on his tongue That thing that they would sing In the dark back then When he had painted eyes And she had painted wings They took it way deep All the way down to the roach And spat another shot in the fire to make it Burn a little brighter now - Grey to black to grey to black to grey Two suits Mickey wears away Measured twice and cut once One for the wedding One for the wake One for the wedding One for the wake Mickey bled away Coughing up her ashes In polite company, he’s Burning very brightly now - Mickey had to go away His name was on a list Of the damaged and the pissed The one’s whose stories didn’t fit The rising prices of the drinks Two suits grey black grey black grey Black the day he got his wings Half cut and measured And desperately wanting Something only he could see Heading down the aisle again To burn a little brighter now (My debt to Derek W Dick whose words partly inspired these words is acknowledged) DEAD CAT BOUNCE DOWN THE WHITE LION The fake plastic dancing girls Seem to have no knickers From this perspective They look a little stiff As they get their plastic groove on To Band On The Run while The TV plays videos of ABBA Before they invented the genre Of relationship gothic for the masses They are synching somehow Sailor Sam is harmonising with The drums of Fernando We are sinking somehow in a sea of magic eye carpet Me and the sad man and Sailor Sam Nameless and me are looking Over the edge for an hour in The afternoon to see how far The bottom is from Wednesday He don't care much now but It's nice to have some company The fake plastic dancing girls Have a faraway look in their eye They can see all the way to the End of the world and they will Take it on the chin when it comes Drafty as it is for them down South What with being underdressed And all the rest and they don't care either They've been expecting it For a long, long time If it comes, my word It's gonna happen here.... Bio: Barry Fentiman Hall is a walking writer based in Kent, UK who mythologises his travels and the people he meets. He hosts Roundabout Nights in Chatham and regularly performs his work in Kent and London. He has been published in City Without A Head (Wordsmithery 2013), An Assemblance Of Judicious Heretics (Wordsmithery 2105), and his first solo collection The Unbearable Sheerness Of Being (Wordsmithery 2016). 7/22/2016 0 Comments Round Top by PW CovingtonRound Top I was all about the sirens’ songs. The sirens’ calls, Until the sirens called. I used to love spending time with desperate and lost women…filling nights and weekends with bottles of sweet and stinging liquors. Women; young or older. Women that would help me empty my wallet of whatever cash I could scrape together. Then they’d tell me that they could borrow a couple hundred bucks from a cousin…always a cousin, and ask me to drive them some place. Then they’d tell me that I’d have to split for a while; that they’d call me when they had the cash, and that we’d hook back up then, once they had it. I actually believed that shit, too, the first few times… I slept in my car a few blocks from the bus station in Albuquerque for a week, one time, waiting for a call on a pre-paid Walgreens cell-phone, waiting on word from some red haired chick whose Mom was working in some program for addicts that served meals for the guys at the air base. I guess she must have ended up getting clean and going to work with her out there, too, or something, without ever telling me about it. Eventually I got the hint and took off to Nogales. Southern Arizona is shit, but it’s cheap, and I couldn’t hang around that scene forever just waiting. You can go on that way a while, man…like an orphaned midnight Maine- Coon cat with a Roman candle up its ass, let loose down the aisle of a crowded Mississippi church bus during a hail storm. You can go longer than you’d ever give yourself credit for, anyway. Fucking decades. Then, it happens one day. You catch your reflection in a mirror. Maybe, in a motel somewhere. Maybe in a bar, if that’s still a thing you do. Maybe, just in passing. Probably, in a goddamned motel somewhere. You’re fucking 40. Maybe, a year or two more than that, but if it hasn’t hit you by 50, it probably never will and either you’re a total shitbird or a Holy fucking Roman Saint. Some kind of cock-sucking Buddha God-incarnate. Fucking Kerouac never told you what happens now, did he? Maybe he did….maybe you need to go back and read Big Sur again. One thing is for sure, you just don’t have it in you to weep over any dead mice or dead dogs or dead birds or dead fish or dead whores or dead whatever the fuck it was he was always weeping about in his drunkenness. Weep over one grand dead beat up and cast out world. But you ain’t got no tears for any of that right now. And this ain’t coastal California. This is motherfucking Texas, you’ve got three marriages, two wars, three felonies, a disabling psychiatric diagnosis, and more decisions made wrong than right behind you. For better or worse you’re a writer. You’ve done everything from drive trucks to tend zoo, but as things turned out, you’re a writer. You’re a writer. You’re a writer and you fucking hate being around writers. I mean I have some writer friends but they are friends first. They happen to write. Some of them, most of them, maybe, might not even call themselves “writers” if you asked what they did for a living in the daytime. Fuck them for that. But, they are. Writers. And, friends. I have friends that I became friends with, and we met as writers… But, I know few that I became friends with BECAUSE they were writers, if that makes any sense. I read. I read a lot. I even read stuff that I hate. I read pure shit. I’ll read shit just to try to figure out, why…exactly, I think it’s so shitty, Hell, there are terrible, young reporters writing for my local paper that I read for no other reason. A select few are jewels among the shit, but most are shit among all the other slightly less shitty shit. To actually spend time with most of the assholes? Fuck no. I’m hiding from them right now. Yep. Hiding. First of all, I’m at a fucking writer’s conference. Round Top, Texas…a town of 90 people. It is spring time, the wild flowers are blooming and everything is postcard perfect. Antique stores and rustic crafts line rural blacktop roads for miles in all directions. Longhorn cattle, four or five head per perfectly planted seven acre field, graze for effect and, in what would, in a suburban neighborhood, be called “curb appeal”. It is exactly what a person from the city would dream up were they to dream up a “beautiful day in the country”. Texan. Very. Former Governor Rick Perry occasionally spends long weekends with his family here. I am renting a motel room at the cheapest place in the oilfield town of Giddings, 15 miles away. Hiding from Governor Perry. Hiding from the writers. I checked in, got my registration packet and anthology, name tag, and tickets to the catered meals for the weekend; everything Round Top, Texas, figures that I warrant…every damned thing I paid for, anyway. I was taken aback when I discovered that the editors of the anthology had placed my piece on the page facing a poem by Robert Hass, the festival headliner, who had been US poet laureate for two years, back in the mid 1990’s. Shit, not THAT big of a deal, really, I suppose… his last year as Poet Laureate of the USA was the year I was arrested on my first felony charges. Time fucks with all of us, don’t she, Jack Kerouac? I’m talking to fat, drunk, Florida, Jack here… but young, bright eyed, Lowell, Jack would do well to eavesdrop a bit…yes, he would… I mean, really? “Who the fuck am I to be here,” I thought, as I looked around the manicured parking lot. I’ve got a little over 120 or so college credit hours Shit, maybe more than that, if you count the stuff from the Air Force Community College. In everything from Criminal Justice to Business Management, but I could never stick with one thing or stay in one place long enough to make any of it count towards anything. Then, by the time the war, and prison, and the streets, and living out of a bottle, or a pipe, or a bus station sink, caught up with me, my nerves just couldn’t take a classroom anymore…I tried…I even tried online classes, once things started settling down for me. It wasn’t that I couldn’t work or do the work; it was that it wouldn’t work for me by that point. I spend a lot of time on college campuses and around professors these days; but, really, who the fuck am I? I don’t even have an Associate’s degree to call my own. Yes, the parking lot in Round Top, Texas was manicured…full of Subaru wagons and “Coexist” stickers and supposedly Eco-friendly SUV’s that had spent the week before at the Austin poetry festival. Man, I got kicked out of High School at sixteen years old for publishing an underground student newspaper, then immediately conned my way out of a GED certificate from the Junior College over in Victoria, Texas by telling them that I wanted to enroll in either their welding or police academy program, I couldn’t decide which, but couldn’t do it at sixteen unless they’d let me take the GED test, so I took it, then worked as a radio DJ at night until I could join the Air Force the next year, instead. The writing thing just kind of happened somewhere along the way, it was never anything that I went out looking for or chasing. Most of the writers that I do know and can tolerate were either out of state, in Washington DC at some Social Justice thing called Split This Rock or at a poetry festival going on in New Orleans. Others were at a small festival in a remote west Texas town. A festival and town that I had been invited to a few years ago as a featured reader until the city fathers found out about my felonious background and started sending me waivers and releases of liability to sign about obscenity laws, which, it turns out, the Texas Penal code still has on its books. Seems they had been warned by some well intentioned Christian that I might be inclined to say or do something “obscene” in or around their fucked up west Texas town. I can smell a set-up when the wind starts blowing from Bullshitville. No way was I going to take my chances with the “prevailing community standards” of Lamesa, Texas. There are courtrooms in west Texas where no one can hear you scream. I try my very best not to read in Red counties, these days, no matter how high-profile the potential punishment. What the fuck was I doing here, now, in Round Top, alone, and out-numbered? It’s like a high priced mental hospital or maybe some kind of really exclusive, private, white collar prison; that Round Top Festival Complex. Perfect and pleasant in every way. The kind of place someone like me has usually got to get caught rigging the World Series or taking over the Stock Exchange or cornering the international butt plug market or something to get sent to…It was not flesh-tearing to just sit there and get bit by occasional mosquitoes, but it quickly lost that limited degree of bucolic charm. HOW IN THE FUCK, MAN? I wasn’t in the mood to make new friends, so, I picked up what I had to pick up, exchanged my greetings, my hello’s, my thank you’s, my pleasantries, my brief introductions. FUCK, I suck more at this every year! I fucking hate writers. …and I got the hell out of there. I stopped at Wal-Mart on my way into Giddings and grabbed a bottle of $12 white wine and a frozen personal pizza to take back to what both Hotels.com and the East Asian immigrant desk clerk assured me was “America’s Best” Motor- Inn. The moldy, dark, room had a mini fridge and a microwave, so it worked fine for me. Only a few months ago, it would have been a bottle of Bourbon and a double bacon cheeseburger, but hey, remember that fucking mirror that was mentioned earlier? Tomorrow there will be readings. There will be more that I will want to hear than I will want to say. And that will be perfect. As it should be. It will be time to gather. Not time to cast. I am still lured by sirens’ songs. Even when I know their every note to be futility and mirage. A time to sit and listen to learned, respected elders. Those that stayed in school. Those that colored inside the lines. To nod as if I give an appreciative shit, For, perhaps I will, actually care. A time or two. At Round Top. Bio: PW Covington is a 100% disabled combat veteran and a convicted felon. His most recent poetry collection, Sacred Wounds, is by Slough Press. Covington's work has been featured in both academic journals and underground 'zines, and he travels in the Beat tradition, sharing his works from the Texas/Mexico border to the San Francisco Bay area. His work is fueled by the legend and people of the great American highway. He lives in rural south central Texas with his English bulldog, Chesty. Catch up with him at www.PWCovington.com Bio: The Amy Bassin/Mark Blickley text based art collaboration, Dream Streams, began this past year after they read Man Ray’s memoir, Self-Portrait, and were enthralled by the Dadaist experiments that combined fine art photography with poetic texts..This past summer their collaboration was featured as an art installation at the 5th Annual NYC Poetry Festival on Governors Island and published in Columbia Journal of Literature & Art. Amy is a fine arts photographer/video artist and co-founder of the international artists collective, Urban Dialogues. In 2016 she has exhibited in Bronx and Brooklyn art galleries. Blick’s most recent book is Sacred Misfits (Red Hen Press). His play, Valadon: Reclining Nude, opens this October at NYC’s 13th Street Repertory Theater. He is a proud member of the Dramatist Guild and PEN American Center. 7/20/2016 0 Comments Six poems by Steven StorrieWAKE UP, THOMAS JEFFERSON, IT’S YOUR TURN TO DRIVE A cheetah runs alongside me Trying to catch its breath in the dead of night Keep up I say Keep up I am fire Hear me roar Or something like that It could just be the drink talking To be honest It usually is PUNCTURED LUNGS I sit by his bedside Watching him vomit and wretch and moan The nurse ducks out for a second She’s got his bloods and has had her fill Of his curse words and vile gestures Threats and gropes A brief silence passes between us After I’ve wiped spit and crimson from his mouth Then he sighs Sits upright His eyes widen and He begins to smile Whoever says they’ll face death boldly Is a lying, phoney bastard He says Face it He tells me We’re all going out The same way we came in Crying our eyes out And covered in shit He coughed again There wasn’t much more to say After that I CAN’T LEAVE HER BEHIND I chew on the ends of my white Ray Bans Feel the cool breeze ease through my jeans We steal a moment sponsored by bruises and cheap whiskey her skirt billowing by the Bay God damn, I think God damn All we need now is a radio to enshrine this love A car or the perfect song but all I have is holes in my 4 dollar shoes and a woman Whose nipples are on show to the world Tourists snap the summer sun And I watch her twirling in red heels Her tongue poking through her teeth In that miraculous way it always does God must have a sense of humour I decide If he didn’t he would never send me women like these. SOMETHING ABOUT JOHNNY KNOXVILLE Something about Johnny Knoxville Looking old makes me feel Immeasurably sad The years pass by like buses And none of them ever stop When did I become this person In these trousers, boots and shirts How did I get so far from the mountain? Wasn’t it just yesterday we were morons? Young and full of love Where is Texas, Toronto and L.A Now we really need them? The good days are like a vault that Traps my heart when I open it Nostalgia flies like curses whenever I look in there My heart colliding with graveyards Stuffed with faces softer than they are Right now People go up and down elevators Time spilling out their eyes Life falling out of the hole in their pockets Lush green fields of vibrant youth Roaring forward like majestic bulls You go over the edge without seeing it That’s life They say That’s life WAYNE GRETZKY, WHERE ARE YOU NOW? I’m knee deep in mud, mother Blood pouring from my chest I don’t recognise these fields or faces The last things I’ll ever see I wanna come back home, ma I wanna come back home I didn’t see the bullet That ripped right through my skin But I can smell the burning, ma I can smell it My hands fall into the puddle People charge and scream and shoot I forget what it was that brought us here, ma Does it matter? How is the old hockey team getting on, pa? Some wins this year I hope Tell coach I was asking after him If you see him How is the farm coming, brother? There’s no need for my medals now Will you keep them? If you’re missing my face Don’t worry I’ll be on your T.V soon enough There were sweet things at the blue line My friend Great things at the red Hit somebody, will you Hit somebody. Feeling weak now, sister Feeling weak Don’t let that job get you down Keep my records If you want them You were always the best of them You know It’s getting dark, my darling It’s getting dark Don’t let them leave me here Cold and wet and scarred Don’t weep for me, my love Please don’t weep so hard Know that I went with my friends Around me The birds above me And you In the same place you always were Firmly in my heart MANHATTAN BITE I was living on the corner of 34th and 8th When you told me your news and I lost that job and the waitress quit and My book was rejected and my favourite singer Died And it started to rain I took it as incontrovertible proof That there are no more miracles Left in this town Bio: Steven Storrie has worked as a cable T.V repair man, dishwasher, choreographer, ice cream vendor and junk yard attendant. Tired of this shit he is currently locked in his basement working on his first collection of poetry, bickering with his neighbours over nothing and storing the baseballs he keeps when they are hit into his yard. You can find him at the site he runs, Black Coffee For Breakfast, here http://renegadepriest11.wix.com/blackcoffeebreakfast 7/19/2016 0 Comments Photography by Chuck Taylor1) New Orleans Graveyard 2) Hard Way In 3) Graffiti 4) Clown Bio: Chuck Taylor does photography, children's magic shows, fiction, and poetry. He is currently unemployed and is enjoying the trip as his canoe moves toward going over the waterfall. 7/18/2016 0 Comments Two poems by Rob Plathwhat if, motherfucker? what if the gun isn’t pressing against yr head from the outside? what if the muzzle is w/in yr skull? what if the demons keep squeezing the trigger? what if there are bullet holes in all the parts of yr brain marked PEACE? graffiti for mute angels tonight i think of elliott smith pressing the large blade thru the braid of his heart-veins tonight i think of the mississippi gathering w/ in the branches of jeff buckley’s lungs tonight i think of kurt cobain double-fisting the barrels of the hypo & rifle tonight i think of amy winehouse twisting open the second fifth like it was amber stitches tonight i think of all the morgue drawers full of our mute angels & i slash the alphabet w/ a box cutter & graffiti the demons’ horns w/ fucking roses Bio: Rob Plath is a 46-year-old poet from New York. He has over a dozen books out. Rob is most known for his monster collection A Bellyful of Anarchy (Epic Rites Press). He lives with his cat and stays out of trouble. For more about Rob Plath visit his website robplath.com. Dinner with the Hermans and the Roths Zoey had a boyfriend who wrote awful poetry once, so she married him. His name was Nestor and he was a good man, once she got him to quit that poetry thing. Even though Zoey never saw the traits in him she always thought she would have in the man she married, such as above average intelligence, above average strength, bravery, and overall manliness, Nestor attempted at so much, and Zoey could appreciate him attempting. She took his thinning brown hair with a premature bald spot, off-center, in her hands and agreed to marry him. Of course, when looking on the outside, it is hard to see who settled for who. The relationship of the Hermans—since they did eventually get married and becomeThe Hermans—is unique since not one of them settled, but two. Nestor Herman was quite happy in his parents' basement, playing video games with his raunchy friends all day or playing tennis in the park, but he was still lonely because he lacked an actual woman. No amount of game nights with friends, movies with friends, or porn and masturbation alone in his room could solve that, so he remembered a pretty, quiet girl he met at community college. His friend convinced Nestor to ask her out, but after backing down from self-consciousness, his friend stole his laptop and asked Zoey out via the most intimate way in the modern era—via Facebook. The pretty girl, trying to remember more about this Nestor than his teeny, tiny bald spot and his bunny nose, was too distracted to stop her friend from grabbing her laptop and accepting the date for her. So their first date was scheduled. It went okay, with talk about future career goals over Saturday night bowling, so they scheduled a second date, at a movie. A third at Zoey's parents' house, where she stayed while finishing school. This was where Zoey liked to test her men's intelligence by showing them one of her giant art books and first, testing to see if they have any taste in art, and then seeing if they could make an interesting observation about a piece. His lack of interest or thoughts on abstract art was disappointing, but at least he seemed to really like impressionist art. He liked these pieces more than the normal person pulled off the street would, so Zoey thought he was okay. And Nestor thought Zoey was okay because she was a pretty girl with clear goals of becoming a music video director, who was actually willing to fondle his penis while in the back of a movie theatre. The downfalls were that she didn't like video games, hiking, tennis, or some of his friends, but overall she was still a pretty girl who more-or-less treated him nicely. His only regret was that this fondling was during a children's film, but the movie had been out for awhile so there was really no one there. In the end, it became a funny story that they had. One of many somewhat-humorous anecdotes. Neither of them were religious, but they got married in a church, her in a white dress found at a secondhand store and him in a very itchy tuxedo with a tie that he had to keep adjusting. She did not become a music video director, and they both fell into administrative desk jobs. After their second miscarriage, Zoey began to think that their genes weren't compatible either. —We don't have much in common, do we? —We can name our kid whatever you want. You don't have to like Harry. —That's not what this is about. We don't have anything in common, do we? —What are you talking about? We have lots of things in common! —Like what? —Like your new last name. —That doesn't count. A lot of people are named Herman. —We have some friends in common? —That sounded like a question? —Why don't we have someone over for dinner? —Why don't we? So it was decided that Mrs. Nestor Herman would put on her pink, polka dot apron and play housewife. The apron was certainly not brand-new, but it was untouched, and Zoey finally felt a sense of wifely purpose while strapping it on. —See, I could feed a child. The only thing unique about Zoey Herman was how many times she touched her stomach in the day. She had brown hair, not light brown or dark brown, but brown, and she had slight freckling on her arm, but none of the adorable freckles found on some faces. She was about 5'5" with an average weight, and an average shoe size, but she touched her stomach 56 times a day, on average. And her husband touched her stomach 35 times a day, on average. This stayed the same post-pregnancy and pre-pregnancy, because they began to always think of Zoey as being in a state of pre-pregnancy. —Who did you invite over anyway? —The Roths. —The Roths? —Yes, that friend? You had from college? —I don't remember a Roth. I remember a Rodriguez. Could this be the Rods? —No, Roth is her married name. She was that friend who took credit for us getting together. —Oh, yes, her. I thought she moved to New York. —And now she is back with a husband. Do you not know about him? —No, nothing. Zoey Herman had resumed setting the table, and when the table was set, she unset it a bit. Rearranged the plates so they were slightly uneven, and then evened them up. Then she counted. One, two, three, four places at the table. —Wait. She counted again. Mistakenly, she had set a fifth place at the table. She was always doing this now, anticipating little Harold or Harrietta Herman. —Leave it. —Nes, why would I do that? —Maybe they have a kid? —Do you know they have a kid? Did you see him on Facebook? —Well, no, but remember before Frieda left? She said she would never post about her child on Facebook because it would be invading his right to privacy. Still, Zoey decided to un-set the fifth place at the table. —I'm sure she would've changed her mind once she had a cute baby. —Okay, Honey. —Okay, Honey. That's what he says when he doesn't believe me, or doesn't care. After shuffling the table around a few more times, the bell rang, and Mrs. Nestor Herman almost forgot to take off her apron. —Zah-oweeeeeeeeeeeeee! This exclamation came from Frieda and her outstretched arms. As Zoey hugged her, she paid special attention to Frieda's stomach, which seemed perfectly flat and sculpted. Then she counted heads. Two. She looked at their knees to make sure there wasn't a third head creeping about. No third head. —Zah-owee, this is my husband, Salvador. —Hello, it's nice to meet you. —Nice to meet you too. —He runs his own publishing company in New York. —Oh, then what are you doing here? —We are investing in a summer home. —Ah. Well, please, come in. Zoey collected their coats as she called Herman into the foyer. —Is this your summer home? —No, just our home-home. Nestor? —Popping the champagne, Honey. —Champagne? Is this a special occasion? —Yes, you and your new husband are over. Zoey then rushed the Roths into the kitchen and seated them, with their plates already full. And suddenly, Frieda began to fill the entire course by talking. She talked about her very first day in New York, and how scary but exhilarating it was, and about how the Hermans must try living there sometime. Then, she gave play-by-play details on her second day in New York, and how scary but exhilarating it was. Really, the Hermans must try living there someday, or at least visit, but visiting really isn't the same. Zoey was surprised that dinner was able to last through Frieda's first full month in New York, but somehow they made it, and still had room for desert. But the champagne was long gone. Eventually, Frieda met Salvador, who Zoey was surprised to realize that he had not talked once since greeting her. Come to think of it, Zoey and Nestor had said very little while Frieda just talked and talked and talked. —New York is really the best place in the world. It's a shame that people like you go their whole lives without ever being there. —Well, we are plenty busy here. —Yes, with what? —Well, our work, of course! —Your work? I thought you were just an administrative assistant? —No, I'm the Office Manager at the local police station. It keeps me very busy. —Yes, Zoey must keep the whole station running smoothly. This came from Salvador, who now had three empty wine glasses in front of him. He was pouring more alcohol into the glass that had actually been bestowed to him, while one empty glass was originally gifted to his wife and one was supposed to be Nestor's. —Well, thank you, Salvador. That is what they say. Sometimes. Zoey was grateful that her glass was left unsnatched as she took another big gulp. At dinner parties with other couples, Zoey wasn't sure why, but she always drank like a fish. —A really, really alchol-anonymous fish. —What about you, Nestor? Are you the administrative assistant then? —Marketing assistant, technically, but yes. My job is just to make sure everyone's marketing plans are in order. —And is that rewarding? —Well, we do only service non-profit organizations, so I do view my work as important. —That's great, but there must not be much money in that then? —No, not much, but enough for us. Nestor reached over and wrapped his arm around his wife, while Salvador reached over and took Nestor's wife's wine glass when the bottle on the table ran dry. —Sweetie, pace yourself. —What? I thought we were here celebrating! —What would we be celebrating? Zoey asked this as she returned to her seat, after getting herself a new bottle of wine and an empty glass. Qucikly, before Frieda could begin her spiel again, she took a gulp so loud and large that Nestor replied with a look of shock. When she finished, she could see Frieda take in a long, deep breath, preparing not to pause for some time. —I finally got my PhD! —What? —That's great, Frieda. —Zah-owee, you're not saying anything. —No, no, it's great, but how is that possible? We just finished school, and didn't you have a full-time job? —I know, it was a lot of work. I could only take classes and study at night, or early in the morning. And the papers! But in the end, I was able to pull through with two PhDs, actually, one in English and one in Spanish Literature. My advisors told me that I was able to complete two PhDs faster than any student they have ever had! It was really difficult, and it almost took a strain on our marriage, right Salvador? —No, baby, I was always supporting you. As Frieda continued her story, Zoey snapped in and out of attention. How could someone their age have two PhDs without being one of those freaky protigee kids? It just didn't make sense, and what hurt the most was that Zoey and Nestor were trying so hard at something that should be normal and natural, having a baby, while Frieda was off accomplishing-- —Zah-oweeeeee, why do you keep touching your stomach like that? —What? —Oh em gee, the fifth placement at the table! Like the sound of a thunder clap, Frieda slapped her husband out of his boozey, relaxed state and slammed her palms on the table. It shook their only set of fine china. —You're having a baby, aren't you? —Well, we are-- —I knew it! I am so happy for you. Salvador and I, we tried, before I decided to go back to school, but when it wasn't working, we went to see a specialist. Apparently, neither Salvador or I are likely to have children, but I am so happy for you! What are you going to name it? —Um, um-- —We don't know yet. Zoey felt Nestor's reassuring hand slide into hers' and give it a squeeze. —Can I make a suggestion? Ooooh, who are going to be the godparents? Have you bought any toys or clothes yet? May I make a suggestion about why you shouldn't buy too many pink items if it's a girl, and maybe buy some pink clothes for a boy. . . . Once Frieda was done, talking about Zoey and Nestor's imaginary child while Zoey and Nestor could do nothing but nod along, the Roths eventually paced up and left. Zoey wasn't even sure how it happened, but around midnight she found herself loading the dishes. —What are you thinking, Honey? —I want a baby. —I know-- —No, we have to try harder, I want a kid now! —Honey, just to beat them? —No, of course not! Zoey shook off her husband's accusations and they finished clearing the table. Lying in bed that night, more like early morning, after trying to make a baby twice, neither of them spoke again about why Zoey seemed more determined than ever. When they weren't trying to make a kid, Zoey hadn't stopped touching her stomach once. —You know, I have thought of an even better name. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts, that she almost didn't hear her husband. —What? —Hermes. —Hm, Hermes Herman. —What do you think? —I think that could work for a boy or a girl. —I know, right? Nestor and Zoey fell asleep with both of their hands on Zoey's stomach, thinking like Hermes Herman would be the first baby ever born. Bio: J.K. Shawhan's a writer, blogger, and Editor-in-Chief of The Basil O' Flahertyliterary arts website. Her work has/is scheduled to be published with Centum Press, Eunoia Review, Mosaic Art & Literary Journal, Rat's Ass Review,Wordgathering, Silver Birch Press's My Sweet Words Series and Me, in Fiction Series, and more. You can read her blog of new adult humor athttp://funnyzombieblog.blogspot.com/. Ghost on a train I am a ghost on a train a drunken painter using his hat to make clouds on canvas a memory of a war long over I am the schizophrenic neighbor yelling at speeding cars the unhappy wife making scrambled eggs through hot tears a soldier with one leg walking through nightmares and I am what is left when death enters a room and everything else even God leaves Bio: Matthew Borczon is a writer and nurse from Pa, his book a Clock of Human Bones won the yellow chair reviews chap book contest for 2015. He has appeared in many small press journals. He is still a Navy Sailor and a person living with PTSD. |
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