Curbside Splendor E-Zine August 2014 by Curbside Splendor Publishing Inc.

Curbside Splendor e-‐zine | August 2014

Curbside Splendor

August 2014

Curbside Splendor Publishing Curbside e-‐zine August 2014 ISSN 2159-‐9475 Poetry: Three Poems on Cheung Chau by David Galef Five Poems by Derek Lazarski Keep it Going by Wayne F. Burke Fiction: Aesop Exposed by Dan Seiters Table for Party of Legion by Timmy Reed Cover and photography by Ashley Leann Ojeda Editors – Joey Pizzolato & Marcella Prokop

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David Galef

is a shameless eclectic, with over a dozen books out. They include the novel Flesh, the story collection Laugh Track, the poetry collection Flaws, the children’s picture book Tracks, and a volume of translated Japanese proverbs called Even Monkeys Fall from Trees. His latest is the short story collection My Date with Neanderthal Woman. His day job is professor of English and creative writing program director at Montclair State University.

Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

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Three Poems on Cheung Chau by David Galef

At the Chung Shak Hei Home for the Aged Concrete can’t rust, but this patch has, Scoured in vain by a gnome with a broom. Paling yellow as crooked teeth Surround a flock of bent-‐over bikes, A bench, and three plastic chairs Of people slowly leaving their bodies. Only the Chinese banyan, seven-‐trunked, Limbs ropy and gnarled, has pushed past The triple-‐line of barbed wire stretched To keep something in or out. - -

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Power and Light The Tin Hun Temple Substation, Concrete piled upon concrete, Avatar for all voltage, Squats foursquare against The encroaching brush That surrounds the altar And the mountains below. - -

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The Cheung Chau Pig-Raising Co-operative Society, Limited The long white house is silent now: Not so much as a trotter Or one smear of manure, The leftover grunts and squeals Shoveled up and buried out back. - -

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Dan Seiters was publicity manager for Southern Illinois University Press for more than two decades, and wrote jacket copy for about 1,500 books. His novel is The Dastardly Dashing of Wee Expectations. His nonfiction book is Image Patterns in the Novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Among his short stories are, “The, Killer, Trained and Devastating” in The Viet Nam Generation Anthology, “The Untimely Demise of the Other Frank Sinatra” in the anthology, When Last on the Mountain, and "Bones and Blue Ribbons” in Front Range: A Review of Literature and Art.

Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

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Aesop Exposed by Dan Seiters I know Aesop. I know the Ant. I know the Grasshopper. They’re all regulars at the Plaid Radish, a hip little Chicago jazz club where I’ve tended bar for about a decade. Fortunately, the dinosaur days are dead when a pub could refuse to admit people because of color or sex or even what kind of sex they get off on, but it’s not every bar that’s gonna serve an Ant and a Grasshopper. In most places even now, you won’t be drinking next to a Fox, an Ass, a Lion, or a Cat. You’re unlikely to find a Bee sipping nectar and arguing existential philosophy with a Wolf and a Fly and a Peacock and a Crane. Some folks get scared and others get pissed off and stomp out the door when they see a six-‐foot Owl cooling his beak in a perfect manhattan. But we’re hugely progressive at the Plaid Radish. We don’t deny anyone—or any creature—except for those likely to bust up the place. A Lion, for example, can attain a thin veneer of civilization, but I don’t like Bats and Rats and I flat-‐out refuse to serve a Cobra or a Crocodile or an evil-‐breathed Komodo Dragon. I like our open-‐door policy, even helped set it. Too bad, though, I can’t bolt the doors against assholes, idiots, and absolute bores. That’s where Aesop comes in. His reputation’s sterling now, but to those of us who know him, he’s a windy, officious old coot. We’d fling our doors open to a coven of advice columnists before we’d beckon that sanctimonious Aesop. The conversation at the bar can be riveting, the topic vital. No matter. Aesop butts in with his moronic fables. And the fable never—not once—has a single thing to do with what we’re talking about. He’s a pontificator

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of gigantic magnitude, huge volume. Some folks view him as a Solomon of simple wisdom. But really, the old prick deserves to be despised and have his picture posted next to the word asshole in the dictionary. He forever smeared the name of the splendid Grasshopper and glorified that dull old drudge of an Ant. I truly hate to even see that Ant come in the door. He blabs about nothing but insurance policies, pensions, and investments. Worse, I have yet to see my first tip from that miserly pismire. But Aesop. Damn! I began to hate Aesop the night Connie Lyle, a sexy redheaded regular, brought her even more alluring friend into the Radish. As Miss July from this year’s Playboy, the friend called herself Laura Lust, and that may actually have been her name. Sizzling and sultry and splendidly blonde. Full red lips, the kind that gods covet, lips that whispered promises of paradise and wild, mad bliss after dark. Her blue eyes burned “bedroom” into the hearts and minds of men. Laura was built for display. And because she toiled diligently to achieve her luscious body, she certainly wasn’t going to cover much of it. I barely noticed the wee red dress for the miles of marvelous leg and great fine mounds of breasts. If love could move mountains, my adoration would have transferred the Swiss Alps to central Illinois. I may not have been glib and brimming with wit when I served these paragons of womanhood, but I avoided clichés as if they would rot on my tongue and shunned those vile old pick-‐up lines that send many a moron home to bed without cake. I rejoiced when I heard Laura say, “That bartender’s cute. What’s his name?” “They call him Moon Mullins,” Connie said. “Who knows what his real name is?”

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“Fergus,” I shouted inside my head. “My first name’s Fergus.” But I didn’t tell her because there’d be plenty of time for that later. That decision was validated when Laura said, “I like Moon. I think I’ll sleep with him tonight. I’ll probably never have to pay for a drink here.” And I knew then that after my shift at 2:00 a.m., I’d learn what heaven was. It was at that very moment that Aesop opened his stupid, rancid, reeking mouth: “Let me tell you the story about the Ass, the Fox, and the Lion,” he pontificated. “Please don’t,” several of us shouted, but Aesop—as was his wont—paid no heed. “If you’ll remember,” he harped in his nasal, nasty, high-‐pitched voice, “the Ass and the Fox formed a mutual protection society. ‘We’re brothers,’ they swore as they headed for the forest to hunt. ‘We’ll die for one another.’ Then the ‘brothers’ came upon a lurking Lion. “The Fox nearly shit, he was so scared. Quivering and whimpering like the Judas he was, he approached the Lion, speaking in a wee, tiny, whiny voice. ‘Mr. Lion,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you capture and slay the Ass if you promise not to hurt me.’ “‘I promise, Mr. Fox, that you’ll be safe and prosper,’ quoth the Lion. ‘If I’m a lyin’ Lion, I’m dyin’.’

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“Feeling safe, the Fox whispered to his blood brother, ‘Ah, my good Ass, we’re in luck. We’ve unearthed the sweetest Lion in the forest. A vegetarian, a veritable vegan.’ More Snake than Fox, the Judas beast led the Ass to a deep pit and shoved him in. “Seeing that the Ass was safely in a hole, the wily Lion immediately ate the Fox and dined on Ass at his leisure.” “And what is the moral?” asked Aesop. “Never trust your enemy,” said the dozen of us who had heard that story before. Heard it and heard it and heard it. “Eat tainted gazelle meat and die, Aesop,” said the Lion before passing out again. “Oh, god,” said Laura. “Let’s get out of here before that old turd tells another story.” And they left. Connie and Laura walked magnificently through the door, nevermore to return. And I, stricken, bitter, and shrunken in spirit, retired to the back room where I pissed in a pint glass, filled it the rest of the way with Miller Lite, and served Aesop a drink on the house. Bartenders learn to cherish a good story because there aren’t many of them. That’s why I got excited one Monday night when the four musicians with the Sophisticated Rabbits showed up. Usually they either bring their horns and jam or they lay down some great stories. And on this night they seemed particularly animated.

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“Hey, Mr. Moon Mullins,” Cool Bite Bonnie said as she led the group through the door. “We were invited to learn a new song tonight.” They all laughed uproariously at the word invited, which somehow carried a joke none of the rest of us got. “Yeah,” said Vinegar Paul. “Except the song was about a hundred years old.” “It was so old,” explained Theatre John, “that none of us had ever heard it.” “You talk about learning under duress,” said Vinegar Paul. “This was heavy.” “What the hell happened,” I asked. “We’re working this gig up the street at Nasty Nellie’s Emporium,” Orphic Earl Tenorman explained. “This cat comes up to us, drunk. Mafia-‐looking dude. He says, ‘I want you assholes to play Goin to Kansas City.’” “I said, ‘Look, man, we ain’t ‘Goin’ to Kansas City,’” Vinegar Paul said, “‘cause we don’t know the way.’ “Seeing the man’s expression, Cool Bite Bonnie decided she’d better soften Paul’s tone. ‘Man,’ she said, None of us ever even heard the song.’” “He pulled back his coat and revealed the biggest gun I ever saw,” Cool Bite explained. He said, ‘I suggest you learn the song before the next set.’”

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“So he might be bluffing.” This from Vinegar Paul. “Maybe he’s just a punk showing off his gun in front of his girlfriend.” “But maybe he’s not,” Theatre John said. “Maybe he’s a maniac who’ll blow us away just because we can’t play his stupid request.” “So at the break, we start calling every musician we know to see if anybody can give us a few bars of ‘Goin’ to Kansas City,’” Orphic Earl said. “Nobody’s heard it except old Sweetbones Marrow. But old Sweetbones, he’s a drummer, and a lot of drummers can’t hum for shit.” “But we figure,” said Cool Bite Bonnie, “it’s a matter of life and death. Our lives. Our own personal deaths. So we try to play the song, based on what Orphic Earl picked up from Sweetbones’ truly horseshit humming over the phone.” “About a quarter of the way through the song,” said Theatre John, glancing anxiously toward the door, “we see this Mafia-‐looking asshole coming back toward the bandstand.” And that’s all they had a chance to say. Piping like a cracked reed, Aesop said, “Once upon a time a Fox who had been walking for miles came upon beautiful bunch of grapes on a vine twining high in a tree. Suddenly his throat grew blue moldy for the want of a grape. He experienced the hunger and thirst of the damned on a desert. But the grapes were high on the branch. “He tried a standing jump but missed the grapes by a foot. Then he retreated a few paces and got a running start. Again no grapes. He paced off fifty feet from the tree, turned,

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ran, and hurled his body into the air. He landed badly, skinning the palms of his paws and spraining his ankle. But still not a hint of a grape. “The Fox limped off, then, grumbling, ‘I’ll bet those grapes really sucked. I’ll bet they’d have made me sick. I’ll bet they were sour.’ “And what’s the moral?” Aesop asked as if he’d just illustrated some deep Socratic truth. “It’s easy to despise what you cannot get,” chanted those of us who had heard the story a hundred times before. But we never did get to hear the end of the Sophisticated Rabbits’ tale because they got bored with Aesop and left, nevermore to return. And I, stricken, bitter, and shrunken in spirit, retired to the back room where I pissed in a pint glass, filled it the rest of the way with Miller Lite, and served Aesop a drink on the house. On another quiet Monday evening, Crapulous Montague and Drafnoot Belmanz walked into the Plaid Radish wearing tuxedos. They’d been checking out the Chicago Symphony, and they were ecstatic. “What’s up, guys?” I asked. “Ah, Moon,” Crapulous said, “you shoulda gone to the concert with us.” “You guys know I don’t like classical music much,” I reminded them.

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“You’d have loved this,” Drafnoot assured me. “Indeed you would,” Crapulous said. “It was an historic night, a first for the Chicago Symphony crowd.” “You remember Laura Lust?” Drafnoot asked. “Miss July and the data entry chick for the Tarot, Wheeler, Whimsy, and Chance Law Firm?” Who could forget Laura Lust? I glared hard at Aesop for chasing her away. “Well Laura and Percival Wheeler sat in the front row,” Crapulous explained. “Everybody was staring at Laura for obvious reasons, but her electric purple dress actually did cover enough to keep her from getting arrested. Percy Wheeler, he seemed a little proud. And maybe a little embarrassed.” “The symphony brought in this great guest artist,” Drafnoot said. “A clarinetist named Liam Hootley from Dublin who played Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto.” “Ah, man, he was wonderful,” Crapulous said, reliving the solo. “When he finished, we gave him the standing ovation he deserved.” “But,” Crapulous said, “Laura gave him something a hell of a lot better.” “The magnificent Laura,” Drafnoot said, admiration flaring in his eyes. “As the applause started to die, Laura lifted her skirt, and the next thing I knew she was throwing a very sexy pair of sheer purple panties at the Irishman’s feet. I didn’t think a whole audience could gasp as a single unit, but

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this one did. Liam Hootley threw her a kiss, and Percival Wheeler fainted dead away.” But the storytellers didn’t get a chance to utter another syllable about what probably was the most interesting concert of the century. “The Weasels and the Mice,” piped Aesop, drowning out both Crapulous and Drafnoot, “had fought, and killed, each other for as long as anyone could remember. Actually, the Weasels always won. The Mice were flat dumb and didn’t notice that the Weasels were bigger, quicker, stronger, and smarter than they were and that they had no chance. These idiot Mice determined that a lack of military leadership and discipline doomed them. So they looked into their ranks and selected as leaders those Mice most renowned for courage, strength, and wisdom. “With the leaders chosen and the army ready to fight, the Mice challenged the Weasels to combat. As battle approached, the newly selected generals bound their heads with straw so they’d be more conspicuous to all their troops. And once more, the mice didn’t stand a chance. The Weasels began to kick some serious mouse ass. Their discipline shattered, the Mice scampered off as fast as they could and crawled into their holes. All escaped except the generals, who could not get into the holes because of the ornaments on their heads. The generals, alas, were captured and eaten. “And what’s the moral?” Aesop asked. “Eat tainted gazelle meat and die, Aesop,” said the Lion before any of us had a chance to say anything about vanity.

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When Aesop fell silent, I hoped to hear the rest of the story about the concert, but Crapulous and Drafnoot had got bored and left. Forevermore. And I, stricken, bitter, and shrunken in spirit, retired to the back room where I pissed in a pint glass, filled it the rest of the way with Miller Lite, and served Aesop a drink on the house. But the absolute lowest of Aesop’s tricks was to sully the reputation of as fine a fellow who ever hopped, the Grasshopper. Billions of children hear that crap about how the Grasshopper frittered away his summer with dance and song while the Ant, a creature of all work, toiled incessantly to sow and harvest food for the winter. “Hey, Ant,” the Grasshopper is reputed to have said, “why don’t you lay down that heavy load and go to the Plaid Radish where we can jam with some of the cats.” The Ant, a self-‐righteous son of a bitch if ever there was one, stuck his nose in the air and sniffed, “I’m laying up food for the winter, and I suggest that you, sir, do the same.” “What a drag,” said the Grasshopper. “Man, there’s music to be played, songs to be sung, and dances to be danced. And I’m gonna sing, play, and dance till the day I die.” Now Aesop would have us believe that the Ant was industrious and admirable and that the Grasshopper was a lazy, worthless lout who deserved to starve in winter. But I know better. The Ant was a smug sour old turd who never uttered a good word for anybody. I hated to see him at the Radish because he was more boring than a bar graph, and nobody ever would have heard of him if it hadn’t been for that lying dipshit Aesop.

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The Grasshopper, on the other hand, was a bright fellow of infinite charm who spread joy wherever he went. And he wasn’t lazy. He practiced his trombone eight hours a day, and whenever a group could afford an extra horn, they hired him. People who didn’t even like the trombone loved the Grasshopper. And he didn’t starve that winter. He moved in with me and filled my life with music. He swept up at the Radish and even tended a little bar. He amused me with stories and on Tuesday nights, he did a stand-‐up routine. He was an artist, that Grasshopper. He was worth twenty or thirty hills of Ants and about a quadrillion Aesops. Still, Aesop trashed the good Hopper’s reputation and glorified a drudge. Every time I think about it, I get mad. In fact, right now I’m stricken, bitter, and shrunken in spirit. I’m going to retire to the back room where I’ll piss in a pint glass, fill it the rest of the way with Miller Lite, and serve Aesop a drink on the house. - -

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Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

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Derek Lazarski

holds an MA in Writing from DePaul University and writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry when he can pull himself from online fantasy card games. He coordinates a writing center at a community college in Chicago and keeps an online writing portfolio at: www.kaleidoscopelighthouse.com.

Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

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Five Poems

by Derek Lazarski

Irving Park Road Walking down Irving Park Road 11pm, the compacted pebble sidewalk beneath my thin rubber soles to my right through the rusted chain-‐link fence the gravestones of Graceland Cemetery. Different shapes and shades all standing amid a silent field of green marking the sleep of skeletons deep beneath the grass. So many stones eroded the names faded faceless and yet close enough to touch if not for five feet of steel fence. How to contextualize mortality body, breath, digestive system minutes spent hiding behind cars as a child laughing with my father staring at textbooks convincing women I loved them trying to convince myself

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how to contextualize against forty pounds of smooth white marble disintegrated by the universe in the next millennia. On my left, while walking down Irving Park Road a Mustang rips a zipper of foggy exhaust a slick black limo pumps its brakes other cars race the flight hour over a road of broken glass not four feet from the sidewalk. When all is silent the air of the summer night wears my skin as a cloak. I will walk this sidewalk its colorful compacted pebbles on the worn soles of my shoes. I will walk it one slab at a time. -‐ -‐

Curbside Splendor Underpass Garden

August 2014

Potted plastic flowers, dotted notes, candles tidy against a concrete wall underneath six lanes of the Kennedy is for a silhouette of the Virgin, first seen there three years ago, in a stain of silken truth split symmetrically by a crack in the wall. Not far away, EMERGENCY PARKING ONLY. Holy Mother, I’d be graced, in truth, but I could not lay my soul. I’d be searching gaspless to find a sign my eyes would let neurons decode to a visage my imagination couldn’t even immediately nod to my head. Instead, there’s squinting, drawing in the air disagreements through critical discussion, then ridicule, head shaking, regret. Meanwhile, someone steps to the bus stop leans out, looks for a bright orange FULLERTON 74 amongst the happenings six blocks down. Is that it? A construction barrier? A moving truck? Nope. Just, waiting.

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And then, ten minutes have gone by beside a glowing shrine plastic impatiens and conflicted candles burning like a single flame in the cruel wind that rushes concrete corridors. Bus banners of bright yellow lights are visible from telescopic distances. When the lights are there people don’t keep looking to see if it’s coming. They know. The bus will take them soon enough But some are content to wait without sensory confirmation. The ride will be here. Have faith. Until then, there’s the garden, a tender patch that almost convinces the eyes of life conquering logic, of creation sewn from oblivion, as it appears to emerge straight from the concrete. -‐ -‐

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Wilderness On the way to the lake, air already a light emptiness, I stopped in the Lincoln Park Zoo to use the bathroom. The lily pond had a wide path stones of set cement laid in tight curves up to an elevated clearing: a slabbed bench around a low stone pedestal chiseled from the earth. Back on through the turnstile, the floor and walls were paved orange gravel, once busy, but now the soft summer sun dying in the dull emptiness warmed only the polar bear, Ursus Maritimus. I called to her but she couldn’t hear me through the thick glass walls of her world. Her rusty landscape a maze of unshapen caves, half her world a surrogate pool granting only animal liberty. The Andeans were gone, black bears sick. Once I thought a log was a beaver, a curve of fake cave an antelope, but only a rabbit sprinted cross my path.

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A security guard in a golf cart sped by. “Zoo’s closed,” jerking a thumb, and down through the thick hollow flesh and bone powered my motion out of the wild via a different turnstile my position on the globe now unknown never having found the bathroom the air again light upon my skin. - -

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The Plan if you’re ever stuck in a hallway with a madman closing in and you’re trembling in his hulking shadow as it grows larger and larger around you don’t look at me when I’m creeping up behind him he’ll see your eyes, he’ll know I’m coming don’t worry, just focus on him because I promise I won’t miss with the knife -‐ -‐

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Lakefront at Night the beach's uneven divots stretch out in each direction footprints now undefined each says life was here once but it did not look like this sitting at the lake's edge black water on black sky buildings flicker behind me teenagers play, couples walk a divoted spotlit sea a party boat on the horizon is a cluster of illumination its own enclosed world floating far beyond the grip of civilization each footprinted divot was a gift in that moment worn skin on slinky sand the touch of a mother inviolable you need to learn how to be alone sorrow has purpose as well it waters the will, the stillness the eye, the strength there are many children the night sets over them all but a father must be strong must work to survive must endure to pass it along - -

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Timmy Reed

is a writer from Baltimore, Maryland. He has recently published or has work forthcoming from a number of places including Akashic Books, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Everyday Genius, Necessary Fiction, and Atticus Review. He also published a collection of stories, Tell God I Don't Exist, and has a novel, The Ghosts That Surrounded Them, forthcoming from Dig That Book Co. Learn more here: http://underratedanimals.wordpress.com/tell-‐god-‐i-‐ dont-‐exist/

Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

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Table for Party of Legion by: Timmy Reed

Leslie’s frantic attempt at adulthood had her ignoring the Demon, whom she had grown used to without ever actually addressing. When budget cuts claimed her second job teaching ESL courses in the evening, she decided it was time to go on a date and get better acquainted. She felt stuck. She needed to get out of her routine. Even though the spirit had occupied her tiny frame for some time – she couldn’t remember the last time she felt normal, unstuck, but imagined it to be sometime in the last warm days of an early autumn – she knew next to nothing about the Demon. She’d pushed it to the bottom of the list of things she had to deal with just to get through each day without hating herself. Leslie worked a nine-‐to-‐five in the marketing department of a non-‐profit development corporation, attended graduate school in the evening three nights a week to be a famous writer, and taught ESL the other two until now. She spent the weekends catching up on homework and sleep when she knew she was supposed to be working on her memoir, which was becoming more and more about what an empty grind life was. She had only a few bills to pay but they seemed monumental. The city was new, but she never explored it. She felt like it was eluding her to some purpose. The days shrank like the bones of an old woman. Leslie had trouble identifying herself, let alone the Demon inside her. She hadn’t even taken the time to learn the Demon’s name.

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She let the bathroom steam up before she jumped in the shower. She kept it cool in her apartment and wore sweaters to save money on heat in the winter months. She also felt much colder than usual since the Demon arrived. Leslie could see her breath wherever she went. Her teeth clacked together when she was speaking. In the shower, she continued to ignore the Demon. She pretended it was in the hallway fooling with its necktie in front of the mirror, the way a boyfriend might do if she had one. She was nervous. She left claw marks in the soap with her sharp little nails. The Demon mainly manifested itself as a kind of weight, on the cellular level, a drag that left Leslie exhausted, vulnerable, hopeless. Maybe if she took the Demon out, she reasoned, got to know it a little better, it would relax and make things easier for her. Leslie searched her vanity for a tube of red lipstick she knew was tucked away in a drawer somewhere, unopened. It was time to warm the cold shoulder. The date started out with tapas and red wine sangria. The restaurant was the hippest one in her neighborhood. Leslie was freezing and anxious. “For two,” she mumbled to the hostess, who was about her age and looked happy. The hostess asked if she was meeting anyone special. Leslie shivered in response. The hostess led her to a small table in a dark corner of the restaurant. Leslie wasn’t sure that she liked being tucked away like that, hidden from view like a bad present kept around to preserve an ancient relative’s feelings. The Demon convinced her the darkness could be romantic.

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Sangria loosened her up. It was a long time since she’d left the house for the purpose of enjoying anything. It didn’t take much alcohol for her to get tipsy. She always drank nervously around new friends. They finished most of the first pitcher in near silence, sort of staring at each other. The space between them was filled with nervous giggles. They munched on bread and pickled things. When the second pitcher arrived they were talking not like old friends, but old acquaintances who have never found the time to be alone together. It turned out the Demon’s name was Leslie also. This surprised and delighted Leslie. “Like Leslie Nielsen, the comedic actor?” She’d never met a male Leslie before. She had always thought of the Demon as male, although it had never said as much. “We’re like whatever you want,” the Demon whispered, almost laughing. It was being coy. Leslie could tell it loved all the attention it was getting. “Whatever you want, that’s us.” “We? Us?” The words made her feel slightly sober and a bit violated. “You said ‘Us.’ What does that mean?” Part of her couldn’t help feeling silly about it, excited even. Was it so much worse to have more than one Demon inside you? “Does it matter, Leslie? Didn’t you say you were lonely?” “I didn’t say that!” She hadn’t. Not out loud. “You didn’t need to,” the Demons screamed. They all screamed and laughed.

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Leslie felt like the other diners were watching her. They looked as if they came to the restaurant all the time and were talking about her just before she came in. Their eyes made her feel heavy. She tried to smile at the nearest booth, a party of two young couples with teeth like white china, but instead felt the table shaking beneath her elbows. The food arrived. Beef tartar and asparagus. Sautéed tripe with chickpeas, garlic, and black peppercorns. One little octopus perched on a bed of spinach and shredded carrots. Leslie wanted meat. She wanted animals. She wanted to eat something with a consciousness. She ordered two glasses of red wine. The thought that she was not ordering enough for everybody flashed through her head. She felt stupid and dismissed it. Leslie plowed into her food. She’d never been so hungry. The plates were tiny, but they disappeared like she’d sucked them through her forehead with magic. She knew she was being a pig but eating warmed her up and she was drunk. Something told her not to care. Leslie would no longer care. “You won’t care,” the Demons whispered, laughing again. “No one will care because no one cares if you don’t care." The lights flickered and her wine/dessert menu flew across the room. She blushed and pretended to be involved with her phone. A gasp of frozen air leapt from her throat. A waitress, not hers, picked up the menu. The waitress acted as if the whole scene was normal. Leslie went with that, but she knew better. She scowled at the Demons inside her. The Demons laughed. Leslie’s eyelids blinked like bat wings. She

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didn’t feel in control. It occurred to her that she had never been in control, that that late autumn day had never happened, that she wouldn’t be able to recognize control if she had it, let alone know what to do with it. It occurred to her that she might be talking to herself. She ordered a pitcher of sangria for the nearest table. She wanted them to like her. She wanted them to go home with a fond, airy impression of her floating around in their heads. The Demons told her she could afford it. “It’s from me and my friends,” she told the waitress. “The table will understand.” They didn’t, but were appreciative. They raised their glasses to Leslie. Leslie almost got up and tried to join them. The Demons begged her to. Instead, she asked for the check. After dinner, the Demons tried to lead her to an abandoned lot on the edge of the neighborhood, but Leslie resisted. She wanted to get dessert somewhere and discuss her memoir. The whole group agreed to go to the diner for milkshakes, even though Leslie’s bones were frozen. She felt like she had not tasted a milkshake in years, like she had forgotten what an integral part of the happiness of her childhood ice cream was. The Demons were unimpressed. They wanted more sangria. They were exhausted listening to Leslie discuss her memoir, but they were willing to wait it out until they could become the center of attention again. They asked her questions where questions seemed appropriate. They asked questions they supposed memoirists asked themselves. “Where does your memoir start?” they asked. “Does it begin with a turning point in your life?”

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It didn’t. Not really. It occurred to Leslie that she had been living on a straightaway: preschool, Sunday school, elementary school, summer camp, summer school, middle school, high school, college, internship, job, dissatisfaction with job, graduate school, second job. Her whole life was a preparation for…life? That didn’t make sense. She was still waiting for a turn to present itself. “Start with a turning point,” the Demons said. “What’s your angle?” they asked. Leslie wasn’t sure about this either. If she had ever had an angle, it had lately been worn soft. I have no angle, she thought. It made her sad, like she was missing something that everybody else had. No angles and no turns. She had just been writing about how she feels, she thought, and she feels like someone who has no idea how she feels, except for a vague idea about being stuck. “You need some kind of angle,” the Demons said. “All memoirists have an angle. And turning points. Their lives turn.” “Who are the main characters?” they asked. This one hurt. Leslie could think of many characters in her life right now – work people, school people, her neighbors, her parents, her sister in Colorado – but none of them seemed like “main” characters. There were no leading ladies or men except her. Her only foil was a cast of Demons. “You need main characters,” they reminded her. “What about your theme?” they asked. Leslie thought about this for a moment. She had always struggled to find themes in English class. Often the

Curbside Splendor

August 2014

stories just seemed like one event replacing another until she ran into the blank space at the end of the last page. Why had she even become a writer, someone who writes things down in order to do…what? She needed to find a theme. Leslie zoned out. She tried to imagine her own life, but she couldn’t. It was as if she was watching it played out by an avatar on a computer screen. She thought of the character playing her, going through motions that she recognized as the stuff of her everyday life, but she could not see anything going on inside the character’s head. In thinking this, she stumbled across a theme. Her theme would be looking for themes, she decided, but not finding any. Her theme would be continuing to look anyway. Leslie started to warm up. She removed her jacket and looked around the diner for someone to talk to. She took a long sip of her milkshake. Milkshakes are my angle, she told herself. Milkshakes are my theme. This is my turning point.

-‐ -‐

Curbside Splendor

August 2014

Wayne F. Burke’s

poetry has appeared in Bluestem, Industry Night, Locust, The Commonline Journal, Forge, Bottle Rockets, Red Savina, and elsewhere. His book of poems Words that Burn is published by Bareback Press (2013).

Photograph by Ashley Leann Ojeda.

Curbside Splendor

August 2014

Keep it Going

by: Wayne F. Burke keep it going as the faucet drips as the lies accumulate as the bunny rabbit sleeps as the dirty looks multiply as black hair turns gray as the cup drinks itself dry as the skunk mates with the owl as the sun circles the earth as the mouse chases the hawk as the wrist cuts the razor as the landlord pays the rent as the mailman bites the dog as the water burns the fire as the honey sweetens the bee as the porcupine writes a letter with its quill and sends it to the cat, who has befriended the rat as ocean falls into sea as the ant rises to the occasion as the spider licks its chops keep it up -‐ -‐

Curbside Splendor

August 2014

About the Artist Ashley Leann Ojeda

I am Ashley Ojeda. I am a daughter, sister, wife, and mother. I may not be famous or important to the world but I am someone’s world. The fact that I matter is inspiration in a lot of my photos. It is a reminder of how much beauty and art that people, nature, and animals have to offer. One of my beliefs is that everything and everyone has a purpose. My question to you is not what is your purpose but: what will your legacy be? -‐Ashley Leann Ojeda

Curbside Splendor

August 2014