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PRIN

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NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO FALL ASLEEP ON

THE JOB. WE NEED ALL THE HELP WE CAN

GET. NO ONE WILL DO IT FOR US. LIFE IS

COUNTING ON US. ON YOU, & ME, & EVERY-

ONE. LET’S NOT LET LIFE DOWN. STRUGGLE

IS NECESSARY FOR ANY GOOD TO HAPEPN.

A BUDDING FLOWER NEEDS WATER & SUN-

LIGHT, BUT IT ALSO NEEDS AN APPETITE. A

LITTLE BIT OF STARVATION GOES A LONG

WAY. FLOWERS KNOW WHERE IT’S AT;

THAT’S WHY THEY CHOSE TO GROW VERTI-

CALLY. FOLLOW THEIR EXAMPLE & DON’T

GIVE UP JUST YET. GOOD THINGS WILL

HAPPEN SOON. THERE IS STILL A DREAM TO

HAVE. THERE ARE STILL DREAMS TO BELIEVE

IN. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT TIME TO

BE ALIVE, AFTER ALL, SO PLEASE PLEASE

PLEASE PLEASE, JUST KEEP LOOKING UP!

OTIS PIG: DESIGN, EDITORIAL..

ADAM JESSUP: EDITORIAL, DESIGN.

VICTORIA LARKIN: COPY EDITING.

DEREK RYAN HAIN: COPY EDITING.

TASHA GLEN: HER NEAREST EXIT 9

ALEXANDRA SHAEFERS: THE LANGUAGE OF BRANCHES 10

ERIN BIRGY: MAKE SURE MY LETTER 19

SETH VINCENT: SUDDENLY, EIKA’S EAR WAS ON THE GROUND 21

ZOSIA WIATR: LULLABY 25

BRENDON MORRILL: SONGS IN THE KEY OF ASA 27

ADAM JESSUP / NOTES ON A JAZZ SINGER 31

DEREK RYAN HAIN: BY ROGER AUTHOR 39

AMELIA ROBERTSON: OTHER 51

V. R. MOOSHE: $3 57

VICTORIA LARKIN: SCORE CARDS WILL BE HANDED OUT NEXT WEEK ON BUS # 67; LADIES, LOOK YOUR BEST! 61

ROBIN ATTWOOD: HIGH HILL DIGNITY 71

JACOB PECK: PRAYERS SPARKED BY THE EYES OF MUSE’S INCARNATION 73

BRENNAN PEDERSEN: PROPELLERS 77

CALEB GOODAKER-CRAIG: BEST, S 81

NICKY TISO: THE MAN AND THE RADIO 85

C. V. ROTONDO: PROLOGUE,:THE ARCHITECTS 89

OTIS PIG: LIFE IS BREATHING ON YOUR BACK (BREATHE BACK) 99

TASHA GLEN:HER NEAREST EXIT

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tash

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EMERGENCY EXIT. EXITS ARE IDENTIFIED BY

RED HANDLES ON THE SIDE OF WINDOWS.

LOCATE YOUR NEAREST EXIT. She looks out the

window at the reflection of the blue plastic seats

outside the window at the ghosts of the nocturnal

sleepers & readers passing through the outside of

the window three feet above the pavement. At the

reflection of the bus & seats & ghosts sliding along

storefront windows, blocking mannequins’ views of

the passerbys & the reflections of the passerbys &

mannequins & sidewalk mirroring the mannequins’

gaze, walling in the passerbys & sidewalk, watching

from both sides from the bus & storefront win-

dows. These all go by too fast for the catching, ex-

cept the ghost sleepers, the lollers & readers who

remain suspended & slowly stationary. The back-

grounds slip past them. A girl in the bus turns back-

wards, says she feels like she’s drowning. Turns back.

Adjusts her shirt, disappears behind her hood into

her book. Her nearest exit is her book.

The sound of the bus has been turned off. In the

front of the bus, a balding head and a furry hat

mouthe at one another, gesticulate for empha-

sis. Two fingerless beige gloves silently adjust the

plastic bag peering out from a soggy boot. When

they mouthe to one another, bubbles form at

their lips & drift upward, mingling above their

heads before blinking out of existence. This bus

is full of water & they’re pouring all that life &

all that breathing into those bubbles. A woman’s

hair floats in billows around her head. She holds

her breath & does not blink.

ALEXANDREA SHAEFERSTHE LANGUAGE OF BRANCHES

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alex

and

rea

shae

fers

Inside the rough blanket I lay, rings of silk, skin, flesh

and bone: years under a weave of purple bark.

Roots, branches, spread deep into the night, drin-

king black oxygen from empty corners. Nothing is

missing in those shadows, in the soft covers next

to me or the light outside the door. The empti-

ness is filled with a buoyant impulse to siphon

water and minerals and light through my core. It

is a mysterious heartbeat: a decision to let the

soft machinery of life do its work, to not inter-

fere with some idea that it should be different,

with some belief in time or loneliness. They are

the same unrest anyway. The night tucks its downy

quilt around my branches and hums in shadows

and the constant motion of air.

I wake up everyday wondering what love is. I let

the wind sway my branches, carry off twigs in his

hair. I let the snow rest her burning winter burden

in my boughs. I let the autumn pluck all my sum-

mer memories for the soil and watch each flaming

leaf dance its one precious dance. Still, I wonder

what love is until the night wraps me in stars or

the wind draws slowly over my limbs, dropping

questions carelessly on the floor next to the bed.

•

He mails me a parable of the Dead Sea, a sea no

water flows into because no water flows from it.

I flee to the woods into the arms of trees. They

soothe me with their rushing leaves and steadfast-

ness—being always, exactly where I left them—

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alexandrea shaefers

each, unoccupied and available to hold tears in

the crags of their bark. Above, branches split off

from each other, over and over. I listen and let my

life grow its own way, making a lace of histories

and decisions against the sky. I will never see him

again. He will find someone generous and ocea-

nic. I will find the moon in my branches, the silver

light of his skin slipping into my bed, whimsical

and drunk.

•

The wind is the only thing that ever made me feel

attractive. I could be completely unkempt, dou-

ghty even, with an albatross of sadness around

my neck. But the wind will come fluttering in my

coat, drawing me into a squint like all hell is go-

ing to break loose when I cross the street, be-

cause the wind is about to undress me and pull

me down. Because the wind is brushing my hair

out of his way and kissing my face like he hasn’t

been around for ten years and has been thinking

of me the entire time. He picks moss out of my

branches, rattles my deep twigs, pulls a few weak

ones to the ground for the birds to salvage. I keep

walking against his insistence, smelling the scent of

entire forests on him.

•

I hobble aimlessly across a swale of concrete, like

a crow estranged from its murder. What cruelty

does the air feel towards me that its currents have

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not carried us to the same spot at the same time

for weeks? I have wasted countless meetings pin-

ned under fear, no words, no smile even—every

impulse a small green plant writhing under a rock.

The question should have been simple, would you

like to get together to talk over tea, or coffee…a

walk even…anything besides this heavy desk where

we are each a bounty for time. But I was far too

aware that the question would want to evolve,

to someday be, do you love me? The desire to ne-

ver know, to never need to ask—a cumbersome

stone on tiny green leaves.

The other crows are deep in the shadows, drinking

the darkness and rough wood like a conspiring

tea. They will find me later, swoop in, swoop past.

I will only hear their wings along the course blade

of air. I will only feel them as weft in the weave,

another line from the world’s story strung across

the humid day, keeping thoughts from spilling

into eternity where no one could question them.

Eventually, I will let go of my gnawing interest and

politeness, of my dream that a warm feeling coup-

led with intense shyness is a symptom of destiny.

He will find someone as formal and beautiful as

himself and I will build roosts for crows.

•

The maple flutters every shade of crimson and

orange outside the window. Each leaf throws

summer back into the sky before turning in to

the earth. I sit on some blankets piled on a trunk

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alexandrea shaefers

by the window, smooth leaves billow through me

and I flutter in the same light as the maple. The

warmth of autumn’s wind and the dying colors

is an unfamiliar glee that knows everything I do.

Six years old, my steps on the carpet now have

their own unburdened weight. My body fills with

a tender strength and I am more of a woman than

I will ever be at thirty.

Outside, the trees will hold me with their inky net

of stories and cavernous shade. They will teach

me the deepest contentment, the wiliest grace,

but the ways of people will remain more elusive

than the language of branches.

•

He lets me hold his hand on the way to the car.

He was surprised it still felt comfortable. I should

be taking a swing at him. His tiny basement room

should be rubble and dust, accusations echoing

across the bed. Instead, I closed and locked the

windows while he showered so he wouldn’t be

late.

The laurels of his backyard are huge, teeming with

squirrels. Their raucous presence makes the humi-

dity and brightness heavy and intimate as we walk

through the gravel to my car. Everything became

so earnest after truth branched out between us

through the sheets. There was only one question

to ask, branches unfurling instantly in the current

of my breath. He answered no, a leaf whose shape

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clearly identified the truth between us. His skin

lost its tough armor of luck under the blossoming

shade and my heart folded on a righteous claim

to his. Our bodies twined closer in disappoint-

ment and salt water than they ever had in eager-

ness and sweat.

As I drop him off he plants his lips firmly on mine,

no lingering brood, no gracious well-wishing. It is

the only thing to do—a bird shaking his wings as

he lands on a new perch. He will find someone as

tough and intricate as himself and I will hold owls

in the hunt.

•

The sheets are just heavy enough to make them-

selves known on my skin. The alarm has not soun-

ded and I want to bask in the softness of cotton

and early morning light, but there is a large seed

in me, pulling towards water.

Last night when the clouds walked me home,

snuggled in their soft embrace and brooding kis-

ses, my heart was sad, and I was content to feel

it at all. Every soft robin in the grass, every dark

tree rising out of the verdant green was longing

for the same love, and each step was a poignant

memory of parting.

At home the steam rose in wild billows from a

silver pot. She crawled along the ceiling, unaware

of the indoors, the defiance of nature, and fol-

lowed physics like any wild thing. The apartment

glowed mischievously. Light became intimate with

alex

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my meager little things on the shelves and walls,

casting nests of soft shadows for all they made

together.

Now the night strokes the exact angles of my

black, glistening branches before he snuggles deep

in bed and the dawn pulls me off to fi nd water.

In the hall, the darkness seems sculpted and spea-

king. It crowds around me and urges me to the

window as if the light outside is about to be lost.

Each step becomes an important venture, a pos-

sible failure, and there is no time to consider the

errands of the day, the follies of yesterday. I kneel

on the couch below the window and pull the

blinds open, soft light spilling in through cedars

and dust.

alexandrea shaefers

ERIN BIRGY:MAKE SURE MY LETTER

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erin

birg

yDear monsters, horses, presidents, and wolves;

I’ve built my life near the sea which keeps my

breath among other breath and air into other

blood say it shared with mine. It’s always one way

or another. When every foot step dictates every

dictation, I feel fl ower and whale and wisdom

and caution and restraint and rebel and buckets.

My father named me Plank after the real world

ran out of clean faces bracing heritage. The only

thing reliable, to him, was a mildew-fetched teak

entry way. There every whole-hearted friend of

his took their own lives, leaving tearful goodguy’s

wounds in that hardwood’s story; I held it like

the most beautiful secret. It was recited every

eve of my bir thday.

I held hands with blind ghosts on horse back, un-

der electric wires, also sipped african teas (found

wet with envelope glue). I knew of photographs

traced by grandchildren, great. I knew hair length,

sleep tunes. I knew sleep and continued to live

their dreams.

I bled their blood and mine in buckets and set

them out through pulley, system into sea. And

into fi shes guts to brain live supernaturally, multi-

ple souls fed everything. Yum.

SETH VINCENT:SUDDENLY, EIKA’S EAR WAS ON THE GROUND

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seth

vin

cent

Suddenly, Eika’s ear was on the ground. She put

her head there, pressed against dirt, moss, and lea-

ves, to hear the giggling. Her mouth didn’t move,

even when an ant zigzagged across her lips.

She laid on the ground for 6 minutes and 42 se-

conds, listening to dirt.

She stood, emerging from a bed of sword ferns

and salal to say, “It’s OK, they’re not awake yet.”

Eika was staring at a boy her own age, who had

the same haircut, similar blue jeans, and earth-

toned t-shirt.

“OK,” Fullerton said.

Eika waved her hand, instructed Fullerton to join

her on the little hill with the sword ferns.

Fullerton didn’t move or speak.

Eika fiddled with the bottom hem of her shirt.

“You’ll never hear them over there,” she said.

Fullerton nodded.

Eika exhaled.

She held her hand up, then dropped it.

Eika fell from sight.

Fullerton stayed stationary. He did not speak. He

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seth vincentstood for twenty minutes, staring at a small hill

about his height, covered in ferns and other green

leafy plants.

He stared at the spot where Eika became air.

•

Eika’s head came into Fullerton’s view. She was

standing upright, her muscles sore from hiding in

the ferns for so long.

Fullerton disappeared.

He fell, and Eika only stood still for 27 seconds

before running to the spot where Fullerton used

to stand.

No hole, no Fullerton. No place to hide.

Eika slowly bent over, stretched her body out and

posed in that spot. She twisted her upper body

and swung her arms to the left. She leaned back

and looked at the tips of the nearby evergreen

trees. She straightened, spun around a full turn, put

her hands in the air and looked at the ground.

“Fullerton,” she said,” I’m doing the please-come-

back dance.”

She moved her arms a little more, slowly laying

down.

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der

ek r

yan

hain

She shouted into the ground: “I’m going to sleep

here until you get back.”

Eika slept until it got dark and cold, then left.

ZOSIA WAITRLULLABY

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zosi

a w

iatr

The sound of voices while you lie in bed,

a conversation muffl ed by the door

that closed, and every other word is led

from one voice to another—now ignore

the warm coo of parent’s late-night chat,

remember your desires, then let them go,

allow them to rest in recesses of your mind at

a deeper, hidden place, an infi nite plateau

where the ground of stone spreads far and fl at

and nothing ever moves, except the slow

celadon moss that creeps across the stone

or sometimes sends out spores that seldom grow.

REN MORRILLSONGS IN THE KEY OF ASA

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ren

mo

rril

Where there are jazz musicians playing cello and people wearing finery,

that is where you will find her.

Among the smoke the hangs in bars and the soft clanking of ice cubes in

glasses,

that is where you will find her.

People of a preferred but not particular gender turn and

gaze at her,

delicate wrists ash a cigarette and

gesture in the language of poetry.

Some of them know her.

Some of them wish they knew her.

Some of them wish they did not.

As her single, china white thigh teases the ruby beads of up-stage curtain,

The cellos seem to skip.

The music seems to break.

It becomes,

sublime

disorderly

discordant and fine.

Possessed, their hands are compelled to play in the key of Asa.

Like the musical overture, she suggests what is to come:

She offers,

three fingers, then her thumb

a wrist, then a forearm,

the elbow

then the arm.

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ren mo

rril

Like the musical overture, she suggests what is to come:

She offers,

three fingers, then her thumb

a wrist, then a forearm,

the elbow

then the arm.

A spiral motion, the shoulder sings.

Like a moon emerging from clouds,

She enters through the smoke,

wearing diamonds and filth.

The cinema-proscenium arch, preciously dark,

goes crazy with lights.

They chronicle the mysterious history of the stage queen.

The cellos, ambient and strange,

go crazy with sound.

They play unknown yet piercing melodies.

A ghost of radiation, Asa smiles and removes the first of her seven robes

of suicide.

•

“She was better last year,” Yes replies to No's gesture to the stage. “I'm tired of Asa.

I want a new dream. A new celebrity.”

The lights flicker a brilliant, multicolored, diamond, celluloid, “I love her,” No sighs.

“I will always love her.”

“You say that only because you haven't had her. Whoever said 'to know her is to

love her' was either a liar or a fool.”

“What is she? Where does she come from? Why is she called Asa? That

name, doesn't it sound like dying? Like dying light? Saying it is like speaking

nostalgia...like vocalizing the light of the evening. There is a purity there but

an ambiguity...”

Yes takes a sip of his drink, indifferent to No's musings, “I wonder how

many robes she will take off to night.”

“I hope she takes them all off. I hear that her skin is refl ective in such a way

that those who look upon her too long go blind.”

“That's a myth perpetrated by candy junkies.”

“I hear that you do not go completely blind. It's really more a matter of

taint than an actual dysfunction of the faculty. One still sees but for at time,

one sees the world through a lens. A distortion the color of Asa.”

“You sound like a Vid-box advertisement for Candy. I have seen Asa over

a dozen times now and am no different for it. She's nothing more than a

cabaret star with delusions of priestessing.”

“I think she is a dream. A dream of dying light. With out her, we would

be lonely.”

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ADAM JESSUP:NOTES ON A JAZZ MUSICIAN

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adam

jess

upTheir hands move in unison. One of them is the

leader, but from where I am sitting it is hard to de-

cipher who, exactly, that is. Perhaps it is the short

one plucking the keys. He is unshaven, and vagrant

looking, unkempt in such a way that would lead you

to think he is some kind of genius and doesn’t have

the time for such trivialities. The movement is in his

fingers. They are quick, as if loaded by springs. They

flicker and flint as he strikes the ivory. The motion

seems to reverberate calmly as it moves through his

body, traveling all the way down to his feet, where it

is released, sent into the foundation of the building in

the form of taps from his wing tipped shoes.

The jickety-jack of the bass player’s fingers against

the cherry fretboard remind me of the clickety-

clacking of my own fingers against the sallow keys

of my typewriter, though his is more rhythmic and

spontaneous–legato–and mine calculated and

tedious–staccato. He cradles the enormous girth

of wood as if it were his invalid child, looking over

it’s shoulder intently, teaching it the notes, hoping

that one day it will be able to make these beautiful

sounds all by itself.

There is just enough light peeking in from the street

lamps outside for me to make out a few faces here

and there; they are, for the most part, obscured by

the darkness and mood lighting. I take a few, long

draws of beer from my glass. Depression era green1.

1 When I Was a kId my mother had an entIre cabInet full of depres-sIon glass. InsIde Was an assortment of plates and dIshes; they Were mostly green and pInk, but there Were a feW blue pIeces as Well. those Were more rare. When she Was groWIng up, the large food manu-

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adam

jessupThe beer is bad, but the music is right, and the com-

pany mixed. Mostly townies with their wool coats

and hand-rolled cigarettes. Maybe even a plaid fe-

dora or two. There are a few snowbirds lurking as

well. They probably came up for a few days of skiing

over the long weekend. The jazz is good, but not

that good. Not to draw any out-of-towners.

Outside, there is whiteness in feet, growing as each

hour passes. Every time someone opens the door

a little bit rushes in, eager to land on the heated, ce-

ment floor and return to liquid once again. It builds

up on the window sills and frosts the glass making

the place look Christmassy, but in a sickening sort of

way. The people stand in the doorway, shaking the

white flakes from their coats, unraveling thick scarves

from their necks, and thumbing the wad of one dol-

lar bills from their pockets they’ll use to warm their

insides.

I sit in a booth next to the windows, which are seg-

mented with panes that make them look like tic-

tac-toe boards, and watch as the band hums along.

Mostly I watch the singer. She’s a real crooner. Every

time she hits a high note she throws her head back

and sends me a suggestive look. Her eyes say–Don’t

ever let me get you alone, or I’ll tear you apart!

My phone shakes in the pocket of my trousers. It’s a

text from Angie. “Be there soon!” it says. I’ve been

waiting nearly an hour for her and have already fi-

facturIng companIes Would put a pIece In the boxes of theIr products to encourage people to buy them; or sometImes they Were handed out to you as you Went Into the movIe theater.

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jess

upnished my beer.

Bits and pieces of people’s conversations are audible

in the lulls between songs. People talking about the

war and the economy. They talk about the people

who are in office, and how they have sure as hell run

the country into the ground. “We’re all just a bunch

of suckers,” someone says. And, “Anarchy must pre-

vail,” says another. “What do they know?” I think.

They combat problems with more problems. They

don’t have any solutions.

At the bar I see a girl I know. Her name is Dana.

She’s the source of an old crush that has mostly died.

We talk for a while, catching up, and laughing. She

asks me how I’ve been and says it’s good to see

me; all those things you say to someone when you

want them to think you actually care. I get small ur-

ges as we chat. Like little bolts of electricity arching

between my toes. I know they are mere vestiges.

The feelings reside in the memories2 more than the

moment3. I still think she is beautiful though.

2 once, When dana and I had heard too much jazz and sWalloWed too much lIquor We Walked home together. her apartment Was not far, just a feW blocks up from the bar, on fIfth. It Wasn’t too cold outsIde, but she Walked WIth her arms around me, InsIde of my coat. I remember thInkIng It Was a good sIgn. her hands grIpped my rIbcage WIth urgency, lIke What We Were about to do Was drIven by some phIlanthropIc necessIty rather than Wanton lust. I also remember WonderIng hoW many tImes dana had done thIs; probably a feW, If not more. she seemed the type. nothIng happened at her place; I Was IndecIsIve, young, and skIttIsh, and she Was gettIng over someone. 3 noW, We’ve reserved ourselves to apprehensIon When We run Into each other, WaItIng to see Who, If anyone, WIll make the fIrst move. hoWever, the only thIng betWeen us noW Is a ghost. 4 I tell myself It’s not a nervous habIt, that I’m only keepIng the beat of the song so the band knoWs I’m folloWIng them, and that I’m not WorrIed about beIng stood up. but I thInk, also, that I am a terrIfIc lIar, especIally to myself.

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adam

jessup

The band strikes up with an Ella Fitzgerald number.

I tell Dana that it was good to see her too, and that

we should get a drink sometime. She raises her glass,

saying nothing.

Angie is still a no-show. At my booth, I work on an-

other drink and keep time with the band by tapping

the side of the glass with my fingers.

Scanning the lounge’s landscape, I notice a drunk in

the corner dancing with himself. Some poorly ren-

dered tribal art hangs on the wall directly behind him,

furthering the incongruity of the setting. But he is

little, if at all, aware of his surroundings. He’s proba-

bly never had such a good time. When you’re not

looking right at him he disappears, but as soon as you

turn your head one way or the other, there he is, smi-

ling and swaying in the narrows of your eyes. He is

lucky. There’s not one thought in his head other than

trying to stand on both feet. He’s not worried about

a girl, or his sick mother, or the end of the world. He

just dances. Drunkenly. Stupidly. Completely free.

I watch the old man with the guitar. He works his

hands up and down the neck vigorously, but the

sound is surprisingly soft, the notes quick and precise.

Thick beads of sweat form on his forehead as a result

of the silver mane of hair and subsequent beard that

surrounds it, but he pays it no attention whatsoever;

his eyes continue to follow the notes, his hands follo-

wing his eyes, my eyes following his hands, which also,

sometimes, follow his eyes, and so forth.

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After a while the place slowly begins to empty. Men

retrieve woolen coats from the coat rack, top heavy

with garments, and women re-garland their necks

with knitted scarves. Stretching a pair of thin lea-

ther gloves over her slender hands, I watch a woman

slip, with great elegance, into a coat being held out

by her brutish, onlooking boyfriend. Once around

her, she pulls it snug and fastens the double breast

in three precise movements while flapping the collar

up around her neck to break the wind outside. As

if someone were mechanically fading them out with

a volume knob, the band becomes more quiet with

each song until their resounding ceases altogether.

The lounge is noticeably darker than when the night

began, however the rosy-bulbed light fixtures dang-

ling from the ceiling and elsewhere do not appear

any less luminous. Perhaps the absence of faces, pin-

ned back in laughter or otherwise, has something

to do with the growing darkness of the room. The

people who are here appear to be in the significant

throes of torpidity, likely induced by alcohol and in-

clement weather.

The band puts up quickly. Nearly mindlessly. As if

the instruments could find their way to their respec-

tive cases without any kind of guidance. The singer

reaches for a red, bulbous vase of sorts, which she

has playfully anthropomorphized throughout the

night, referring to it as “The World’s Most Romantic

Tip Jar.” Hastily she empties its spoils onto a table,

counting and divvying the meager amount between

the four of them. I wander to the bar, inquiring to

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the heavily mascaraed bartender about yet another

drink. Before the exchange occurs another jolt from

my quivering phone sends me hurtling outside to

answer it. However, there was no call, just another

text message from Angie that said, “Hey. Got tied up.

Won’t make it now. Apologies. Talk later.”

The bitterness of the cold encourages sobriety, stun-

ting the effects of the booze. I hunch my shoulders

and slump against the jamb of the door, seeking some

amount of shelter from the wind. I slip a cigarette

out of my jacket pocket and with a matchbook, pro-

duce a small fire in my hand, which I allow to linger,

savoring its momentary warmth. My head swims

with fatigue and emotional incontinence. Lines from

Bukowski’s “The Knife Waltz” stroke through as well.

I am joined by the singer and the pianist who, stan-

ding opposite me, remove cigarettes of their own

and begin to smoke. They don’t have too much to

say to one another. The cold has a way of retarding

extraneous conversation. The woman is swathed in

a dense fur coat that seems more draped than worn.

The single light above the doorway of the bar burns

white with intensity and drenches the singer in a kind

of film noir lighting that is both menacing and appro-

priate. Though her eyes are lost in the shadow of her

prominent brow, from the position of her face I can

tell that she is looking right at me. I make no effort

to return her gaze and stare instead at my feet and

the stub of cigarette left in my hand. In doing so, I

imagine what our conversation would look like if one

were to take place.

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“You’re here every week,” she says, taking a long drag

off her cigarette, leaving the fi lter bloody with lipstick.

“I guess I am,” I say. “So are you.”

“Well,” she smiles and lets out one laugh, “I’m so-

mewhat–obliged to be,” she says, drawing out the se-

cond syllable of obliged and gesturing with a gloved

hand.

“I suppose I am too.”

Finally, the pianist shuffl es off to his car, a beaten and

bruised volvo station wagon. Only the woman re-

mains. She shudders a little inside her expensive fur

and knocks the heel of her shoes on the pavement. A

car sputters to the curb and she disposes of her ciga-

rette, trotting to the door. I follow her hurried steps

to the edge of the sidewalk, where they stop abruptly.

The woman turns toward me and says, “Thanks for

coming, see you next week.” I try for words, but none

materialize. She disappears into the car and it disap-

pears into the snow-covered street.

An ingrowing warmth ensues.

I know that I have missed the last bus from downtown.

So I slosh down the streets, kicking powder ahead of

me with each step towards home. My head fl oats to

the belfry and sings to the moon, drunk with mirth,

anxiety, drink, and disappointment.

DEREK RYAN HAIN:BY ROGER AUTHOR

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Open a phOne bOOk, pOint tO a name, make a call.

PARKS David G 1987 Parkview Ave NW 409-6786

– Hey, this is Dave.– Hey, Dave. You don’t know me, but my name’s Roger Author. I’m friends with your sister.– My sister? I don’t have a sister.

Open a phOne bOOk, pOint tO a name, make a call.

CARLYLE Jonathan 403 2nd St 409-7623

– Carlyle residence.– Is this Jonathan?– Yep, this is he.– Hi, Jonathan. You don’t know me, but my name’s Roger Author. I’m friends with your sister.– Ha! Well, I’ve got a few of them! Which one are you speaking of?– Kuh—Cindy.

Open a phOne bOOk, pOint tO a name, make a call.

ROCKWELL Daniel 6640 Howl Pt Dr 409-9980

– Daniel?– Yeah?– Hey, Daniel. This is weird to talk to you. My name’s Roger Author. I’m friends with your sister.– Gina?– Yes! Gina.– Shit. That doesn’t make sense. I’ve really got nothing to do with that girl anymore.– Funny. She still speaks highly of you.– Hah! I doubt that, man. What’d she say?– She misses you, that’s all. I guess maybe she wanted me to try to patch things up.– Well, it’s a bit late for that.– Can I tell her that?– Tell her whatever you want, pal.

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– Meet me for a drink, will you? Have you got the time? It’d mean a lot to her.– You’ve gotta be shitting me. Gina and I haven’t spoken for years.– No shit. She made it sound like only yesterday.– Bullshit.– No shit.– Yeah? How is she?

meet Daniel ROckwell at JacksOn stReet bReweRy, 9 p.m. DRess semi-casual: shORt sleeve buttOn-up shiRt, Jeans, wRistwatch. lOOk like a Rube. bRing pROps: sealeD envelOpe, new yORkeR, sanDwich fROm paulie’s, cellulaR phOne.

The bar’s not crowded, which is bad. I look conspicuous. I’m sitting alone, “Roger Author,” in a booth facing the entrance. My palms are sweating. I’m holding a pint of IPA. I combed my hair for this and I don’t know why. Based on our phone conversation, I’m expecting Daniel Rockwell to look tough, probably acne-scarred, about thirty-five years old, in t-shirt and jeans. That’s the figure I’m watching for, anyway. I told him what I’d be wearing, and the general look of my face. “Kind of round,” I’d said, “With sort of innocent eyes, a big butt chin, and wavy brown hair”—all true statements, just enough to get by.

The first time I did this, I used Microsoft Visio to create a flowchart of possible scenarios. I stayed up all night the night before, committing myself to expand two initial situations exponentially by threes to fifty-four possible outcomes. This didn’t help one damn bit. When the time came, I froze up. I couldn’t remember any of my premeditated paths and made a stuttering ass of myself. The next time, I tried to wing it. The rendezvous went better, lasted longer. But what really started to help me was Vipassana meditation. I meditate ninety minutes a day now. I meditated an extra ninety prior to this meeting with Daniel Rockwell, but I’m still on edge. All I know is to keep lucid, to roll with the conversation, to speak as succinctly as possible, and to use the props when necessary. But all these instructions drop from my consciousness as soon as

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Daniel Rockwell enters the bar.

Rockwell is at least 230 pounds. I’m 150 last I checked. He’s pierced, once in the left ear, twice in the right eyebrow, potentially elsewhere. I was right about the acne scars and, probably, the age, but against my expectations he’s wearing a jean jacket and short khaki pants. Couldn’t have figured that. Also, he’s inked up and down his arms with tattoos. I can’t make out the designs until he’s standing right by my booth. At that point, I stop trying.

“Author?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

“The way you talk about Gina, I would’ve never imagined her becoming.”

His body fills the space between the table and the seat. He’s wedged in like a tennis ball in a chain-link fence. Amazingly, he looks comfortable.

“That’s just the Gina I know,” I say. “It’s sad you haven’t seen her in so long.”

“Sad to you, man. It’s been a fine relaxing time for me, away from her madness.”

“The way you talk about her, I wonder what she used to be like.”

“Hah.”

“You want a drink? I’ll get you a drink. Whaddaya drink?”

“Nah, I don’t accept drinks from men.”

“It’s on Gina. I’ll charge her for it, scout’s honor.”

I stand up, down the remainder of my pint, and wait for Rockwell’s reply. The look on his face says that I’m a curious, amusing little creature, harmless. He can’t

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decide if he likes me or not. He fidgets a while with the salt-shaker near the wall, watching me. I do a nervous little juke with my shoulders, the meaning of which I have no idea, but it apparently convinces him for the drink, and he tells me to get him a whiskey, straight. As I’m walking away, he yells to me.

“Tell Gina she owes me more than a single whiskey!”

I turn around to see him, and a playful grin twists the deep scars on his cheeks. I buy him a double and bring it back to our booth. He has taken off his jean jacket and bespectacled himself with a pair of slightly askew white-framed eyeglasses. I think he looks like a burly home ec. teacher I once had. I slide his whiskey across the table to him and pull my foil-wrapped sandwich up from the seat beside me.

“You mind if I eat this sandwich?” I ask. “I had an early lunch, long day, some bad shit, you know.”

“No difference to me. What’ve you got?”

“You know, tell you the truth, I bought it so long ago I don’t remember.”

Rockwell takes a heavy sip of his whiskey and makes a satisfied exhaling sound. I’ve got my hands full of an eight-inch sandwich. I start stuffing it into my mouth, very greedily, but actually taking small bites. Rockwell watches with brute astonishment. As I chew, I spit-mumble a few words.

“When’d you last see Gina?” I ask.

“Hell if I remember. Four, maybe five years ago. She’d been seeing this kid Tyler, a black guy. He played football at the college. She ever tell you about him?”I shake my head no.

“Not too bad a guy but we didn’t get along. We just pissed each other off. You know how that goes? You know how that goes. Gina liked to put us together and see us fight. I think, the end of those nights, she’d have

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him all riled up the way she liked him. Well, me and him this night we get into a discussion over at The P.T. Lounge, about—what was it about?—sports, women, it doesn’t matter. I call him a nasty name and…”

Rockwell pauses for a gulp of his whiskey, and I take the chance, my mouth full of sandwich, to pop in the question.

“What’d you call him?”

“A nignorant igger. Like,” Rockwell looks a little embarrassed, “’You nignorant igger, you dunno shit about what you’re saying,’ or whatever, whatever we were talking about. Tyler just stood up and shoved me right onto my ass. Gina comes out of the ladies’ room and she’s immediately screaming, ‘Tyler! Tyler!’ He’s all heated up so he starts telling her some shit about me, some drunken piss-talk, but Gina believes every word and she bends down and says, ‘Dan, you’re a real shit you know that?’ And I’m laying like a fat lump on the floor and I say, ‘You ain’t so hot yourself.’ She gets up and leaves with Tyler, leaves me on the floor.”

“You never saw her again?”

“Well, a time comes.”

“The way she told me, it just kind of happened. Nothing dramatic. Just a natural drifting apart.”

“Well, she’s got her story and I’ve got mine.”

We sit a while without speaking, drinking until our glasses are emptied. Rockwell shifts his weight all around behind the table to shrug back on his jean jacket. One of the sleeves is ripped, held together loosely with a safety pin. I crumple up the tinfoil left over from my sandwich and slip it into my pocket. Rockwell is drifting his eyes all around the bar, taking in booths, drunks, and dark-wooded decor, as he squeezes himself free of the booth.

RecOllect the night’s cOnveRsatiOn in DiaRy.

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cOnfabulate histORies. ReheaRse facts. DiscOveR OR cReate intentiOns. wRite:

Daniel Rockwell is a thirty-six-year-old engineering technician. He was born in Illinois. His sister, Gina, is seven years his junior, an age gap which tinges Daniel’s brotherly love toward her with fatherly concern. As children, they bickered. While Gina was a teen, they fought. Daniel left home at 20 and Gina left, four years later, at 17. They supported each other, for a while, through a series of bad jobs and relationships. They got matching tattoos on their left forearms. When they had their falling out, Daniel disguised his by inking an elaborate design all around it, swallowing and obscuring it, whereas Gina kept her tattoo clear, though she got others elsewhere. She was, at this time, around 25, and romantically involved with an athlete named Tyler. Daniel was alone, unembittered but grown cautious from the broken relationships of his past. He tried to marry once, impulsively, but the union quickly became passionless and fizzled out in mutual dissatisfaction.

I’m “Roger Author”

I am Roger Author, and I’ve been seeing Gina Rockwell for about a month. I’m crazy about her, not least of all because she likes her men crazy. She’s blond, probably a false blonde, but I’ve never pressed her for the truth on the point. Typical of a twenty-nine-year-old, she’s stuck somewhere between the carefree vitality of early womanhood and the wearying disillusionment of adulthood. I like her tattoos. They are a constant reminder of the woman who lived before we met, the woman I will never meet. Her wild days are behind her, she says; I should’ve seen her back when… She tells me stories and pats my arm patronizingly. She thinks I’m naïve, a child.

I met with her brother, Daniel, on Gina’s request. She misses him. It was no surprise that Daniel is a nice guy, somewhat contemplative, but rough in appearance. He’s older, more reserved than Gina. I’d like to see the two of them back together. Problem is, I’ve never

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actually met Gina, and she could be Problem is, I’ve lost Gina’s number. I lost my cell phone, and with it her number. I would go to her place but she never took me there. We always slept at my apartment.

call Daniel ROckwell fROm pay phOne On hOllanDeR stReet. wait fOR heavy tRaffic nOise. play the cOnvO. intense, Off-the-cuff, but cOOl. paRk neaRby.

– Yeah, whaddaya want?– Daniel? It’s Roger Author. You remember me? I’m friends with Gina? We met at the Jackson Brewery about a week ago?– Roger, yeah. Whaddaya want?– I’ve lost Gina’s number, lost my cell phone. Her number, it was on the cell phone. I can’t get in touch with her, and I really need to.– Shit, man, I ain’t got that number.– Could you get it, though? Through a mutual friend, maybe?– I don’t know who knows her. You know her better’n me.– Your mom, maybe? Could you call your mom?– Hah, Author, you don’t know who you’re asking to call his mom.– Daniel, I’m afraid Gina’s in trouble.– That’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, buddy. Just relax.– Daniel…

wait thRee Days anD then tRy again. Just Relax. meDitate. think withOut thinking:

Daniel Rockwell is just a man. Like me. I am just Roger Author. Or I am not Roger Author. The people around me are manifestations of my consciousness, my being. I give them form.

I am without desire. Whatever the present moment offers I accept. I can go this way or that; which way is inessential. The future is unattainable, and the past awaits discovery or invention.

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My mind is chemicals or neurons or spiritual matter. It’s not for me to understand. My eyes closed, I see patterns and landscapes, hear voices and tones. I create, it seems, without effort.

I am not Roger Author. I am the wind blowing through my window, the sunshine, the noise of pedestrians on the street, the cars, the jackhammering, the smell of cigarettes and trash, all the sounds and sensations that disrupt my meditation every day.

call Daniel ROckwell.

– Daniel, this is Roger Author.– You again, huh? Did Gina turn up the other day then or what?– Nope. Daniel, I don’t think I’m going to find her.– When she wants to disappear, she’s gone. You ain’t the only one it happened to.– I don’t know. I just thought, you know, that she’d turn up. I’ve asked around and…– Asked around like who?– Like the guy where she works. The guy who introduced us.– Oh yeah? Where’s she work? I figured she’d split town.– I think she has.– Wouldn’t be the first time.

meet Daniel ROckwell fOR DRinks, 8:30 p.m., the JacksOn stReet bReweRy.

Drinking another IPA, I begin to daydream. My daydreams are intense. As a child, I used to daydream. I would imagine fantastical things, like monsters and armored knights and science fiction scenarios. But as I grew older, in my early and mid teens especially, my daydreams changed. I had the sexual fantasies appropriate to an adolescent, but I also fantasized about strangers on buses and cashiers in grocery stores and men sitting on street corners. Once I’d gained the confidence to talk to these strangers, I found that their stories invariably paled to those I had invented for them.

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I became a writer. Throughout college, my work with fiction was well-received. All my English comp. professors encouraged me to go to graduate school. They said that I should make a career of storytelling, that I had a God-given knack for the craft of narrative and a facile understanding of the English language. But their accolades failed to inspire me. I would attend literary readings and yawn with boredom. I began to write stories attacking all the current literary trends. I targeted my fellow writers directly, incorporating them into dull stories about the writing process and the so-called “literary life.” Eventually, I had alienated myself from the scene.

I got a job filing government documents. My next piece of fiction took as its main character one of my co-workers, a clever man named Bart. I showed this piece to no one but Bart. I read it aloud to him on a smoke break, and he laughed and laughed at the portrayal I’d made for him. He said, “That’s a great little anecdote. I’m surprised it didn’t really happen. Mind if I tell it someday as my own?” He asked for a copy of the story, and I gave him one, then deleted the master document from my laptop. I began composing on a typewriter. I tailored every story to one or two real-life people, then gave each person the type-written copy. Sometimes, I wrote for strangers in cafés. Sometimes, I wrote for relatives. Eventually, I began inventing the stories on the spot.

I set down my IPA and pick up an envelope, addressed to me, by me, in an imitation female scrawl. The return address is blank, though the letter inside is signed, “Gina.” The postmark is lightly printed, but local. This flaw might reveal, to a critical eye, that I wrote the letter and sent it to myself, but I’m counting on Daniel Rockwell not to inspect the envelope very closely.

He walks into the bar late, around 8:50 p.m. I wave to him from the booth. He looks tired. He appears to be wearing the same clothes as last time we spoke. He’s already got his eyeglasses on. The bartender pours him a whiskey and he joins me at the booth.

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Before sitting down, he motions that I should drag the table toward myself to make room for him. I do, but I can’t pull the table back far enough to accommodate his belly entirely. He takes off his jean jacket, throws it down on the seat near the wall, and squeezes in beside it. He sighs.

“Long day?” I ask.

“Full. The length is always the same. It’s just what you shove into it wears you down.”

He drinks from his whiskey glass and looks around the bar. Again, it’s nearly empty.

“This your haunt?” he asks me

“Yeah, I like it. It’s quiet. The drinks are cheap. The light’s not too dim, not too bright. You could read a book, play pool, have a chat. It’s just a place that works, whatever you got going on.”

“Figures for you.”

I give him a curious look, raise an eyebrow, and grin.

“You know, I just can’t see Gina going for you. The Gina I know.”

“Funny you mention it,” I say. “She came to the same conclusion.”

I hold up the envelope briefly and then slide it across the table for Rockwell to see. He looks down at it sullenly.

“What makes you think I wanna see this tripe?”

“I’m not going to do anything else with it but throw it in the trash. Give it a read.”

Rockwell fingers his earring, considering this, and though I don’t show it, I’m on edge. He takes off his eyeglasses and sets them beside his drink. His thick

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fi ngers pick the letter out of the envelope and unfold it on the table. He leans over, and his head turns ever-so-slightly as he reads.

Daniel,

It’s not that I don’t want you to know where I am, but you just as well not. You knew it was over, right? I can be bad about that kind of thing. I try to fi gure out on my own when the time comes and leave before things go too bad. But sometimes I fuck up.

I’m in Baltimore. I don’t have a job yet but my friend who I’m living with says he’ll set me up at the place where he works. It’s a hotel. Kind of crummy, but it’ll get me by. This guy I’m with reminds me of my brother, but Spanish and younger. Younger than me, actually. You’d like him if you weren’t so jealous.

I’ve got no plans to come back. Nothing was so bad back there but nothing was keeping me in place. Maybe nothing will keep me here.

Gina

“Is this to you or to me?” Rockwell asks, looking up at me.

“Me.”

Rockwell rotates the paper and slides it across the table for me to read.

“She got your name wrong.”

AMELIA ROBERTSONOTHER

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Luca unwedges her feet from inside sodden canvas

shoes. The green, thin-soled mary-janes, they make her

feel like dancing. It is the fi rst time she has worn them

since the rains began, when she hung them on a peg in

the closet and closed the door with a sigh. A few rays

of sun are breaking off the layer of clouds capping off

the sky. Today, for the fi rst time, it looks like the rains

are letting up.

Luca remembers how She stepped into a steaming

shower, her forehead furrowed, fumbling with the fau-

cets in her new numbness on the fi rst day of rain. This

was the fi rst season of rain in her new city.

Luca had been told ahead of time. She knew to roll up

pant legs, or wear short skirts. Take off shoes and wade

the ankle deep water that would begin to gather th-

rough the whole town. No shoes in the world would

keep feet dry in that weather. Boots only sluiced little

rivulets into the toes.

She has been warned that newcomers to the city who

tried to cling to their old sock ways would see their skin

begin to peel within the fi rst weeks. Soon there would

red, raw, wrinkled areas. There would be blisters and

open sores. Then it would be nearly impossible to go

anywhere for the rest of the winter. It would be too

painful to continue to irritate the area with sodden

wool, or to attempt to make the switch to barefoot.

Better to brave it right away, her offi ce mother has

told her. Her name is Mauve, but Luca calls her offi ce

mother to herself. Stick your feet into the cold water

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non the first day of the rains and get on with it, she said.

Only the first ten minutes really hurt.

Luca had stepped into the chill of the bathroom and

imagined how the cold will become a numb warmth

that pebbles and sticks could not penetrate.

•

Entering the foreign living room, Luca leaves her shoes

by the door where they rest, conspicuous on the li-

noleum.

•

With the rains, bicycle couriers, schoolchildren and

traffic cops abandoned their shoes.

The only ones who continued to wear them were

shadowy groups of youth. Luca tries not to stare at

four or five gathered indolently a certain building cor-

ner when she passes on the way to her co-worker’s

house.

They wear shoes that don’t attempt to keep the wa-

ter out, canvas tennis shoes are usually the device of

choice; cheap and permeable.

Luca caught sight of a pair of pink canvas mary-jane

flats, sister to her green ones and looked suddenly

into the eyes of a shorn being her own age. Ihey may

have been the same age, the same build, but it is hard

to tell. The other’s body is concealed with a shock of

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patches and rags that looks hand-made and ostenta-

tious; clumsy.

•

At the party, her shoes behind her in the doorway,

Luca looks into the mirror hanging in the entranceway.

Their eyes, she realizes, are the same shade of brown.

At the offi ce, she had heard Mauve, snapping her

bubblegum and chattering. Recruits came and went

as they pleased in the summer months, often quite

normal looking and passing shoeful between regular

citizens without drawing a glance. Mauve was gleeful

with the gossip of new graffi ti, of slight vandalisms,

strange appearances and disappearances around the

city.

Mauve claims the curious and rebellious pass in and

out of their ranks freely during the dry times, she

should know, because her nephew, bless his soul.... had

started wearing those odd little patches on his back-

pack. So the regular kids were allowed, welcomed, pal-

led around with until the winter rains, when choices

must be made. It is then that the numbers of became

distinct, and dwindled.

“Ought to be shot, for all the good they’re gonna do

in the world,” Luca’s boss had said, leaning across her

desk to grab her stapler.

The other intern, in a desk kitty-corner to the right,

had raised his eyebrows.

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n“What, I’m joking!” and the blue button up shirt with

short sleeves and a stubby tie made off with her stap-

ler.

“When do they start looking like that?” Luca had as-

ked, a week before the offi ce party.

“Like what?” Mauve looked at her strangely, blinked

and changed the subject. “Someone should really

clean out the break fridge, I’m sure that that cake has

been in there since Jeanie left, so that’s been 7 weeks?

It’s got to be unhealthy, probably dangerous.”

Cautious, Luca took the cellophane wrapped cake

from the fridge after lunch, and poked a fork into it. It

seemed little crunchy, but harmless. She took it to the

bathroom and ate it in a stall, perched on the toilet bowl

to hide her feet and drawing sharp, shallow breaths. She

decided that the crunchiness was an improvement.

•

On the way to the offi ce party, Luca realizes that this

will be the fi rst time she has talked to offi ce people

outside the offi ce.

•

Businessmen slapping through the rain, pant legs rol-

led and ironed into a neat crease past a group talking

under a street lamp. Luca squishes through the sod-

den dusk to an offi ce dinner party.

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amel

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erts

on

Luca takes off her shoes by the door. She checks her

hair in the mirror. She greets each person. She takes

a square of cake and sits in the living room, balancing

the cake on a napkin on her knee. The others murmur

in the dining room.

Her boss’s daughter wanders in, scuffs her feet on the

carpet and rolls her eyes.

Luca asks her about the tattered jacket she is wearing.

She says she knows someone who wore shoes for a

while, though she only made it a month into the start

of the rains.

“Why would she do that?” Luca asks.

“Quit?”

“Try to join them.”

The girl shrugs and scuffs, “Dunno.” She looks over

Luca’s shoulder at the fl ats on the linoleum and walks

away.

When Luca leaves, there is a patch in the bottom of

one of her shoes. It is of two cherries joined together.

On the cherries are the faces of skulls. Luca sticks the

patch quickly into the pocket of her rain jacket and

hurries out into the rain.

V.R. MOOSHE:$3

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v. r.

mo

osh

eRubbing ginger spice deodorant

on the bottom of her foot,

she placed her twizlered ankles

back into boots of war

it was getting very stinky

since goodness had lost its grip

and all

Splashing ketchup on her brains,

she made love to Manhattan,

adorning freckled lips she thought

the road was getting very shaky

since the world has lost its grip on goodness

and all

the famous green and blue ball spinning out to

‘who let the dogs out”

was whip lashing harmonious chords

and people didn’t know what to do

except for stay in dark places

and people didn’t know what to do

except for tighten all their long laces

and people didn’t know what to do

now that goodness was no more

motion was not hated

and not one, jealous of their prime,

movies lost their superstars,

but clocks they kept their time

moonlight was not woo-d upon

and donuts lost their yum

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oshe

no hats or cover creme put on

most perceived themselves as ‘done’

It was long walks fi ghting for the return of pleasure

it was short nights and sleepless days

anyone without the good in them, would have to go insane

even little children, their hands held out to wave

at nobody’s and passer-bys who knew not how to crave

everything was moderate, and Bad, not thrilled to win

not scared to move we were, without having Good’s shoes to fi ll in

a little dude, ‘bout 2 or 3 decided to chime in

you’ll see by what he knew about the trouble we were in:

“if sex were more like music

if music were more like sunrises

if sunrises were more like monologues

if monologues were more like stormy seas

and stormy seas were more

if sex were more like stormy seas

and monologues, like music

then, what, if everything was nice,

should sunrises need more of?

or should they steal away

exiled from this grove

and stand a circus freak

for those in line were told

that a sunrise was the oddest thing

that ‘made toes warm and grow.’

VICTORIA LARKIN:SCORE CARDS WILL BE HANDED OUT NEXT WEEK ON BUS # 67; LADIES, LOOK YOUR BEST!

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“Britney Spears, yeah,”

“Oh, man, she’s crazy!”

“Yeah, but she’s hot! I’d marry her!”

“She’s gotta lotta money, too!”

“Yeah, and she can MOVE! You seen that video?

She’s moving everything, and she’s tight! Not like

Christina Aguilera; I wouldn’t even date her!”

The young man speaking was, despite his youth,

going bald. What hair he did have was unruly

and blended into an equally unruly beard. His

clothes were ill-fitting, his dingy green shir t bare-

ly covering the fat hanging over the belt holding

his khakis up over his non-existent ass. His toes,

with their untrimmed nails, were hanging over

the edge of ratty walking sandals. Occasionally

he sucked on his mustache, and rubbed the wet-

ness down into his beard.

“Yeah she’s too hefty, man; she’s like Alanis Mo-

rissette – “

“But Alanis is kinda quirky - she’d be alright, I’d

date her, she’d be like a big earth mama.”

He spoke aloud across the aisle of the front of

the bus to his friend, who was rail thin with pock-

marked cheeks and dark greasy hair pulled tight

into a pony tail hanging down his back. He had

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derek ryan hain

long fingers with long dir ty nails, and he repea-

tedly rubbed his hands up and down on his pant

legs.

“Nah...she’s too much meat man;”

“Oh, so then who?

“Cameron Diaz - I’d do her in a heartbeat!”

Another young man was sitting near the middle

of the bus. He pulled out a notebook. His fingers

were pale and cold, the blue-green veins showing

through his skin. He wore a crusty stubble, and

glasses that accentuated the pupils of his eyes.

His hair was cut close to his head, and he wore

non-descript civilian clothes. He had a sullen air

about him – an observer, not a participant, per-

ched in his own protected bubble. He looked up

now and then as people boarded the bus. He

took notes:

“too short, plain face, fat nose;

too fat;

too skinny, flat chested;

too old;

blonde hair, perky nose - sexy;

white dress, blue panties, cowboy boots, nice legs

- definitely;

messed up hairdo, ugly glasses;

short shir t, butt too big, no way;

etc...”

* * * * *

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“Ah, my daughters are ready, I can hear them

jingling, ready for you, my friend – “

“Hmmm, (licking his fingers) I’m so full I don’t

know how I could eat another thing!”

“Ha Ha Ha! Well, do not fear - You will not have

to eat anything – not yet anyway! That is for

AFTER the wedding!! Ha Ha Ha!”

“Ha Ha Ha, Sagilzuel! You know how to tease a

man! Ha Ha Ha!”

“Oh, that is nothing - you just wait ‘til the music

begins!”

He clapped his hands. The old man sitting in

the corner of the tent began to drum, his nep-

hew beside him joined in tentatively. After a few

rounds the tambourines began outside, the little

cymbals adding a golden tone...ankle bells could

be heard, and then, in came the man’s daughters,

one by one through the tent curtains...

“Oh? Ah? Eh?”

“Uh huh!”

The woody sweet scents of amber and myrrh

began to fill the air ;

“What did I tell you?”

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“Mmmmmm...yes...(beginning to slap his thigh

along with the rhythms); oh, yes, Sagilzuel; yes,

you are hospitable indeed!”

The girls danced; one by one they came to the

foreground and unwrapped some feature they

had, turned it around for the visitor’s benefi t, and

retired, retiring...

They ended by sitting poised amidst their skir ts,

waiting, catching their breath, their for-the-most-

part young and full chests rising and falling be-

neath their silks...

Their father and the visitor arose. The visitor

was given a tour of each of them, their faces

and hands lifted for him to scrutinize. They each

smiled shyly, fl ashing their eyes - each but the

oldest, who did not smile, and the youngest who

wouldn’t look up at all.

When the visitor had reviewed the last of the

fi ve girls, their father clapped his hands again and

they all fl ew out.

“Well?”

The father escorted the visitor back to his seat.

“Well, well!”

“Such sweet fruits, eh?”

The father escorted the visitor back to his seat.

“Well, well!”

“Such sweet fruits, eh?”

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“Yes, you have a full grove there, my friend...”

“Yes, quite a bountiful harvest! And, so? Which

one will grace the table beneath the benevolen-

ce of your tent, my friend?”

“Ah, yes, my tent is feeling very benevolent just

now my friend, ha ha ha!!!”

“That is a good sign, is it not? Speak freely my

friend – allow yourself to wallow - “

“Well...the middle one – “

He took a date from the plate and ate it slowly...

“Oh, yes, what a gem, one of my favorites!”

“Such dark eyes, no?”

He licked his fingertips and patted his mustache

dry with his robe.

“ - and such hips – well-proportioned, and able

to take what I have to give!”

“Ah yes; a fitting choice, ha ha ha! Your tent will

be blessed!”

“Mmmm, yes, but perhaps others would notice

such hips as well - and eyes like that – well, they

can be trouble...”

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“Ah, fear not, my friend: my daughters are not

bred to create divisions, but to seal alliances!”

“Still, Others can be trouble, if tempted by such

things beyond their own restraints – “

“Well, perhaps then, the oldest, eh? She is past

foolishness, and well-trained – and she knows

how to care for a whole caravan! My own wife

was no better!”

“Well, my friend, I don’t wish to spoil our meal,

but...to be truthful - for truth is of great value

between friends, is it not?”

“Yes, yes, it is, my friend, and please, my table is

open to you, as is my heart. Please, speak: I hold

no prejudice against your honesty! Please - ”

“Well, forgive me, but perhaps time has not been

kind to her? I fear she is a bit plain, a bit lacking

- ”

“Well, she has many qualities that are not so vi-

sible – “

“Her eyes – they are a bit close to her nose - will

not the sun blind her? or a camel, perhaps, might

come up from behind?”

“Oh no, no my friend, she can see as well as the

rest! Why, even better sometimes!”

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“And her hair...her hair is not very luxurious...I

want my children to have luxurious hair!”

“Too much hair can be trouble, my friend!”

“Well...then, too, there is her mouth...”

“Her mouth?”

“Her lips are not very rosy, and...is it not just a

bit too small? I have big appetites my friend, and

big parts of me to fill, and such a little mouth...

well, perhaps she is more suited to a SMALLER

man than me!!!”

“Ah, but she has a big heart, my friend, a big

heart...”

“Ah yes, but it is not my heart that needs a wife,

eh! Ha Ha Ha!!!

“Oh, Yes, Ha Ha Ha! Well then, well then...the

youngest perhaps - ? With her big lips, and such

luxurious hair, perhaps she will satisfy your tas-

tes?”

“Oh, so virgin, inexperienced; I could make an

impression there!”

“And so fresh - barely a thought has ruined the

smoothness of her forehead!”

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“Downy soft landing, eh?”

“Oh, yes my wise friend, a student and a young

maid! Ha Ha Ha!”

“And when the towel is wrung out, it can still

make a good placemat, eh? Ha Ha Ha!!!”

“Oh, yes - you are so generous to think of her

needs!”

“Yes, I know: it is not everyman who considers

his wife’s future!”

“And she is easy to instruct; take it from me, I am

her father after all!”

“Yes, and a good man you are – and so many

beautiful young daughters you have!”

* * * * *

A young woman stepped onto the bus. She

wore tight jeans and a snug open neck t-shir t.

Her blonde hair was long and straight and hung

down her back. She had plucked her eyebrows

into neat lines, had a smooth finish of founda-

tion on, some color on her lids, dark mascara

and bright lipstick. Her figure was simple, ripe,

and firm. She conformed to the average model

found on billboards and magazine covers. She

was much younger than she looked.

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The boys watched her intensely. She could feel

their eyes following her. This is what she’d pre-

pared herself for all morning. She kept her eyes

straight ahead, and pretended she didn’t notice

anyone.

As she passed them, the one nudged the other ;

the other rubbed his hands on his knees.

When she was out of range, the one said to the

other :

“I’d do HER!”

The other said:

“Heh – yeah, me too!”, and rubbed his hands up

and down on his thighs.

The notetaker didn’t agree.

She sat in a seat at the back of the bus, looking

out the window, wondering if her stomach still

looked fl at when she was sitting down.

ROBIN ATTWOOD:HIGH HILL DIGNITY

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rob

in a

ttw

oo

d

High hills

In North Seattle

Alone talking with cats

Watching the sun set

Over the Northern hill

Living without breathing

Dreaming deciding and forgetting-

Farewell to the Golden Girl

With the sun in her eyes

And the friend

Who spoke with an intelligent nose

And only cared the most for you;

Killing all the while

Without breathing

But, just, watching it all-

In the circling of matters

And science of affairs by dimly lit romance

Over typewriter and old acquaintances

In a room of fragrant spring hyacinth air

Filling all concentration like a dumb balloon

Looking towards some lover some other place in his life scheme

Built out of balance/built out of ignorance, stumbling and stuttering by

nature, towards

Some other Heaven or creature Hell

All the while hurtling at what is most precious to us, his dignity.

JACOB PECK:PRAYERS SPARKED BY THE EYES OF MUSE’S INCARNATION

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it is modern primordial uncut tomb diamond *

the unkempt cajolery kicked about inside… ! what ?

Credence calls and known not of what or why !?!How silly…

Truth is silly nonlinear bliss where toads rule worlds and Life is but a mere everything ~ ~ ~

if we are to be the silly fire eyed fools whom come to rejuvenate revive redeem the eternal begotten forgotten well… we need throw all cautions, sentiments, flowers, facades, fads, faces

all of it… not to the wind…but to where it is the wind cometh from ! ~eternal ~ no~thing~ness~

to lose those dreaded its in there

and then Silly Love of Beloved Strange Beauty Cries Harmonic God Almighty

~how foolish wise you are!…. i.e. he i )r( m ~ all is is

the stone taught me how to overthrow capitalismand air…whispers…Space Is The Place… Space Is Is… it’s been said “he~it~her~that’s so far out… he~it~her~that’s coming back”so may we thank the world ruling toads who know not of their magnificence but simply are it by being the is that isand may we remember…if it ain’t silly… well, ~ hyperspatial soliloquies of credence calls credulences wont wither with the what it is as the where it goes from the whence it came ~

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peck

and to question… WHY IS WRITING ?

and not “what is art?” how banal! WHY IS ART ? to know this wordless answer will help the dolphins and feed the starvings of us all

is this silly? HA! logos~mythos~knows no difference

please, dear friends… let us forget the known and know… upon fractal dimensions of infinite shades of one unknowable truth, hyperspatial certainty of ceaseless mystery sings… God is is God is no thing from immanent transcendent depths of utter ?

what memes are dominating? the nature of mind is…

the nature of mind is… the nature of mind is…

~ did you see it? did you hear it?

again…

the nature of mind is…

the nature of mind is… the nature of mind is…

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! ~ ! did you see it? did you hear it? again… ~let it be let it be

and sing the heart of humanity in more ways than many so that we may shake awake from our somnambulism the Self... and with it the Beautiful Bounty that is is that is Life Lived

amen

BRENNAN PEDERSEN:PROPELLERS

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nConsiderations, when the body has been sur-

rendered to the ocean, persist openly. Enough

time escapes for the deflation of fear and con-

cerns of loss channeling my powers of thought

and physical manipulation and modulation to the

plain of the obscurity of a living body helpless to

the health of circulating waves. The repetition of

one thought, to release my fingers from the small

board that subsists my continual flotation, wit-

hout which I might escape, is the consideration

that all others have crawled out of (emanate).

Where, from an impossible or entirely pleasure-

less and unreasonable disposition of surviving

amongst two plains beyond apprehension, I am

never deprived of the possibility of an escape:

the consideration of two ends: to end the flota-

tion or end the possibility of letting go by put-

ting the option out of mind. Yet, in my ceaseless

consideration I have found no faculty to allow

my uninterrupted indulgence of escape to rest

just as I have not yet found the potential faculty

to release myself from this continual flotation.

Where I have the faculty of consideration bet-

ween which I am unable to choose (produce the

faculty of choice). All thought of mine, has, and

continues to subsist from this, the single consi-

deration. In the innumerable considerations that

I have fallen over in a suspension I am here left

with one hope: that all the considerations I have

continually entertained are a progression of con-

sideration, covering distance, as my traverse th-

rough the waves leads me to a hopeful unknown

destination I only rely it is also a progression to

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edersen

a destination out of buoyancy—the very possi-

bility that keeps my consideration intact. To the

nature of my continual suspension any sense of

progression (memory) or change, I am unable to

with any certainty say there has been any change

at all. The change in wave peaks and troughs and

no less frequency fluctuations is equally indistin-

guishable when no perspective but on the ocean,

as equally on the sky, can be afforded. I am there-

fore completely unable to perceive the waves as

but what I conceive of my myself—my thought,

just as, I am but under(above/as) the sky, una-

ble to chart the continual disposition across it’s

terrain. First completely unaware of my poten-

tial weakness and inabilities in a moment, after

long dissertations suddenly the realization strike

me that in this cursive continual considering I

reach the question of releasing myself from the

unrelenting board. It was at this moment that I

was immediately enlightened to realize that this

consideration was the exact same consideration

which I began considering after those strained

periods of nausea and ridicule between the oce-

an and fortresses of wind. As the ocean moves in

waves about me equally the waves of wind swim

through my jurisdiction of faculty as equally my

over-side is above the water also my underside

is above the wind or below, where any part of

me might at any moment be above or below

either the ocean or the sky I have lost the ability

to discern which part of me might be floating

through which only knowing, as it were appa-

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nrently necessary for my continual suspension

that I am between the two of them, or, overlap-

ping each, any part of me and any given period.

It was when realizing my continual return to my

unending suspension that I seemed to fi rst truly

shed my unhealthy fear of the suspension where

I was endlessly without a faculty to reasonably

assess my disposition and forward continuation

of suspension—expect the choice of how to be

continually suspended. From the position I tried

to ignore the possibility that my memory, or my

belief of what aler ted me of my repetition as a

memory could be a false, phantom apparition of

a reminder, that even my abilities of considera-

tion and memory could mislead me, embracing

the belief that in my uneventful repetition and

return to the consideration of suspension I had

in fact made a progression considerably delighted

me. Chilled my hot frustration, that unconscious

exploration of the same binding limitation could

effortlessly, though simultaneously provoking my

continual nausea characteristic of my helpless

disposition (to continue or release), produce

an element of change and progress: I came to

believe in not a total lack of hope, the possibi-

lity of escaping my suspension. That I might only

be rethinking the same consideration itself was

proof to the opposite: in my manifold repetition

of one consideration did not the consideration...

CALEB GOODAKER-CRAIGBEST, S

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raig

3. what are your feet waiting for

theres a man wit List want sign them up

there’s a gold Rope that say “NO FEET”

you try to spray paint it RED so I let you

now it say “o feet”

1. Little hands walk around

and sort themselves in a pile covering your spine

slightly smooth when they move around

you’re sleeping: when you’re going to wake is in a notebook

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daker-craig

2. When eyes come on

the hands tremble and fi ngernails grow by a inch

Real quick

I told you the minute would come when you’d

be covered by hands

It’s all the work you do with the mayor

And everything Mr. Turnstile warnt you about

The eve of your personal soft-spine

revolution has arrived

you get cold Real quick

_____want a bath

“give me a pepsi” bath

“give me a pepsi bath”

Sanchez wrote a note that was left on

the bed: “gone for something else @ next town”

NICKY TISO:THE MAN AND THE RADIO

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nick

y tis

oThe middle-aged man with a beard and a green, crink-

led raincoat stepped on to the bus at 11:45 am one

Tuesday morning and pulled out a little box with a

long antennae, at least four feet in length, which ar-

ched slightly under its own weight and bobbed as his

body moved to find a seat. Attached to this antennae

was a little two-way radio, which he began to fiddle

with. Across from him was a woman and her babies.

I wasn’t sure but I assumed she had the same fear I

did; that what he held in his hand was a transmission

device to set off a wild pipe bomb. He did not look

religious nor like a fanatic. He looked tired and ill sha-

ven. He looked like he would be excellent at gluing

wings onto model fighter-jets. The fact that he asked

the woman ‘how old is your kid?’ as he fiddled with

the knobs and switches made it seem like the last,

biting words of empty sarcasm before the flame en-

gulfed us. But then a voice came through the receiver,

that little black box, innocent as it was.

“Come in, D-3789CP, come in…”

“D-3789CP here,” he replied, followed by, “Have you

gotten a hold of TXY-77-TH yet?”

The voices crackled and pierced through a humming

fuzz that would spike and hit inaudible frequencies,

but mostly the decibel level of their conversation re-

mained casual.

“…yeah I think TXY-77-TH is out getting groceries...”

These men are either robots or the products of a

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nicky tisomid-life crisis.

“I thought maybe he’d have his receiver on him,” the

box cackled back.

“Yeah I’m curious to see how he likes the manual

installation on his receiver…,” the box said, then cut

out.

“Wait, wait, I’ve lost you,” said the man to the box.

“Let me try this now.”

He got up and waved it about while speaking, testing

the angle and rotation of each dial to get the best

reception. He made a few more twists and cocked his

head as he angled the antennae high into the air.

“…..probably why he switched after his C-17 was cat-

ching dual broad bands in the MiF fi lter.”

The conversation went somewhere when he couldn’t

hear it but voices reduced to fog have a tendency to

evaporate. Once the bus didn’t explode and I saw it

was a middle-aged man on a radio talking to other

middle-aged men about radios, I could sit back in my

seat and get bored again. The man meanwhile, held

the receiver in front of his face with awe, like it was

made of gold, revering every square inch of it for a

moment before folding down the antennae and tuck-

ing the device back into his front pocket.

C. V. ROTONDOPROLOGUE: THE ARCHITECTS

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c. v

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oOn a feverish August morning it was discovered

that the lot had been partitioned by stakes and

ropes. An enigmatic sign now stood at the cor-

ner of M and R streets.

LIBRARY

The pure proportions of the brush strokes

shown hot black against the sandy wooden sign,

revealing no more about the nature of the event.

Despite its austerity, residents of M,R,H, and Q

streets, so accustomed to the dry, weed-choked

lot, marveled at the sign and its attendant stakes

and posts. Quite mistakenly it was compared to

an archeological dig, with its tools and geometry,

delicate brushes and discoveries under the skin of

the earth. They made their misguided (or maybe

not so) comparisons and stood somberly gazing

at sign and newly geometric lot. They recalled

how just the day before the familiar lot had lain

unassuming under their window boxes and the

droning yellow light of the corner’s streetlamp.

We were not notified, they thought to themsel-

ves. Some would turn and shrug after a period

of gazing at sign and lot, an expression of resig-

nation tugging their face muscles into readable

shapes.

Nothing stays the same.

It was just a lot after all, bound to be developed.

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ndo

Damn city hall bureaucrats.

Maybe the children will enjoy a library.

The community’s not what it used to be.

These thoughts slackened and tightened muscles

around eyes and mouths after periods of sign

and newly partitioned lot gazing and perhaps

the expectant earth laying humbly beneath sta-

kes, ropes, weeds and sign, thought: People aren’t

what they used to be.

The summer’s heat and light, waning through

August, left the grass brittle and brown beneath

the various pairs of feet which stood before the

sign. Sign and partitioned lot (archeological dig)

became an easy symbol for waiting, for expec-

tation. Days rumbled by the familiar site, now

frequented by residents of M,R,H and Q streets

during commutes to and from work, the mail-

box or car. As days coupled together to form

weeks and the dying summer scorched the lot’s

polygons of weeds into distended spider skele-

tons, the residents became uneasy with waiting.

Visits to the sign and lot (archeological dig) grew

less frequent, often replaced by sharp, over-the-

shoulder glances, from faces once pulled upward

in expectancy, now arced downward in suspicion.

Conversation began to resound with false pro-

mises.

Like the potholes they never fixed.

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tond

oIt’s gonna be just like our broken sidewalks – a

shame.

Remember the talk last summer, about putting a

park there?

What would we use a library for?

On the final day of August an unfamiliar car (all

cars on M,R,H, and Q streets are familiar) rol-

led slowly down M street, past the polygons of

arachnid weeds, the shunned sign, now adorned

with indecipherable graffiti. As faces arced down-

wards in the suspicion of those forced to wait

appeared in tenement windows, the alien car

pulled to a stop along the crumbled curb astride

the lot. For a moment the car did not stir. The

sun beat its metallic surfaces with August’s final,

vindictive heat and the faces downturned in the

suspicion of waiting settled in to endure more. A

glint of redirected sunlight and a soft click then

revealed a pair of legs, soon followed by a torso,

neck and head. Another, similar body followed

the first, though this one feminine in features,

ominously leaving by the same curbside door,

frustrating the downturned suspicious waiting

faces with a view of two unidentifiable backs.

Seeming to take in the sign and lot, along with li-

mitless amounts of what else, without turning, the

pair of bodies moved through the partitioned lot

like lovers in their bedroom – strikingly familiar,

yet curious to explore even the most common-

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place elements. Hands appeared and swept low

to touch the dusty porous surface of concrete

and dir t. Thumb and forefi nger ran sleek lines

down the partition ropes and arachnid weeds

crackled under hand and shoe.

In a few minutes it was over, two still unidentifi ed

bodies returned to their unfamiliar car, down-

turned faces backed into interior shadows and

the August tempered sun went on scolding the

whole scene for perceived impertinence.

The bodies came to be known be many designa-

tions: city planners, bureaucrats, corporate real

estate brokers, even librarians. But as the mytho-

logy coalesced and was handed down, their titles

fi nally found their center in one: The Architects.

Her

In the elevator again. Striking sleek buttons with

eager child’s hands. Riding the numbers up and

down; eyes enamored of the play of light and

sound as digital 1s, 5s, 14s fl ickered to life only

to quickly die. Breathing hot air onto the gilded

interior walls, obscuring a giddy girl’s refl ection

with whirls of fog. Being alone. Alone in the po-

tent womb of the machine. Thrust upward by

steel cable only to be let fall again. The Atlantic

rising tide of the stomach. From sitting, one cor-

ner to the next, making polygons of counter-mo-

tion; the gilded womb still moving up to down.

To standing, jumping off in bright blue sandals at

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the precise moment of flight, achieving the defi-

ance of the earth and its forces that the machine

demands. 14 from 23 equals 9 – attempting to

calculate the distance. 9 glowing lights and a free

fall later it stops. The gilded mirror doors glide

open and reveal a body spun hard and stern.

In the silence without singing numbers and the

weightlessness of the fall, she does not hear the

scolding words. She recalls tall lit buildings reflec-

ted in the gently closing golden doors and a final

elevator horn announcing the movement from

mechanical wonderland to organic boredom.

The slow coalescence of a dream.

Him

The towering blades slide counterclockwise in a

dry, arid wind. The windmill – a tripod monu-

ment to rust, blood-colored spread of barnacles

across its shuddering surface. It was all that could

be done not to collapse in the desert. Leave the

grain uncrushed, the sickles dull, stomachs and

cupboards bare. From behind, back in the di-

rection of the aging barn, the guttural sounds of

desperate people shouting at animals. Not two

steps from violence. Out beyond the molten fan

blades golden-green fields rise against the sun.

Oasis, he thinks, and turns back to towards the

barn, towards work.

That night, sitting upright in bed, shir tless, with

a cool moon draped over summer skin. A clear

view of the windmill, still churning through July’s

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cicada hum night. Night in the desert is no time

for musing he thought, rising to pull down the

brittle shade, shut out the insistent purple light.

As his hand touched the rough canvas a great

groaning shook the barley, reverberating off the

barn’s sheer face; answered by the shrill whine of

animals. His hand set still against the shade, the

ensuing silence so complete he hears the sharp

hissing intake of his own breath. Another groan,

higher, more sustained, and his eyes catch move-

ment and light outside the window. Light – from

the nearby porch where mom and papa are

standing silhouetted like portraits of Old Ame-

rica. Movement – from the giant, rusted blades as

they sway powerfully over their tripod legs. The

silence shorter, less complete, and the groaning

rises to a screech as if the ground had heaved

open like the mouth of an outraged god. The

blades of the windmill rush to meet the barley

fields churning massive waves of golden, green,

mahogany earth as they slice the watered desert.

The tripod sought briefly to reclaim the exalted

place of the blades in the sky before falling one

to the other in an angular heap of old metal –

the ruptured bones of some orbiting creature

careened to earth. In the settling dust he sees

mom and papa’s silhouettes disappear from the

tiny glow of the porchlight and soon it too is

swallowed by night. When the moon’s light sett-

les over the collapsed windmill it shines bright

and clean, a triumph among ruins.

He would rebuild.

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Her

She built it and it moved. Atop a snow-dusted

rooftop the metallic click of tiny legs pushed th-

rough the snow and gray air. The easterly wind

sweeps her hair unbound across her eyes, cheeks,

smiling mouth – the skin there decorated with

spidering white cracks and dry to the touch. She

is giddy, dancing like her hair in the January wind,

kicking up billows of snow like harmless shrapnel

swirling around her feet.

No longer alone.

Accompanied by the life, the engine spark that

she herself had designed. The angular thing ca-

reened this way and that through snow drifts on

uncertain legs. It was little more than ungainly

appendages, but how it moved!

A droning black helicopter hovers ominously

around the rooftop. Traffic whistles by twenty-

three stories below. If she allows herself, she can

hear the muffled shouting emanating from the

interior beneath her restless feet. Security came-

ras clutching vulture-like to the corners of buil-

dings swivel slowly, revealing unblinking eyes. Yet

her smiling eyes remain fixed upon the sputte-

ring engine heart dancing an otherworldly dance

before her on the snowy rooftop.

The engine heart finally kicks and dies out,

crumpling in an unceremonious heap amidst a

cloud of snow. The helicopter continues its me-

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nacing hover, the cameras swivel unceasingly and

the shouts from inside and below grow more

raucous. She tenderly scoops up her engine

heart and bundles it in her arms as she turns to

mount the stairs back into the pulsing interior of

the tower.

Stopping before the heavy stairwell door, she

leans over to whisper to the engine-heart. The

helicopter and cameras seem to damper and still

as if to hear. The whole, wired city suddenly fo-

cused.

“I will rebuild you.”

Somewhere nearby gunshots and screams follow

sirens and the whole wired city shudders.

Him

Walking close to papa down unfamiliar angular

avenues. Jostling with crowds, immersed in the

sensations of close bodies. Smells. Angles. Drab,

wintry light. Traffic. The city. Guided by papa

around garbage cans, oily puddles, and huddled,

sleeping bodies. Every passing doorway a culvert

into a different time. Liveried doormen, buttons

shining behind red satin ropes, doors revolving

to their gloved touch. Massive granite steps,

mock Pantheons, mounting stoic and heavy to

the mouths of towers engulfed in the slate sky.

Rumpled shapes shuffling plastic bag draperies,

shopping cart boudoirs, cardboard tenements in

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a dir ty rectangle of space framed by concrete.

Watching papa move lithe and hard, deep set

green eyes fi xed ahead. Feeling loose, wrongly

colored, a wounded marionette swinging unwit-

tingly across a crowded stage. Buildings, fences,

and cars demand space, force and shout “give

way,” collide with them. A sense of surrendering;

surrendering to papa’s single-minded, tin-man

walk, surrendering to the unspoken cajoling of

exhaust-drowned streets, ubiquitous buildings

and their stone, surrendering to a tacit geograp-

hy of enclosure. If it was a net, he was ensnared.

Built so as to be impossible to look everywhere

at once. An alley to the right becomes the tunnel

vision of some carnival ride, the cacophonous

avenue drives the eyes towards center, in or out,

the buzzing crush of immediate bodies usurps

the attention of skin, eyes, ears, and nose all at

once. Finding the sharp corners, rigid lines of the

windmill in the sleek rise of skyscrapers. See the

curvature of the wind-bent wheat in the cork-

screw freeways coiling through the grid. Making a

living map of light, concrete and steel. All at once

papa’s arm makes a swift, clean jerk and the air

compresses through the blunt teeth of revolving

doors. Inside.

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OTIS PIGLIFE IS BREATHING ON YOUR BACK (BREATHE BACK).

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otis

pig

we all make mistakes:

babies grow into humans. humans blind

the beasts they don’t believe in.

& blind beasts trample fi elds of fl owers,

who’s roots reach as far as life.

so life cough out hate;

hate coughs out wounds that

cross coughing oceans.

wounds live on your body, & love you

for lending them a place to stay.

•

we all make mistakes,

but the worst mistake is wearing wings that don’t grow out of you spine.

sometimes we have to cut down wings

like trees–

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otis p

ig

from the backs of baby birds; souls are standing evergreens

–& that is the worst mistake.

the best mistake is talking to fl owers.

if you talk to fl owers, they will grow

& they will breathe on you in return.

when you sleep, there are fl owers

breathing on your back,

breathe back.

fl ower breath is the reason

that mean people do nice things.

•

we all make mistakes.

so on friday, death comes riding in:

his horse walks all over life. life becomes the muck & goo.

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otis

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death says, “I am sorry,”

&

the living say, “no worries.”

& they agree to disagree.

on sunday, noon,

it is christmas. what have we learned so far?

in the woods are standing evergreens,

still

we trust life with our lives.

so survivors search for snow

(on the backs of breath, on the backs of horses)

wearing wreaths around their heads.