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The second in our series of multi-author chapbooks curated from contributions to Sidebrow’s collaborative projects, White Horse threads the poetry and prose of 25 writers into an experimental narrative of the altered and its after effects.
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WHITE HORSEHarold Abramowitz • Saehee Cho • John Cleary • Traci O Connor • Jennifer Denrow
Sandy Florian • Paul Gacioch • Evelyn Hampton • Paul Hardacre • HL Hazuka Kirsten Jorgenson • Carrie-Sinclair Katz • Bob Marcacci • rob mclennan • Shane Michalik
Megan Milks & Andrew Farkas • Cathi Murphy • Eireene Nealand • Kristen Orser Kristin Prevallet • Zach Savich • Michael Sikkema • Jason Snyder • James Wagner
sidebrow books • isbN-13: 978-0-9814975-5-6 • $12
Published by Sidebrow Books
P.O. Box 170113San Francisco, CA 94117-0113
©2012 by SidebrowAll rights reserved
Cover art by Henry GundersonCover & book design by Jason Snyder
ISBN: 0-9814975-5-1ISBN-13: 978-0-9814975-5-6
f i r s t e d i t i o n | f i r s t p r i n t i n g
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
s i d e b row b o o k s 006
p r i n t e d i n t h e u n i t e d s tat e s
Sidebrow Books titles are available at www.sidebrow.net/books
Sidebrow is a member of the Intersection Incubator, a program of
Intersection for the Arts (www.theintersection.org) providing fiscal
sponsorship, networking, and consulting for artists. Contributions and
gifts to Sidebrow are tax-deductible to the extent allowed by law.
The following book was curated by Sidebrow,
culling from contributions to White Horse and
several other collaborative projects evolving on
the Sidebrow Web site. We invite you to extend,
reimagine, and respond creatively to what you see
developing in this book and on our Web site.
For new posts, emerging projects, and information
on submitting work, visit www.sidebrow.net.
Harold Abramowitz
Saehee Cho
John Cleary
Traci O Connor
Jennifer Denrow
Sandy Florian
Paul Gacioch
Evelyn Hampton
Paul Hardacre
HL Hazuka
Kirsten Jorgenson
Carrie-Sinclair Katz
Bob Marcacci
rob mclennan
Shane Michalik
Megan Milks & Andrew Farkas
Cathi Murphy
Eireene Nealand
Kristen Orser
Kristin Prevallet
Zach Savich
Michael Sikkema
Jason Snyder
James Wagner
I became deeply indebted to confusion. You were on my mind,
and that hurt me also. I will never see myself again. Alas, you
could have hurt me. I could have fallen asleep. I could have
become someone with tremendous powers. You really hated
me. And I felt your hatred from miles away. You were a power
in the sky that could have come, that might have come, if
you’d wanted to, but only if you’d really wanted to. You were
wearing a hat, walking across a road. You lived on a street.
You were there. You were always there to be regarded, to be
inflamed. A house on a hill, and there was home, and I was
home. And I was there once, and I was intelligent, and you
were born.
1
Dear S.
That sounds exactly right: church made out of what looks like
nothing when sober. Can understand the hallucinogenic, the
sequencing of everything—talented dancers, packed S&M.
That part that would have been self-consciousness was
damaged. Watch and see how men think. Close to home
something bigger was coming. No excuse for the tension of
the possible storm.
I miss you.
Love,
M.
2
Sometimes the vampire waits in the trees. Sometimes he looks
through my bedroom window. Sometimes he just stands there,
cleaning his fingernails with one of those teeth. Sometimes his
hair is a little bit messy, as if he just rode in on a ten-speed bike.
Sometimes he tells himself stories about the way things used to
be. Sometimes the vampire wears a brown cape and looks like
a moth. Sometimes the sky is blacker than black. Sometimes
the sky is red and violet. Sometimes the vampire loves me I
think. Sometimes I break things in my room because I don’t
know what else. Sometimes I dream things that sometimes
come true. Sometimes I pull the covers up around my neck
and make plans, like what if there’s a fire, or a hurricane,
or the vampire gets tired of his side of the glass. Sometimes
my mother is hiding behind a book. Sometimes she is asleep.
Sometimes she is kneeling by the bed praying and then I don’t
think I should bother her even though I want to hear what she
is saying when her lips are moving but no sound comes out.
3
Key into lock, and then she, into the room. The small paper
bag against her chest holding her there. Dim light accepting
her softly. The unmade bed. Long mirror. Expression that of
one at a loss for the primacy within her, finding herself at the
bedside table, placing the bag down, listening to the resultant
rocking of the spoon.
For a time, this dirty motel room, and she on the edge of
it. The door across from the bed open, and she as if caught in
the dark shadow inside, reluctant to recognize what telling and
retelling have in common, an aggregate of images no longer
on the surface, a configuration of something terribly wrong.
The blinds and then the curtains. She at the mirror as if
through a window. Expression that of one watching the brush
along the side of the road for suggestion, peering into the
negative space of a painting to see what is gone.
The fan as it spins slowly above her. The rip in her dress.
Thread from the hip seam, knee showing through.
She reaches for the ribbon behind her neck, notices her
body as if a body in the mirror, hoping for some synoptic
judgment to stir inside her as she undoes the knot, brings the
4
parted ribbon around her throat, pauses at her chest to listen
for a sound at the door she appears incapable of shaking, one
she is unsure of having heard before.
5
6
dear jack,
you’re so full of shit. best we get that out of the way earely.
the stereo is on and as bob said “they got so much things to
say right now”. and you and you and yuou.
saturday night jack, it was warm until said she come in.
“inner realm”. she actually said that. saturday night jack, I
like that. you’re “saturday night jack” now you fucker.
7
The belt in his hand as he stands at the basin. Expression that
of one lost at cross purposes. A syncope, some directive deep
within him. Eyes on the awled holes, creased leather, the buckle
in the light. A thought passes over his face. That of one hoping
not to find himself in the corner of a room beyond envisioning
before coming back to himself, feeding the belt through each
loop of his pants, finding the hole, cinching it tight.
The wet comb on the sink stand. Pill box, its open tabs
beside. He pauses, buttoning his shirt. A quizzical expression
beyond his image in the mirror. As if having remembered
something false or forgotten about the window behind him,
how it frames the shadows filling between objects, renders its
particular means for witnessing the coming of night.
8
me through you jack on the way to her house I stoppped
thinking, stopped receiving if you will because I had decided
I would. I imagined her putting her hand next to my skin just
to feel my heat. but that was the qustion. shade.
“let’s meet for coffee”
“why don’t I just come over your place”
and she was easy for that. me thinking I’d drive all night just
to be late. hten I was there. soon as I’m in the door,
“let’s go out somewhere”
“do we have to”
“are you ashamed to be seen with me”
“no, I just thought it might be interesting to see what’s in
the other room” and I’m already so tired of the weight of
you. the wait of you. the stare me down. avoiding myself
for days at a time, but not for any of the good reasons. just
trying to get through the day without losing my shit. and then
I thought of the girl in the red dress from the night before.
because you start thinking of people sometimes just to stop.
you think of them and then you know and they they appear
in front of you with their boyfriends and they and him,
9
god, well he was so nice jack. my btetter nature then. my
happiness spread around the room. violins. singers drowned
in the swell.
10
The underworld, a dark hallway littered with debris.
The bedroom, where they always return.
Small window, quilted spread, long mirror.
All spaces are enclosed.
Where a man and a woman come in and out, very quickly:
a departure.
Where a woman re-enters: a transitional space.
A man creates a space, but refuses to live in it.
A woman occupies the space, because she remembers
inhabiting it as a child.
If she had treated him differently, would she have noticed
that he was not an angel?