Volume 1 Issue 1 Winter 2010 by Lee Lincecum

Volume 1 Issue 1

Featuring: Justin Wade Thompson Donal Mahoney David P. Bates

Table of Contents Bob Dobbs III............................................................................. 4 Sleepytine Garden of Myth Chris Castle............................................................................5-10 Kindling Cody Winger........................................................................ 11-15 Innocent Death Experience The Song the Clouds Sing Daniel Romo........................................................................16-19 Conversation Smoke and Mirrors Dont Try to Converse with Me at the Urinal David P. Bates......................................................................20-22 arrivals house w/no street address de-illumination Donal Mahoney....................................................................23-25 Priest Instead Lunatics Song Darfur Justin Wade Thompson........................................................26-29 Bad Morning Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Long Wait for Some Lee Lincecum.......................................................................30-32 no more talk of hearts Eye Got A Gun too alone Boredom is Fatal Mather Schneider.................................................................33-35 RIDING OUR BICYCLES CROSS COUNTRY, 18 YEARS OLD 1324 N. LANA HILLS DRIVE PITY THE NON ARTISTE

Matt Dobbs............................................................................... 36 The Hindu Kush Mike Meraz..........................................................................37-39 Smoking Ed Gein Prose-Talking To A Girl For A Short Time In A Very Private Place Nemo .......................................................................................................40 It’s A Self-Preservation Thing P.A. Levy.............................................................................................. 41-43 Dogs Don’t Shit In Heaven b[LOW] Snapshot of Our Comet Crumbling Paul Handley........................................................................................ 44-45 Street Dreams Stephen Jarrell Williams......................................................46-47 BREAKING THE HOURGLASS DEAR GOD Steve Calamars.....................................................................48-50 an office romance—

Bob Dobbs III “Sleepytime”

She sips her coffee I wait for the dregs Lazy eyes, lazy days I will wait again

“Garden of Myth”

Chris Castle Kindling He switched from left to right, remembering to move his feet. -Move, move, move! His Brother’s voice behind the bag, so thick it was like he was swallowing blood before each word. -Tag the bag, tag the bag. Those three words: A mantra. He felt his fists crunch into the bag, one good shot, another, then and weak left cross. -What was that? That was nothing, NOTHING- Brother getting angry, the blood bubbling. The bag stills for a second. The sweat steams over the basement, like London fog all over them. The basement, where coach likes his best boys to be. The Fighters, pure and simple. Him, Brother. -That was nothing. That was weak. You throw those in the ring and you’ll be on you’re ass inside three minutes- Brother pokes his head out from the bag, like he’s a soldier dodging bullets. Face gaunt now, shot down with the drugs. King Brother, beautiful as a god, now down to eight stone, seven twelve… -You hear me? You throw nothing, you get nothing. You’re not even going reach Atlantis by eleven‘Atlantis by eleven.’ The sweat build-up of a good session. Necessary to the Fighter and no-one else; to know he’s challenging, to know he’s testing himself. Losing parts of himself, shedding pieces of what he’s built up, so he can strip down and be a better man. Bringing down the combinations, the bag sighing below his fist. Each punch perfect, balanced and true. Brother silenced, satisfied to be rocked on the balls of his feet by the blows. Switching feet,

working with the left hand only. -Shame you didn’t know all this when the McColl twins came looking for you, huh?-Flashback: Brother two years older, both boys. The meanest kids on the block coming looking for him, clutching their knives, their jagged rocks. Running down the street, Brother stepping out into the road, fearless. The twins distracted, trying to decide which to target, the moment lost: Brother slams the two of them, punches raining down like lightning. When they’re on the ground, he goes dirty so they don’t get up, kicks to the ribs and a stamp in the groin. These boys carry weapons, so all bets are off. No need for a clean fight when the opponents dirty. Brother steps off the road, ignoring the eyes on him. -I beat you good for running, right? I taught you lessons that need to be learnt. Gave you a code to follow and then some. Nothing as simple as the truth told rightSlammed the combinations, until the bag stilled. Break. The water bottles on the concrete, one half empty, another all the way filled. -The weak carry and the strong just got to clench their empty hands into a fist. Those boys understood it that day, same as you did. That was a day of learningThe water moved through the body quick, down to the gut. Cramped, then settles, then another swig. The first bottle empty, Brother monitoring the intake. -You got to watch the water as much as you watch the food. You take too much you bloat, bad as all the rest. You got to keep the stomach strong, the skin dry and supple, like a Terracotta Army, you understand?Brother weaved around the bag, out into the open space. Body ravaged, body thinned, so there’s just the outline of bones and translucent skin. Boxer in the bag, gripped by the needle. Still he moved, his feet a dust blur, his hands two jack-rabbits, shooting, shooting.

The Fighter down to scraps, shadow boxing with bone and malice. -Those other boys are kindling to your fists. Paper tigers for you too crush. None of them know what I taught you, none of them can take the pain I gave you. Their bones will tear like paper on your thumbs if you follow what I gave youBrother raring, feet on overtime, kicking up a dust bowl. A little tornado under his sole, bony fingers picking out future victims. Concave chest with the heart still flaring, pulsing just under thin, waxy skin. Organs beating and raw, everything synched; the tracks up and down the arm screaming across the skin, a chemical bite across the upper cut arms. -We used to sit, didn’t we, in that diner? Eating our egg rolls and planning all our futures; all the money and the girls, the photos on the back page, fingers all smudged up with the print. Just you now, though, isn’t it? Brother gone, all torn up inside, looking like this, x-ray inside out. Just you now, carrying the flag. Just as long as you’re strong enough, now. Just so long as you can eat that pressure upBrother stopped dancing and looked right up. The single bulb lit his eyes, hair shorn to the skull, his dirty black eyes lit. -Not like me- Words quiet, feet stilled. No more punches to be thrown. Just the sight of a shot-down body, transparent in the lights. Kids could count the ribs for a lesson, dogs would starve on his bones. In-between bare toes are puncture marks, one to eight.Brother stood below the light now, lit up like a witness and ready to plead. All the body gone and left with the bones, rag-tag and humble. The light showed every bruise and welt, explored every fault, exposed every scar. -Nope, Brother couldn’t eat the pressure, even with all this rage and spite. Got so he was just kindling for the chemicals, same as all the rest. Fallen soldier, rank and file. God-forsaken and a cow-

ard even as he put down every man put before him. Building up his body and tearing it down from the inside out. Preaching to the children and saying fuck you to Jesus with every spike. All those big words and punches, even as he took up with the Fallen. With every punch a trip, with every word a lie. With every victory a sin and every dawn a reckoning. Then Brother got eaten up with the guilt, talking his own warped logic. Saying to the sun there werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t no saviour, only God. Talking his talk until he was all talked out, throat full of blood from all those shots. And a canvas for a bed. Hands bound and the truth between my toes, yes sir! And all those towels thrown in, gleaming white, while I lay punch drunk and gleaming. Swallowed up whole, yes sir!Brother stepped out of the light and behind the bag, interview-confession over. His words rattled like body shots to the gut, one, two, three. For a moment everything stilled, the bag held in its place, strung up and swollen with the noose. Brother hidden and hiding, until the fingers crept like spiders onto the bag. They gripped, the talons creasing the black leather, the body behind swaying and clutching to the body bag for dear life. Brother spent, exhausted, used up now. Words matching the body: ugly, ravaged, truth. Time passed as the fingers clutched deeper, the leather almost tearing. Brother on the verge, the brink, the end. -Tag the bagVoice came, in wheezes and smears. Then a second time, a third. The three words, rising on a crest, over, over, over, until Brother had risen, voice in full command, blood spat out, throat clear. Those three words, an instruction, a prayer, a hope. A Mantra: Tag The Bag. -The feet. The feet, the jab, the ribs. Protect, offence, all the while thinking. Movement in the brain and then the body. All those other, kindling under your fist, bones crushed, hands bloodied, the body trapped and then free-

The body synched up with the words, the words became a prayer, the body a tool. The fist pounded, stopped dead with the bag. But the blow did not shudder the bones; rather the body flexed, adapted and moved around the pressure. Soon the body was working free of thought. Feet moved, arms punctured air, the neck stooped and the shoulders snapped without a command. One gesture rolled into another, the body as water, free. Soon, the words themselves faded out, the dust scuffed up into the air, Brother gone, commands mute, so all that was left was the rock of the joints, the break of sequences blows landing pure and simple as rain. The brow knits and the body was at Atlantis, soaked and showing no signs of stopping, of reprieve. All that was left to follow was the sound and motion of a body in total harmony and flight. Then it is over. The punches ease down, the bag rocks, then steadies. After a time it is still. The indents are deep and creased. Sweat pours onto the floor, a steady drip-drip as sure as blood. The bandages unravel, the knuckles raw and bruised. Slowly, they expand and breathe. The dust all around settles, the basement floor returning to its own filthy state of calm. -Kindling-Brother says behind the bag. All disappeared now, just the bag in the centre of the room. –Kindling under your fist-Brother whispers, the blood returning to the throat, the voice thick and dying. “You down here?” The coaches’ voice launches down the stairwell. As he speaks, the door snaps open, light pouring in. “Kid, you down here?” “I’m down here coach. Just finishing up.” His voice is scratchy, raw. “Kid, how many times I told you not to come down here to train on your own? How many times?” The coach is at the bottom of the stairs now, the light behind him, filling the room.

“What if you fall, injure yourself? Whose gonna tend you?” The coach is trying to scold, but there’s too much warmth in his eyes. “Sorry coach,” he says, looking down to the floor. “You reaching Atlantis again, boy?” He says, pitching the towel to him. He wipes himself down, his eyes clearing. “Something like that coach,” he says. “Food’s up in the centre. The gym’s closing in a half hour. Come up and eat before you sleep, understand?” The old man is back at the foot of the steps, waiting. “I’ll be up. Right up.” He says, looking at the coach directly. That’s enough for him. He climbs the stairs, the trap door closing, the light disappearing. He pats himself down. He looks back to the bag; the indents are still there from each blow. The bag dead, the room empty. He makes his way up the stairs, reaches for the switch at the top. He looks round once, sees Brother moving his feet, fire and all skeleton speed, the three word Mantra rolling off his bloodied tongue. The light snaps off in his finger, leaving ghosts to dance in the dark. Chris Castle is English but works in Greece; He has sent work out this last summer and has been accepted 70odd times. His influences include Ray Carver and PT Anderson.

Cody Winger Innocent Death Experience IF I only knew my consequences Partially breaking Intoxicated glass shards slicing muscle Blackened Humming bird wings Fluttering Out of chest My heart has never been closer to flying Rocking forward Backward Constantly grinding hipbones Into dried beer brown carpets Knocking yellow flakes From non-segregated smoke Stained walls I have never been closer to meeting god People smoking crack Will not risk incarceration For the boy who overdoses at their party I know this Cognitive induced Innocent death experience Placed on mental back burner Cough medicine eating holes Drives unstoppable will of nature home Like my heart was a dirt farm

For an insect to tunnel through Animals will run when frightened Due to natural instinct Drug induced anxiety attack Farthest emotion from natural Sixteen years old Sixteen red pills Dirty stimulant Stolen from grocery store shelf Over the counter high Taken by over the counter naivety Head becomes a television set Eyes become screens Imagine static without black dots Pressed desperately against the insides of your quivering glass cornea Terribly intensified white noise Muffles voices and thoughts Sounds like nails screaming At the end of my tunnel vision Constructs illogical door for death Guides hand towards knob Conventional drugs will kill you too I know this I have never been closer to escape Eight hours later Tunnel vision evaporated Door eroded away by the cool wind That whistles through the fresh holes in my heart Singing in my ear If you only knew your consequences

The Song The Clouds Sing I have always followed the clouds In school they tell you to follow your dreams But most children donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exactly dream of being lawyers People usually pick up that you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t actually be Superman So I follow the clouds In my early teenage years My nose picked up the scent of rain At a Lars Frederiksen and the Bastards show The loud fast music pummeled my brain like the mosh pit did my body I found myself loving bruises So I fashioned a battle shield Made of a sleeveless denim jacket Patches and studs Started reading about anarchy Fascism Active disobedience Thought it would be a good idea To put porno in the school books To forcefully enlighten the nerdy Mormon kids who hung out in the library Shaved my hair into a mohawk Spiked it up daily Wore it proudly Like it was wedding ring A birth right A statement to the world Like fuck the system No matter what we have each other and our anger That will never change We built up unbreakable fists on the insides of our eardrums That beat back the pressures of adolescence We were young and punk rock Did things to piss off security guards just so they would chase us

Vandalized red neck’s cars for being ignorant Refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance at school Because America sucked and we weren’t exactly sure why We just knew that at the show When the music fired everyone up Like the guitarist’s fingers were Mount Olympus And Zeus stood atop their finger tips Shooting lightning bolts like shrapnel Into the crowd Nothing else mattered The day I shaved my mohawk Was the day I stopped following the clouds It’s kind of hard to get a job When people call you freak for being who you are Have you ever heard your identity fall betrayed to the bathroom floor? It sounds like this: You are now obedient You are now permitted We can now acknowledge your personality To be a word spelled with person In my early adult life My nose picked up the scent of rain at a poetry reading The smell so foreign I almost didn’t recognize it Bringing back fond memories of bruises The poetry pummeling my brain like the performances did my body I found myself loving metaphor So I fashioned a battle shield Made of pens and paper

Starting reading about revolution Governments

Effective activism Thought it was a good idea To read poetry with profanity in it To forcefully enlighten the nerdy scene kids who hung out at the coffee shop Got laid off from my job and hit the road Starting reading the brail birthed from the earth Like every bump on the asphalt is a new letter I have pieced together the word freedom Super glued it on the cover page of my long and unfinished journey Met people who shared the same conscious understanding That we are actively disobedient shooting stars In a sky that chooses complacency Like fuck the system No matter what we have each other and our voice That will never change The day I hit the road Was the day I started following the clouds again Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kind of hard to get a job When people call you freak and you completely agree Have you ever heard the song the clouds sing On a seemingly endless road pointing directly to the center of the setting sun? It sounds like this: My boy Welcome home A native of Salt Lake City, Cody has traveled widely in the U.S., performing at venues in North Dakota, Minnesota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. A veteran of the slam scene, he has competed nationally and was the 1st place winner of The Salt Lake City Grand Slam. ÂŠ2010 by Cody Winger

Daniel Romo Conversation Hooded underneath a freeway overpass late-night, Arthur brags in East Los limelight, “I ain’t never been to no college, but I got a MFA in spray,” feverishly shaking the Krylon can relishing the rhythmic ticking tickling his ear, as if readying to empty the psychedelic stream of his 17 year-old psyche onto the parched wall. But if this were a college course, it would be called something like Advanced Appreciation of Our Song: Words White America Doesn’t Want to Hear or Read. The prerequisite—to hurl oneself into a maelstrom of 80’s gangsta’ rap, head bouncing up and down affirming gritty lyrics chronicling real-life ghetto hardships. Nurse a 40 oz. while viewing a 90’s movies marathon where the signature line of each film is, “Either they don’t know, don’t sho’, or just don’t care about what’s goin’ on in the hood.” But to Arthur college is as far off as Iceland, or the distance from his street moniker to Wall Street. A voiceless life of invisibility, just another lamenting Latino held down by The Man with sunny skin and a fat grin destined to a life of leaf-blowing, or laboring in fields adjacent to So Cal freeways picking strawberries for upper class’s cornucopia. But maybe the class is basic Philosophy, or Humanities, as Arthur says, I think 16 ants

are a test from God to see what kind of people we are. Check it. If we expect them to take from us and smash them assuming they’re gonna’ steal our comida, we’re going to Hell. But if we accept them believing they have as much right to the table as we do (especially por que they clean up the mess people leave), Heaven. Except for red ants. Them Mother Fuckers are the devils teeth, before spraying an American flag on the wall, a white stick man in the middle, eyes closed like death, palms compressing ears sealing in status quo, ensuring no bug will ever crawl in.

Smoke and Mirrors “Chisme is the devils’s teeth,” Aunt Lucy told me and my cousins every time she caught us congregated in her garage gossiping about our 6th grade classmates. Aunt Lucy—who formerly worked in Vegas as a “lovely assistant” to David Copperfield (getting sawed in half at the head and hips, disappearing from black boxes with tight lips) once cracked a raw egg on my head when I was nine suffering from a 103 degree fever, mashing it into my scalp with her fists claiming, “The energy from the chicken’s kulo will calm the savory spirits simmering in his soul.” Dientes del Diablo, Mijo. Who once lifted her third husband by the greasy v-neck of his chorizo-stained undershirt (the man we weren’t allowed to talk

about) hurling him down a flight of stairs, then soared from the banister, serrated elbow leading the way like a luchadore unmasked by the foe sprawled semi-conscious, two cracked ribs, and one story below. Who spent Saturday nights guzzling Coronas cursing the TV during heavyweight fights, and Sunday mornings lamenting the loss of her only lover we ever referred to as our uncle; rocking back and forth in the chair he built for her and my cousin who died before we ever met. Who kissed my forehead from her deathbed and simply said, “Don’t believe everything you hear.” Someday during someone’s birthday party, or wedding reception, or funeral, I’ll catch my nieces and nephews huddled together talking about something I got reprimanded for talking about when I was their age. I’ll be the pious Uncle of Profundity voicing sage sentiments— “Hijos. Breadcrumbs are the Lord’s dandruff.” They’ll look at me the way we did Aunt Lucy. As if I waved a magic wand, and pulled a white rabbit from my ass.

Don’t Try to Converse with Me at the Urinal Just let me savor the sound of my overdue pee power-washing the porcelain as if I’m the present day Picasso of piss; bastard descendant of the Sistine Chapel’s envious interior decorator. Stare straight ahead. Keep your eyes focused on the random dot on the chipped tile on the salmon wall enjoying the tickling swish of a translucent wasteful waterfall. Don’t sneak a peek like you did in 3rd grade Heads Up 7-Up. Head resting on forearms looking at the type of shoes from the omniscient pointer finger who crowned your oblivious thumb. Let me urinate in peace, especially if you’re black. I’m not sure if it’s true but I’ve heard about you, or in the very least, seen how you fly from one end of the court to the other: sinewy strands of a million dollar man slam-dunking Spalding through the rim forever transforming suburbia with a look who’s comin’ to dinner mother fuckin’ million dollar MVP championship winner smile. I can only imagine how inadequate you make others feel, baiting them into amazement. Don’t try to converse with me at the urinal. Just let me be. Proud hands wrapped around Mexican me like a lunchtime special burrito from a dirty dive taco stand, releasing a priceless stream of universal manhood. Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He has appeared or has forthcoming poems in Forge, Monkeybicycle, Underground Voices Magazine, The Legendary, and Zygote in My Coffee. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at Peyote Soliloquies ©2010 by Daniel Romo

David P Bates. arrivals an incoming mortar shell & I can’t remember if I’m supposed to run toward the whistle or away from the whistle it punctures the sand beside my sleeping mat & disappears burrowing down into the earth like a self-propelled drill leaving a hole the size of a golf cup & I know it’s slowly churning west now going deeper down below— beneath the floor of the ocean heading for Ohio or maybe Austin & I know that it will arrive bursting at my feet someday in a restaurant my hair too long my face goateed my girlfriend saying I can’t take this anymore it’s like you’re crazy for real & then boom & then nothing

another shell whistles down & disappears into the same damned hole & I suddenly very much want the next one to just kill me already

house w/no street address the woman is yelling & yelling & most of us don’t know what she’s saying & the ones who do don’t care because she just wants to give her husband his cigarettes I’m straddling her husband trying to zip-tie his hands but his hands & wrists are so big I can’t get a single strip all the way around & he keeps moving & I think why am I doing this I’ve already done it— any moment now the LT will get angry because I’m taking too long just tie his fucking hands Bates & in another minute the shouting & scuffle at the edge of the garden children hiding in the shed flashlights in faces & they’ll be yelling & yelling & I’ve already done this— the safe will be empty the man won’t get his cigarettes & the next time we drive by there will be a blanket hung quietly over the gate where we rammed it w/an APC

de-illumination I swing my magic rifle & a mosque explodes & a schoolhouse explodes & Election HQ explodes I gather the children give them each a dog & tell them it’s going to be ok they say fuck you mista & the dogs growl & ghettos explode & mansions explode & streets explode men throw purple chunks of rock & women throw empty propane tanks & the cars lined up at the gas station explode one at a time like firecrackers on a string & the sky explodes & the river explodes & the burned body strung to the bridge barely dangles almost dances & when it’s finally my turn I swear I’m going to bust w/the brightest white I can muster a thousand burning pieces a thousand miles wide I will simply stop where I am............ Photograph © 2010 by Linda Wandt & begin again......................................Poetry © 2010 David P. Bates

Donal Mahoney Priest Instead When she sees him in the morning he’s all foamed up and in the mirror shaving so she stands behind him, saying, “Bill, your father was a ladies’ man– that’s why you have a way with women. Deirdre, you kissed once, light on the lips. Bridget, ah, the melon of her hips you kept inviolate, whole, entire. But since your father was a ladies’ man, you’ll be a priest instead. You’ll never fill a woman, never watch her swell, and she’ll be the better for it, won’t she, Bill.”

Lunatic’s Song I think Jesus knows I’m nuts so why would he arraign me in front of all those saints on high so sane they’ll never see me skipping down the road at dawn and not a soul behind me. Funnel clouds may tear through hell but not the ones inside me. They come and go all on their own as if they can’t abide me. Today they’re off to New Orleans so batten down the hatches. When they return they’ll churn again whirligigs inside me. Yet every day when I get up I know this much for certain: I think Jesus knows I’m nuts so why would he arraign me?

Darfur From shimmering oil of ebony still will come flailing of limbs will come hacking, quick slashing of hands now untied tattooing no pattern not even a maze depriving gray walls of their stone will come spittle wild churning rivers agush from slack jaws of blanching gray hounds till one day at dawn will come quiet Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Calliope Nerve, Opium Poetry 2.0, Rusty Truck and other publications. ÂŠ2010 Donal Mahoney

Justin Wade Thompson Bad Morning came out from a bad dream under the covers where the walls were bleeding and my woman had left for good i see Jackâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face with a loose cigarette dangling from his mouth beneath black eyes like an Indian cold again rain again weeks and months of this Jack left for his drug recovery meetings crawling out of his bunk a thin slit of plywood for a bed like mine too

old coffee and spoiled milk Jack opens a vent in the bathroom before he leaves and smokes his cigarette itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too cold to go outside for something so simple like getting out of bed smoking drinking breakfast anything save dying or not dying or something related to killing this feeling of not living under the blanket under the ply the razor the broken shower head and under the dirt full of deafening worms.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Long Wait for Some the women in line at the store donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pay any more attention to my blood than anything else in this world below stars, beyond the sun, nothing digging change out of the pockets of the near dead apostles of the streets low interest loans and scrap gold, dealers in pawn shops and hustlers on the street in Texas, in Memphis, in New York writing on the skins of their babies on the foreheads and chins raped Indian women burning John-the-conqueror in the corner, by the kitchen sink and nothing, no one, in the television-head that has any soul or song or savory words

to cure the illness and pain of these sweet children of genocide less fortunate souls live somewhere down past the valley or under the rubble of black blood leaking temples fallen into the sea the man on the corner tells me the price of cigarettes seem to be holding i look at the sky and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell the difference between clouds and pavement he looks at the ground and smiles.

Lee Lincecum no more talk of hearts

“I’ll come,” she said, “But you can’t hold my hand. Proper punk-rock decor.” i R.I.P. the phone from my ear because i’ve (hurt?) this before (tie-die my heart, then drop it on the floor) lock my soul in this box, and – trade it for yours? she came from Oklahoma, by way of New York. she said she came to make her fortune, skin like paper, teeth like porcelain. *** i overheard her say that two men tearing each other limb from limb over a woman is evolution at it’s finest then i remembered that she had cats and was relieved i wasn’t one of them *** you’re being weak “No more talk of hearts!” she tells me she really loves trains *** Novice, Texas. Population 142 342 if you count the rattlesnakes (the house is torn down now, and all i can remember about it is that i got stung by a wasp there when i was only six years old) it’s 101 degrees, but my heart still won’t thaw so i watch the explosions alone and forget all about her then the train whistle blows

*** when i think of her now she’s parallel with a northbound train in the back of a van full of rockstars headed for Rochester where there will be no more talk of hearts

“Eye Got A Gun” Mixed media – by Lee Lincecum

too alone a dirty stroll through a lawnmower graveyard usedcarhell sliding across gray streets on a wet, blue morning four birds perched on wires two together two alone - too alone that’s me down there in the gutter pissing my secrets into the ocean crushed butterfly on the sidewalk i was also beautiful before i was dead.

“Boredom Is Fatal” Photograph – by Lee Lincecum

Mather Schneider RIDING OUR BICYCLES CROSS COUNTRY, 18 YEARS OLD We discovered each area of the country had its own brand of roadkill. In Illinois it was possums and raccoons. As we went into the Ozarks we saw a ton of skunks and also many poor little turtles. In Oklahoma we saw a lot of rabbits and in Texas it was armadillos, that armor no match for the Peterbuilts or even the Festivas. Over in New Mexico and Arizona there were a lot of lizards and snakes who just couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t resist the night ether coming off the asphalt. By the time we got to California and the Mojave Desert we were feeling like roadkill ourselves, could easily imagine lying down and never getting up, or getting creamed by some motorist obsessed with his tapedeck. But we made it to the beach in the valley, and we ran down to the water and slipped our Illinois toes into that wet dream. We smiled and thought we had arrived somewhere, thought we had discovered something new and different. But in the morning when the tide went out there was a line of dead fish stinking all the way to Canada.

1324 N. LANA HILLS DRIVE Sorry if I stink, he said, I wear a colostomy bag and they gave me the wrong liners last time. I don’t smell anything, I lied, as I pulled my cab out of the wide smooth driveway twisting away from the huge millionaire’s house on the little hill on the west side of town. It’s my mother’s house, he said, I’m living with her because I’m dying. He was around fifty. She’s a bitch, he said, rich people are all fucked up. I just want a small room with a computer and enough money for food. I want to start eating good, he said. I took him to the store where he got a gallon of milk and colostomy liners. He chugged the milk on the way home leaving white foam around his mouth. When I stopped the cab inside the pearly gates he thanked me, paid, got out and went back in the house. It’s a huge, beautiful house. I had 34 always wondered who lived there.

PITY THE NON ARTISTE A lot of poets and artsy people refer to themselves as “artistes”. I don’t know if that is Spanish or what. Often they will describe themselves like this: “Mad gadfly of the spiritual horizon with a thirst for knowledge and a life force that will not be quelled.” This “hunger for knowledge” that they speak of is the funniest part, because they always seem kind of stupid and dull, and above all, content. One of these people wrote me the other day and I told him I wasn’t interested in his conversation about poetry, which included his advice that I need to spend more time on craft. He said, “One of the things I like most about being an artiste is talking about art it seems like you don’t get much joy out of being a poet and I feel sorry for you..” Too bad pity doesn’t pay la rente. ©2010 by Mather Schneider

Matt Dobbs The Hindu Kush Broken dreams screaming cerebration tie me to my convictions of yesteryear shattered illusion of stalwart foundation reaching across the chasm of history The ancient Earth under the sole of my boot as indomitable as a Macedonian phalanx as weakened as a routed charge Sealed in the timeworn mountains is the blood of invaders feeding nutrients to violet blooms cracked creaking fortress walls nothing is strong enough to survive Illuminated nights only by stars labour the pale pin light hewn sky giving the ancestors magic and belief Orion’s scowl and the night highway sorrow and fears only real companions Stirring Zenith of a handful of years blood not forgotten through so many tears a Cyclone blowing urging action perceptions change the mountains stay the same Matt Dobbs isn’t paid to care, he is paid to fuck shit up. ©2010 by Matt Dobbs

Mike Meraz Smoking click, something lights, it is not your cigarette your brain chews on loneliness your heart breaks for love smoke fills the room, it is not your cigarette.

Ed Gein some of the sanest places are the cities take away the lights and cameras the hustle and bustle of the big town and all you have are loneliness, fields and farmlands the perfect place for murder. Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry BlackListed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Mike Meraz – Prose Talking To A Girl For A Short Time In A Very Private Place I told her, “I think I have Assburgers.” “Assburgers? What’s that?” “It’s high functioning autism. I often feel that way, that I am in my own little bubble and when I’m talking to people I am not really conversing with them but watching them speak. And there is a point where I shut down and can’t say a word.” “But you’re fine, completely normal.” “I know,” I said, “but after a period of time, if you put me in a social situation, I think I would go nuts.” “Nuts?” “Yeah, nuts.” “Is that why you’re often alone and can’t survive in a normal relationship?” “I think so, or else I am difficult, selfish, and self-absorbed?” “But you don’t seem that way, I mean, you’re a really nice guy, except you’re private.” “Well, like I said, if you put me in a room with ten people for a long period of time, I think I would go nuts and turn mean and vulgar.”

“Well, you’re either autistic or an asshole, and I don’t think it’s the latter.” “I have guilt problems as well.” “Guilt?” “Yeah, from ignoring people, and avoiding people so much. I really like people, but need space from them.” “Have you ever sought help?” “No.” “Maybe you should.“ “Well, it’s not that difficult, I have managed this far and have adjusted so as my life is somewhat fulfilling. I wish I could find someone who understands though.” “I understand.” “Thank you.” Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry BlackListed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Nemo Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A Self-Preservation Thing the blank spot, in my head. its safe there. i feel nothing. its safe. blank. dark. vast. a crowded nothing, no room to feel. its nice. when i come out, i step over corpses, lakes of blood, a graveyard of memories. i dont like it. years of ignoring the dead, pretenting. i live in the blank. i dont leave. its safe. the blank spot, where i live. i dont leave. Nemo prefers to keep her identity anonymous.

P.A.Levy Dogs Don’t Shit In Heaven forest gate is just a state of mind e7 might rhyme with heaven but it’s not yer perfect afterlife there’s roads and roads of terrace houses cracked pavements soggy litter in gutters and dog shit dogs don’t shit in heaven forest gate is just a state of mind e7 might rhyme with heaven but the e doesn’t stand for ecstasy there’s pubs spewing the songs of drunks crack houses and tower block highs smack heads bleed with sunken eyes watching for old bill that stop and search old bill don’t stop and search in heaven forest gate is my state of mind where e7 does rhyme with heaven watching west ham on a saturday afternoon bubbles sending shivers down yer spine and the terrace chants from the old north bank still echo as billy bonds and other boyhood heroes step out onto the hallowed turf and we would echo that over west ham park kick about twenty aside but step into dog shit on the grass dogs don’t shit in heaven

b[LOW] Boredom rich council e[STATE]s barbed w[IRE] cuts watch over us wide angle eyes p[ROSE]cute trespassers who on b[END]ed knees cruci[FIX] opiates mass masses [MASS]ive play fol[LOW] the leader [BLEED]er from Scunthorpe sin city sinners [SIN]cerely

Snapshot of Our Comet Crumbling climbing clouds leaving footprints in the sky limping from star to dying sun on scolded soles memoryâ&#x20AC;Ś come tea and spoon some sympathy your image slowly passing

lost in cirrostratus last seen in the rain in photoshop shape shifter as if you never existed graduating far into the distance to become the background magic cloned leaving only a condensation of breath like gilded tears in a coma Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and many stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk

Paul Handley Street Dreams I can’t sleep without chaos. You may think I’m a liar, and it’s just the sounds of the city, but I know what I’m hearing and you don’t. Those Hypnos killer intervals are anxiety, hallucinations, cold strategy, slowly being washed into home drains waiting for the disposal to puree them into the mix that washes out onto the street, where it splatters the feet of all. Spores have already swept down by suck holes created by accelerating cars and open windows to name two, swirling the blocks where I live, settling upon hairlines, lobes, anything exposed and creating a welcoming predisposition to the direction provided by the street puree. An unseen process, in its en bloc constants, slams like concussive breakers onto small boats trapped by their moorings in the bay. A power scooter rattles from its home, onto the expiring ramp, a slight sway at the midway point that is least supported, down the uneven wood, ratcheting down the next to last plank like being pulled by a drag chain on a roller coaster up the lift hill or onto the back of a tow truck. She’s headed to Vaughn’s for milk and cheroots. A dip has gathered black water and a wheel splashes drainage onto her slipped socks at the ankle and even touches above, an unwelcome coldness on her mottled skin. A sudden diversion down a neglected side walk with weeds growing in the cracks and brittle cement from resilient roots pushing like insurgents that get brutalized at every push, but slowly extend a tendril in an opening until infiltrations leaves those in power on shaky ground.

Playing the victim that’s been kissing the fish pipe comes natural.

Only visible feet extended just beyond an unlocked dumpster. A dog sniffs her thigh covered sweats that linger with the essence of pee and is whacked with her back-up extendable cane. The whimper starts me on a languid roll. Earlier I shut my eyes after a hearing play/real argument over whose turn to buy escalates three notches and drops down one and a half. The sun warms her face as she distractedly hears malice arrive. “Hey, you need anything?” he asks. Only to receive a dazed look with a moan in return. As he gingerly pats her down, strong arms that are well developed from years of spongy legs suddenly pulls him into her. Their stink meets in the middle and coagulates into atom smashed dust. Violence done, he falls on top of her and she pushes him onto the ground, his jaw clacking off an armrest. She scoots home higher than on a whole pack of cheroots. I fall asleep to moans interspersed with bass from passing cars. I know I am home and everyone wants to be home. Shouldn’t they? Paul is the groundskeeper at Ritter’s Point on the weekends where he makes sure the lighthouse functions, clears away tourist debris and once cared for a deserted baby sea lion until it was old enough to fend for itself. During the week he is a fluffer in the old-fashioned sense for legitimate film.

Stephen Jarrell Williams BREAKING THE HOURGLASS We slaughter ourselves wickedly in the everyday breath of living, the world groaning deeper as the seconds tick doom down, we call answering all the seductive lies going on with the keeping on, line after line over the line almost believing there is something better than ourselves, we continually trip picking ourselves up into a slump drooling in the broken glass, our time is up.

DEAR GOD Our music is just about done. Snuff us out and never start again. We were a failure. Orâ&#x20AC;Ś Did we ever have a chance? Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared here and there and in-betweenâ&#x20AC;Ś

Steve Calamars an office romance—

Kalib Matthews sits at his small sparse cubicle after lunch. He removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. He then pokes his head out and spies on the girl four cubicles down. Rebecca Black is starring at a computer screen and typing-up a report. She’s an Italian girl with short brown modern hair, cat glasses and sad green eyes. She doesn’t see Kalib. He smiles to himself and hides back behind the walls of his cubicle. He begins unbuttoning his shirt-sleeves and rolling them up high near the shoulder. He extends his left arm first, exposing a rather large bulbous bicep. Kalib squeezes the muscle gently and opens a drawer in his desk. He removes a letter-opener with his right hand and makes a fist with his left. He then stabs himself high in the left bicep, just below the shoulder and begins cutting down to the elbow. He moves the letter-opener with a constant, controlled amount of force. After the cut is complete, Kalib sets the letter-opener down and wipes away the blood with thin sheets of white Kleenex. He drops the wet red clumps of tissue into the waste basket beneath his desk. Kalib then slips his fingers inside the cut and grips something soft, moist and gelatinous. He pulls out a Colgate-green jellyfish with long purple tentacles. Kalib sets it down on his desk. It pumps like a heart. There is a small puncture hole in the top of the body. Kalib spots it and knows that his cut was not as precise as he initially believed. He opens another drawer in his desk and removes a roll of clear tape. He then tears off a piece and places it over the puncture hole, in effect patching the leak. The jellyfish quits beating like a heart. It quickly inflates like a balloon and begins rising toward the ceiling. Kalib snatches it by the tentacles. He ties them in a loose bow around the handle of the coffee cup sitting on his desk, filled with

pens and mechanical pencils. He then opens another drawer and removes a stapler. Kalib staples the cut in his bicep closed. He applies sticks of clear tape as well, and a few large red rubber-bands around his upper arm. He wipes away any remaining blood with a Kleenex and rolls his shirt-sleeve back down. He fastens the buttons at the wrist and picks the letter-opener back up. Kalib then proceeds to cut his right bicep open. He cuts from just beneath the shoulder, down to the elbow again. He reaches inside the cut and pulls out another Colgate-green jellyfish. The cut is clean this time and the jellyfish starts floating up. Kalib quickly ties it to the coffee cup beside the other. He smiles to himself and wipes away blood. He picks up the stapler and closes the second cut. He puts on more stitches of tape and squeezes on more rubber-bands. He then rolls his shirt-sleeve back down and fastens the buttons. Kalib tears off a post-it note from a bright yellow pad. He writes in black ink, “Dinner tonight, after work, your choice.” He then removes his jacket from the back of his chair and slips it on. Kalib straightens his tie and checks his reflection in the blank computer screen. He pokes his head out of his cubicle and looks over for Rebecca. She is not at her desk, but her computer screen is still on. Kalib picks up the post-it note and unties the jellyfish. He carries them like a small bouquet of balloons over to her desk. He ties them to the back of her chair and sticks the post-it note to her keyboard. He quickly hurries back to his cubicle and turns on his computer. After a few minutes he sticks his head back out. Rebecca is playing with the jellyfish. She looks over at him and blushes. Kalib looks at the ground immediately and then back up at her. She nods, smiles and mouths, “OK.” Kalib grins, nods and ducks back into his cubicle. He smiles to himself. His palms are sweating and his chest is warm. He looks over at the clock on his desk. He still has 3 ½ hours.

He still smiles. He moves his mouse across the computer screen and clicks on an icon. Kalib will proof-read a report on market trends and send it to the Accounting Department for approval. He will allow Rebecca to pick the place for dinner tonight. He smiles to himself and hopes that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Korean. (previously published @ Leaf Garden Issue #5 in pdf format) Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. He has a B.A. in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. The stuff he writes can be found (or will be found) in bottle rockets, Chiron Review, Harpur Palate, Mighty Mercury, Gutter Eloquence, Zygote in My Coffee and other places he wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bore you with. His first poetry chapbook, American Violence, will be released April 2010 from New Polish Beat. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. He blogs at http:// dirtywordsoncleanliving.blogspot.com/