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Sept. 12, 2018  

​It’s been  a  rough  week.  Probably  I  haven’t  written  anything,  coz  that’s  why.  I 

haven’t even painted anything either. It could be the dementia. ​It’s been a rough week.   The  clouds  are  gray  and  low  all  around the city. This morning, before getting in the  shower,  I  could  feel  the  approaching  change  in  weather  from  the  opened  windows.  The  rain for days. The previous days of 90 degrees. Yeah, that’s it. The weather is very  unstable. It’s causing me to react in unholy ways.  I’m listening to the record of the week. Punk rock helps.    I  used  to  be  a  punk.  Maybe.  See,  this  writing  thing—it’s  all  in  my  head. I began on  couches.  In  fact,  I’m  working  on  editing  a  novel  I  wrote  on a blog, by accident, more  than  five  years  ago.  I  was  living  with  two females who worked for a living. (Watch it.)  Like  a  literary  Hamlet,  conversing  with  himself  in  the  mirror,  floating  through  the  days.  Couldn’t  fit  in  anywhere.  I  guess  that’s  what  this  digital  magazine  is  about.  Oh,  by the way. The novel’s called ​My Vagina Won’t Look Like This Forever​.    I  guess  I  felt  like  society  was  dogshit.  I know this has been a common theme in the  literary  world  for  a  lot  longer  than  I’ve  been  alive.  And  I  thought  about  Hemingway  this  morning,  I’ll  admit  it.  I  was  getting  my  shit  together,  showering,  shaving,  PUTTING  GEL  IN  MY  HAIR,  COMBING  IT—things  are  different  but  somehow  they  feel  the  same.  For  instance,  I  was  out  at  a  coffee  shop  yesterday  before  my  second-to-last  class  as a teaching assistant in an ESL summer class for immigrants and  refugees . . . and I heard two workers conversing about falling into the same pathways.  I  know  it  probably  has  something  to  do with the brain, and neurons, and chlorophyll,  and single-celled amoebas or whatever claptrap I don’t have time for today, as ever.    But  I  thought  about  it.  No  matter  how  deep  you  get  (WHOA)  in  your  own  head,  there’s  always  somebody  out  there  who  feels  the  same,  or  similar.  You  get  the  idea.  And  you  take  that  brain  out  to  the  streets,  you’re  walking  around  aimlessly,  and  yet,  you’re always getting somewhere.    I  guess  I  thought  about  that  while  pouring  the  hot  coffee  in  my  BRYAN  mug.  (One  of  the  only  material  things  I  own  that  matters  to  me.)  You  know,  if I could, I’d  have  a  keg  in  here.  But  like  I  said,  it’s  been  a  rough  week.  The  ceiling  in  my  kitchen.  Ah, fuck it. I won’t get into it.    The cover is a buncha parrots because that’s what society feels like to me. There’s a  Chinese  woman  in  the  class.  She  bothers  everybody.  But  she  doesn’t  bother  me.  She  always  has  questions  and  I  walk  up  to  her,  patient  as  the  humming  of  infinity  in  the  background  of  endless  space,  yes,  uh  huh,  actually,  it’s  “SUPPOSED  TO”  not  “SUPPOSE TO”. She thanks me.  The teacher of the class tells me that I always come into the building like a hurricane.  I like that.   


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Hemingway    

I go for another beer, hair on fire and flaming up pretty good—no second chances, the song sings  like I said, earlier this morning I thought of Hemingway  his first book was pretty good, you know how pretty goes  as pretty as Hemingway could be  his mother or someone in his family didn’t like the  bad words—the early 1900s  poop turd fart shit  Hemingway was such a  bad  boy    and then the second novel, it was about his time in the war  in Italy  he fell in love with the nurse taking care of his wounds  Hemingway was writing bullshit  by  his second novel  and although he had some good short stories  the rest of his life he was captured by his own success and fame  the adulation went to his dome  and he told Fitzgerald how to write and he had agents fawning over  his poppycock  and then it was one wife after another  Hemingway drunk in Havana, splitting with his woman in the Swiss Alps    Pappa, that’s what they called him    and I remember reading ​For Whom The Bell Tolls o ​ ne night  when I was still living with my parents  and it went on and on and on, nothing happening  until, finally  I heard a car creeping through the neighborhood 


and it went on and on and on, like the book so I got up to the window when the droning noise got to the street  out front of my parents’ house  I saw the car just sitting there across the street  and I went back to the book  but the engine just hummed and I couldn’t figure it out  who the hell drives like that, I thought  then I realized that the book sucked  and the person in that car, he was a crook  because  when I looked out the window again  I saw that the light in my car was on  I looked and looked and I felt my heartbeat rising  finally  something was  happening  and I took off down the hallway and rushed down the steps  out into the street, I went up to my car and saw that the bastard  had been in there—so I floored it, barefooted, and I ran like a sonofabitch  caught up to the rumbling noise of the fucker’s window within seconds  “HEY!” I screamed at him, “YOU WERE IN MY FUCKING CAR!”  he was looking at a cell phone, then he peered at me, slurring,  “WHAT, HUH?”  “YOU WERE IN MY CAR, YOU STOLE MONEY FROM MY FUCKING CAR”  “stole money,” he huffed, “I make a million dollars . . . a . . . year”  he was fucked up and I went to the back of his car and said aloud his license plate and  darted home in seconds, I had the cops on the line—and the whole thing went to shit  because when the cops came I went over to the corner and they had him there, so I  said, “THAT’S THE GUY, THAT’S THE FUCKING GUY, HE WAS IN MY  CAR”  and he said, meekly, “no . . . NO, I WASN’T . . .” he slurred again, “that kid’s drunk,  officer,” he hiccoughed—a Sergeant told me to back off, that he’d arrest me instead,  and my dad got in the cop’s face, saying THIS IS AMERICA    I went home, disillusioned—and when my dad got back, he had calmed a little and he  said, “Bry, I’ve never seen you run that fast, I mean, you really took off, what a stride”    there’s a new sheriff in town, I said that to myself and I kept it  there.   


it is    

By Matt Myers  

love is us half naked  with my head lying on your  back while on the bed  in this hot and sticky  top floor apartment   with a sparkling water on my chest  above my gut  not having the motivation   to get out of bed  because  I’d rather just  lie here  with  you     


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THE ANARCHIST     I  had  developed this system of stealing from supermarkets. Nobody really noticed me.  That’s  where it came from. I’d go up to the self-checkout lines with my selected items.  I  made  sure  that  the  oversight  was  lackadaisical.  Mostly  the  people  in  the  lines  were  half-dead.  They  were  nearly  brainless,  couldn’t  figure  out  the  machines.  The  people  who  worked  in  the  supermarket  were  apathetic  as  hell.  I  took  full  advantage  of  the  dimwitted  nonsense,  a  grocery  store  filled  with  everything  you  could  imagine  while  right  outside  there  were  people  who  were  begging  for  food,  change,  a  chance,  anything.  Some  of  them  were  ready  to  kill  for  their  food,  or  whatever  else.  I  used  to  ride a bike up to the supermarket. It was nice.  Like  I  said.  I  put  the  groceries  on  the  weighted  checkout  line,  all  by  myself.  I  rang  up  bananas  for  a  pound  of  chicken.  I  rang  up  bananas  for  coffee.  I  made  the  calculations  in  my  brain  before  I  got  there and each time I went to the grocery store I  made  sure  to  dress  differently.  I’d  have  a  hat  on.  Or  I’d  have  a  trendy  ponytail.  Sometimes  I’d  even shave my face. I feigned stupidity. Nobody noticed me. I took my  stolen  items,  somewhat  stolen,  I  was  against  institutions.  I  was  supposed  to  be  a  writer.  Living  on  a  friend’s  couch.  I  didn’t  think  about  MFAs  or  hopscotch.  Sometimes  I  took  the  groceries  back  to  my  friend’s  apartment  while  he  was  at  work  and  I  didn’t  use  the  bike.  ​The  bicycle.  S​ pecifically,  on  those  trips,  the  bags  would break  and  all  the  items  would  fall  out  onto  the  ground.  We  lived  in  a  seedy  neighborhood.  Right  under  the  25th  Street  Bridge,  I’d  be  tying  up  the  plastic  bags  at  the  bottom.  I  carried  the  bags.  Stopped  for  a  breather.  Carried  the  bags  some  more. Stopped again.  Fuck writing…  My  friend  would  eventually  need  a  ride  home  from  work.  He  didn’t  want  to  return  to  the  apartment  by  himself.  Sometimes  he  walked  back  when  he  didn’t  have  any  cash.  We  were  strange.  We  had  this  window.  And  whatever  we  found,  earned,  made,  whatever—whenever  we  got  our  hands  on  money,  we  tossed  it  right  through  this  window.  Some  kind  of  self-defeating  process  that  made  us  feel  alive.  The  world  was  dead.  It  was  dying. Some kind of reflection in that regard. We were anarchists. Or  at  least  that’s  what  he  called  me.  I  just  didn’t  believe  in  anything.  So  what?  The  neighborhood  was  filled  with  that  kind,  the  ilk  surrounded  us.  We  were right in there  with our brothers and sisters. I learned a lot. 


When I  picked  him  up,  I  was  usually  in  his  girlfriend’s  car.  She  hid  under  the  bed.  Or  she  played  with makeup in the bathroom mirror. Or she was working. Or she  was  at  her  parents’  house.  Or  she  was  doing  yoga. Or she was making a plan to break  up  with  my  friend.  Or  she  was  sitting  on  the  couch  drinking  wine  telling  me  she  needed a hobby. I was usually working on something. Yeah, I was some anarchist.  I  picked  him  up  one  night  and  we  went  to  the  bar.  But  not  before  he  took  an  extra  38  minutes  walking  around  the  restaurant,  shouting  out  “WE  NEED  TO  DESTROY  THE  SYSTEM!  THE  SYSTEM  IS  STEALING  OUR  SOULS!  WE  HAVE  TO  BAND  TOGETHER,  FORM  UNIONS,  BECOME  SELF-SUFFICIENT.  WE  CAN’T  DO  THIS  ALONE.  JUST  LOOK  AT  MYERS.  HE  KNOWS.  HE  GETS  IT.  HE  UNDERSTANDS.”  Then  he  would  steal  a  shot  from the downstairs bar when nobody was looking. I’d have to drag him outta there.  “Come on, man. It’s past midnight. We won’t have that much time to drink.”  We  got  to  the  bar.  He  knew  the  bartender.  He  knew  the  bouncer.  He  knew  a  lot more.  Within  a  few  minutes,  we  were  downing  shots  of  whiskey  and  chasing  it  with  good beer in a good place among good people.  “Let’s shoot some pool.”  “Nah. Fuck it. Let’s get a bag and go back to ####’s place.”  “Okay.”  Another  round  of  shots  and  beers.  He  handed  me  something  under  the bar. It  was  an  Ace  of  Spades.  I  went  to  the bathroom. Took a piss. Told myself that I would  never  be  respectable.  Placed  a  key  into the bag and up my nose. Slapped myself in the  face. Flushed. Walked out, back to the bar.  “Here,” I said to my friend.  “You ready?”  “Yeah, sure.”  He  handed  me  another  shot. I took it, gagged, finished it with some more beer.  He paid the tab. And we got out of there.  What  is  it  about cocaine that makes people talk about politics? Maybe it was us,  maybe  we  were  strange,  we  were  deadbeats,  we  were  bums,  we  were  degenerates,  we  wanted  something  more  from  our  lives,  something  that  would never be there, maybe,  until we got out of our own way. Ways. Waves. ​I’ve been drinking…  “No,”  I  said,  we  were  up on the sixth or seventh floor, someplace in the center  of  the  city.  Some  mother  fucker  had  us  over,  he was living there with some girl. “No,  we haven’t had a good president since Kennedy.”  They snorted theirs.  “Fuck,” somebody said.  “Yeah, I know,” somebody else said. 


“What’s that  you’re  saying,  Myers.”  He  was  going  to  the  kitchen  for  another  round of beers. He came back out, handing my friend and I the beers. I cracked it.  “Fucking Kennedy. All the rest, since then, have been complete buffoons. They  were total criminals. Even Eisenhower.”  “Wait. Wasn’t Eisenhower before Kennedy?”  “That fucker played a lot of golf.”  “It’s  like  I  was  saying,  they’ve  all  been  criminals.  Nobody  cares.  America  does  whatever  it  wants  to  do.  They  fly  the  flag,  get  the  people  all  hyped  up  over  nothing.  That  means  they  can  get  away  with  doing  whatever  they  wanna  do.  Bomb,  invade,  fund  rebel  groups,  they  run  guns  all  over  the  place.  They  know  what  laws  to  break  because  they  write  the  laws.  Even  Reagan,  he  was  funding  militias.  You  know,  that  plane  that  crashed,  or  wait,  it  was  shot  down  in  Costa  Rica.  Or  Nicaragua.  Whatever  the  hell.  It  was  a guy who used to be in the CIA, a bunch of other people died. But he  was  captured.  They  got  caught  running  guns  to  a  rebel  group  because  they wanted to  take  down  the  guy  who  got  elected.  They  wanted  to  install  their  guy,  some  dictator  who’d  be  open  to  western  capitalists.  Any  country  that  tries  to  be  self-sufficient,  that  does  something  other  than  what  WE  WANT  THEM  TO  DO,  they  get  bombed,  invaded,  and  they  pretend  that  it’s  for  humanitarian  shit.  It  never  is.  There’s  horrible  shit  happening  in  Africa.  Nobody  cares.  It’s  all  planned.  They  know  what  they’re  doing…”  Three more baselines were set up in the infield.  “Yeah, but what the fuck.”  “And  Nixon  was  a  total  criminal.  The  drug  war.  To  spy  on  dissidents.  And  Reagan,  sending  missiles  and  shit  to  Iran  while  in  the  public  he  condemned  them.  That  whole Iran-Contra shit. The Bushes. The Clintons. Just total scum. Liars. Cheats.  Vicious,  bloodthirsty  sociopaths.  No  feeling.  No  remorse.  Rich  millionaires.  Outta  touch. Holy shit. This . . . this is good . . . coke.”  “Yeah, I know. Right?”  He held his nose, letting the rolled up bill fall to the table.  “Let’s go outside and smoke a cigarette.”  “So what the fuck, then. When was the last good president?”  “They  said  it  was  Roosevelt.  But  he  stopped  refugees  from  Germany,  he  stopped  a  ship  of  Jews  escaping  Hitler.  Told  them  they  couldn’t  stay  here,  they’d  landed  at  Cuba.  Or  something.  Got  sent  back  to  Europe.  Some of those people died.  And  when  he  did  the  New  Deal,  he  kept  the  redlining  in  the  bill.  That  meant  banks  didn’t have to loan to African Americans.”  “Shit.”  “And he interned Japanese Americans, during the war.”  Snnnnniffffffff. 


“Just threw people in cages because of…” “Dude, who needs another beer?”  “I’ll take one.”  “Yeah, me too.”  “So what about Lincoln?”  “I don’t know that much about him.”  “Yeah, me either. The Lincoln Address, right?”  “I know that he put people in prison.”  “Shut up, Myers.”  The  beers  were  handed  out.  I  finished  the  one  I  had  in  my  hands,  cracked  the  new one.  “It’s  true,”  I  said.  “He  put  people  who  were  against  the North during the Civil  War in jail.”  “What about George Washington?”  We were walking out into the apartment hallway and onto the balcony.  “Same  shit,  man.  He  was  the  first  president  to  use  military  force  without  authorization from Congress.”  “He was the first president.”  “Oh, no shit? You must have your master’s degree in history.”  The night was cool and dark.  “Yeah,  the  Whiskey  Rebellion.  They  taxed  whiskey  distilleries  to  pay  for  the  war.”  “So, what happened?” My friend handed out cigarettes. We all lit ‘em up.  “He  sent  militias  from  some  of  the  states.  And  I  think  he  went with them too.  To stop the rebellion. Some people got killed, I think.”  “Protesting whiskey.”  “Damn right.”  We blew out clouds of smoke and drank at our beers.  “Man,” somebody said. “Fuck politics.”  We  finished  our  cigarettes.  Then  we  went  back  inside  to  finish  off  the  other  thing, you know what I’m talking about.  “It’s  weird,”  I  said  as  he  was  lining  up  the  field  goal  kick,  one  of  the  other  dudes in the room.  “What’s that,” said my friend.  “People take these things to keep going.”  “What do you mean?” he asked.  “It’s almost like they don’t wanna be themselves.”  “Yeah,” the other dude snorted, taking off from the runway.  “I know what you mean.” 


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Record of the week  

  NOFX, “The War on Errorism”  Released in 2003. A year before Green Day’s “American Idiot”.  Love the angst, the lyrics, the time changes, the humor in heavy shit. 


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Profile for Bryan William Myers

Everything We Are Taught Is False  

EWATIF #2. Parrot society. Hemingway. A short poem from my brother about love. A short story about being an anarchist, no-name writer and dr...

Everything We Are Taught Is False  

EWATIF #2. Parrot society. Hemingway. A short poem from my brother about love. A short story about being an anarchist, no-name writer and dr...

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