ISSUE11.09

WORDS+IMAGESM U S E I S T H E Q U A R T E R L Y J O U R N A L P U B L I S H E D B Y T H E L I T

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Founded in 1987 as Ohio Writer, MUSE is the quarterly journal published by The Lit, a nonprofit literary arts organization. No part of this journal may be reproduced without written consent of the publisher.

JUDITH MANSOUREditorjudith@the-lit.org

TIM LACHINADesign Directortim@wjgco.com

RAY MCNIECEPoetry Editorwords4muse@the-lit.org

ROB JACKSONFiction Editorwords4muse@the-lit.org

ALENK A BANCOArt Editorimages4muse@the-lit.org

BONNIE JACOBSONDAVID MEGENHARDTContributing Editorswords4muse@the-lit.org

KELLY K . BIRDAdvertising Account Manageradvertising4muse@the-lit.org

THELITCLEVELAND’S LITERARY CENTER

ARTCRAFT BUILDING 2570 SUPERIOR AVENUE SUITE 203 CLEVELAND, OHIO 44114

216 694.0000 WWW.THE-LIT.ORG

MUSE IS THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL PUBLISHED BY THE LIT

SUBMISSIONS(Content evident) may be sent electronically to words4muse@the-lit.org. We prefer electronic submis-sions. MUSE publishes all genres of creative writing — including but not limited to poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, humor, lyrics, and drama. Preference is given Ohio-based authors.

V O L U M E 2 , I S S U E 4 N O V 2 0 0 9

At the time of press for this issue of MUSE, we were less than

three weeks away from For Closure—no, not the crisis, but the

LIT’s 35th Anniversary exhibition and benefit. For those of you

who have somehow escaped our PR push for this event, we

have decided to use our 35th anniversary celebration, not only

to honor the individuals who helped to found and form this

organization—as well as those who helped to shape its

programming in the early years—but we also took the oppor-

tunity to revisit the very popular Mirror of The Arts program.

Using large-scale, bleak images captured by Cleveland artist

Donald Black, Jr. to inspire writers from around the area, For

Closure: Visions of Reality, Words of Promise, will open on

November 7th at 6:30pm at Convivium 33 Gallery.

In keeping with the original intent of our founders, and with the

commitment to celebrate excellence in simplicity of craftsmanship,

this issue of MUSE focuses on the black and white photographs

of our Art Director, Tim Lachina (whose collection, DISCARDED

AMERICA: Evidence of Lost Ideals will also premier at the LIT

35th anniversary at Convivium 33 Gallery). These images: subtle,

stark, and evocative have inspired the new works that you see in

the following pages. Simple, elegant, passionate. No columns

this time, no fuss. Just the words and images. Art.

Judith

Dr. Tener’s intense energy could be disarming. When he read Shake-

speare, the words came alive as he strode from one side of the room

to the other, The Riverside Shakespeare on his desk while he recited

the words from memory. He paced across the front of a Satterfield

Hall classroom dressed in a red cable-knit turtleneck sweater, blue

jeans, and cowboy boots, his tenor booming out “There is nothing

either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Act II, Scene II) from

Hamlet. In his attitude was a dare: dare you not be moved?

Tener was still lingering in my imagination when Bird Dog Publish-

ing announced the release of Depression Days on an Appalachian

Farm, Poems by Robert L. Tener. Could this be the same man whose

graying hair and goatee made him fifty-five back then? I pressed for-

ward, for the depth of his love of great writing continued to influence

me. Local publisher Larry Smith confirmed the author of the book

of poetry was the former Kent State Graduate Department Chair and

igniter of the Wick Poetry Center. He told me Bob pecks out his po-

etry on a typewriter today even as he “once built a house for his fam-

ily—with his own two hands, one brick and one board at a time.”

Yes, I remembered, Bob Tener built his own house. He invited his

graduate-level Elizabethan Drama class to the rustic home near the

Cuyahoga Valley for a holiday dinner, and I was entranced. A large

tree branch strewn with white lights and small packages hung from

the two-story foyer with its balcony library. With great bravado, he

climbed to the second floor, plucked a present off a branch and deli-

cately presented it to his new wife, one of his former graduate

students. He recited Sonnet 18, “But thy eternal Summer shall not

fade nor lose possession of that fair thou owest” at one of the most ro-

mantic moments I had ever witnessed.

What could I say to the romantic man I knew when practically a

child? How would I connect with the poet who impressed me at Stu-

dent Center poetry readings and Writing Certificate Program orga-

nizing committee meetings? Would he remember a jean-clad,

blue-eyed brunette, indistinguishable from other long-haired col-

lege girls, a girl who regurgitated his lectures regaling Marlowe?

Life has taken the shyness from that girl, and I am a woman who

honors connections.

MY TRUE NORTHCLAUDIA J. TALLER

SWORDS PIERCE THE AIR AND FEET STOMP IN THE DANCE OF COMBAT

as Shakespeare’s Macbeth comes alive on the Hanna Theater’s jutting stage. The last time I heard the words “I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vault-ing ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other” (Act I, Scene VII) was when they were read by poet and professor Dr. Robert Tener around 1980. I wept when I heard his passionate recitation of 16th century sonnets when I was twenty-one.

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Founded in 1987 as Ohio Writer, MUSE is the quarterly journal published by The Lit, a nonprofit literary arts organization. No part of this journal may be reproduced without written consent of the publisher.

JUDITH MANSOUREditorjudith@the-lit.org

TIM LACHINADesign Directortim@wjgco.com

RAY MCNIECEPoetry Editorwords4muse@the-lit.org

ROB JACKSONFiction Editorwords4muse@the-lit.org

ALENK A BANCOArt Editorimages4muse@the-lit.org

BONNIE JACOBSONDAVID MEGENHARDTContributing Editorswords4muse@the-lit.org

KELLY K . BIRDAdvertising Account Manageradvertising4muse@the-lit.org

THELITCLEVELAND’S LITERARY CENTER

ARTCRAFT BUILDING 2570 SUPERIOR AVENUE SUITE 203 CLEVELAND, OHIO 44114

216 694.0000 WWW.THE-LIT.ORG

MUSE IS THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL PUBLISHED BY THE LIT

SUBMISSIONS(Content evident) may be sent electronically to words4muse@the-lit.org. We prefer electronic submis-sions. MUSE publishes all genres of creative writing — including but not limited to poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, humor, lyrics, and drama. Preference is given Ohio-based authors.

V O L U M E 2 , I S S U E 4 N O V 2 0 0 9

At the time of press for this issue of MUSE, we were less than

three weeks away from For Closure—no, not the crisis, but the

LIT’s 35th Anniversary exhibition and benefit. For those of you

who have somehow escaped our PR push for this event, we

have decided to use our 35th anniversary celebration, not only

to honor the individuals who helped to found and form this

organization—as well as those who helped to shape its

programming in the early years—but we also took the oppor-

tunity to revisit the very popular Mirror of The Arts program.

Using large-scale, bleak images captured by Cleveland artist

Donald Black, Jr. to inspire writers from around the area, For

Closure: Visions of Reality, Words of Promise, will open on

November 7th at 6:30pm at Convivium 33 Gallery.

In keeping with the original intent of our founders, and with the

commitment to celebrate excellence in simplicity of craftsmanship,

this issue of MUSE focuses on the black and white photographs

of our Art Director, Tim Lachina (whose collection, DISCARDED

AMERICA: Evidence of Lost Ideals will also premier at the LIT

35th anniversary at Convivium 33 Gallery). These images: subtle,

stark, and evocative have inspired the new works that you see in

the following pages. Simple, elegant, passionate. No columns

this time, no fuss. Just the words and images. Art.

Judith

Dr. Tener’s intense energy could be disarming. When he read Shake-

speare, the words came alive as he strode from one side of the room

to the other, The Riverside Shakespeare on his desk while he recited

the words from memory. He paced across the front of a Satterfield

Hall classroom dressed in a red cable-knit turtleneck sweater, blue

jeans, and cowboy boots, his tenor booming out “There is nothing

either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Act II, Scene II) from

Hamlet. In his attitude was a dare: dare you not be moved?

Tener was still lingering in my imagination when Bird Dog Publish-

ing announced the release of Depression Days on an Appalachian

Farm, Poems by Robert L. Tener. Could this be the same man whose

graying hair and goatee made him fifty-five back then? I pressed for-

ward, for the depth of his love of great writing continued to influence

me. Local publisher Larry Smith confirmed the author of the book

of poetry was the former Kent State Graduate Department Chair and

igniter of the Wick Poetry Center. He told me Bob pecks out his po-

etry on a typewriter today even as he “once built a house for his fam-

ily—with his own two hands, one brick and one board at a time.”

Yes, I remembered, Bob Tener built his own house. He invited his

graduate-level Elizabethan Drama class to the rustic home near the

Cuyahoga Valley for a holiday dinner, and I was entranced. A large

tree branch strewn with white lights and small packages hung from

the two-story foyer with its balcony library. With great bravado, he

climbed to the second floor, plucked a present off a branch and deli-

cately presented it to his new wife, one of his former graduate

students. He recited Sonnet 18, “But thy eternal Summer shall not

fade nor lose possession of that fair thou owest” at one of the most ro-

mantic moments I had ever witnessed.

What could I say to the romantic man I knew when practically a

child? How would I connect with the poet who impressed me at Stu-

dent Center poetry readings and Writing Certificate Program orga-

nizing committee meetings? Would he remember a jean-clad,

blue-eyed brunette, indistinguishable from other long-haired col-

lege girls, a girl who regurgitated his lectures regaling Marlowe?

Life has taken the shyness from that girl, and I am a woman who

honors connections.

MY TRUE NORTHCLAUDIA J. TALLER

SWORDS PIERCE THE AIR AND FEET STOMP IN THE DANCE OF COMBAT

as Shakespeare’s Macbeth comes alive on the Hanna Theater’s jutting stage. The last time I heard the words “I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vault-ing ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other” (Act I, Scene VII) was when they were read by poet and professor Dr. Robert Tener around 1980. I wept when I heard his passionate recitation of 16th century sonnets when I was twenty-one.

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BACKGROUNDBILLY DELPS

PLAYGROUND, NYC, 2003

contents2 Essay: My True North Claudia Taller

8 Image: Hidden Agenda, Tim Lachina

9 Essay: Septic Heather Madden Bentoske

12 Poem: Bar Flies, Robert Flanagan

13 Image: 2am Club, Tim Lachina

14 Poems: October 20th, Anita Herczog; You Told Me, Russell Vidrick; Untitled, Steve Thomas; Chennai, Sharanya Manivannan

15 Fiction: How Does It Begin, Matt Marshall

17 Image: El Mar, Tim Lachina

18 Fiction: From the Sky, Jess Stork

19 Poem: The Blue Moon Drive-In, Larry Smith19 Image: Union Drive-In, Tim Lachina

20 Image: Dressmakers' Wire Mannequin, Tim Lachina21 Poem: Untitled, Lisa Citore

22 Image: Cemetery, Tim Lachina

23 Poem: Its Gold Still Greens With Tattered Light, dan smith

24 Image: Late Night Shoppers, Tim Lachina

25 Poem: Shortcut, Melissa Guillet

26 Lies, Nin Andrews

27 Image: You Can Have It All, Tim Lachina

In my first letter, I explained how I thought of him while watching a

Shakespearean performance or admiring a cedar-framed home on a

valley floor. When he wrote back, he told me he was an 82-year-old

farmer trying to start an arboretum and living with his wife and two

dogs, a humble, quiet life. He enclosed two chapbooks and several

poems printed in limited editions in Kent, which I read as an exten-

sion of our correspondence.

I read A Cadence of Cold Poems and heard the “trees growing” and

“the hum of stars.” I embraced the silence felt in the words “silence

comes with snow falls . . . the past settles on the present . . . silence,

not even an inner thought sustains the universe.” The symphony of

silence entwines the past with the present as we grow old but remain

young. Memory becomes supplanted by a pang much deeper in “The

Perfume of Snow”:

The Perfume of Snow

comes to us

like rain or sun

though it carries

if we love our cats

the fear of deep cold.

for us its bouquet

goes beyond memory;

it carries the fragrance

of childhood.

The poetry of Depression Days on an Appalachian Farm aches with

the limitations of life. In the poem, “The Farm Still Haunts Me,”

the words “suddenly the future’s reality seems to return one to the

past’s possibilities,” reflect upon the necessity of pregnant possibil-

ity rooted in the past. Bob Tener’s poetry allows me to know him

as a child silhouetted against snowdrifts and as a man who listens

and waits for answers as he chops wood, plants buckeye trees and

carefully tags them, and walks in the coolness of a dewy late sum-

mer morning.

I sent him some clips: an article on the Outer Banks that appeared in

Northern Ohio Live, an essay on our dinner group from The Plain

Dealer Magazine, and the back roads and beaches trail article penned

for West Shore Magazine. My work is not poetry, it’s an attempt to

capture places and moments and urge others to experience life. He

responded, in his neat long-hand, “Wow! You are some writer!” My

words showed him a woman who loves to feel sand between her toes,

who enjoys good company with her food and wine, and for whom

riding a bicycle is a passion borne within her childhood.

Above the silence, the noise of how we use words to savor life reigns

and unites us. I keep his poem, “Successful Farming” on the wall

above my desk because it reminds me that we do what we can,

whether it’s working the land or working with words. Bob Tener’s

living out his later years on High Hawk Farm which he built while

remembering “our old Ohio barn” and seeing the blue granite gray

of its aged pine siding polished different than his father did, but the

rhythm of chopping wood is felt in his poetry.

As naturally as words fall onto a page, he invited me to see the home

he built. I drove to High Hawk Farm on a fall afternoon to honor the

relationship that went beyond words. I discovered a compact wooden

home with porches set back in a quiet place amongst trees. Inside the

house, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of the same white ash from which

his father made axe handles were filled with books and travel arti-

facts. I found the man whose eyes are bright and body is sprite, whose

energy is almost combustible. Our words tumbled out like water in

a brook as we toured his property. Afterwards we drank tea with his

wife while the aroma of white pine walls and red and white oak floor-

boards embraced us.

My true north, my love of words and need to share them, is enhanced

by my connection with a man who is both a farmer and a poet, who

harvests food and poetry. The rhythm of living and knowing each

other, of having a kinship of word loving, infuses our writing with

energy. We give each other hope just by sharing our worlds with the

words that are our tools.

SPONSORS: Cuyahoga County Public Library; Bostwick Design Partnership; Dominion Foundation; Eaton Corporation; Roetzel & Andress; Margaret Wong & Assoc. CO., LPA; Ulmer & Berne LLP

PARTNERS: Joseph-Beth Booksellers; PlayhouseSquare and The Ritz-Carlton, Cleveland

November 3 Ohio Theatre / 7:30 p.m.

Christopher BuCkley, political satirist and

bestselling author, who has written twelve books, including

the novels The White House Mess, Little Green Men and Thank

You for Smoking. Buckley’s most recent work, Losing Mum

and Pup: A Memoir, chronicles his efforts to cope with the

passing of his mother, Patricia Buckley, and father, author

William F. Buckley.

Book signing after the show.

the CuyAhoGA CouNty puBliC liBrAry FouNDAtioN AND CleVelAND MAGAZiNe PRESENT CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY AT PLAYHOUSESQUARE

2009-2010

For tickets, call 216.241.6000

or visit writerscenterstage.org.

COVERTIMOTHY LACHINATRUE NORTH, SANDIA CREST, NM, 2007

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BACKGROUNDBILLY DELPS

PLAYGROUND, NYC, 2003

contents2 Essay: My True North Claudia Taller

8 Image: Hidden Agenda, Tim Lachina

9 Essay: Septic Heather Madden Bentoske

12 Poem: Bar Flies, Robert Flanagan

13 Image: 2am Club, Tim Lachina

14 Poems: October 20th, Anita Herczog; You Told Me, Russell Vidrick; Untitled, Steve Thomas; Chennai, Sharanya Manivannan

15 Fiction: How Does It Begin, Matt Marshall

17 Image: El Mar, Tim Lachina

18 Fiction: From the Sky, Jess Stork

19 Poem: The Blue Moon Drive-In, Larry Smith19 Image: Union Drive-In, Tim Lachina

20 Image: Dressmakers' Wire Mannequin, Tim Lachina21 Poem: Untitled, Lisa Citore

22 Image: Cemetery, Tim Lachina

23 Poem: Its Gold Still Greens With Tattered Light, dan smith

24 Image: Late Night Shoppers, Tim Lachina

25 Poem: Shortcut, Melissa Guillet

26 Lies, Nin Andrews

27 Image: You Can Have It All, Tim Lachina

In my first letter, I explained how I thought of him while watching a

Shakespearean performance or admiring a cedar-framed home on a

valley floor. When he wrote back, he told me he was an 82-year-old

farmer trying to start an arboretum and living with his wife and two

dogs, a humble, quiet life. He enclosed two chapbooks and several

poems printed in limited editions in Kent, which I read as an exten-

sion of our correspondence.

I read A Cadence of Cold Poems and heard the “trees growing” and

“the hum of stars.” I embraced the silence felt in the words “silence

comes with snow falls . . . the past settles on the present . . . silence,

not even an inner thought sustains the universe.” The symphony of

silence entwines the past with the present as we grow old but remain

young. Memory becomes supplanted by a pang much deeper in “The

Perfume of Snow”:

The Perfume of Snow

comes to us

like rain or sun

though it carries

if we love our cats

the fear of deep cold.

for us its bouquet

goes beyond memory;

it carries the fragrance

of childhood.

The poetry of Depression Days on an Appalachian Farm aches with

the limitations of life. In the poem, “The Farm Still Haunts Me,”

the words “suddenly the future’s reality seems to return one to the

past’s possibilities,” reflect upon the necessity of pregnant possibil-

ity rooted in the past. Bob Tener’s poetry allows me to know him

as a child silhouetted against snowdrifts and as a man who listens

and waits for answers as he chops wood, plants buckeye trees and

carefully tags them, and walks in the coolness of a dewy late sum-

mer morning.

I sent him some clips: an article on the Outer Banks that appeared in

Northern Ohio Live, an essay on our dinner group from The Plain

Dealer Magazine, and the back roads and beaches trail article penned

for West Shore Magazine. My work is not poetry, it’s an attempt to

capture places and moments and urge others to experience life. He

responded, in his neat long-hand, “Wow! You are some writer!” My

words showed him a woman who loves to feel sand between her toes,

who enjoys good company with her food and wine, and for whom

riding a bicycle is a passion borne within her childhood.

Above the silence, the noise of how we use words to savor life reigns

and unites us. I keep his poem, “Successful Farming” on the wall

above my desk because it reminds me that we do what we can,

whether it’s working the land or working with words. Bob Tener’s

living out his later years on High Hawk Farm which he built while

remembering “our old Ohio barn” and seeing the blue granite gray

of its aged pine siding polished different than his father did, but the

rhythm of chopping wood is felt in his poetry.

As naturally as words fall onto a page, he invited me to see the home

he built. I drove to High Hawk Farm on a fall afternoon to honor the

relationship that went beyond words. I discovered a compact wooden

home with porches set back in a quiet place amongst trees. Inside the

house, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of the same white ash from which

his father made axe handles were filled with books and travel arti-

facts. I found the man whose eyes are bright and body is sprite, whose

energy is almost combustible. Our words tumbled out like water in

a brook as we toured his property. Afterwards we drank tea with his

wife while the aroma of white pine walls and red and white oak floor-

boards embraced us.

My true north, my love of words and need to share them, is enhanced

by my connection with a man who is both a farmer and a poet, who

harvests food and poetry. The rhythm of living and knowing each

other, of having a kinship of word loving, infuses our writing with

energy. We give each other hope just by sharing our worlds with the

words that are our tools.

SPONSORS: Cuyahoga County Public Library; Bostwick Design Partnership; Dominion Foundation; Eaton Corporation; Roetzel & Andress; Margaret Wong & Assoc. CO., LPA; Ulmer & Berne LLP

PARTNERS: Joseph-Beth Booksellers; PlayhouseSquare and The Ritz-Carlton, Cleveland

November 3 Ohio Theatre / 7:30 p.m.

Christopher BuCkley, political satirist and

bestselling author, who has written twelve books, including

the novels The White House Mess, Little Green Men and Thank

You for Smoking. Buckley’s most recent work, Losing Mum

and Pup: A Memoir, chronicles his efforts to cope with the

passing of his mother, Patricia Buckley, and father, author

William F. Buckley.

Book signing after the show.

the CuyAhoGA CouNty puBliC liBrAry FouNDAtioN AND CleVelAND MAGAZiNe PRESENT CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY AT PLAYHOUSESQUARE

2009-2010

For tickets, call 216.241.6000

or visit writerscenterstage.org.

COVERTIMOTHY LACHINATRUE NORTH, SANDIA CREST, NM, 2007

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Appletree Books

12419 Cedar Rd.Cleveland, Ohio

216.791.2665

trib con

utors

NIN ANDREWS is the author of several books of poetry in-

cluding The Book of Orgasms, Midlife Crisis with Dick and

Jane, and Sleeping with Houdini. Her new book, Southern

Comfort, is forthcoming in November, 2009.

HEATHER MADDEN BENTOSKE has an MA in creative

writing from Cleveland State University and currently writes

for a local advertising agency. She thinks The Sensational Alex

Harvey Band and mashed turnips with butter and black

pepper are underrated.

LISA CITORE is a poet and the writer/director/producer of

two spoken word and dance productions, The Tao of Sex and

Bloodlines. She is a co-founder and member of Woman Wide

Open, a women's improvisational theater group in Santa Bar-

bara, CA and leads a writing circle for recovering women

addicts. She is currently working on her first film.

ROBERT FLANAGAN has published numerous chap-

books of poetry in Canada, England, Northern Ireland and

the U.S. His work is anthologized in X.J. Kennedy’s An Intro-

duction to Poetry (7th ed) and David Lee Garrison and Terry

Hermsen’s recent O Taste and See. His most recent collection

is Reply to an Eviction Notice, Selected Poems, from Bottom

Dog Press. Retired as director of creative writing at Ohio Wes-

leyan University, Flanagan now writes full time.

MELISSA GUILLET's work has appeared or is forthcom-

ing in Appleseeds, Ballard Street, Bloodroot Literary Magazine,

Caduceus, The Cherry Blossom Review, GBSPA’s City Lights,

Cyclamen & Sword, Dos Passos Review, Fearless Books, Imita-

tion Fruit (winning poem), Lalitamba, Language and Culture,

Lavanderia, Look! Up in the Sky!, Nth Position, Public Repub-

lic, Sangam, Scrivener’s Pen, Seven Circle Press, Women.

Period, six Poets’ Asylum anthologies, and several chapbooks.

ANITA HERCZOG is the mother of two lovely adult daugh-

ters. Along with her alter ego, anitakeys, she’s been playing

piano and singing since grade school, writing music, lyrics,

and poetry since she was a teenager. In her free time she’s a

student of photography, particularly portraiture. She’s gener-

ally considered a lot of fun.

TIM LACHINA, having spent many, many years in the back

woods, mountains, and blue highways of the lower 48 states,

he is still attempting to find true north.

SHARANYA MANIVANNAN is the author of a book of

poems, Witchcraft. She can be found online at http://sharan-

yamanivannan.wordpress.com.

MATT MARSHALL is a freelance writer/critic in Cleveland

Heights. He is a regular contributor to Cleveland Scene,

AllAboutJazz.com and Jazz Inside Magazine, among other

publications. His short fiction has appeared in various print

and online journals, and he’s currently working to complete

a short novel.

dan smith’s poems have been published in Sein und Werden,

Scifaikuest, Hessler Street Poetry Anthology, and ArtCrimes 21,

as well as a number of poems published on-line. His chap-

book, Crooked River, was published in 2005 by Deep Cleve-

land Press. He has poems forthcoming in F**K Poetry,

Scifaikuest, Paper Crow, bear creek haiku, SpeedPoets, and

Kaleidotrope.

LARRY SMITH is a poet, fiction writer, and editor. He is

also a professor emeritus at Bowling Green State University's

Firelands College in Huron, OH. He and his wife Ann grew up

in the industrial Ohio Valley, the setting for his recent novel,

The Long River Home.

JESS E. STORK grew up in a suburb of Cleveland. She now

spends her days buried among books and children as a Library

Associate at the Palisades Neighborhood Library in Washing-

ton D.C. Previously, she was an art teacher at Clark School and

spent most of her time at poetry readings at Mac’s Backs. She

enjoys making artist books and contemplating the thoughts

of early morning bus commuters.

STEVE THOMAS is a proud father of two. And three-time

Greater Cleveland bowling champ who is pursuing the grace

of literature, mainly through poetry. He is having a grand old

time doing so.

RUSSELL VIDRICK has been writing poems for twenty

years, poems that fall on his head from out of the sky.

www.graysauctioneers.com10717 Detroit Avenue, Cleveland OH 44102

p: 216 458 7695 f: 216 458 7694

The Legacy ofRock & Roll Auction

NowAccepting Consignments

The late 1950’s, ‘60’s ‘70’s and 80’s weremagic times for Rock & Roll.The musicwas everywhere and we made it.

Our music.Our photographs.Our art.

For evaluation of items, please email usat appraisals@graysauctioneers.com,or call 216 458 7695.

Photo by Janet MacoskaRobert Plant 1977 #3

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SECTION 1: SEPTICHEATHER MADDEN BENTOSKE

I look down at my yard, and all I see is a rough scar, like

that of a clumsy C-section.

Was the doctor blind when he operated?

No. He was just maneuvering a front loader through an

area that had never been navigated by heavy machinery be-

fore. My front yard.

From my bedroom window I look down at the torn up

grass, mud humps and shale. Even before this intrusive

surgery, it’s a front yard that’s hard to explain without pho-

tos. A place so private that it can only be reached by walk-

ing down thirty stone steps and crossing a bridge. Cars can

not make it down to the front yard or house. The house is

set deep into the woods, tucked into the very earth that

surrounds it. There is no back yard.

And now the yard has been violated while giving birth to

the baby—a new septic system—I will, in turn, give to the

new owners of this magical home. My yard is hurt. I have

hurt it, and I can’t make it better. I can’t tell it, I had to. It’s

better for everyone.

And I am thinking.

I can still touch this rough scar.

Once I touched it with my eyes. My smell. My fingers. My

hearing. In fact, I can still hear the Cuyahoga Valley Na-

tional train on the weekends. Taking people to and fro. In

the winter they go on the Polar Express. Never having

children, I am not sure how much fun this is. Or memo-

rable. The characters in the movie looked spooky to me

with their dead, flat black mouths.

My senses are all in place when I look at this beautiful patch

of earth. When we made love in the front yard, confident

no one could see us. After all, we were in the woods. The

Cuyahoga National Valley. The grass was rough, the ants

were brutal, I was nervous just in case.

There was no in case. HIDDEN AGENDA, CLEVELAND, OH, 2008

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SECTION 1: SEPTICHEATHER MADDEN BENTOSKE

I look down at my yard, and all I see is a rough scar, like

that of a clumsy C-section.

Was the doctor blind when he operated?

No. He was just maneuvering a front loader through an

area that had never been navigated by heavy machinery be-

fore. My front yard.

From my bedroom window I look down at the torn up

grass, mud humps and shale. Even before this intrusive

surgery, it’s a front yard that’s hard to explain without pho-

tos. A place so private that it can only be reached by walk-

ing down thirty stone steps and crossing a bridge. Cars can

not make it down to the front yard or house. The house is

set deep into the woods, tucked into the very earth that

surrounds it. There is no back yard.

And now the yard has been violated while giving birth to

the baby—a new septic system—I will, in turn, give to the

new owners of this magical home. My yard is hurt. I have

hurt it, and I can’t make it better. I can’t tell it, I had to. It’s

better for everyone.

And I am thinking.

I can still touch this rough scar.

Once I touched it with my eyes. My smell. My fingers. My

hearing. In fact, I can still hear the Cuyahoga Valley Na-

tional train on the weekends. Taking people to and fro. In

the winter they go on the Polar Express. Never having

children, I am not sure how much fun this is. Or memo-

rable. The characters in the movie looked spooky to me

with their dead, flat black mouths.

My senses are all in place when I look at this beautiful patch

of earth. When we made love in the front yard, confident

no one could see us. After all, we were in the woods. The

Cuyahoga National Valley. The grass was rough, the ants

were brutal, I was nervous just in case.

There was no in case. HIDDEN AGENDA, CLEVELAND, OH, 2008

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Until our neighbors built a barn overlooking our yard about four

years ago. So much for privacy in your front yard in a national park.

But the C-section runs right over where we laid together. First on

the grass, then when it was too prickly, on an old blanket we found

in the house. The blue and green flowered one from my seventies

teen bedroom. Still an old standby used every Labor Day weekend

for camping on Kelley’s Island. Until now. Now it is used for pro-

tecting shit as I schlep it from the house to my storage locker.

Of course I had to have a septic tank put in. You can’t sell a house

without proper sewage disposal. Apparently, all these years every-

thing’s just been running away from us and straight into the tribu-

tary from the Slipper River that flows in front of our home— according

to Google Earth, which knows all things topographical.

Home. Where the heart is. Where the deer and the antelope roam.

Mmmmm.

Unlike other mothers who give birth and look at the scars as badges

of honor, I looked at this crude stitching, and thought about what it

was covering up.

All that shit, all those years, flowing from him, from me. Everyone

walking all over it as it ran underneath. Unaware. Family, friends,

welcome and unwelcome guests, pets, stray Jehovah’s Witnesses

who managed to find a way to the front door, energy-checkers,

realtors, charlatans, procrastinators, 3-legged deer, cheaters, liars,

the hopeless, assholes, the awe-struck, ghosts of previous owners,

300-pound clairvoyants, boiler repair men, postal workers, vitu-

perative drunk ex-owners with glasses of cheap Scotch at 6 a.m.,

roofers, grass cutters, tree trimmers, feral cats, blushing autumn

leaves, cardinals (the birds, not the higher-order Catholics), questers.

Well, you get the idea.

It was a special place.

Snaking through the piping underground, cruising past the hedg-

ing made of Peninsula quarry stone (and set with seashells at ran-

dom moments), for the past 10 years all this personal evacuation

was lazily waving at the giant blue Easter basket, made of concrete,

to the North and the 40' cedar to the South. Gurgling with antici-

pation to reach its liquid kin in the brook, fed by the Slipper River.

The previous septic tank, I discovered, was basically a hole in the

ground, dug over 60 years ago. So at this point, it was a natural ques-

tion to ask: what is the history of shit removal?

The French were the first to use an underground septic tank system,

in the 1870's. By the mid 1880's, two chamber, automatic siphoning

septic tank systems, similar in concept to those used today, were

being installed in the United States. Even now, a century plus later,

septic tank systems representa major household wastewater treat-

ment option. Fully 1/4 to1/3 of the homes in the US utilize such

a system.

Six septic-install-and-take-care-of people and three Easy Flow

Septic Systems people stared into the hole in the ground that was

our old septic tank.

“They musta’ dragged the cement down here and built this one

on site.”

“Uh, huh.”

And then there is my estranged husband – who has joined me on

this day to help facilitate this septic birth – and myself.

Staring into the void.

A septic tank, the key component of the septic system,

is a small scale sewage treatment system common in areas

with no connection to main sewage pipes provided by private cor-

porations or local governments.

Just how much shit was between us? We were married 24 years,

times, let’s say, once a day, times two people. 175,200 flushes. Give

or take a margin of error of .05. And that’s not including the six

months we knew each other before we got married.

These are my last days in the house. He is missing that. Not my last

days, but his last days in this house. His last days were spent in

someone else’s home. His last days in this house, before he left, I as-

sume, were nightmarish. They apparently involved months, or even

years of being disillusioned. By stupid shit. By me. By the house. By

himself. Mostly by himself. For 23 years he always sent me anniver-

sary greetings written on With Deepest Sympathy cards. He did not

send me a card on our 24th anniversary, which occurred four days

after he told me he wanted to separate.

He is shutting down. Has shut down. Even though he’s the one who

found this beautiful ruin. And wanted to make it work. For so many

years. The house was like a baby constantly demanding more. Peo-

ple would come over and say, there’s so much work. He is the secret

weapon I would say. He can do it all. And he promised that. Until

he couldn’t. But we both should have known, big emphasis on I

should have known, he couldn’t. Do it. It wasn’t humanly possible.

Unless you were rich.

We were not.

Maybe in the depth of experience of all those years. Eloping and

then having a fake wedding for family. Iowa. The Carter Manor.

Chasing the guy who stole his motorcycle. Finding Paul Bowles in

Tangier. Driving my Dad into the future. The deaths of so many

close—my mom and dad, my uncle, his dad, his brother, his good

friend who died too young. Making up silly songs for the dogs that

went like this: “Hi, ho, hi, ho, it’s off to pee I go.” Waving to each

other when we left in the morning.

So much shit. So much flowing away from us.

All cleaned up now.

And sanitized with a UV light. The latest technology in septic

systems.

The typical American urbanite in the 1870s relied on the rural

solution of individual well and outhouse (privy) or cesspools, the

forerunners to septic systems. Baltimore in the 1880s smelled “like

a billion polecats,” according to H. L. Mencken, and a Chicagoan

said in his city "the stink is enough to knock you down.” Improve-

ment was slow, and large cities of the East and South depended to

the end of the century mainly on drainage through open gutters.

Pollution of water supplies by sewage as well as dumping of indus-

trial waste accounted in large measures for the public health records

and staggering mortality rates of the period.

You have never seen greener grass than the grass growing over a

septic system. Lush with possibility. It’s a yard that has to be recog-

nized as the big shit of the neighborhood. This yard will be like that

again, but not in my time. Right now, it’s an ugly birth covered in

coarse mud stitches, but I know it will live.

The term "septic" refers to the anaerobic bacterial environment that

develops in the tank and which decomposes or mineralizes the

waste discharged into the tank. Septic tanks can be coupled with

other on-site wastewater treatment units such as biofilters or aero-

bic systems involving artificial forced aeration. Periodic preventive

maintenance is required to remove the irreducible solids which set-

tle and gradually fill the tank, reducing its efficiency. In most juris-

dictions this maintenance is required by law, yet often not enforced.

Those who ignore the requirement will eventually be faced with

extremely costly repairs when solids escape the tank and destroy

the clarified liquid effluent disposal means. A properly maintained

system, on the other hand, can last for decades and possibly

a lifetime.

1109

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Until our neighbors built a barn overlooking our yard about four

years ago. So much for privacy in your front yard in a national park.

But the C-section runs right over where we laid together. First on

the grass, then when it was too prickly, on an old blanket we found

in the house. The blue and green flowered one from my seventies

teen bedroom. Still an old standby used every Labor Day weekend

for camping on Kelley’s Island. Until now. Now it is used for pro-

tecting shit as I schlep it from the house to my storage locker.

Of course I had to have a septic tank put in. You can’t sell a house

without proper sewage disposal. Apparently, all these years every-

thing’s just been running away from us and straight into the tribu-

tary from the Slipper River that flows in front of our home— according

to Google Earth, which knows all things topographical.

Home. Where the heart is. Where the deer and the antelope roam.

Mmmmm.

Unlike other mothers who give birth and look at the scars as badges

of honor, I looked at this crude stitching, and thought about what it

was covering up.

All that shit, all those years, flowing from him, from me. Everyone

walking all over it as it ran underneath. Unaware. Family, friends,

welcome and unwelcome guests, pets, stray Jehovah’s Witnesses

who managed to find a way to the front door, energy-checkers,

realtors, charlatans, procrastinators, 3-legged deer, cheaters, liars,

the hopeless, assholes, the awe-struck, ghosts of previous owners,

300-pound clairvoyants, boiler repair men, postal workers, vitu-

perative drunk ex-owners with glasses of cheap Scotch at 6 a.m.,

roofers, grass cutters, tree trimmers, feral cats, blushing autumn

leaves, cardinals (the birds, not the higher-order Catholics), questers.

Well, you get the idea.

It was a special place.

Snaking through the piping underground, cruising past the hedg-

ing made of Peninsula quarry stone (and set with seashells at ran-

dom moments), for the past 10 years all this personal evacuation

was lazily waving at the giant blue Easter basket, made of concrete,

to the North and the 40' cedar to the South. Gurgling with antici-

pation to reach its liquid kin in the brook, fed by the Slipper River.

The previous septic tank, I discovered, was basically a hole in the

ground, dug over 60 years ago. So at this point, it was a natural ques-

tion to ask: what is the history of shit removal?

The French were the first to use an underground septic tank system,

in the 1870's. By the mid 1880's, two chamber, automatic siphoning

septic tank systems, similar in concept to those used today, were

being installed in the United States. Even now, a century plus later,

septic tank systems representa major household wastewater treat-

ment option. Fully 1/4 to1/3 of the homes in the US utilize such

a system.

Six septic-install-and-take-care-of people and three Easy Flow

Septic Systems people stared into the hole in the ground that was

our old septic tank.

“They musta’ dragged the cement down here and built this one

on site.”

“Uh, huh.”

And then there is my estranged husband – who has joined me on

this day to help facilitate this septic birth – and myself.

Staring into the void.

A septic tank, the key component of the septic system,

is a small scale sewage treatment system common in areas

with no connection to main sewage pipes provided by private cor-

porations or local governments.

Just how much shit was between us? We were married 24 years,

times, let’s say, once a day, times two people. 175,200 flushes. Give

or take a margin of error of .05. And that’s not including the six

months we knew each other before we got married.

These are my last days in the house. He is missing that. Not my last

days, but his last days in this house. His last days were spent in

someone else’s home. His last days in this house, before he left, I as-

sume, were nightmarish. They apparently involved months, or even

years of being disillusioned. By stupid shit. By me. By the house. By

himself. Mostly by himself. For 23 years he always sent me anniver-

sary greetings written on With Deepest Sympathy cards. He did not

send me a card on our 24th anniversary, which occurred four days

after he told me he wanted to separate.

He is shutting down. Has shut down. Even though he’s the one who

found this beautiful ruin. And wanted to make it work. For so many

years. The house was like a baby constantly demanding more. Peo-

ple would come over and say, there’s so much work. He is the secret

weapon I would say. He can do it all. And he promised that. Until

he couldn’t. But we both should have known, big emphasis on I

should have known, he couldn’t. Do it. It wasn’t humanly possible.

Unless you were rich.

We were not.

Maybe in the depth of experience of all those years. Eloping and

then having a fake wedding for family. Iowa. The Carter Manor.

Chasing the guy who stole his motorcycle. Finding Paul Bowles in

Tangier. Driving my Dad into the future. The deaths of so many

close—my mom and dad, my uncle, his dad, his brother, his good

friend who died too young. Making up silly songs for the dogs that

went like this: “Hi, ho, hi, ho, it’s off to pee I go.” Waving to each

other when we left in the morning.

So much shit. So much flowing away from us.

All cleaned up now.

And sanitized with a UV light. The latest technology in septic

systems.

The typical American urbanite in the 1870s relied on the rural

solution of individual well and outhouse (privy) or cesspools, the

forerunners to septic systems. Baltimore in the 1880s smelled “like

a billion polecats,” according to H. L. Mencken, and a Chicagoan

said in his city "the stink is enough to knock you down.” Improve-

ment was slow, and large cities of the East and South depended to

the end of the century mainly on drainage through open gutters.

Pollution of water supplies by sewage as well as dumping of indus-

trial waste accounted in large measures for the public health records

and staggering mortality rates of the period.

You have never seen greener grass than the grass growing over a

septic system. Lush with possibility. It’s a yard that has to be recog-

nized as the big shit of the neighborhood. This yard will be like that

again, but not in my time. Right now, it’s an ugly birth covered in

coarse mud stitches, but I know it will live.

The term "septic" refers to the anaerobic bacterial environment that

develops in the tank and which decomposes or mineralizes the

waste discharged into the tank. Septic tanks can be coupled with

other on-site wastewater treatment units such as biofilters or aero-

bic systems involving artificial forced aeration. Periodic preventive

maintenance is required to remove the irreducible solids which set-

tle and gradually fill the tank, reducing its efficiency. In most juris-

dictions this maintenance is required by law, yet often not enforced.

Those who ignore the requirement will eventually be faced with

extremely costly repairs when solids escape the tank and destroy

the clarified liquid effluent disposal means. A properly maintained

system, on the other hand, can last for decades and possibly

a lifetime.

1109

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1109

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BAR FLIESROBERT FLANAGAN

Dim dives

Wise guys

Ex-wives

Old lies

Brief lives

2 AM CLUB, MILL VALLEY, CA, 2006

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BAR FLIESROBERT FLANAGAN

Dim dives

Wise guys

Ex-wives

Old lies

Brief lives

2 AM CLUB, MILL VALLEY, CA, 2006

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In a café (or bar) with stone (no—brick) walls and little pathways too thin,

square rooms with speakers up in the corners near the ceiling pumping

out Celtic rock music (all driving guitars and drums and electronic pipes)

with people milling from room to room like ants at their work filling or

refilling their smudged pint glasses with ale to carry and sip and wash

away the mind toils of the day and so slip over into a cool liquid

beginning.

—Where’d you see him? Kate asks Asian girl cheek tan silky

white teeth on smile lips round em dark eyes—brown—black—brown—

black hair shining redpeachbrick, hardsandscrapilywallbricks loudly says

see him to be heard over pounding bass music.

I look down at the shirt she’s referring to—grey black and white

image of Bob Dylan upside down as I look at him in black shades and tou-

sled hair, mike hanging down (or up) big mike—studio mike—Dylan’s

hands at mouth blowing on harp. That image on the Bootleg Series box

set cover lighter faded on T-shirt screened on and surrounded by white

soft cotton. Now being stretched out to be seen—to give the appearance

of being seen—that I am looking at it as if never before—as if for the first

time. Silly.

—Bloomington, I say.

—I. U.? she squeals. Black eyes opening wide in joy amazement.

Music is pounding and smoke beers full or empty or some stage in

between—7/11ths full pint glass dark Guinness on bar wood at emptyleft

chair. Scattered change. Dollar crumpled bill. For next beer.

Guinness. Black with creamy tan foam floating on top in thick

pillow that if poked with your finger in it ploop up foam tower—foam

hat—foam creamy cream chocolate shaped chip—pulling up by your fin-

ger then breaking off. And you plop finger again raising slowly six towers,

all foam stunted, in that way—two eyes and four ploploops for the smile—

make smiley face and if it lasts till the bottom of the glass it’s right thick-

ness—only those at McCormick’s in New York doing it right (McCormick’s

business card still in my wallet in pocket) I take it out and show Kate—tell

her—best Guinness in the City. In country most likely. But in Ireland

what they must be like!

She smiles at my mention but little else. I am on to Joyce then

and asking has she ever read Ulysses? She hasn’t. Great book—greatest—

I am saying, but always I go in cycles. First I really raved about The Scarlet

Letter. That book was the greatest as far as I was concerned for the longest

of time—year maybe, in high school—and you couldn’t talk me out of it.

Then A Farewell to Arms and anything Hemingway for even much longer.

Sip Guinness cool liquidy black coldness. I talk on and on and on. Some

point she is holding a pint glass herself, half full with black Guinness half

full with tan Bass. I’ve gotten her to try it. She likes it—I’ve never had

anything like this before—I am in. I feel it. Some measure, some instant

I’ve slipped into her heart—with a beer no less! Don’t you remember

Molly black lashes round eyes so squintily pretty you gave me your right

hand in my hand and warm you said that if you married me coupled warm

you well, I would be your man but what kind of man am I? Drunk pitiful

dreaming of artistic fame and fortune and good brilliant critique—me

genius—but never displaying it—the loathing of knowing of feeling so

worthlessly empty and void roughly of any talent (regardless of what other

fools say) I suck and will never amount to anything....

But Kate—bright eyes. Bright smile. Warm touch. In white

sweatshirt with sleeves rolled up, though still hanging near wrist and blue

snugging nice jeans. How nice to get inside them. Inside them warm juicy.

But she touches me on the forearm.

—I went to I. U., she says.

—What’d you major in?

—Biology.

Lab student in white lab coat and microscope.

—I’m in med school now at Loyola.

Pounding music. Baboom. Screeching guitar licks—screech-

ing scrape picking sharp riff after riff and bass booming and thumping

low low on bass drumbeat and cymbals and badumpadumdumdum—

piercing voice of brash female sailing easily on top. Singing. Singing.

Singing.

I wish I was in London

Or some other seaport town

At bar in the port with creaking wood posts and wood tables,

wood chairs and wood bar creaking like a ship still at sea and the tough

bearded men with patches and aye mateys and parrots. Drink coffee and

clam chowder, dark Guinness out etched dirty pint glasses and mugs.

Mr. Bloom walks in with Stephen Dedalus after just escaping

from the whorehouse a few blocks over. The sea scraper is telling his yarn

and they (Bloom, Stephen, other dirty dusty old men and sailors) all lis-

ten, in rain coats and coffee vapors.

Outside the sea is calm.

Seafaring vessels rest easily on the waters at dock on the rope and

float. Cracreeeeeeack.

I’d set myself on steamship

And I’d sail the ocean round

Kate sits down beside me at our table—wood unfinished picnic

table that is grey from too much salty moist air and the sun. She sits close.

Our legs are touching—in shorts—her creamy thighs nearly the same

color as mine, only mine darker from sun but our legs are touching and

warm. We drink Rolling Rock in green long-neck bottles. The beer is of

pungent fish as wind blows in off the stagnant sea—slow and heavy

through the propped open door—mouthfuls of stomach turning on

warmly to ocean within me of sea sickness, first time ever—from beer.

The old sailor is talking about his last whaling expedition and scratching

his short white beard. His hands chapped red and crackling from the salt

and years and his work.

But then cometh salvation blowing in as clean air, chasing the

heavy fish smell from the room and filling my lungs again with freedom,

restoring open mouth, so that the cold in the green again is beer once

again in its finest, recounting lost days on schoolhood porches with spring

advancing. Ah, morning on the docks! And the whole day ahead to do

great wild things that’ll be talked about and legendized for years.

—Do you remember that time Ian did this or that?

Ah, the stories. Great drunken stories with me as main-role

hero. Avoiding cops or running into them or arguing some stupid drunk

stupor—That’s a pretty straightforward question, the officer said. Don’t

you think? And me blunk and tearing at me brain to remember the ques-

tion or even the situation general and how I happened to be there and why

oh why can’t I just get out?! And then they hauling me off—or not—and

that making it either funny or nay. Cause I always feel so guilty when they

take me and wonder about me mum. What has her good Catholic boy

grown up and done and why did he ever leave the Church? Pray more, pray

more, unfortunate sad son. God still loves ya. And’ll take ya like a sweet

little bird flying back to Him.

Fr. Woolsey, dressed all in black, with black hat too, and black

overcoat, passing out canny to all us sweatin small children on hot black-

top of the playground. Thar ya go, says he, pinchin at me cheek and scruf-

flin me harr as he hands me over hard red candy in clear cellophane wrap.

They burn hot cinnamon in the mouth and produce all that water that

burns cinnamon when you swallow and breathe.

Fr. Woolsey now dead. Hit with a stroke two falls ago and laid

up in hospital with half his face frozen up and hand twi-twitching.

—Glaguteral, he spoke. Glaglickslupblablockityblock and spit. But maybe

in mind praying to his sweet Savior to take pity on his poor wretched body

and bring him on home—if it be Your will. Black rosary beads twitching

from hand that seems already dead. And when he died he shit himself like

a matador gored in the corrida.

—I love Tchaikovsky, Kate tells me now. Her voice sounding like

some Tchaikovskian violin, and rising up and soon melting the beating

rock rhythms into a movement from the Sleeping Beauty Ballet Suite. I

tried to learn both the piano and the violin but....

—Yes? I ask.

—My fingers weren’t right. They were always about five steps

behind my brain. I just couldn’t get them to move.

—Really? My problem was just the opposite.

—You played?

—Guitar, mostly, but a little piano. I take a sip of dark Guinness.

With the piano, I’d learn a new tune, just playing it over and over, and

struggling through it note after note, till my hands learned it. After that it

was just a matter of reflex, you know? My hands knew where to go.

—Really?

—Yeah. But if I ever thought about what I was actually playing,

I’d fuck up.

She laughs, but more I think from Guinness and Bass than from

anything I’ve said. Though maybe also from nervousness of me. God, it’d

be wonderful if you could move right from that stage to the bed. From shy

laughters to deepwombmoans. Stead all that nonsense in between that’s

all show and politics. You just want to tell her—I’m here, you’re here, we’re

both miserable, let’s just enjoy some heat together. Spread your legs in a

human bed, as Kerouac says.

But now she just laughs and for now it’s enough and breaks me.

The violins are rushing upwards along some great crescendo that will

surely end in great cymbal crash. And creeeeeeeshshshshshsh. Then

silence. Till she begins again.

—I stuck with my brain after that, she says.

—Good choice, I tell her.

—What’s that mean? she responds.

—Nothin, I smilin.

—I’m not that much of a geek, she smilepleads.

—No, I’m sure not.

And we should fall together there and kiss—heavyfull pint

glasses droppin and crashin and explodin dark carnage on slab floor since

forgotten all else and obeying only deepull thirst inside and inside’s where

I want her and I inside her and tightly pressing her to me and holding her

there and kissing at mouth for to drink her and swell her inside and feel all

the heat and be one.

But though we feel the great magnate we pull back away. Which

makes us feel it even more—strugglin against it—’til you’ve pulled long

enough and it rips at your gut and you’re left with a big hollow space where

your stomach used to be. And you wonder how you ever felt anything for

her and just how you felt it and how you ever allowed it to grow inside a

you and continue and escalate to the point of a no goin back and beyond

and why you agreed and moved in with her after that and spoke that word

lueve over and over again treading down upon it and wearing it out till it

was all the beers mashed together from all the last nights cavin in on you,

washing you out, leaving you to wonder all empty and dry if you ever can

possibly feel that way again about her or about anyone else who might hap-

pen to happen along.

But Joyce comes and sits down at our table. He is young. In straw

boater hat and mustache. He drinks coffee with us at our grey picnic table.

We laugh together, ignoring the whalerman and his tale and just soaking

up the new clean air of the bright morning. Kate’s bare leg presses against

mine and the shriek newness of love jumps in me. I smile and take her

hand and rock it slowly, looking out the open door, across the dock and

still sea to the bright glare of the new day’s rising sun.

HOW DOES IT BEGIN?MATT MARSHALL

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1109

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In a café (or bar) with stone (no—brick) walls and little pathways too thin,

square rooms with speakers up in the corners near the ceiling pumping

out Celtic rock music (all driving guitars and drums and electronic pipes)

with people milling from room to room like ants at their work filling or

refilling their smudged pint glasses with ale to carry and sip and wash

away the mind toils of the day and so slip over into a cool liquid

beginning.

—Where’d you see him? Kate asks Asian girl cheek tan silky

white teeth on smile lips round em dark eyes—brown—black—brown—

black hair shining redpeachbrick, hardsandscrapilywallbricks loudly says

see him to be heard over pounding bass music.

I look down at the shirt she’s referring to—grey black and white

image of Bob Dylan upside down as I look at him in black shades and tou-

sled hair, mike hanging down (or up) big mike—studio mike—Dylan’s

hands at mouth blowing on harp. That image on the Bootleg Series box

set cover lighter faded on T-shirt screened on and surrounded by white

soft cotton. Now being stretched out to be seen—to give the appearance

of being seen—that I am looking at it as if never before—as if for the first

time. Silly.

—Bloomington, I say.

—I. U.? she squeals. Black eyes opening wide in joy amazement.

Music is pounding and smoke beers full or empty or some stage in

between—7/11ths full pint glass dark Guinness on bar wood at emptyleft

chair. Scattered change. Dollar crumpled bill. For next beer.

Guinness. Black with creamy tan foam floating on top in thick

pillow that if poked with your finger in it ploop up foam tower—foam

hat—foam creamy cream chocolate shaped chip—pulling up by your fin-

ger then breaking off. And you plop finger again raising slowly six towers,

all foam stunted, in that way—two eyes and four ploploops for the smile—

make smiley face and if it lasts till the bottom of the glass it’s right thick-

ness—only those at McCormick’s in New York doing it right (McCormick’s

business card still in my wallet in pocket) I take it out and show Kate—tell

her—best Guinness in the City. In country most likely. But in Ireland

what they must be like!

She smiles at my mention but little else. I am on to Joyce then

and asking has she ever read Ulysses? She hasn’t. Great book—greatest—

I am saying, but always I go in cycles. First I really raved about The Scarlet

Letter. That book was the greatest as far as I was concerned for the longest

of time—year maybe, in high school—and you couldn’t talk me out of it.

Then A Farewell to Arms and anything Hemingway for even much longer.

Sip Guinness cool liquidy black coldness. I talk on and on and on. Some

point she is holding a pint glass herself, half full with black Guinness half

full with tan Bass. I’ve gotten her to try it. She likes it—I’ve never had

anything like this before—I am in. I feel it. Some measure, some instant

I’ve slipped into her heart—with a beer no less! Don’t you remember

Molly black lashes round eyes so squintily pretty you gave me your right

hand in my hand and warm you said that if you married me coupled warm

you well, I would be your man but what kind of man am I? Drunk pitiful

dreaming of artistic fame and fortune and good brilliant critique—me

genius—but never displaying it—the loathing of knowing of feeling so

worthlessly empty and void roughly of any talent (regardless of what other

fools say) I suck and will never amount to anything....

But Kate—bright eyes. Bright smile. Warm touch. In white

sweatshirt with sleeves rolled up, though still hanging near wrist and blue

snugging nice jeans. How nice to get inside them. Inside them warm juicy.

But she touches me on the forearm.

—I went to I. U., she says.

—What’d you major in?

—Biology.

Lab student in white lab coat and microscope.

—I’m in med school now at Loyola.

Pounding music. Baboom. Screeching guitar licks—screech-

ing scrape picking sharp riff after riff and bass booming and thumping

low low on bass drumbeat and cymbals and badumpadumdumdum—

piercing voice of brash female sailing easily on top. Singing. Singing.

Singing.

I wish I was in London

Or some other seaport town

At bar in the port with creaking wood posts and wood tables,

wood chairs and wood bar creaking like a ship still at sea and the tough

bearded men with patches and aye mateys and parrots. Drink coffee and

clam chowder, dark Guinness out etched dirty pint glasses and mugs.

Mr. Bloom walks in with Stephen Dedalus after just escaping

from the whorehouse a few blocks over. The sea scraper is telling his yarn

and they (Bloom, Stephen, other dirty dusty old men and sailors) all lis-

ten, in rain coats and coffee vapors.

Outside the sea is calm.

Seafaring vessels rest easily on the waters at dock on the rope and

float. Cracreeeeeeack.

I’d set myself on steamship

And I’d sail the ocean round

Kate sits down beside me at our table—wood unfinished picnic

table that is grey from too much salty moist air and the sun. She sits close.

Our legs are touching—in shorts—her creamy thighs nearly the same

color as mine, only mine darker from sun but our legs are touching and

warm. We drink Rolling Rock in green long-neck bottles. The beer is of

pungent fish as wind blows in off the stagnant sea—slow and heavy

through the propped open door—mouthfuls of stomach turning on

warmly to ocean within me of sea sickness, first time ever—from beer.

The old sailor is talking about his last whaling expedition and scratching

his short white beard. His hands chapped red and crackling from the salt

and years and his work.

But then cometh salvation blowing in as clean air, chasing the

heavy fish smell from the room and filling my lungs again with freedom,

restoring open mouth, so that the cold in the green again is beer once

again in its finest, recounting lost days on schoolhood porches with spring

advancing. Ah, morning on the docks! And the whole day ahead to do

great wild things that’ll be talked about and legendized for years.

—Do you remember that time Ian did this or that?

Ah, the stories. Great drunken stories with me as main-role

hero. Avoiding cops or running into them or arguing some stupid drunk

stupor—That’s a pretty straightforward question, the officer said. Don’t

you think? And me blunk and tearing at me brain to remember the ques-

tion or even the situation general and how I happened to be there and why

oh why can’t I just get out?! And then they hauling me off—or not—and

that making it either funny or nay. Cause I always feel so guilty when they

take me and wonder about me mum. What has her good Catholic boy

grown up and done and why did he ever leave the Church? Pray more, pray

more, unfortunate sad son. God still loves ya. And’ll take ya like a sweet

little bird flying back to Him.

Fr. Woolsey, dressed all in black, with black hat too, and black

overcoat, passing out canny to all us sweatin small children on hot black-

top of the playground. Thar ya go, says he, pinchin at me cheek and scruf-

flin me harr as he hands me over hard red candy in clear cellophane wrap.

They burn hot cinnamon in the mouth and produce all that water that

burns cinnamon when you swallow and breathe.

Fr. Woolsey now dead. Hit with a stroke two falls ago and laid

up in hospital with half his face frozen up and hand twi-twitching.

—Glaguteral, he spoke. Glaglickslupblablockityblock and spit. But maybe

in mind praying to his sweet Savior to take pity on his poor wretched body

and bring him on home—if it be Your will. Black rosary beads twitching

from hand that seems already dead. And when he died he shit himself like

a matador gored in the corrida.

—I love Tchaikovsky, Kate tells me now. Her voice sounding like

some Tchaikovskian violin, and rising up and soon melting the beating

rock rhythms into a movement from the Sleeping Beauty Ballet Suite. I

tried to learn both the piano and the violin but....

—Yes? I ask.

—My fingers weren’t right. They were always about five steps

behind my brain. I just couldn’t get them to move.

—Really? My problem was just the opposite.

—You played?

—Guitar, mostly, but a little piano. I take a sip of dark Guinness.

With the piano, I’d learn a new tune, just playing it over and over, and

struggling through it note after note, till my hands learned it. After that it

was just a matter of reflex, you know? My hands knew where to go.

—Really?

—Yeah. But if I ever thought about what I was actually playing,

I’d fuck up.

She laughs, but more I think from Guinness and Bass than from

anything I’ve said. Though maybe also from nervousness of me. God, it’d

be wonderful if you could move right from that stage to the bed. From shy

laughters to deepwombmoans. Stead all that nonsense in between that’s

all show and politics. You just want to tell her—I’m here, you’re here, we’re

both miserable, let’s just enjoy some heat together. Spread your legs in a

human bed, as Kerouac says.

But now she just laughs and for now it’s enough and breaks me.

The violins are rushing upwards along some great crescendo that will

surely end in great cymbal crash. And creeeeeeeshshshshshsh. Then

silence. Till she begins again.

—I stuck with my brain after that, she says.

—Good choice, I tell her.

—What’s that mean? she responds.

—Nothin, I smilin.

—I’m not that much of a geek, she smilepleads.

—No, I’m sure not.

And we should fall together there and kiss—heavyfull pint

glasses droppin and crashin and explodin dark carnage on slab floor since

forgotten all else and obeying only deepull thirst inside and inside’s where

I want her and I inside her and tightly pressing her to me and holding her

there and kissing at mouth for to drink her and swell her inside and feel all

the heat and be one.

But though we feel the great magnate we pull back away. Which

makes us feel it even more—strugglin against it—’til you’ve pulled long

enough and it rips at your gut and you’re left with a big hollow space where

your stomach used to be. And you wonder how you ever felt anything for

her and just how you felt it and how you ever allowed it to grow inside a

you and continue and escalate to the point of a no goin back and beyond

and why you agreed and moved in with her after that and spoke that word

lueve over and over again treading down upon it and wearing it out till it

was all the beers mashed together from all the last nights cavin in on you,

washing you out, leaving you to wonder all empty and dry if you ever can

possibly feel that way again about her or about anyone else who might hap-

pen to happen along.

But Joyce comes and sits down at our table. He is young. In straw

boater hat and mustache. He drinks coffee with us at our grey picnic table.

We laugh together, ignoring the whalerman and his tale and just soaking

up the new clean air of the bright morning. Kate’s bare leg presses against

mine and the shriek newness of love jumps in me. I smile and take her

hand and rock it slowly, looking out the open door, across the dock and

still sea to the bright glare of the new day’s rising sun.

HOW DOES IT BEGIN?MATT MARSHALL

1109

M

U

S

E

16

M

1109

M

U

S

E

17

M

OCTOBER 10THANITA HERCZOG

I was robbing your beach of her lucky stones, daddy, two years to the day since you died. my feet in the sand here where you used to stand, the sun on the lake filling my eyes.  all these lucky stones must be broken handfuls don't change anything, but the hush of the waves washing over me brings your voice closer,

closer

YOU TOLD MERUSSELL VIDRICK

You told me about anocean in Mexico how thesurf sounded like thunder while you were still inthe distance how youwanted to stand in thewaves but the undertowalmost drew you under.Today a hurricane touched land in Texas a category onewith 100 mph winds. The world is full of little entropies.

UNTITLEDSTEVE THOMAS                                      I watched the exhausted waveslay among the sands… My father had been gone for decadeswhen I stumbled onto this shore his shore, all the time he and I played herenearly forgotten he swam immersed in moments beyondmy understanding, only able to say I like coming here

CHENNAISHARANYA MANIVANNAN I go to the seaand turn myself over in my handlike a shell; a hollow conchcarried on the resonanceof a song long past its singing. My heart is a welland this city, one that isforever in drought.

EL MAR, YUCCATAN, MX, 2006

1109

M

U

S

E

16

M

1109

M

U

S

E

17

M

OCTOBER 10THANITA HERCZOG

I was robbing your beach of her lucky stones, daddy, two years to the day since you died. my feet in the sand here where you used to stand, the sun on the lake filling my eyes.  all these lucky stones must be broken handfuls don't change anything, but the hush of the waves washing over me brings your voice closer,

closer

YOU TOLD MERUSSELL VIDRICK

You told me about anocean in Mexico how thesurf sounded like thunder while you were still inthe distance how youwanted to stand in thewaves but the undertowalmost drew you under.Today a hurricane touched land in Texas a category onewith 100 mph winds. The world is full of little entropies.

UNTITLEDSTEVE THOMAS                                      I watched the exhausted waveslay among the sands… My father had been gone for decadeswhen I stumbled onto this shore his shore, all the time he and I played herenearly forgotten he swam immersed in moments beyondmy understanding, only able to say I like coming here

CHENNAISHARANYA MANIVANNAN I go to the seaand turn myself over in my handlike a shell; a hollow conchcarried on the resonanceof a song long past its singing. My heart is a welland this city, one that isforever in drought.

EL MAR, YUCCATAN, MX, 2006

1109

M

U

S

E

18

M

1109

M

U

S

E

19

M

THE BLUE MOON DRIVE-INLARRY SMITH

Last night at the drive-in

over in Wellsburg, you know,

me and Barbie really watched the movie.

A Rebel Without a Cause, with that

new guy James Dean. Man, he could

really kick ass, as an actor I mean.

Of course, we made out, give me a break.

But that movie got to me, you know.

‘Bout halfway through when he’s

fightin’ with his old man, that was me

all bustin’ loose inside and all,

yellin’ “You’re tearing me apart!”

at his folks and all. And when ole

Natalie Wood waves that drag race flag,

that was Barbie in tight jeans

and a scarf round her pretty neck.

I had plans of going for it that night,

I mean all the way in the back seat,

but, hell, there was something more

going on up on that movie screen.

At one point, when old Sal Mineo

gets it, I thought of you, Butch,

and I had to get outta that car

so’s Barbie wouldn’t see me cry.

I mean, a tough ass guy like me

bustin’ up at some movie, what the heck!

What’s that all about?

You know, Man, I been thinkin,’

maybe I won’t join the Marines

like my old man. Maybe I’ll

try goin’ to West Liberty, you know,

‘Get an education’ and all that stuff

we been hearing at school, our parents

pushing us to get a job right away.

Maybe there’s somethin’ deeper in us

maybe there’s somethin’ more.

FROM THE SKY JESS E. STORK

At first, they only seemed to show up

sporadically. People hardly noticed them in

manilla stacks at the supermarket or pinned

onto boards at the coffeehouse. They were

crumbling monuments, disappearing in a

tangle of ivy or a letter tattered at the creases

and forgotten in a pocket. In the first few days,

there were only a few scuffing the street corners

and catching on trees in the wind. Most just

ignored them, going about their daily routines.

But a general feeling of easiness hung in the air.

Authorities suggested not to aggravate them,

just to slowly back away or cross to the other

side of the street. They created color codes to

flash on the news for the intensity of the threat.

Every once in awhile, a gust of wind would stir

up a few into the air. Dog-eared corners winked

at the horizon.

But they became bolder, following people on

the street, proffering skills and objectives.

They began to cover city blocks with lists of

degrees, tattering off the buildings in the rain

like obscure band titles. Pretty soon, the

children couldn’t play in the street because the

linen sheets trailed after them on the cracking

pavement. It wouldn’t have mattered if they

could go out. The playground was covered

anyways. There were talks of cleaning them off

the streets, but no one really saw the point.

There would just be more to replace them.

The city took on a lethargic, deserted look.

The loneliness cramped in the stomachs of

the residents.

Finally, word of the storm came. Overnight,

windows were boarded up. Loose graffiti

appeared, hastily scrawled across. Under the

cover of night, residents went out to the food

store to purchase bottles of water and toilet

paper. Wind whipped through the empty

streets as one lone car cruised slowly down the

street. And the sky turned a dark, empty grey.

When the storm began, the residents were

safely huddled around their television sets in

the darkness. It was beautiful in a way, the

silhouettes carefully blotting out the sky.

Silently, they fluttered to the ground, coating

the grass. They fell into pot holes and littered

the sidewalks. Carried by the gusts, they

collected in pockets on window sills. Silently, a

blanket covered the city. The buildings, the

homes, the trees all disappeared under a

thickening shroud of unanswered resumes.

UNION DRIVE-IN, LAS VEGAS, NM, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

18

M

1109

M

U

S

E

19

M

THE BLUE MOON DRIVE-INLARRY SMITH

Last night at the drive-in

over in Wellsburg, you know,

me and Barbie really watched the movie.

A Rebel Without a Cause, with that

new guy James Dean. Man, he could

really kick ass, as an actor I mean.

Of course, we made out, give me a break.

But that movie got to me, you know.

‘Bout halfway through when he’s

fightin’ with his old man, that was me

all bustin’ loose inside and all,

yellin’ “You’re tearing me apart!”

at his folks and all. And when ole

Natalie Wood waves that drag race flag,

that was Barbie in tight jeans

and a scarf round her pretty neck.

I had plans of going for it that night,

I mean all the way in the back seat,

but, hell, there was something more

going on up on that movie screen.

At one point, when old Sal Mineo

gets it, I thought of you, Butch,

and I had to get outta that car

so’s Barbie wouldn’t see me cry.

I mean, a tough ass guy like me

bustin’ up at some movie, what the heck!

What’s that all about?

You know, Man, I been thinkin,’

maybe I won’t join the Marines

like my old man. Maybe I’ll

try goin’ to West Liberty, you know,

‘Get an education’ and all that stuff

we been hearing at school, our parents

pushing us to get a job right away.

Maybe there’s somethin’ deeper in us

maybe there’s somethin’ more.

FROM THE SKY JESS E. STORK

At first, they only seemed to show up

sporadically. People hardly noticed them in

manilla stacks at the supermarket or pinned

onto boards at the coffeehouse. They were

crumbling monuments, disappearing in a

tangle of ivy or a letter tattered at the creases

and forgotten in a pocket. In the first few days,

there were only a few scuffing the street corners

and catching on trees in the wind. Most just

ignored them, going about their daily routines.

But a general feeling of easiness hung in the air.

Authorities suggested not to aggravate them,

just to slowly back away or cross to the other

side of the street. They created color codes to

flash on the news for the intensity of the threat.

Every once in awhile, a gust of wind would stir

up a few into the air. Dog-eared corners winked

at the horizon.

But they became bolder, following people on

the street, proffering skills and objectives.

They began to cover city blocks with lists of

degrees, tattering off the buildings in the rain

like obscure band titles. Pretty soon, the

children couldn’t play in the street because the

linen sheets trailed after them on the cracking

pavement. It wouldn’t have mattered if they

could go out. The playground was covered

anyways. There were talks of cleaning them off

the streets, but no one really saw the point.

There would just be more to replace them.

The city took on a lethargic, deserted look.

The loneliness cramped in the stomachs of

the residents.

Finally, word of the storm came. Overnight,

windows were boarded up. Loose graffiti

appeared, hastily scrawled across. Under the

cover of night, residents went out to the food

store to purchase bottles of water and toilet

paper. Wind whipped through the empty

streets as one lone car cruised slowly down the

street. And the sky turned a dark, empty grey.

When the storm began, the residents were

safely huddled around their television sets in

the darkness. It was beautiful in a way, the

silhouettes carefully blotting out the sky.

Silently, they fluttered to the ground, coating

the grass. They fell into pot holes and littered

the sidewalks. Carried by the gusts, they

collected in pockets on window sills. Silently, a

blanket covered the city. The buildings, the

homes, the trees all disappeared under a

thickening shroud of unanswered resumes.

UNION DRIVE-IN, LAS VEGAS, NM, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

20

M

1109

M

U

S

E

21

M

UNTITLEDLISA CITORE

I’ve never worn a perfectly fitted dress,

even on my wedding day.

Four months pregnant, starting to show,

I came to the altar with the dream of love

and the shame of unvirginity.

Has any woman ever felt perfectly beautiful?

Even for a moment?

I walked down the aisle trying

to suck my stomach,

to look like a proper bride,

my baby starving for air.

I didn’t get a real wedding dress.

I bought mine off the sales rack at JC Penney.

White with short puffy sleeves,

off the shoulders like a medieval wench.

Pink rouge cheeks and half moon lips

spread tight across my face

as the zipper teeth around my waistline.

The mayor was supposed to officiate

in the town square gazebo,

but at the last minute got sick,

and it rained so we had the ceremony

in the Methodist church of my childhood

I’d only since attended with my mother

on Christmas, Easter, and her birthday.

My husband to be and I met the minister

briefly that morning. He questioned us

about our beliefs on relationship.

I wanted to tell him my mother and father

both had affairs. Him with women

he met while out of town “on business.”

Her with the coach of the local football team.

And how my father, an alcoholic atheist,

was on the church board of trustees

and best friends with the minister.

And how I’ve always felt divided

between believing in love in spite of everything

and believing love is a sham.

I wanted to tell him how unprepared

and scared I was for adulthood, wifehood,

motherhood.

How the man sitting next to me had no idea

who I was, nor did I know him,

But I did not have my own voice then.

So I answered him greeting card platitudes.

In a lifetime of false moments,

I crave the holy, innocence, and freedom

even for a moment

without a demon

of mother and her past.

I have not felt worthy of a tailored dress

let alone being a vessel for God.

Long since divorced

my daughter is now eighteen,

taking voice lessons

and writing her songs.

She works in a pet shop with snakes,

comfortable handling rats

and feeding rabbits to pythons.

She is curvy, hippy, and happy

being a size eleven

the big picture of all

the mistakes I’ve made.

When I look at her I see

only beauty.

When I hear her sing

I feel that soft deep rooted joy

of forgiveness.

DRESSMAKERS' WIRE MANNEQUIN, UZES, FR, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

20

M

1109

M

U

S

E

21

M

UNTITLEDLISA CITORE

I’ve never worn a perfectly fitted dress,

even on my wedding day.

Four months pregnant, starting to show,

I came to the altar with the dream of love

and the shame of unvirginity.

Has any woman ever felt perfectly beautiful?

Even for a moment?

I walked down the aisle trying

to suck my stomach,

to look like a proper bride,

my baby starving for air.

I didn’t get a real wedding dress.

I bought mine off the sales rack at JC Penney.

White with short puffy sleeves,

off the shoulders like a medieval wench.

Pink rouge cheeks and half moon lips

spread tight across my face

as the zipper teeth around my waistline.

The mayor was supposed to officiate

in the town square gazebo,

but at the last minute got sick,

and it rained so we had the ceremony

in the Methodist church of my childhood

I’d only since attended with my mother

on Christmas, Easter, and her birthday.

My husband to be and I met the minister

briefly that morning. He questioned us

about our beliefs on relationship.

I wanted to tell him my mother and father

both had affairs. Him with women

he met while out of town “on business.”

Her with the coach of the local football team.

And how my father, an alcoholic atheist,

was on the church board of trustees

and best friends with the minister.

And how I’ve always felt divided

between believing in love in spite of everything

and believing love is a sham.

I wanted to tell him how unprepared

and scared I was for adulthood, wifehood,

motherhood.

How the man sitting next to me had no idea

who I was, nor did I know him,

But I did not have my own voice then.

So I answered him greeting card platitudes.

In a lifetime of false moments,

I crave the holy, innocence, and freedom

even for a moment

without a demon

of mother and her past.

I have not felt worthy of a tailored dress

let alone being a vessel for God.

Long since divorced

my daughter is now eighteen,

taking voice lessons

and writing her songs.

She works in a pet shop with snakes,

comfortable handling rats

and feeding rabbits to pythons.

She is curvy, hippy, and happy

being a size eleven

the big picture of all

the mistakes I’ve made.

When I look at her I see

only beauty.

When I hear her sing

I feel that soft deep rooted joy

of forgiveness.

DRESSMAKERS' WIRE MANNEQUIN, UZES, FR, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

22

M

1109

M

U

S

E

23

M

ITS GOLD STILL GREENS WITH TATTERED LIGHTdan smith

We held within ourselves a small infinity

when time had just begun and place

was anywhere we were.

We sang our hymn to all creation,

the choirs in our souls hosannahed,

no measure of our days was taken.

We signed a holy body language then

when love's alchemy raged across the sky

and we drank its rainbow potions.

Its gold still greens with tattered light

our run-down and decaying shrines

CEMETERY, OKRACOKE ISLAND, NC, 2001

1109

M

U

S

E

22

M

1109

M

U

S

E

23

M

ITS GOLD STILL GREENS WITH TATTERED LIGHTdan smith

We held within ourselves a small infinity

when time had just begun and place

was anywhere we were.

We sang our hymn to all creation,

the choirs in our souls hosannahed,

no measure of our days was taken.

We signed a holy body language then

when love's alchemy raged across the sky

and we drank its rainbow potions.

Its gold still greens with tattered light

our run-down and decaying shrines

CEMETERY, OKRACOKE ISLAND, NC, 2001

1109

M

U

S

E

24

M

1109

M

U

S

E

25

M

SHORTCUTMELISSA GUILLET

Narrow and easily overlooked,

the bridge to understanding hid in plain sight.

There were shortcuts, easier ways

to get across the point.

There were no brain locks to pick,

no foreign tongues you had to acquire

a taste for. The map was drawn.

You were there.

But you weren’t. You were in

your own head. You never saw

the bridge for what it was:

a way of looking

outside yourself. Inside,

the maze adds another corner.

LATE NIGHT SHOPPERS, MONMARTE, PARIS, FR, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

24

M

1109

M

U

S

E

25

M

SHORTCUTMELISSA GUILLET

Narrow and easily overlooked,

the bridge to understanding hid in plain sight.

There were shortcuts, easier ways

to get across the point.

There were no brain locks to pick,

no foreign tongues you had to acquire

a taste for. The map was drawn.

You were there.

But you weren’t. You were in

your own head. You never saw

the bridge for what it was:

a way of looking

outside yourself. Inside,

the maze adds another corner.

LATE NIGHT SHOPPERS, MONMARTE, PARIS, FR, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

26

M

1109

M

U

S

E

27

M

LIESNIN ANDREWS

Truth is beautiful without a doubt. But so are lies, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote.

Maybe that’s why we never know which is which.

Why we repeat our lies again and again.

Even when we know they aren’t true, we want them to be.

But Nero didn’t fiddle when Rome burned.

(It turns out he was out of town at the time.

And the violin wasn’t invented until the 16th century.)

The soil of Carthage was never sewn with salt.

Marie Antoinette didn’t say, Let them eat cake.

Or brioche, as her enemies said, to inspire hatred of the Hapsburg queen.

Louis XVI did not have a tiny penis. (Quite the opposite.

The letters and court records suggest he was too well-endowed for the petite Marie.)

Catherine the Great didn’t die having sex with a horse

(Though she did have many lovers, the last 40 years younger than she.)

Nor did she expire on the toilet seat.

Napoleon was neither short nor impotent.

Nor was he cured of impotence by eating green beans.

The Virgin Queen might not have been a virgin.

George Washington didn’t have wooden teeth.

Roosevelt didn’t know the Japanese were planning to attack Pearl Harbor.

Churchill was not an alcoholic, and his father never contracted syphilis.

Hitler was not an atheist, a social Darwinist, or a follower of Nietzsche.

He believed the Bible told the history of man.

He confessed his faith in Jesus in speeches, and encouraged his Nazis

to worship in churches. In short, like most leaders in this country today,

he considered himself a good Christian.

YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL, RAMBLAS, BARCELONA, SP, 2007

1109

M

U

S

E

26

M

1109

M

U

S

E

27

M

LIESNIN ANDREWS

Truth is beautiful without a doubt. But so are lies, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote.

Maybe that’s why we never know which is which.

Why we repeat our lies again and again.

Even when we know they aren’t true, we want them to be.

But Nero didn’t fiddle when Rome burned.

(It turns out he was out of town at the time.

And the violin wasn’t invented until the 16th century.)

The soil of Carthage was never sewn with salt.

Marie Antoinette didn’t say, Let them eat cake.

Or brioche, as her enemies said, to inspire hatred of the Hapsburg queen.

Louis XVI did not have a tiny penis. (Quite the opposite.

The letters and court records suggest he was too well-endowed for the petite Marie.)

Catherine the Great didn’t die having sex with a horse

(Though she did have many lovers, the last 40 years younger than she.)

Nor did she expire on the toilet seat.

Napoleon was neither short nor impotent.

Nor was he cured of impotence by eating green beans.

The Virgin Queen might not have been a virgin.

George Washington didn’t have wooden teeth.

Roosevelt didn’t know the Japanese were planning to attack Pearl Harbor.

Churchill was not an alcoholic, and his father never contracted syphilis.

Hitler was not an atheist, a social Darwinist, or a follower of Nietzsche.

He believed the Bible told the history of man.

He confessed his faith in Jesus in speeches, and encouraged his Nazis

to worship in churches. In short, like most leaders in this country today,

he considered himself a good Christian.

YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL, RAMBLAS, BARCELONA, SP, 2007