volume one fall 2010

artichoke haircut

editorsjustin sanderssaralyn lyonsjonathan gavazziadam shutzmelissa streat

layout & designadam shutz

cover photomelissa streat

Artichoke Haircut is published biyearly by the people listed above. This is our first issue (keep it, it’ll be worth something—at least the value of the warmth it will provide when burned, because, seriously, you or your kids will need that warmth some day) so all the info that’s usually in this space we haven’t come up with yet or we have no idea what it means. We’re poor. Can’t afford lawyers. But we’ve seen this phrase a lot so we’ll put it here: All rights reserved. Copyright © 2010. Oh yeah, submit to us at the email address listed above. Happy reading, and stay warm.

submit@artichokehaircut.com

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artichoke haircutian humphrey

jess borowski

joshua brunson

melissa streat

julianna dzierwa

justin schmidt

davey vacek

adam shutz

Greenmount pt. 1poet r y

Happoplexy; Whole Livespoet r y

Pouch f i c t i on

My Bicycle

A Field Mouse Not Shaking in the Grass; i’ll be seeing you in all those familiar places

poet r y

what women want is what god wants; Forgive me mother! its all my fault, forgive me!

ar t

American Eagle Flight 3740poet r y

Red Dress / My God!f i c t i on / poe t r y

poe t r y

v o l u m e o n e

6

9

13

16

19

22

25

28

charlie lathe

jonathan gavazzi

dwight m. watkins, jr.

dashe ramsey

rebecca hackerman

sarah jane miller

saralyn lyons

The Misunderstanding of Mordecai Mortimer

How About I Just Put This Like This

f i c t i on

Analgesia, pt.1; To Push the Foot Further; Analgesia, pt. 2

Talking Dice; A Family History

poet r y

poet r y

All was Right with the Worldf i c t i on / a r t

Curing; Your Hearth is Now a Hearse that Your Lover is Filling

Skyline

poet r y

poe t r y

poe t r y

36

44

51

56

61

64

69

13f i c t i on

joshua brunson

Pouch

Sometimes we’d run away, he and I. Mom was rarely the wiser. “Keep up,” he’d say. “I don’t want to be caught ’cause you’re so damn slow.” We’d cross the road, the neighbor’s backyard, and on into the woods. Davy Crocket called it, “God’s country.” Pouch called it, “bum-fuckville.” Behind an old silo, Pouch smoked ciga-rettes while I threw old bottles at the crum-bling walls. Pouch said he once spent the whole night out at the silo. Pouch wasn’t scared of anything. He wasn’t my oldest brother, his stocking hung behind Leo’s at Christmas, but he was the biggest. “I’m getting out of here the moment I turn eighteen,” he would say. He never

mentioned where he wanted to go: Pouch was the sort of person who would go every-where. Pouch played the electric guitar and was in a band. He told me he’d be famous one day. He’d be famous and tour the world and become rich, and I could tag along if I wanted to. Pouch smiled like a billboard. He always had a girlfriend. “Bitches love me,” he’d say. Pouch didn’t call women ladies, he called them bitches. Mom made me eat soap once for quoting him. “Where’d you learn that word?” she asked. I didn’t tell her. I wanted Pouch to know I wasn’t scared of our par-ents either. Sometimes we’d sneak downstairs at night after Mom and Dad were asleep. We’d watch movies Pouch borrowed from his...

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poet r y

“Infinity at ease despite so many risks, with no variation of her usual routine, the blooming rose is the omen of her immeasurable endurance.” -Rainer Maria Rilke

melissa streat

My Bicycle

My bike traveled on without me Looking for unworn paths and Napoleons to dine with.

I was the widower Who shopped for company Not buying anything just rubbing Old fingers along shelves Feeling for prospects and talking To the salesmen about terrorizingSpiders in the bathroom. “Because we’re bigger and have nothing to fear.”

I got a postcard yesterday of A sprawling Italian villageOn the island of Elba. I added it To my collection next to the

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Tuscan Apennines and Easter Island.The rocks rough and their eyes hollow.They whispered, “We have heard the sunlight It is like hope. Or god.”

I walked to church on Sunday It was the corner of 5th and Jackson– A small place with holes in the Seats. I couldn’t confess, instead watching Intrepid shadows swallow candlelight And with a snuff it was already sundown.

Walking home I felt small Against the city giants winkingWith the forecasts of sailors.

19poet r y

I thought I saw Jesus on the Jersey shore....

julianna dzierwa

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A Field Mouse Not Shaking in the GrassI watch a fly circle the ceiling fan, andMilk settling at the top of my coffee

I make human facesOut of shadows on the wall andForce those faces toLaugh for me

Because I amThe log in my throatStuck Violently shakingAnd waiting to Either be swallowedOr purged.

22ar t

Justin is a junior at MICA. See more of his art at: justinschmidt.carbonmade.com

justin schmidt

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28f i c t i on / poe t r y

“he loathed the expression a loaf of bread; for him, it was always only bread!” -VladimÍr Holan

adam shutz

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My God!

On the cold tiles of the bathroom floorFlapped a white whale curiously the white Whale gasping like gossamer bawls he explainedSotto voce like he too small to be heardOver the flush and the camouflage

Covering the clouds from the sky. I hadA drink after my dog was killed todayAnd as I may I got anotherSomething to scare away whatever theBirds have been crying over for centuries

So as to go on pissing into the flush.The piss was sweet but back to the mirror I almost came to a fall like Adam though Backwards. Blind. And in the Men’s Room. He smiled his blood red teeth

Against the desperate white of his skin. A leg. All he could have wanted was a leg. A leg to know someone came if only to killTo know there are ways & reasonsTo limp there. But he tired for the effort

That brought him here just stayed & stared.I wanted to put him out. Yet he sang allThe louder for it till he shut his eyes &Spilled one last sigh of gales & gullsAnd iris spray sprouting over two vast blues

Which I and he have not seen beyond the sink.Quick he bit my toe & disappeared.

44poet r y

“me, wag” -John Berryman

jonathan gavazzi

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Analgesia, pt. 1

    I avoid you.I’m afraid that we are like two dogs who don’tunderstand each other, that we

have the cleanest mouths but only tonguesand teeth inside them; I haven’t

    spoken to you in four days.    besides, you’re always looking

at your feet. I wishthey were something more than feet, too.

    we are the same that way,    praying for airplanes &

bad weather on good days, secretly.

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    I see

    bad things in you,    I’m afraid they’lllace themselves unspeakably up your outsides—vines

hardening to bark—they’llhold you

    together effortlessly.

othe r s tu f f :

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