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SF&D | Short, Fast, and Deadly March 2012 | [About Face]

ISSN (print) | 2163-0712 ISSN (online) | 2163-0704 Copyright Š 2012 by Individual Authors | All Rights Reserved

Joseph A. W. Quintela | Senior Editor Sarah Long | Poetry Editor Chris Vola | Chapbook Reviewer

Published by Deadly Chaps Press www.deadlychaps.com www.shortfastanddeadly.com DCsf&d2012 | 3

Helen Vitoria | Cover Photos

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iii | Note from the Editor iv | Theme Meg Tuite | Profile // Zack Nelson Lopiccolo | Narcissistic Bliss// J. Bradley | August 1996 // J. Bradley | December 1996 // J. Bradley | February 1999 // Kelly Bourdet | Your Image is Available // Shannon Connor Winward | My Heart is with Egipt // Jessica McHugh | Deleted // Karla Linn Merrifield | De-Faced // Bruce Harris | Stalk Her // CS DeWildt | Dig it? // Brian Ross | Progress xvii | Featuring Diana Salier | Statement // Diana Salier | Photograph // Diana Salier | in a perpetual cycle of living and dying or reincarnation if you believe in that sort of thing // Diana Salier | in the hall of marine life at the natural history museum // Diana Salier | in the snare drum hits on "every breath you take" by the police // Diana Salier | in the pajamas i borrowed to sleep in your bed // Diana Salier | melancholy breakfast // Diana Salier | no one will rescue you are the rescue team xxvi | Prose Mark James Andrews | Free Rising in Gin Clear Waters // Thomas O'Connell | Loose Sail // Michael Sions | Six of Us // Mark Rosenblum | The Hills Salon // Robert Vaughan | An Apple A Day Helps // Chad Frisbie | Major Global Concern xxxiii | BlackMarket

Meg Tuite | She Was in Mourning for Something Taken Away From Her // Jessica Kirkland | Cruelty xxxvi | Poems Eric Burke | Polar // Leland March | Come With Me // Sara Schmidt | Captive // Sara Schmidt | Interruption // Jeremy Benson | Untitled // Jim Davis | Red from Pressing // Chris Lawrence | Holdup // Bill Gainer | Spring xlv | Views Chris Vola | Review of LOVE STORIES HATE STORIES by Russ Woods & Brett Elizabeth

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Joseph A. W. Quintela | Note from the Editor

[About Face] features the return of Diana Salier, whose Wikipedia Says It Will Pass was one of the first RED&DEADLY eChaps brought to print via collaboration with The Red Ceilings Press (UK). I loved her work so much that I nominated it for a Pushcart Award and thought devoting the March issue to Facebook-inspired literature would be a fitting tribute when we invited her to be our featured poet. Of course, ever full of surprises, Salier did another kind of “about face” on us and decided to write prose and poems inspired by alternate places of habitude. But is that really so far from Facebook? I think not, but regardless, Salier’s adroit search for abode is a lovely centerpiece to our third issue, and if any indication of the arc of her next collection, an exciting direction for her work, in general. For those who took up the [About Face] gauntlet directly, this issue represents a broad and varied take on the meanings of social networking in the contemporary milieu. Though, I myself have approached the subject critically in both academic and poetic modes, the fact remains (The Face remains?) that the force of the “great blue void” resonates through our lives whether we choose to partake in it or not. This said, I find it heartening when our poets and writers take the time to consider its meaning and approach it in their work. In other news, February saw the birth of a new (ad-)venture in the Deadly Chaps Press family as last month’s featured poet Eryk Wenziak and I collaborated in founding the /altPublishing collective rIgor mort.US. Dedicated to breathing new life into print work via online republication in the creative commons, the site doubles as both an archive and a dynamic (legal) source of material for cut-up, mash-up, re-mix, and erasure. With SF&D’s Black Market in mind we hope you’ll go discover more at http://www.rigormort.us. New York | March 2012

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T

heme

[About Face] Meg Tuite | Profile // Zack Nelson Lopiccolo | Narcissistic Bliss// J. Bradley | August 1996 // J. Bradley | December 1996 // J. Bradley | February 1999 // Kelly Bourdet | Your Image is Available // Shannon Connor Winward | My Heart is with Egipt // Jessica McHugh | Deleted // Karla Linn Merrifield | De-Faced // Bruce Harris | Stalk Her // CS DeWildt | Dig it? // Brian Ross | Progress

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Meg Tuite | Profile

The boy stamps his name, his face. He friends a posse. He quotes song lyrics, potent, primal. His photos work his visage into deranged, supreme, distorted. His pubic hair grows as he types. Subversive, seething, petrified. ‘Yo, douchebags, browbeaten nutbags, Call of Duty is your homework, ass-wipes.’ The boy turns off his computer. His mother kisses him goodnight. Wet streams trickle under his ass, awaken him.

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Zack Nelson Lopiccolo | Narcissistic Bliss

Five albums, full of digital “Me� for voyeur viewing across the globe. A world full of pixilated faces.

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J. Bradley | August 1996

Legs tangled like kudzu around my calves and thighs while her mother and father used television to ignore us. We rotted like apples; fear kept only my fingers wet. I rolled around the back of a friend’s van when you and ‘forever’ stop being synonymous, Billy Corgan’s voice knotting my stomach.

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J. Bradley | December 1996

I tossed names like coins after pinning you against the chat room wall, hot pink Comic Sans still in my throat when I woke up for school the next morning. For Christmas, you gave me Joy Division; I felt as hung as Ian Curtis when you gave your ex a second chance.

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J. Bradley | February 1999

We used alleys and parks like escape pods; I didn’t mind being your red light district.

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Kelly Bourdet | Your Image is Available

Now that I’ve put the entire country between us, the wind in the grass of the heartland is America’s telephone static. And the city I’m in with this terrible reception. I’ll cobble together your weather, your new shirts, your ats and replys, and someday someone else appearing -- first in a group shot, grinning, dust in your eyes -- then lying sweet on a blanket beside you. I love you still, the space created, but it couldn’t matter less to listless pixels. Impartial zeros.

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Shannon Connor Winward | My Heart is with Egipt

My heart is less than three Egipt. If we reach one million we will win freedom, so repost this. mubarak u fuck, we are coming for you. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s about peace. the <3 is not for dictators 2 control. We are streaming for freedom. They are streaming the streets hundreds, like, dead. Will you be there? I am there hmu, my heart is with egpyt about a minute ago. Comment. Share, You like this.

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Jessica McHugh | Deleted

After the breakup, I couldn't face him without wanting to book it, so I decided to defriend him, debilitate him, and decline his request to stay alive. I was on a tight timeline, so I quickly fired three rounds, tagging him in the chest and staining my wall. I'd have to update the color, but for the time being, I was pleased by its status: a crimson monument to a life event that would save my smile.

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Karla Linn Merrifield | De-Faced

Frank the Felon Vanessa the Whore Waitress Bitch Guttersnipes Addicts If his incubi do not fool me, I shall un-Friend them all.

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Bruce Harris | Stalk Her

He watched as she shopped (At the Cherry Grove Mall â&#x20AC;&#x201C; her post of 3 hours prior). Sitting at a corner table with a clear vantage point of the dining area (Enjoying a Cesar salad at Clydeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s), he sipped black coffee. Two hours later, when she walked out of the gym in shorts, he nodded and raised his hand. Four police cars converged. He watched as the officers cuffed and escorted the perp into one of the squad cars.

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CS DeWildt | Dig it?

I asked her to stay and she said, “Can’t Daddy.” I asked her why not and she said, “Can’t, Daddy.” But before she hit the bricks she leaned and arched her back over the e-brake. Her feet hit the concrete as her kitty cat tongue scratched my cheek. “Don’t wreck,” she said. “Baby, this fool done already crashed.”

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Brian Ross | Progress

The grandfather erected stone walls. The father worked behind a window of walls. The son wrote LOL on walls. The grandfather never talked about what he liked. The father was never sure about what he liked. The son never saw a chimpanzee video he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like. The grandfather died with four friends. The father died with twelve friends. The son will die with 4,121 friends.

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F

eaturing

Diana Salier | Statement // Diana Salier | Photograph // Diana Salier

| in a perpetual cycle of living and dying or reincarnation if you believe in that sort of thing // Diana Salier | in the hall of marine life at the natural history museum // Diana Salier | in the snare drum hits on "every breath you take" by the police // Diana Salier | in the pajamas i borrowed to sleep in your bed // Diana Salier | melancholy breakfast // Diana Salier | no one will rescue you are the rescue team

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Diana Salier | Statement

Lately I haven’t felt at home in any particular city or place. I’ve been thinking about what “home” even really means, and other places one could live that aren’t necessarily an exact, geographic known location (e.g., London, Chicago, Los Angeles, etc.). Places that could feel like home because of their association with a memory, or a person, or a past state of mind. These are poems from a new collection of short-form “habitat” poems, which hopefully will grow up into a book. The mashup poems are taken from some of my favorite writers, both living and dead.

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Diana Salier | Photograph

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Diana Salier | in a perpetual cycle of living and dying or reincarnation if you believe in that sort of thing

one human grows another human and then one day the first human stops growing. i want to be young forever and if i die it will be warm with my hands in a pizza and your brown winter gloves.

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Diana Salier | in the hall of marine life at the natural history museum

i wake up in the whale without an alarm. the waves beat the eastern wall on eight-minute repeat. slow days i challenge the squid to a duel. i lance his eye and a smaller squid pops out. the polar bear taunts the walrus with a school of rubber fish. the walrus fills the tundra with red snow. saturdays we play poker and the whale has a tell. the ocean crashes and crashes again. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m light blue all around regardless of how i really feel.

//continued next page//

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Diana Salier | in the snare drum hits on "every breath you take" by the police

we walk the fine fine line between creepy and romantic

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Diana Salier | in the pajamas i borrowed to sleep in your bed

i am going to sleep all day and only wake up to touch your ears

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Diana Salier | melancholy breakfast

it is 6:15 am i’ve got to tell you how i have eaten the plums that were in the icebox because i woke up this morning and do not love you anymore

//title & words excerpted from “Melancholy Breakfast” and “Morning” by Frank O’Hara; “this is just to say” by William Carlos Williams; “Love Poem” by Richard Brautigan//

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Diana Salier | no one will rescue you are the rescue team

it is because i finally let you go we have sad news this morning from mars: no one will rescue you are the rescue team. drink as much beer as you like a lukewarm greasy hamburger, ice-cold pepsi that hurts your teeth next time we meet it will be on a beach. i want to try drinking sand with you

//title excerpted from “Dedication” by Ben Mirov and words excerpted from “O Great April You Have Left Me This” by Chris Emslie; “From Mars” by Matthew Rohrer; “Automatic Tellermachine” by Ben Mirov ; “Wrong Train” by Ted Berrigan; “Poem For Kate” by D.W. Lichtenberg; “Try Drinking Sand” by Russ Woods)//

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P

rose

Mark James Andrews | Free Rising in Gin Clear Waters // Thomas O'Connell | Loose Sail // Michael Sions | Six of Us // Mark Rosenblum | The Hills Salon // Robert Vaughan | An Apple A Day Helps // Chad Frisbie | Major Global Concern

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Mark James Andrews | Free Rising in Gin Clear Waters

Shoelaces tied to 11 MPH limo bumper Victory parade. Handcuffed wrists silver sparking. Top teeth digging asphalt, plowing smash mouth bobbing. Harvesting black lumpy gravy tasting of bile, bilge water and tin fire. Cheetah purring ingressive seems from convertible stretch rear seat. Then down in my ear cool egressive purring Houdini/morphing. Free rising in gin clear waters to take a fly tasting like rock candy.

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Thomas O'Connell | Loose Sail

A thin breeze enters through the kitchen window, blowing the gingham curtains aside like a loose sail. When the wind blows this way, Lucy wishes she had some wind chimes to sing to her. She shakes her arm and the twenty silver bracelets she wears to protect the frail, parallel shadows that stain her wrist rattle. She closes her eyes and takes a deep drink of tea. It has gone cold, she swallows quickly. Perhaps she should have let her mother buy her a microwave after all.

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Michael Sions | Six of Us

It would've been six of us, but Adam got caught up in the library, Jake got hit by a car on his way back, Elliot's girlfriend insisted on a date, Frank's girlfriend insisted on a double date with Elliot and his girlfriend, and Henry slit one of his wrists just to see what would happen, got scared, and called an ambulance. If I timed it right I could visit both Jake and Henry in one hospital trip.

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Robert Vaughan | An Apple A Day Helps

She eats an apple like she is still apologizing. She says I am excited but. And the red skin of the apple catches in her teeth, those gaps like eerie canals. She nods, and counts. Chews, recounts days. Nibbles. The number of days since she last bled. Her tongue darts furiously around her cavernous mouth while she uses her fingers. Way too many.

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Mark Rosenblum | The Hills Salon

He drove, phone to his ear. She starred at her twitching hands. They arrived. He read a magazine. Her name was called, he never looked up. He asked a nurse how long she’d be. Said he would return. He went to the Hills, sat at Kayla’s station. She trimmed, filed his nails. She said the little white speck below his thumb nail looked like a baby elephant. He glanced at it. Said he didn’t see it.

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Chad Frisbie | Major Global Concern

Nowadays, whenever unidentified bunches of neighbors chop their own balls off together, which could mean five (which is ten balls) or fifty (which is one hundred balls) or you in the back there with the handlebar mustache maybe you are imagining five hundred (which is one thousand balls), when this happens in the world, and by God it will, the big question raises itself at half mast: was it caused by global warming?

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B

lack Market

Meg Tuite | She Was in Mourning for Something Taken Away From Her // Jessica Kirkland | Cruelty

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Meg Tuite | She Was in Mourning for Something Taken Away From Her

We are all quite mad. I am no different. I should be laid bare like a corpse before my eyes. There are pills in a narrow bottle with a red wrapper, insect-ridden. I have a face like an empty bag with no blood in it. My old days are blurred and a flickering sequence. You’ll find it when you try to die. Those fluorescent tubes baking your brains out and blinding them. Sometimes one meets a woman who is a beast turned human. I become the worm in the earth, the copulation in the tree. I swell your vast conceit!

//words excerpted from “The Journal of Albion Nights” by Kenneth Patchen; “Miss Macintosh, My Darling” by Marguerite Young; “Owls do Cry” by Janet Frame; “The Third Policeman” by Flann O”Brien; “Big Blonde” by Dorothy Parker; “#610” by Emily Dickinson; “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole; “Nightwood” by Djuna Barnes; “Adventures in the Skin Trade” by Dylan Thomas; , “A Dream of Knowledge” by Delmore Schwartz//

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Jessica Kirkland | Cruelty

I. We danced and you drifted. The air was so damp and heavy. Whores, hell-bent on whoring swallowed the night. In her underwear She understands young boys. Forlorn, aimless, fully loaded. Children stand guard in the trees. II. It’s all over for us now— death-anticipation. Fire at the fairgrounds spread out its arms, The faces and hands of the people melted away. Dawn came late, Its rough, penumbrous, bristling depths Stretched the imaginable limits of violence. Someone set his pet hound on a few specimens.

//words excerpted from “Rain dogs” by Tom Waits; “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by Gordon Lightfoot; “Wisconsin Death Trip” by Michael Lesy; “Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires: The History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians” by Richard Sugg; “Olivia Munn got naked for PETA again”, “Ashton Kutcher got a haircut and other news”, “Kloe isn’t a Kardashian”, “A-rod’s new lover seems like a nice guy”, “Jennifer Lopez gives Casper Smart an allowance”, “Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger aren’t getting back together” at thesuperficial.com//

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P

oems

Eric Burke | Polar // Leland March | Come With Me // Sara Schmidt | Captive // Sara Schmidt | Interruption // Jeremy Benson | Untitled // Jim Davis | Red from Pressing // Chris Lawrence | Holdup // Bill Gainer | Spring

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Eric Burke | Polar

I told a blind woman to walk north instead of south. In my dreams, I buy oatmeal, stock up for winter.

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Leland March | Come With Me

letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s go skating once more where skies will be blue again where the air is always temperate and the ice is always thin

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Sara Schmidt | Captive

she greedily licks the rain that slides down the bars and kicks another rat waiting in the dark, saving a toe-tip for one more day

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Sara Schmidt | Interruption

a crumpled list floats down jagged lines through names matching zigzagged shoes, stained jerseys a final punctuation during a last lesson

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Jeremy Benson | Untitled

Headlights caught / a crab making // its way beneath / my tire. I cringed, // expecting a crunch and / nothing.

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Jim Davis | Red from Pressing

Nothing has been so settled as thought, as though thought were an orange punctured with cloves.

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Chris Lawrence | Holdup

Around the corner a motel sign, a place to stop, count out and divide the haul and await sirens end.

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Bill Gainer | Spring

By the end of winter most of the beer cans will be gone, picked up and recycled for cigarette money. The yard should be safe to mow.

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V

iews

Chris Vola | Review of LOVE STORIES HATE STORIES by Russ Woods & Brett Elizabeth

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Chris Vola | Review of LOVE STORIES HATE STORIES by Russ Woods & Brett Elizabeth

Charming knife-thrusts and jagged affection-grabs buzz through LOVE STORIES HATE STORIES by Russ Woods & Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, a subtly riotous book that reminds us how LOVE and HATE really do like to mingle, if only for the small instants. We’re in a coffee cup feeling insignificant, then in Coolio’s braids marveling at our solidarity, wondering “What does it feel like when / I put my tongue in / your ear gills?” Hint: it feels good.

//LOVE STORIES HATE STORIES is available as a free eBook from the Nap Chaps. More of Mr. Vola’s weekly chapbook reviews can be found on the SF&D facebook page//

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SF&D | March 2012 [About Face]