7/12/2017 Poetry by Kristin GarthSLENDER SECRETS He thinks I had a choice. This grandpa cop in hipster glasses, ironed shirt who writes my words like “tendrils," “mansion," doesn't stop to question that they might be true. First night, seduced, at six, into your sly service, The circles drawn on dolls you say are meant for me unless I listen. Go from nervous to abject fear by twelve years old. You send by then your pixie proxy, swimming pools with slender secrets. Sharp sacrifice we surmise because we both see. Two tools, who'll slice, like air, for you, a strawberry. You taught me that a knife is but a key; to kill a friend, not choice, necessity. LAFAVE Restrain myself for months before I write you that first pass. Ignore all your advances, your monologues on miniskirts as tight as ones I wore, fourteen, like you. Glances upskirt, for days, I dangle, desktop, hear discussions of my DSLs with all your friends. I buy new lipstick but do not go near you. Behave myself almost to the end of school until I slip; you slide inside my planning period and SUV. A man I see behind a child that hides grown-up worries: what becomes of me? You are the aggressor because you're male, and we both know I'm far too hot for jail. Bio: Kristin Garth is a poet/novelist from Pensacola, Florida. In addition to Anti-Heroin Chic, she has published poetry in Quail Bell Magazine and No Other Tribute, an anthology. She’s currently writing lots of sonnets and a novel The Meadow. 7/11/2017 Poetry by Jeff BagatoThe Pancake Face of Terror A face like a plane, all across the world, broad and with a curved horizon, the eye splayed out and somehow looking back-- that flatness sucks you out onto the air, always gazing up at you as you fall This vision in the window after midnight after reading Baudelaire after a rare day of holding a woman and the envious closeness all men and women long for all over the world, lacking which they start wars and kill each other for a pair of shoes, a bottle of medicine—numbing the pain For such a day I’d fall into the pancake face of terror; but these days never ask They give: taking the anger and making it possible to have visions of the flat face of anger, the flat plane of hating desire Dreams Going Home Traveling through time to get here, still at the wheel, jerking awake on the last legs at 70 mph and a downhill run, dreaming to come home, practicing arrival like first steps planned from the cradle inch by inch, slow steps seen and done in sleep until you wake choking white puke on the mountain, soiling yourself because dream steps don’t bring you any closer—I dream to come home and travel in time to be here, like standing in a thrift store with things that have jumped time, this sweater escaping junk pile permanence and leaping forward into now with this glass or this record, forgotten and alone but here and ready to leap again, either to life or the future in a Denver thrift store or a Dayton Goodwill with rows of color-coded clothes milling from that into this, one step at a time, dreaming of living and dreaming at home: You are crossing the date line and the future is now, and coming home you are walking into the past, minute by minute until they count it on the map and you can wake up in the arms appearing from new dreams backlit by pacific waves for asphalt lidded eyes So Far Out of the World Looking down from bald lichen stained rock mountain-- that’s the world—between me and the world, scrub, pine and rock, and water around the world So far out of the world the wind blows through my mind—I can see it in a cartoon blowing from ear to ear and the brains some old dust added to the rest on these roots In a patch of pine—the road unseen, a blue bandana found on the way to piss where shielded from the wind the last world is silent, leaking-- loving this wild flow-- its ecstatic lines dissipate Something invisible runs across the sea and over this mountain to the north-- taking my dust with it, my last civilization, my face, my ways how does a rock survive-- fed by lichens darkness next to this Bio: A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, glitch video, sticker art, and pop surrealism paintings. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
Photography - Ariel Bridget
On Sitting with Sounds and Listening for Ghosts, Sun Riah sews together an album that at times feels more like a book of poems. A quiet but pronounced meditation of grief and the painfully long process of making sense, if ever we can, of what has been lost. Stephenson explores the spaces of her Grandmothers house, rooms that, once so full of life, become engulfed in absence with her passing. The haunting power of this work is not just its universal applicability, but the recognition that where we come from, landscapes, houses, family, all of the many ties that bind us to our own identity, and what becomes of us once those threads come undone, constitutes the fabric, the language by which we know ourselves. AHC: Could you talk a little about your upcoming album, Sitting with Sounds and Listening for Ghosts, the themes that you deal with here, family, loss and what you've described as the "emotional definitions of home and identity?" Yeah. This album for me is a journey through loss and changing relationships to landscapes and place. The album is centered around a small house in a very small town in rural Oklahoma where my grandmother was born in 1926 and lived until she died in 2015. She was actually born in what my family calls the middle room of the house. The middle room, from my understanding, was the original structure of the house. The kitchen and other rooms were added over time. As a child, my grandmother's home was one of the only constant places in my life. As she died and after she died, I watched her house change with emptiness. This album attempts to capture the life of her house. It was born out of my own processes of coping with the feelings of loss, regret, and shame that I experienced after my grandmother died. Both Firefly Night Light and Sitting with Sounds and Listening for Ghosts are part of my own path in understanding my very complicated relationship to home and identity. AHC: What first pulled you toward music and songwriting? Was there a specific, defining moment where you began to feel a creative-call that could only be answered through music? I’ve made up songs for as long as I can remember, so I don’t really know what first pulled me towards music. I often wonder why I feel pulled to share music with other people. I don’t fully understand it myself. I’ve come to realize that sharing music with other people, especially through live performance, is a form of communication for me that provides me with grounding; it helps me connect with other human-beings. Live performance is probably at the core of why I share music. It’s easy in our very digital world to forget the role that live performance plays in sharing and writing music, but for me, when I perform music live and in front of an audience, it is in those moments that I’m able to most fully commit to a song, to notice all of its nuances, and to feel a song’s movements deeply. Sharing music with other people is both part of the songwriting process and an emotional outlet for me. Music is a means of communication and connecting with people in ways that I struggle to in my daily life. I think I’m the most vulnerable and the most connected to other humans when I make music. So, I don’t remember a moment in time when that all became clear to me or when I felt a creative-call that could only be answered through music. I just think I’ve kind of always felt music really intensely and loved making music, and at some point, I gave in to the ways that music makes me feel and embraced music’s potential for connecting, sharing, and communicating with other people. AHC: Who are some of your inspirations or guiding lights as a songwriter, performer, musician? As a performer, I’m inspired by my niece and nephew. Really almost any child that I’ve ever met. Not only because they are honest, but children feel things really intensely and seem to be more willing to give in to their emotions than adults. As a performer, I want to have a child-like honesty and commitment to my emotions. As a songwriter and musician, I’ve been really inspired by Helen Money, Laura Mvula, and Julianna Barwick. I’m also really influenced by movie soundtracks and musicals, musical projects that tell stories and span multiple genres. I’m endlessly inspired by DIY musicians who I’ve met touring and playing music, and I honestly think some of those folks have been some of my biggest inspirations: Jasmine Dreame Wagner, Sister Grotto, Sarah Reid, C.J. Boyd, and Teach Me Equals, just to name a few. I’m inspired by their commitments to their art, and the ways that they creatively work to share their music and other works with people. I also just find that DIY musicians are often some of the most creative and least praised folks making music today. I’d also say that I’m forever musically indebted to and inspired by Joni Mitchell, Billie Holiday, Kate Bush, Grouper, Alice Coltrane, Loreena Mckinnitt, and Joanna Newsom among others. It’s hard to come up with a concise list. Ha. AHC: What do you think makes for a good, enduring song, the formulas of honesty and intensity, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? It’s a delicate and difficult balance for me, and I think it really depends on the content. I think a good, enduring song is like a good, enduring story; there has to be movement, counter-narratives, and layers of story that unfold with time. A fun aspect of music is that counter-narratives can happen through soundscapes, musical progressions, silence, or words. I love music that creates tension between the content of the words or melody and the feeling of the music. So, for instance, a happy sounding song with devastatingly sad lyrics can work to tell multiple stories. I think a good, enduring song utilizes multiple aspects of music to intimately tell a story: sound, words, melody, accompaniment, performance, and silence. For my most recent album, I was very much trying to tell a story both through music, sounds, and words. It’s difficult to talk about because at this point in my life I feel like songwriting is something that happens to me as much as it is something that I do. I think that for me, I know that I’ve found the right mix when a song is transformative for me. I can never know how other people will experience the music that I make, but if it is satisfying, transformative, and interesting to me, and if after I listen to it and play it hundreds of times, I’m still learning new things about it and captivated by the song when I hear it or play it, that’s all I can do. So, I guess my goal when writing music is to make music that moves me, and then all I can do is hope that it is a moving and meaningful song to other people. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Oh my goodness. There are so many! … One that really stands out for me is performing as part of a harp studio when I was first learning harp. I was an older beginner, and I had some insecurity about that. The harp studio included small children to older adults, I’m guessing in their sixties. We performed pieces together, but we also were working on solo pieces for an upcoming recital. Our teacher had us perform our solo pieces for each other during a harp ensemble rehearsal in her living room. I remember watching everyone perform, and seeing young students and old students of varying levels and harp histories become incredibly vulnerable as they performed their solo pieces. It was a really beautiful musical moment because each performer found comfort in their own playing and each other’s. We were also all very nervous with each other, but we did our best. And, we all wanted the best for each other. Something about that moment taught me to have much more patience with myself, and it helped me to humble myself as an older beginner approaching the harp. That moment also helped me to cherish music as a collaborative process and to appreciate where I’m at in my own process. 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? I encourage folks to make music for themselves first. Moments of praise, appreciation, or recognition, those moments are always fleeting, but if you make music that genuinely resonates with you, then music will almost always be satisfying. I’d also advise songwriters, artists, and maybe humans in general to be aware of finding balance between self-criticism and self-trust. I think some amount of self-doubt is healthy, but some people seem to need more self-trust and others probably wouldn’t be hurt by a little more self-critique. I lean on the side of being overly critical of myself. For me, it helps to have someone that I love who I really trust to be honest with me. My sister is that person for me, and I know that I can always trust her to tell me if my fears and doubts are overly critical or reasonable. Her perspective helps ground me when I’m wallowing in doubt. I’d also encourage people to look outward, listen to music. Listen to lots of music. Go to live shows, and see touring bands. Follow smaller music blogs. Listen and see and feel music. Take time away from your own music and learn a song that you love. If you are struggling with the creative process or self-doubt, take time to look outward and appreciate the work of others. Sitting with Sounds and Listening for Ghosts will be available on CD, cassette, and digital download via Keeled Scales on July 21st. Pre-order now from keeledscales.com/ Sun Riah's first two albums, ..., the musical & firefly night light are available via sunriah.bandcamp.com/ 7/10/2017 Poetry by Jess NiebergI LISTENED TO YOUR SONG LAST NIGHT for Cole good days crescendo and then melt your memory bad days off key strings drive me to your house no one is home i don’t think your ghost would have lived here i like to look anyways 3:11 AM ON A MONDAY for Cole let’s go for a walk meet me at the corner where small veins become mainline i will wait by the stop sign and pretend it was you FUCK HEROIN for Kayla another building burned down today they will put a headstone in its place all the lights were on but no one knew it was burning this is the second time this year they say they will build more lighthouses curb rocky shores but here in this concrete jungle we are landlocked the rescue boats seem just as helpless queen city wears a crown that is slowly crumbling the buildings keep burning from the same damn kerosene it pumps through the veins of this place GASLIGHT i fell in love with you in a parking lot full of windshields waiting to be broken the way bomb shelters are built anticipating the possibility of and hoping for the best anyways you were suffocating without ever having to put your hands around my neck i fell in love with you in your mom’s car after midnight desperate and searching for savior the way darkness will tempt to any nearby light no matter how red you loved like invisible chains liked to tell me you never tied me into bedroom submission just trickled down my throat sticky sweet guilty until i found myself choking on apology in the form of naked body offering the only way i knew how i spent three and a half years traveling between equator and the poles i have never felt frostbite melt so quickly before burning off every layer of skin/ i never want to be touched again your love felt just like a panic attack every wall closing on the room of me you blocking the only door misery does love company or trauma loves to re-traumatize or gaslight loves to keep burning long after you have extinguished the flame you always liked to ask me why i didn’t leave but the door handle was so hot everyone knows you don’t just walk out of a fire without wanting to go back for all that is burning Bio: Jess Nieberg is a poet and student living in Denver, CO. She is receiving her BA in neuroscience at the University of Colorado. She is a member of the 2017 Denver Mercury poetry slam team and was a finalist for the Denver Youth Poet Laureate. Her work is forthcoming in the Mutiny Info Reader, Bottlecap Press' blog, and Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine. Her favorite sound is laughter, she enjoys green tea and the color green a little too much, and would very much like to pet your dog. The Ballad of Mileva Einstein It’s known since the days of Czar Lazarus: A household hosts only one genius We had a daughter, Mileva Marić Reared in an empire, Austro-Hungary We loved her so much that we let her leave To learn Physics at Zurich University It was the dawn of the Twentieth Century A woman in Science was rare indeed She loved a peer, neither Christian nor Turk And his a household name, until this day! He called her “wild,” he named her “gypsy” Under her spell of “Slavic intensity” Our modern woman in mind and in love Made love to this German, unmarried, unbound Something grew in Mileva then It wrecked her health, her genius spent Adversity sends Serbs into the woods Mileva, on retreat, wandered in deep Nightmare pains tore up our hero inside: Mileva gave birth to a rope of thorns. She claimed it was a stillborn named Lieserl, Not the death of twins: a career, ambitions Because now it was only right For Einstein to make her his wife That was when her darkest problems began, As she assumed the role of legal spouse Keeping his house, raising Albert’s sons Meant her life as a physicist was done. He claimed Relativity, then had fun: Wandered, cheated, and asked for a divorce Back in Serbian woods—a sprout Mileva’s soul, rosebush, peeked out But in her mortal body, rot, decay, Tubercular scars had their final say Our hero died alone, confused and poor In a Europe bereaved by World at War Another woman’s body lowered back into the ground, her labor forgotten. Something of Mileva didn’t die A woods-deep thorn bush still grows wild Think twice before you praise that genius, And be mindful of the wild roses. Once Science is ready, Daughter Of Thorns Will rise, return, and you will know her name! It’s known since the days of Czar Lazarus: A household hosts only one genius. Bio: Laura Eppinger is a Pushcart-nominated writer of fiction, poetry and essay. She graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA in 2008 with a degree in Journalism, and she's been writing creatively ever since. She's the blog editor at Newfound Journal. Her publication list lives here:http://lolionthekaap.blogspot.com/p/creative-writing.html 7/8/2017 Poetry by Rachel BusnardoI’m listening to Bon Iver in an honest effort to be more like you. I know what you said. I know the day is still young because I already want to go home and flex in the dark. Overtime the body blooms but not in the way you said. Each year the deer gaggle on the lawn looking for something dead to taste under the snowpack. Their shit sinks into the weather-ridden yard and we will never find it no matter how many shovels we buy. That’s what shit does. I’m not asking you to love me; I’m asking you to see the cogs synchronizing below the surface. All those wheels grinding the shit back to life. Is Borg Short for Borges? I cannot be asked to speak a moment sooner than when the silence breaks, paralleling the manner in which the bough performs the same story. What voice, what specter is this that knows me by name? Behind the name is that which has no name; Blue skies weren’t blue until it was said to be so, and so, in our own universe, there’s a tumbler of voices polishing the diction. And if all this is connected let it be by the supreme firings of neurons and star light then star dark clusters and systems chattering with the mechanisms that keep us syncing, dancing— with every twirl, a silhouette tunnels beneath their tales, swishing pressure to the ear as we dance from one self to another to another & another to each other. Magic Trick He tried to make a name for himself twirling out all those answers you see, he doesn’t like questions well, actually he’d rather imagine the things you ask-- Now you see me, trying to say body but my mouth is all ohs well, actually who cares what I said, nobody wrote it down. Now you see me balancing on a broken heel the red velvet stuffed with fetid rabbits; now you see me with my flesh pressed against the cold glass of a human-shaped box. He says he can teach me real magic make a perfect O, he says maleficarum, dovahkiin, event horizon, rutabaga, no Now you see me catching a bullet out of mid-air; the audience roars to their feet & then, on that stage I curl up like a question exhaled from the barrel of his mouth remembering my shape just long enough to disappear. Bio: Rachel Busnardo lives in Boulder, Colorado with her partner. She grows tomatoes and has strong opinions.
Photo - Loren Luck
From the glittering dream laden hills of Los Angeles comes the lush, crepuscular sounds of LUCKYandLOVE (Loren Luck and April Love). Imagine a skate park at dusk with speakers high as walls, heavy, polyphonic sounds vibrating and rearranging the air like so many light particles splitting in two, Lucky + Love, pouring into your ears. A haunting and precise sound carving itself into your cognitive memory, music travelling like gypsies through the ether. The real creative ingenuity of this duo is that they've found a way to build on the rich legacy of their predecessors (Cocteau Twins Depeche Mode), without simply repeating the past, these are new sounds glowing in the dark, twined around the warm, lush vocals of April Love. Their music video, Digging in The Earth, has the kind of wild creative presentation that The Cramps would be proud of. B-movie aesthetics and camp, a nod to 90's era Gregg Araki, where ants carry a T.V. aloft like food, and, well, dance. The last track, Full Moon, proves just how cinematically inclined the ethos of LUCKYandLove is, the album coming to an end like the closing credits on the silver screen. The spiritual presence of David Lynch and Siouxsie Sioux hover somewhere above the rich, mysterious musical world on display here. Which is to say unexpected moments of beauty and allure that are well worth the trip taken with this duo. Hop in the car, preferably at night, and listen to Lucky + Love, an album that takes you to the stars. Lucky + Love is available now luckyandlove.bandcamp.com/album/lucky-love Keep up with LUCKYandLOVE Website | Facebook | Store | Soundcloud | YouTube | Instagram | Twitter | Spotify | Bandcamp 7/7/2017 Angelo Loves Tammy by Emily HooverAngelo Loves Tammy I can always tell when Danny’s been in Mama’s room while she’s at work: her high heeled shoes are stacked close together, her drawers are shut tight, too tight, and her bedside trashcan is full of little pieces of toilet paper with bright, red kisses on them. I can tell these things because Mama’s messy. She’s always messy, even when Uncle Rick comes over and drinks Zimas with her on the porch and stays the night in her bed. She also never blots her lips because it’s too expensive. She says the ladies on the Maybelline commercials blot their lips because they’re made of money. But I never tell anyone—not Mama, not Uncle Rick, and especially not Phillip—what Danny does in Mama’s bedroom alone. I’m in Mama’s room now because Phillip and Danny are fighting, as usual. Phillip’s forcing Danny to make him some eggs and toast even though it’s gonna be dinnertime soon, and Mama bought fish sticks and RC Cola plus a big old bag of corn chips from the dollar store. Phillip’s supposed to make dinner because he’s the oldest, but he hates fish sticks. He also hates eggs if the yellow part is broken. He hates basically everything, but I think he hates Danny the most. I’m lying on Mama’s bed, watching the clock on her nightstand, and playing with the cigarette butts in the ashtray. I like to tear the orange paper off, so I can see the part that looks like hay when I split it into pieces. Right now, the red numbers on the clock say it’s 3:30 PM. I have to meet Angelo at 4:00. I don’t think I can wait that long in Mama’s bed and my fingers are all gray and stinky from the ashes, so I get up. I walk around on the carpet for a little while, wearing Mama’s high-heeled flip-flops—the ones with the jewels on them. Being tall feels good, kind of like the way I feel when Angelo holds my hand after school on the bus. Danny sees us, I know he does because he smiles and his teeth show, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m glad Phillip’s in middle school finally and rides a different bus, because he’d definitely tell Mama about me sitting with Angelo. Mama says I can’t hang out with Angelo because Puerto Ricans steal everything. But he’s never stolen anything from me, ever, and Phillip steals all the time, especially from the Circle K. I don’t get it one bit, but I keep my mouth shut because Phillip pinches me and gives me noogies that hurt, even when I don’t tell on him. Before I leave Mama’s room, I take Danny’s secret squares of toilet paper out of the trashcan and crush them into a big ball with my hands. Then, I run across the hallway and into the bathroom. I watch the pieces fall apart as they swirl down the toilet, and then I wash the lipstick off my hands. When I come into the living room, VH1 is on—Uncle Rick told Mama to get cable when he started hanging around—and Will Smith’s song “Getting Jiggy Wit It” is playing. Phillip’s eating corn chips out of the bag, rubbing the salt from his fingers onto the couch, and singing nanananananana. “Where’s the fuckin’ eggs?” he says to Danny. “I don’t have all day, you know.” “Coming,” Danny says, real quiet. I try to grab a chip from the bag, but Phillip slaps my hand and pushes me out of the way. I sit on the floor, close to the TV, because Mama’s not here to tell me to move or to tell Phillip to stop. The next thing I know, Phillip is yelling at Danny because he broke the yellow part of the egg. Phillip throws the plate on the floor and it smashes into a zillion pieces. He tells Danny to clean it up, which stinks because the yellow part is hard to scrub out. “Get up,” Phillip says when Danny kneels, “and make me another egg. I want the yolk whole. I told you that. Boy, you sure are dumb.” “Hang on,” Danny says. He’s trying to clean up the broken dish because he doesn’t have any shoes on and is afraid his feet will get all cut up. Phillip tells Danny to make another and then another because he keeps breaking the yolks. He slaps him hard in the face every time the egg isn’t right and tells him to start again. When Phillip slaps Danny’s cheeks, it sounds hard, like when I run barefoot down the road. I stay in the living room and rub away my tears because if I don’t Phillip will call me a sissy. My hand still stings a little from Phillip’s slap, and I give it a rub, too. I watch the videos for Destiny’s Child’s “No, No, No” and Monica and Brandy’s “The Boy is Mine” because reading the words is my favorite part of Pop-Up Video and Mrs. Williamson, my second grade teacher, says I’m the best reader in class. Then, I watch commercials for Cinnamon Toast Crunch and some other stuff. I look away from the TV real quick, and I see Phillip’s made Danny throw away more than half the eggs in the thingy. I know Mama will be mad because she always cooks eggs and Scrapple on Sundays before she goes to work and wasting food is expensive. It’s for ingrates, she says. Plus, Danny’s face is real red from all the slapping. Phillip will get the switch for sure. Fifteen minutes have passed by the time I walk back into Mama’s room; the clock says so. I’m going to put a little lipstick on and some blush because my face is splotchy from crying and I don’t want Angelo to see me like this. I put some purple on my eyes because I like the way it shines. Plus, it makes me look older than seven and a half. I still have nine minutes left when I pucker my lips one last time and step back from the mirror that hangs from the back of Mama’s door. I always have to sneak out Mama’s window in order to meet Angelo by the oak tree at the end of our street. He carved our names in the trunk last week so I’ll never forget which tree. It says Angelo loves Tammy 4eva. Angelo’s in fourth grade, just one grade below Danny. His skin is dark, like black people’s skin, but he speaks with a Spanish accent because he’s Boricua, which means from the island. He smells like coconut sunscreen, and I’ve never been inside his house before. His eyes are the greenest, even prettier than Mama’s after she cries. I like it when he holds my hand because his fingers don’t have warts like Danny’s. I jump when I hear the door slam and stop thinking of Angelo for a second. From Mama’s bedroom window, I watch Phillip go down the road on his skateboard. “You okay?” I ask, when I see Danny on his knees in the living room, scrubbing the carpet with Windex. He sniffles and then looks up. “Yeah, I’m okay.” “Think he’ll be gone long?” “I hope so. He said he was meeting Willy at the Circle K. Didn’t even eat his eggs.” The paper towel in his hand is stained blue and yellow and his face is still red at the cheeks, like he smeared Mama’s blush all over. “Why are you using Windex?” “Because we’re out of everything else.” He scrubs again. “It’ll never get clean that way.” He looks up. “I have to try.” “I’m meeting Angelo, but I’ll be back soon.” I watch him nod at me. “Don’t tell.” “I won’t.” He rips another paper towel off the roll. “I promise.” *** “My brother Federico says Daniel’s a maricón.” Angelo throws a rock into the lake. Every time he rolls his “R” sounds, it makes my stomach drop a little, so I ask him to say it again. “What, maricón?” I wonder what a maricón is, but I don’t ask. “No,” I say instead. “Federico.” “Federico.” A crane is near the pond, sucking earthworms out of the wet ground with its long nose. “Teach me to roll my ‘R’s’ like that,” I say. “Okay.” He makes a sound that’s kind of like a purr and a growl. “It’s all in the tongue. See?” I watch his tongue move between the top and bottom rows of his perfect teeth, and then I try. Mine sounds like a hiss, even though I put my tongue on the roof of my mouth. Angelo laughs. “No. Like this.” He makes the sound again and then I try. My breath is still all hiss instead of buzzing and stuff. “I can’t,” I say after a lot of tries. “Boricuas can do it at birth. For white people, it just takes longer. But don’t worry. I can help you practice if you want.” He grins. “How?” “Rico says you have to exercise your tongue. You know, when we look at the magazines and stuff.” I frown. “What magazines?” He smiles wider. “I’ll show you sometime. Have you ever kissed a boy before?” “No.” I look down at the green grass. “Have you?” “Of course not. I’m no maricón. I like girls.” So that’s what a maricón is. I think of Danny and hope Marsha from next door comes to check on him soon like she promised Mama. He touches the birthmark on my chin with his pointer finger. “I can kiss you. Only if you want.” “Mama says I’ll get cooties.” “Do you really believe everything your mom says?” My cheeks are warm. “Do you really believe everything Federico says?” “I believe him when he says kissing is fun. He’s in high school and has lots of girlfriends. Plus, I want to kiss you.” “Okay.” I scoot a little closer. “Close your eyes. And don’t move.” I do and I promise not to move. My eyelashes flutter a little and I’m fighting to keep them closed. His breath is hot. I can feel it on the little blond hairs covering my face. I’m smiling a little, I can’t help it, and my face is turning red. Then his lips touch mine. I flinch, jump back. “That’s it?” He laughs. “Sorta. But it gets better if you touch lips longer, if you do it more than once, you know.” “Okay.” I’m not sure if I want to touch lips longer, but I close my eyes anyway. My heart beats real fast. We touch our lips together for a while, and they feel stuck. Then, I feel Angelo move his face a little and open his mouth. I’m afraid he’s going to eat my face, so my eyes pop open. “What are you doing?” “I was kissing. What are you doing?” “I just—” “You’ve got to try French kissing. Know what that is?” “No,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s fun. Rico told me how. It’ll help you roll your ‘R’s.’” I close my eyes and do what he says. We stick our lips together and kiss a few times. Quick—like when I kiss Mama on the cheek before she goes to work. But this time, when Angelo moves his face so our noses aren’t touching, I let him. I open my mouth too and his tongue touches mine. I flinch again, but he pulls me closer, grabs me by the shoulders to keep me next to him. It hurts a little, but not as much as when Phillip grabs me on the couch. Angelo puts his tongue on top of mine and moves it around a little. I do the same and touch the bottom of his tongue with mine. It feels weird, all slimy. But I get the tingles anyway. *** I know it’s time to go because the sun is setting. The lake that Mama says is really a retention pond doesn’t have much sunlight reflecting off it anymore. All the old people that live in the fancy gated trailer park have gone inside, taken their boxes of wine with them. I’m ready for some fish sticks, if Danny’s made them. As we cross Combee Road, Angelo grabs my hand. It’s darker but not too dark when we make it to Marion Drive. Angelo’s been holding my hand the whole time, which is longer than he ever has. We stop in front of his house. It isn’t much bigger than mine, but I wonder if he has two bathrooms since he has a dad and a mom and they both have jobs. Our hands drop to our sides. “Do you want me to walk you to your door?” Even though he’s a whole two years older and being a gentleman and all, I shake my head. “The porch light’s on.” “Sure?” “Yeah.” I slap a mosquito sucking on my leg. “Well, I have to go now. It’s my sister Bianca’s quinceañera tomorrow and my mom is stressin.’ See you at the bus stop?” “See you.” I spin around and head across the street, folding my arms across my chest, a little cold from the breeze. The crickets are chirping in the palmettos, making a whole lot of racket for the neighborhood. I’m thinking of Angelo, of sitting next to him on the bus on Monday, when I hear a screen door slam. I squint my eyes and see Danny’s running down the driveway. He’s barefooted, crying, wearing my mom’s cheetah-print dress thingy with no pants on. “Tammy! Tammy, help! He’s coming!” Danny’s nose is bloody, and his whole body is covered in apple-sized bruises that are turning from red to black and blue in what’s left of the sunshine. “Danny, what happened?” I say, but he falls to my feet, crying hard. I don’t know what to do, so I pat him on the head with my hand. Phillip opens the door, carrying a baseball bat, and lets it close behind him. He’s looking straight at us, but he doesn’t move. My stomach does a flip-flop. “Go away, Phillip.” “Go away, Phillip,” Phillip says in his best Tammy voice. “I’m serious.” I step in front of Danny, who’s still on his knees, and stick out my chest all tough. “Stay back, I mean it.” My knees are shaking, so I put my hands on my hips. “Oh yeah? What are you and that sissy boy going to do about it if I don’t?” I know I’ll be next if I stick around. I hate him. I hate him so much it burns in my heart. Before I have a chance to say anything back, I grab Danny’s wrist and lift him up. We run across the street—not to Marsha’s house next door—through the drainage ditch in Angelo’s yard, and up the concrete sidewalk to Angelo’s house. I bang on the door with both fists. “Help!” Danny yells, and his voice squeaks. He doesn’t even know Angelo’s family, not really, but he yells anyway. Angelo’s mama opens the door and the two of us run inside. I see Angelo and Federico staring at us from the kitchen. “Tammy, what the—” Angelo says. “What is happening, Angelo?” Angelo’s mama asks. She brings Danny to the couch. It smells like chicken and black beans in the house. There’s sand art all over the place and lots of pictures of Jesus. Angelo’s mama sits with Danny, tries to get him to talk, but he keeps whimpering. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the blood and boogers and what looks like puke on his chin. I can’t help feeling embarrassed for how gross Danny looks. Federico comes into the living room, stands against the wall, keeps his head down. “Dios mio, dios mio,” Angelo’s mama says, stroking Danny’s brown hair and shaking her head from side to side. “Angelo, get me a towel and gauze and some peroxide! Federico, don’t just stand there—call the police!” “No!” Danny says. “Please no, please no, please no. He’ll kill me.” He cries into Angelo’s mama’s t-shirt and she baby-rocks him. “Who?” she asks again and again. “Who did this to you?” Danny is all quiet except for sniffles. “Phillip,” I say finally. Danny turns and looks at me like I said the wrong answer in math class. “Our brother Phillip.” Angelo comes back with the peroxide and a bucket of water. He also brings clothes from his room. “I think these…might fit you,” he says. “After you take a shower, you know.” “Thanks,” Danny says, all quiet. Angelo’s mama dunks the washcloth and cleans his face. “Get the first aid kit, mijo.” The A/C kicks on and I feel a little better. My shirt is wet from all the sweating. I realize I’m still standing in the living room. I quickly sit on the couch and grab my brother’s hand, the one with the warts. I look at a photo of Angelo’s family on the wall and stare at Angelo, his brothers and sisters, his mama and dad. “I’m sorry, Danny,” I say, and I mean it, but it comes out as a whisper. I never should have left him alone. Danny shuts his eyes and a few tears fall. He squeezes my hand back. When Angelo’s mama starts speaking very fast in Spanish to Angelo, Federico, and Angelo’s three sisters, who have finally come out of their room, I listen for the word maricón. But it never comes. Bio: Emily Hoover is a fiction writer and book reviewer based in Las Vegas. Her work has appeared in FIVE2ONE Magazine, Wraparound South, The Los Angeles Review, Necessary Fiction, Ploughshares blog and others. 7/6/2017 Poetry by Jeri ThompsonYou looked at me You looked at me in a way that reminds me I am animal, as if I were the only woman who could light up your sheets. You look at me as if I were your gravity, holding you to earth as it all spins out. You look at me as if I were a safe harbor from your inner squalls. You easily crumble the guards about my heart. My little girl’s heart dreamed of the prince on a white stallion. He would lift me from the everydayness of life, while the sun shone and the birds sang. He never came for me. I waited a long time, then you looked at me. Not at first, we grew together like spring, sizzled for summer and mellowed like the orange and blue of fall. We plan to make it through winter. Those who know me are taking bets on the if and when of it. But if you keep looking at me that way, I plan to remind you everyday why. One Word Gomez Addams about to burst a dandelion clock as Lady of the Night blooms in the focus of the full moon. He breathes in the bud of her smile, there is no other woman in his garden. Morticia tames his heart with one word. He is the mustang, she is the bit he doesn’t feel restrained she needn’t pull the reins. He, always her winning steed. She turns his cambering into campaigns then leads the parade of his success, or finds jewels in his rearing. Morticia is what holds Gomez: A woman who can stand alone, yet chooses to stand next to him. A woman who can hold him close yet not consume him. A woman with angles that spark and spread like a diamond’s echo. She weaves their warp and woof into a web. She stokes his fingers of flame. Combustion in one word, a throaty proposition: Bubbeleh. Just Smile I have Smiling Depression, I was told. It comes from my father always demanding, “Get that frown off your face, Smile." "Smile.” “Don’t look at me that way,” "Smile, SMILE!" “I’ll give you something to cry about.” "Smile!" Years later, told by many men: "Smile, you’re such a pretty girl when you Smile." "Smile!" “What’s wrong? You should Smile.” “…Smile more.” “You look tired, you should Smile.” "Just Smile.” “Give us a Smile, Sweetie” "Smile, Baby, Smile." Smile! Smile!! Just SMILE!!!" (Fuck You!) Bio: So Cal resident who has recently returned to poetry after a 25 year dry spell. Her work can be seen in Chiron Review, Cadence Collective, Cactifur, Lummox 4, and Blaze/Vox. She is currently working on her first chapbook. 7/5/2017 Poetry by Heather JohnsonImitations of Burning You dreamt of drowning, A dying that went on and on, a gin-soaked dream that followed you into waking. You found novelty in fear, which you wrapped around yourself like a fur coat, stroking its coarse grain. I’ve no success with drowning. I’m only good at burning. I tried beating myself against a stone to strike a spark, but his hands crumbled into fists, grappled, flung me to the linoleum floor. I was mute coal giving off residual heat. Even the grip of my son’s mouth at my nipple, tugging a strand called maternal love, couldn’t lead me to living. My dreams were bleak—the underside of waking. I tried to smother my frenetic thoughts underwater. No luck. It was too shallow, too tame. My catalyst came, his vulgar love inciting want. I don’t know how we did it—immersing ourselves into each other. The closest I’ve come to drowning. We couldn’t sustain it—slipped through the eye of each other, through the boiling foam, to find waking. We’re not meant to live in another. You drowned on air, on being. My landscape is arid—parched weeds rasp with the faint stirring of the evening. This is where I thrive, in the vibrancy of self- consumption, in the novelty of burning. Dear Dr. C You are an interloper who revels in the dregs of my clouded essence. You tell me separate yourself from the ache, don’t overlap with it. Otherwise, it’ll become your norm. Still I seek to detach my spirit—drunken, clumsy attempts to spill out of my body. You tell me be mindful, be fully present. It’s a set-up for failure. You well know my psyche resists being bound-- it seeks to expand beyond me, to project onto the sky’s green, luminescent belly, which drags along the cottonwoods’ spires and snags on the steel streetlights. You urge me to Stay, to write on--I break my bones so they’ll be that much stronger, I bite my wrists, gnaw on palm and knuckle to instigate renewal. I peel back my skin and probe past tendon looking for new being. You sip at the dregs of me, witnessing, as I pick out the fluted bone of my wrist, dip it in ink, and scratch it against the paper. Patricide “Daddy, I have had to kill you.” -Sylvia Plath Who said patricide was so very bad? You’re kind of dead already. You’re a horror movie zombie risen from the desert earth where we grow squash, corn, and zucchini. I think it must be the Anasazi, who lived in the juniper-studded valley before us, who resurrected you. Mud-caked, you shamble with an exaggerated masculine gait, viciousness in every pigeon-toed bootstep. You’re Nosferatu—dead thing gorged on the livelihood of others, dead thing whose only vitality is coaxed by the threat of sullen silences and the weight of your fists. You’re such a good fascist you’ve convinced my mother of your sacred philosophy, your Love is Violence manifesto. I dance the Enemy Way Ceremony, prepare myself to go to war-- I spew the liquor between my teeth as I slur your name. I whirl in wild circles and stamp on the memory of you. Bio: Heather Johnson (a.k.a. Heather Johnson Lapahie) is an indigenous writer from the Navajo Nation who teaches at the University of New Mexico and reads for the Blue Mesa Review. Her work has appeared in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle. She’s currently working on a novel and book of poetry. She’s a mother, an avid Netflixer, and pug owner. |
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