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REALITY HANDS Cassandra Gillig M Kitchell Gabby Gabby Evelyn Hampton Stephanie Bonham Russ Woods Nathan Springer No Glykon


MY HUSBAND WILL DIE AT THE AGE OF FIFTY by Cassandra Gillig

from a heart attack, stroke, brain aneurism falling on top of me, rolling over on his side fabric of life or my tangled hair on the pillow i will cry but reasonably we will serve salad at the funeral people will complain in hushed voices ĂŹis this all we are having?ĂŽ yeah, yeah my shit runs deep


I AM THE WIND by Cassandra Gillig

in the new red apartment of a stranger leave me to talk alone in the corner forever give me another beer every new face will be repressed until reunion the red of it all i’m guess


VIOLENCE by M Kitchell

The piece of paper slashed through. The man’s body’s scars, his marks, recreated on the page as if his body were language. But it is. It is in entirety. The spaces created in read, the knife rendered against Write the words on the skin. Burn the words. Carve the words. Make sure the words remain. The skin as permanent as the body it sits upon. Knowing one day the body will decompose, or burn, means the words expire when the personage does. A temporal reality; an extended sense of the ephemeral. The The man, still, his body imperfect and this becomes the impossible. I writhe in ecstasy as the sun beats through the window. The man’s body tampered by time. Scars. Gashes. Burns. tear me in two And I know the man will leave. The man always leaves. The man never the same twice. My ripped to shreds. Tear my body apart. A new permanence. The body wants to speak to you.

and it wants to say this; I am fascinated by the anatomy of women of the gash. perambulating around the sex does this identify me as the other. this fascination. But my body too features this absence. A darker sort. A more perfect hole, less a gash. A hole shared by all bodies. The asshole as both entrance and exit from the body’s mystery. One cannot stare inside. Constricted. Items must be pushed, muscles must be worked, loosened. The asshole a scar from a god who knew one day we would need more than poetry to explore experience. The man with the scars is working my scar now and I know what the future holds: a pleasure, a job, before death. —after this, what ‘ ‘

please tear my body apart’ a voice says, my voice maybe but just as likely his. or perhaps neither of us. please tear my body apart’ the sky echoes, understanding what’s at stake is only the absence of meaning, can we utter the condition or only the conditional status of this white page being torn in two by language. this can mean nothing. we have only space. we can only abuse space, both with


our bodies and with our language. what we can only be after is silence. a new silence, a violent silence. I want my silence to be the gash upon the page, the body. I twin in two and to myself I will never speak. | | | | | (

)

zero is immense but still we look for it, we look for this absence in this silence. we build new roads and bridges and we cross them, we traverse the real land, the land of the real, rocks and deserts and oceans and without certain desperation can we call upon what it is we are looking for, this nothing, this nothing, this nothing, this nothing, this nothing, this nothing that can only exist within. zero is immense. zero is immanent. The man ties me up and slices my body now, language is gone and there is only rhythm of bodies, of the sheets, the world too is immense.


A Giant Plastic Hamster Ball by Gabby Gabby

We are in a hospital now. There is a woman dancing in a coma. Well, not dancing but just kind of laying still with her eyes closed, being very quiet, A little drool but less than you would think. If you ever think about coma patients’ drool output. Never mind, I don’t think I’ve ever thought of that before writing it down just then. I want to ‘scoot’ her over using my hands under the small of her back and sleep next to her. When I wake up there will be a giant plastic hamster ball waiting for me so I can roll around everywhere and not worry about the rain.


12. by Gabby Gabby

Everyone was happy, even if it was only for a very brief period of time. Repeat this 30 times. I saw a small boy, probably six or seven, petting his dog on the side of a suburban road. He seemed happy. I turned left across a four-lane road. Two lanes headed southbound. Two lanes headed northbound. Or east or west my sense of direction is confused. A smiling black woman in a sad blue car sped up behind me swerved around me, turned left before the light turned red, then crashed into a pole. On the courtyard of a liberal arts campus a guy, a ‘twenty-something’, is giving a tour to prospective freshmen. a girl, not quite a ‘twenty-something’, walks across the courtyard. The tour guide turns from his group of prospective freshman and points to the girl walking across the courtyard. She smiles like a smoker and waves with one hand while she uses the other to hold her sundress down against the wind. The tour guide turns back to his group of prospective freshman and says, ‘I have found the person that I want to spend the rest of my life with.’ All of a sudden it smells like vanilla.


In My Stomach I Can Feel Sadness. by Gabby Gabby

In my stomach I can feel sadness and a little bit of vomit. My body swells like a haunted house for tiny ghosts that kiss in the middle of the night.


20mg/day by Gabby Gabby

Painted onto the wall tiles, the whales are on clouds and their bodies are clouds too. Sometimes I press my head against the shower wall and cry quietly into them. I’m alone here, with the whales. I can think of anything and still be alone. I wrote this poem and now I am alone with this poem, the whales, and the abstractly formed thoughts that I’ve already forgotten about. These words that I write don’t compare to what I’ve imagined you to feel like. Pressing into it, I am a powerful force amongst whales. I feel like my anti-depressants are working.


May 11, 2012 Manhattan, NY by Stephanie Bonham

“I wanna get some coffee,” I say. “Go for it.” He trails me into the corner café. . “Is your iced coffee cold-brewed?” “No, it’s brewed hot, but we make it double-strength.” “Ok, I’ll have one.” “What size?” “Uhm...” I scan the wall menu behind the barista. “Medium.” “What about you?” “What’s the difference between these cookies?” He points to the plexi-glass pastry display. “The one on the left is carrot cake. The one on the right is dulce de leche.” “Which one is chocolate? Which is more chocolatey?” “Neither.” “Oh. So, I’ll have the oatmeal one.” “Uhm...” I’m compelled to intervene. “Carrot cake.” . I see my coffee at the end of the counter and pick it up. Looking around the crowded shop, I realize we inadvertently skipped the cashier. . “We can just go now.” “What?” “We can just go.”


_

SATINA by Evelyn Hampton When I saw the word—on a bag of potatoes—I could not speak _ it—I thought it must be—the name of the dead— S A T I N A—the way the word stuck in me—blocking my body from—the rest of my head—I must have eaten something— that knew all about—being eaten—for within me—it was swallowing—soon I was a hollow—thing like energy— nobody knows—what energy is—my favorite nobody—is the nobody who doesn’t know—the nobody who knows—does not interest me—I like to feel sleek—and like I am wearing—a want to read—there is only living—unclothed—I am going too fast—for pants—I am burning—every calorie in my head—I live in such quick—insects—I am already dead—by the time you have seen me—I am gone from your eyes—but I am still in your mind—telling it lies—telling it a story—that has an end—


transition by Evelyn Hampton

There was a shape in me the size of my body. Then it was much larger than my body. I was trying to go out, meet people, be seen. I met a man who had a fetish. He wouldn’t let me see his body. I’d pretend to be asleep, but that got tiring. All of my energy was going into the things around me—the elastic in my pants collapsed, I couldn’t keep them on. Everything got very cold. When the pipes burst, time reversed. Somewhere there was a vacuum cleaner made of dark matter identical to the vacuum in my closet. When I cried, someone in the closet complained about the weather. This wasn’t like in a dream. The ground was changing shape and I couldn’t get out of the way. Yet I wasn’t attached to anything. Not my dress, which was green stretch. Not my body—that’s just one place I’ve been seen. The moon was supposed to be in a position never before seen, not by anyone alive on the planet. The man with the fetish claimed to have seen it, yet he hadn’t been seen for weeks,


Not since my sister brought me TP. When we broke up, he offered to let me touch his mesh basketball shorts through a hole he’d had made. It’s too early for me to be seen, he said. I was having other problems—something was in my ear, way down where sound turns into hearing, and I was losing my balance. I had already lost all of my wallet. It was a picture of a purse I’d seen on TV. They were making a series. It was going to be me, the man with the fetish, and the man with the fetish’s wife, who was supposed to be broken, but nice. The same character was murdered four times, an extension of the device called time. I AM TRYING TO GET OVER THE CREEPS I HAVE TO SEE BEFORE I CAN COME, I write to a friend. I get lonely, all those planets. Is this how ghosts feel when they see the moon? The blurred rings left by glasses? Matter in another universe has a kink that keeps it from going crazy. After the series was over, I’d see myself in the street sometimes. I had nothing more to hide, having been murdered four times. A man asked a man who I thought was me, Going home?


I’M REALLY BIG I’M YOUR MOM by Russ Woods

I’m really big I’m your mom listen to me listen I’m only trying to help honey big listen to me sweetie listen listen listen.


FRONT LEGS by Russ Woods

I keep trying to put forks in things. This is the only successful song I’ve written. Our hearts reach out like the front legs of spiders.


ROTTING APPLE SUTRA by Russ Woods

Every time you inhale you are creating an entire universe that has never existed before. Every time you exhale you are destroying that universe.

bird body and there are wings I’m willing to give it. I want to push my lungs against a concrete wall and feel my breath getting rougher. Look at my gums! Pieces of my tongue fall out when I drink. I am not a healthy person. You can pinch the whole world at once in half--in half!-with your eyelids or maybe more like squish it to soft black like an old apple you can sink your heel through.

We are all grinding our teeth.


and we are not asking very much We are all reading The Hunger Games and identifying strongly with Cinna. all emotion passing through us. We are the fucking christmas of reality. I read about how a man in Sri Lanka tried to beat some world record for being buried alive. He didn’t beat the world record because he died down there. When they dug him up he had stopped breathing. I’m not sure if that’s called exhumation or not. This poem was written to be screamed. This poem was written to be written microscopically on a grain of rice. I am not yelling words they’re sound and everything is crashing. Sound doesn’t collide with ears sound shakes the mother fucking molecular foundation of us and everything.


‘frankly i think your inability to feel for me when i’m hurting is fucked’ by Nathan Springer somebody texts ‘just answer your phone’ at 11:48 pm i am sitting on a front porch alone there are only three stars out and one of them is mercury a car passes with rain overhead another text ‘i feel awful just answer my call’ the way your hand feels running through short black hair ‘thank you so much for being such a great friend’ sarcastically i’m fucked and i don’t care, good morning rain


3< by Nathan Springer

i’m so sleepy but ?? im listening to music alone in my car and its beautiful i really want to hang out more me too im not really tired even though i should be my body is saying goodnight but my mind is not i understand, but i really want to hang out again soon, so let’s goodnite but wait i like your ‘poem’. i think you’re special 3< 3<


that one time you were a devil sitting by the pool by Nathan Springer

my teeth are 22 but my mouth is 16 lost again in the sweat of you and something that tastes like something i’ve never tasted before your face is 20 but your eyes are 99 and that fact is a wrench in my gut realizing i’m the only person in the world everyone else is the devil my acid is 6 but it feels like ‘67 let’s break into houses together


by No Glykon

“-SHHH-” Goya looks in awe at a deer that glows indigo. It seems to be melting for no reason. Trey and Hunter look up. As the deer senses them, it turns the white ring surrounding its left eye toward them. “Some deer are born with the Indigo Florescent Protein or IFP,” Hunter whispers. Filled with inner rain, Goya and Trey look on with expressionless faces. “The amino acids that make IFP attach to the receptors in the brain. This causes it to behave in every way as though it glows indigo. Since it looks like it is glowing indigo and acts like it is glowing indigo, our brains perceive it to be glowing indigo. The protein has a few other effects: they are known for being themselves, not caring what others think about them, and doing what they want.” “How do you know that?” Goya asks. “Or was that a joke?” Trey asks. “....” “Life is here. We are here. I love you,” the deer says. “....” Deeper into the forest, the deer leaps away.


TUP â&#x20AC;&#x153;....â&#x20AC;? STUP STUP the deer runs down a street. It runs down the street some more. KISH It leaps off the street and into the snow. Legs apart, legs together, it jumps through the forest. Ahead, There is a tree that has fallen. It looks like a birch tree. As the deer attempts to leap over the tree, its leg catches the tree. It may have broken its leg. Head over hoof, it rolls into the snow. It slides into the snow. There is a track where the deer has skid along the ground. The deer slows to a halt. It lays there in the snow.


Edited by No Glykon Cover photo by Stephanie Bonham Logo by Kristen Koenig Reality Hands www.realityhands.com The rights to the content in this book belong to the creators.


REALITY HANDS 2  

A lit zine

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