male

pale

and old

16 Outstanding Men
of the Small Press
male, pale, and old
16 Outstanding Men
of the Small Press
words from the editor

Sometime last year, just a bit before I began this project, I took a Women’s Studies
course called ‘Women of Color in the United States’. I enjoy Women’s Studies. So
much so, I considered majoring in it. However, one day in class, I was listening to an-
other woman describe the professor from our mutual ‘Literature of Genocide’ class.
The professor of this class was of Armenian descent, his parents having survived
the Armenian genocide of the early 1900’s by immigrating to the United States. He
taught the class in old school lecture format. However, he was a wealth of knowl-
edge and an expert in his field. The class, in my opinion, was interesting, moving
and informative. But, when describing this class and the instructor to the rest of our
Women’s Studies class, she told them the professor was your typical ‘male, pale,
and old’. I was offended by this. In a class geared toward emphasizing tolerance,
how could someone feel comfortable using such a phrase? Why did she feel okay
using such a generalization in a class which is supposed to be about breaking down
generalizations? It got me thinking that it is sad that sometimes in our quest to bring
awarness and tolerance to all people of the world, some of us are adopting the same
small mindedness we would not accept were it directed at a minority or feminine
gender. I chose to call the female version of this project, ‘Don’t Call Me Plath’ becu-
ase I noticed that often women writers are compared with the first famous female
writer that comes to mind. I chose Sylvia Plath because who hasn’t had her work
compared to Sylvia’s even if it is nothing alike? I chose to call this project ‘Male,
Pale, and Old’ to attack that same kind of easy stereotype. I think we’ve come to a
time where it’s important to remember that just because someone is a white male,
it doesn’t mean that they have automatically had an easier life. People’s lives are
what they are. Some of the people in my life who I know to have suffered the most
are white men. To group them all into one category is to lose something of value,
mainly valid stories and experiences of those who have seen the world through their
eyes and experiences as could only be relayed through their unique perspective. The
men in this project, while all male, some pale and a few, if not old, perhaps middle
aged, have a lot to offer. Their writing tells their stories, as well as the stories of
their loved ones, all infused with the twists, turns and sometimes frightening depths
of their imaginations. Therefore, it is with the greatest pride I give you ‘Male, Pale,
and old - Sixteen Outstanding Men of the Small Press’.

5
Jenifer Wills wishes to thank Father Luke, Mr. Lally and Sana Rafiq for their
tireless efforts at LiteraryMary. Without their support, sense of humor, love and
loyalty, the website and it’s publications would cease to exist. Special thanks to
Sana Rafiq for proofreading skills, always. xxx

Cover photo by Cynthia Etheridge, whose photos have appeared in a variety of

small press publications, including a joint chapbook of photos and poetry with
Luis C. Berriozabal and Christopher Cunningham called Overcome from Kendra
Steiner Editions, as well as on the covers of several of Christopher Cunningham’s
chapbooks.
table of contents
justin.barrett p. 8-13
Harry Calhoun (Afternooon Reverie: Yardwork and p. 14-19
Napping originally putlished in The Black Dog and
the Road, Dimuendo Press, 2010. Johannesburg
orginally published in Orange Room Review and the
chapbook Near daybreak, with a nod to Frost, Propa-
ganda Press, 2010.
Christopher Cunningham p. 20-25
Danny Fahey p. 26-31
Dr Zen p. 32-37
Father Luke p. 38-47
Jeff Fleming p. 48-51
Nathan Graziano p. 52-57
Stephen Hines (In This Field First Published by p. 58-67
Bottle of Smoke Press)
Mr. Lally p. 68-71
Hosho McCreesh p. 72-81
McGuire p. 82-87
David McLean p. 88-91
Patrick Nathan p. 92-101
William Taylor Jr. p. 102-107
Vincent Turner p. 108-113
justin.barrett
currently reading:

Proust and the Squid by Maryanne Wolf

The Canticles of Leibowitz by Walter Miller
On Writing by Stephen King
Poor People by William T. Vollmann

why:

These books were next up on my humongous stack

of books to read. I read, often, 3 to 4 books at a time,
usually a good mix of non-fiction and fiction. The next
few books include Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac,
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by
Michael Chabon, The Genle Axe by R.N. Morris, The
Conjurer’s Bird by Martin Davies, and Reading the
OED by Ammon Shea.

where do I live:

I live in South Jordan, Utah, a suburb of Salt Lake City. I’ve lived here 9 and a half years. My
father was in the Army until I was 17, so we moved around quite a bit. Utah is no worse than
any other place I’ve lived, and better than most.

what do I do for a living:

I work as an analytical chemist for a pharmaceutical company’s Research and Development

department. My official title is “Scientist III” but that means little to anyone but our Human
Resources department. Basically, I develop and validate new procedures to test novel drug
compounds to ensure that we are able to test said compounds for purity, quality, identity, and
stability purposes. It’s all quite boring.

how long I have been writing:

It’s been well over 15 years since I started taking my writing seriously. I was in college. I had
written prior to that, but didn’t really consider doing it seriously until my sophomore year in
college. My first published poem happened in 1996. I was 23, had just graduated from college,
and was well on my way towards obscurity.

am I married:

Yes. We just celebrated our 10th anniversary, though we’ve been together for over 18 years.
8
the bends
i rise quickly through
your
murky waters

guided by crooks
of moonlight

and surface from

your abyss

gasping for a
breath held one
beat too long

i emerge drunk and

light-headed

intoxicated
with you

rivulets of your
essence dripping
off my skin

your liquor
pulsing through
my veins

o lord, how i
have missed you

9
 Driving in Silence
A waning, gibbous moon
Winces behind a halo
Of fog in the eastern sky
As we leave the hospital’s
Parking garage
Turning south onto the freeway.

She doesn’t want

The radio on,
So we sit in the white-noised
Silence of a car
Going 70 mph:
The sibilance of the wind
And the drone
Of the engine enveloping us.

I don’t know what

To say.
Should I
Mention the ingot
Of fear
In my stomach,
Or should I just
Continue driving
In silence?

I downshift
As the car
Moves from the off-ramp
To the frontage road,
The transmission mewing
Under the strain.

The moon is
In the rearview
Mirror as we head west,
Towards home; two cones
Of light illuminating
The dusty road
In front of us.
10
She grabs my hand
As I shift
Into fourth gear.

I decide that driving

In silence
Is best.

in the parking lot of

an abandoned grocery
store
the blue glass
of a broken bottle

a battered, dismembered wheel

of a grocery cart

two pigeons at
the far end pecking at the
barren ground

a lamp post

and the two of

us watching the shadows
of our lives
grow longer and
wider across the
abandoned
parking
lot

11
 “As a big game hunter, and professional soldier--I’ll be honest--barrett is 2nd tier. 3rd even. He’s
every bit as beady-eyed and lanky as photos would suggest. As a poker player, he’s never too far out
on a limb--which hurts him, but only a little. As a guy you could walk to gas stations in Wendover,
Nevada with--desperate for a decent sixer; or as a guy who can learn you somethin’ about geologi-
cal striations--he’s aces. When it comes to a great many things--both unimportant, and things that
might matter--he’s all but stopped giving a shit. That includes poetry...sometimes. I find that refresh-
ing. Not because it’s ‘cool’ to not care about things, but because it’s honest. I know justin.barrett
and my life is better for it. I want to say that again, because it might’ve been lost in the saying: I
know Justin, and my life is much better for it. And while he may or may not be writing, and while he
may or may not be writing about himself--it’s every bit the guy I know...wry, sharp, nerdy, kind, it’s
organized, and scientifically constructed, it’s subtle yet refuses complication, and it’s pure of heart--
even while most of it is trapped in an outrageous lie. Basically, it’s vintage /Chariot/.”

-Hosho McCreesh

horshoe
by justin.barrett

12
 boat by justin.barrett

Contact justin.barrett:

www.justinbarrett.com
13
Harry Calhoun
Life has taken me to some pretty interesting places, and I like to
think that I’ve taken it for a ride too. At Penn State, it took me
so long to graduate that my advisor sat me down — as he held
the shot of Scotch that I would always smuggle into our meet-
ings — and proclaimed, “Mr. Calhoun, I would advise you to try
to graduate this term. If you stay here much longer, they’re going
to offer you tenure.” It was the best decade of my life until now.

After that, I knocked around tending bar. I always had this writ-
ing thing going on, but I just couldn’t seem to find my niche. It
certainly wasn’t fiction. Then I remembered some of the poetry,
most of it pretty atrocious, that I wrote in my teens and early
20s. I decided what the hell, I’d try writing poems. I have a short
attention span and poems are short, right? For good measure and
to generate a few bucks, I started trying to write and sell articles.

To my surprise if not downright amazement, I was pretty good

at it and I managed to sell quite a few to supplement my bar-
tending. The poems started getting published in little magazines with names like Taurus, Poetic Jus-
tice, Abbey and many others. Most you’ve never heard of and few are still around today, Abbey being
a notable exception. It was during this time that I started Pig in a Poke Press, publishing poetry on a
shoestring called my meager wages.

I got a job writing resumes, then one as an editor and finally, in 1985, I took the first of what was to
be a career of marketing writing jobs. It was that same year that Pig in a Poke Press published “then I
gave up and started drinking heavily,” a volume of Charles Bukowski’s poetry. In addition to Buk, Pig
in a Poke Press published work by Ann Menebroker, Gerald Costanzo, Lyn Lifshin, Jim Daniels, Lous
McKee and many others. I got to play softball and drink beer with Daniels and struck up a correspon-
dence with Bukowski.

I had four or five chapbooks published in the ‘80s and early ‘90s, but I was doing a lot more marketing
writing than poetry in the late 90s and the 21st century. Then my mom passed away in 2007, which trig-
gered a resurgence of my interest in poetry. And here I am. My third wife, whom I married in 2004 and
my black Labrador Alex, who became my friend in 2007, accompany me. It’s a good life and now I can
say:

Harry Calhoun’s articles, literary essays and poems have appeared in magazines including Writer’s
Digest and The National Enquirer. Check out his trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a
rare leaf, the recently published The Black Dog and the Road and his chapbook, Something Real. He’s
had recent publications in Chiron Review, Chiaroscuro, Orange Room Review, The Centrifugal Eye,
Monongahela Review and many others. He is the editor of Pig in a Poke magazine. Find out more at
http://harrycalhoun.net.

14
Johannesburg
I read that Johannesburg is the world’s largest city
not on a river, lake or ocean. That’s what I read.
Water is important. But what I know for sure

is that my grandmother could not drink water

just before she died and I remember feeding her
ice. My mother, well, she died like a vapor

before I could even feed her goodbye.

My father anointed his dry mouth with a swab
dipped in water the night before he passed.

And I wake up and reach for the bottle

on the nightstand and just before
the water passes my lips a thousand thoughts

enter my mind and I drink anyway,

thirsty, but what choice do we have, really,
but to stay close to water

for as long as we can

15
 ‘Sometimes we float through somber memories that leave us uneasy, wres-
tling with soft spoken demons that seem more like old friends than night-
mares. Then, in a few lines we find ourselves scratching behind the ear of
man’s best friend, at ease with the world. It is this mixture of light and dark,
ease and unease, now and then, that keep you moving through Mr. Cal-
houn’s world.’

-Rusty Arquette, writer and reviewer, reviewing I knew Bukowski like you
knew a rare leaf

16
Rainy Pre-Snow Poem
for My Father
The rain has slipped like a loosened knot
unleashing itself all day, the constant slap
in your face, carrying groceries to the car

behind glasses splashed blind with rain.

And I won’t see the snow coming in tonight
like I didn’t see your death coming

it must have been kind and quiet, I like to think,

like I mostly saw you, like the silent flakes
will be tonight, and I hope tomorrow.

But I’ll have a blanket of snow harbored in my yard,

a layer of cool, quiet recollection of you.
I will go walk in it. I will remember it

when it is long melted, remember you

until remembrance

is no more.

17
 Afternoon Reverie:
Yardwork and Napping
But I never woke up

to anything like the peace I slept in that day

waking to a bier lined with delicate begonia blossoms
or a bier strong and hop-dominated
delicious with life and sloppy with drunken flowers
opened the shed outside filled with tools
and old flowerpot memories of earth and a nest of hornets

attracted to sweet rot but mercifully inaccurate in their stinging

journeyed out as if on crusade to enflower
this whirling ball of atmosphere with deathbed begonias
marigolds and mums, trying to invent a word
for how the hardy perennials steam loose
from spring ground like a soul sprung free

to amniotic ocean and infant’s cry

a corsage of baby’s breath chrysanthemum-crested
and perfectly pretty as a prom memory and every day
mind you has been as fragile and baby pink
and alive as a coral reef and every day
I set sail on the crusade with everyone

set as a hen on a steady egg but the eye

wanders to all the flowery colors
lazy as the sunsets paint the life
in portraiture locked in for as long as we know
there has been liquor on my breath in the morning
the summer of youth in my soul in the afternoon

night-blooming jasmine wafting through my waking middle age

every day every moment I remember
the peace of a nap the epiphany of waking
this, this, this 22 thousand times over and over
and I believe I will see it written on my tombstone

I lay down on the goldenest of sunny afternoons

18
Right: Harry and Trina
Below: Harry and Alex

Contact Harry Calhoun:

HarryC13@aol.com
http://www.harrycalhoun.net
19
Christopher
Cunningham
Christopher Cunningham was born. He spit up a lot,
then later crawled. In 1990 he met Cynthia. Still later,
he wrote some poems and published some books.
Also, he has two dogs. And a small farm. He can be
found at http://savageheavens.blogspot.com.

20
The Happiest Couple
in the World
nobody hears from them
very much,
and nobody can say
exactly where they live,
and nobody can get them
on the phone
even if they have
their number,
and
nobody can tell you
too much about
what they do for a living
and
nobody ever visits
them and hasn’t had
dinner with them
at any restaurant
anywhere
and nobody
can remember
the last time
they saw either of those
two
strange motherfuckers,
really.

they
are the happiest
couple
in the world.

21
 The Mailbox
“I don’t believe in writer’s block,” he told her.

They were sitting at the table in their kitchen. Sunshine slipped thru the barely parted curtains and
climbed across the empty breakfast plates. He looked at her when she didn’t say anything.

“I know you think I have it, but I don’t.”

She was picking at a crust of toast drying on a napkin.

“I never said anything like that and you know it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to say it. It’s all over your face.” He scratched his nose. “I can finish
that fucking book.”

“I know you can.”

“Bullshit. You lost faith in me a long time ago.”

“No, you lost faith in you.”

He bristled.

“What do you know about it?”

“I watch you, I listen to you, I remember how you used to be.” She stood up and carried her plate
and empty glass to the sink. Dropped them in. Ran some water. “You used to smile. Now you
don’t.”

He picked up her napkin and the crusts and the crumbs and the rest of it. She stepped out of the
way. He finished clearing the table as she watched him.

“Well, so what? Who cares if I smile or not?”

“It’s symbolic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You think ‘smiling’ is my problem?”

“No.”

“Well, what the fuck are you talking about then?”

“People who are happy smile. You don’t.” continued...

22
“Bullshit, I smile. Watch.”

His twisted his lips into an echo of a smile. His cheeks wrinkled with effort. He showed her his
teeth.

“Wow. That was terrible.”

He made a sound almost like a laugh.

“You used to really laugh,” she said. “There was a light.”

He scowled. Light, he thought. How ridiculous. He didn’t remember any light.

“Whatever. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. We got some shit to take care of, you
know.”

“I know.”

He headed down the hallway to the bathroom. She heard the door close and water pour into the
tub. She parted the curtains and stared out into the yard. She listened to the sounds coming from
the shower. She could hear the pattern of drops change as he moved around. She thought about the
day ahead, how it was just exactly like so many other days.

After a while, the water stopped. In the silence, she could hear birds calling outside. She walked
over to the front door and looked thru the screen. Out by the mailbox she could see a murder of
crows digging in the grass and hanging from the trees like dark ornaments. They shined in the
morning sun, barking at each other as they worked.

Then, one by one, they flew away.

23
 “What can I say about Christopher Cunningham that he hasn’t already said himself? The
small press is overflowing with his shameless self-praise, so honestly, I don’t know what I
could possibly add. Except to say that Cunningham is not a man of this time. I see through
him. He is a wounded man, though he would never admit as much. I know it is true though,
because I can feel the bones breaking when I read his lines. I can feel his soul burning with
the kind of blind pain that leads to his kind of wondering. His kind of dissatisfaction and
longing. I know he is a genuine man, the kind they don’t make anymore. The kind who can
lift you up with a few words, then bring you down in a spiraling nosedive with a few more.
He is not a casual writer or a follower of fashion. He is not fucking around. He is every-
thing that many of us can only strive to be: a true original. There are only a handful of them
out there. So pay attention to his words. It’s the sound of everything, if you have the guts to
listen.”

-mjp, bukowski.net

24
Raccoons
in the mountains
there are many
of them
dead
on the side
of the road.

they seem to
outnumber
the other
tragic
road kill
accumulating
with unfortunate
regularity.

what is it
they seek
in the screaming darkness
peppered with
brilliant
interruptions
of illumination?

what can
only be found
upon
that deadly
altar?

is it
hope
faith
or instinct that moves them?

answers
we all
could use,
if
there were
any. Contact Chris Cunningham:
http://savageheavens.blogspot.com
25
Danny Fahey
I am a husband, a father and teach drama to overseas
students wanting to study at Melbourne University. It
is a brilliant job for many reasons, one of which, and
the one most relevant here, is that it gives me plenty
of time to write. If I am not with my family and/or
friends and not teaching then I am usually writing or
reading (often about writing) although I have been
known to attempt to paint abstract splatters. Poetry is
my choice. I am suited to its short span of words. My
tendency is to use far too many words. Poetry de-
mands I cut the crap and get to the point. Poetry also
suits my head where the words first begin. I do not see
words (and so my spelling is often atrocious) I just get
a feeling and the words come from that. Often words
have an association of colour and shape – sometimes
this works really well but it can also get me into
strange waters. The meaning of some words just do
not feel right to me and I am forever using them incorrectly. After the initial burst of words I
whittle and whittle and whittle until the shape and flow of the poem emerges. Read my poems
and you’ll see I still have a way to go – that’s the fun of poetry. I try to read as many poems and
a favourite poem of mine is The Language Issue by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill.

I also write short stories but not very often and have two completed novels I am supposed to
be re-writing for their final edits but whenever I start to edit another poem pops into my head.
Poems start from what I am reading, seeing or hearing. I find it important to be reading poems
if I want to write them. I guess its like being a musician. Several poems have been published,
my first poem was published in an anthology of street poetry way back in 1985 and led to me
spending several years performing in streets and cafes and bars. I still read but nowadays I
work more on the written poem than the performance poem. To me, they are two different crea-
tures, related and separate. I also enjoy gardening, riding my bike and football (AFL). I support
Carlton and write a weekly column for the club’s official website.

My main goal at the moment is to try and get a collection of poems published. It appears to be
a rather difficult task and so I keep trying to improve. I cut my own hair – have for many years.
I think that is an important piece of information.

26
The light on the tips
of ripples as they move
outward
Kafka
named it the frozen sea -
for me
it is a lake.

In the heat
sound, mind and paper
generate

its waters
cannot freeze over.

27
 The Language of
Hermit Crabs
I

is

the sound of a shell as it scrapes across sand.

The shells began as building blocks but water, sand

and rolling waves wove them into patterns
passed down in a free fall via animals lost
before crabs discovered the empty cave
and retreated to draw shadows on calcium walls.

II

I sit on the sand on Phu Quoc - you

and the children on a boat whose light I can see
offshore between here and the Vietnam mainland.

The mouth is a poor instrument - hermits

crawl inside, wriggle, demons
trying on flesh again. Beneath the howl of ocean
crab voices whisper alternative continents
to the world of sand.

28
III

It began soundly.
The first shell was cozy, the sand
barely a hindrance: shells accumulate –
no longer fit, must be discarded.

Under the moon, tired

of the huddled pantheon, or perhaps
having read Plato once too many times,
the hermits emerge, scuttle
before the waves and my bare feet, scribble
sand script with the twirled point of their heavy shells.

IV

The words I spoke echo within.

I wait for the the morning
to hide my footsteps and sentences.

29
 “Danny writes with an assured hand, drawing on his knowledge of litera-
ture and his own personal history, to create poems which give a unique
slant on the world.”

-Mr. Lally

30
Herakles’ first labour
The women swaddled me,
left me at his door and washed their hands
of the affair.

Five days, father, before

you held me - five hot days and five cold nights
when I threw my arms and kicked my feet until
my mighty biceps ached and my sacred thighs quivered;
you wrote, drank, ate, threw the occasional thunder bolt
and I waited, wailed,
fed mightily on mother’s breast

then you held me in your arms

and walked around the hearth,
shouted at me
as if to scare me into life.

In your eyes I saw the cosmos, father,

and the waters the final boat crosses,
the sickle also, dwelling at the edge -
between the brown iris and your sclera,

almost it seemed a boat, I watched it row

towards me, from the canals of sclemm, the salt water filled
with cuttlefish and polyp.

Above your head the olive branch

offered peace between us.

I breathed in your scent

and awaited the name your thick, cracked lips
would bestow.

Your calloused hands on my back

made me feel

as if I was a lyre filled with music

and on the tenth day

you named me Alcides, presented me
to your brother and sister gods and gave me back
to the breast and the soft hope Contact Danny Fahey:

one day you would welcome me back. dbfahey@bigpond.com

31
Dr Zen
Sometimes, mostly, I hate him. Hate is less painful than pity. His cynicism, timidity and fear
are corrosive, they have rusted away my life. I know you’ll say, you cannot blame him, he is
just the product of chemistry and nurture, but if I didn’t believe he was better than that... well,
it doesn’t bear thinking about. Some of the time, all that keeps me alive is the belief that within
him is a small piece, vanishingly small, of something golden.

If I could have loved him, I would have done more for him, but I didn’t find him loveable. And
that has made him a drain for the love of others, a needy whining child who needs reminding
constantly that he matters, believing that he will fade away if he doesn’t have it.

It’s one of the hardest lessons in life to learn that deserts don’t matter, that people do not do
what is fair, or even what is compassionate; they do what works for them. If that means you are
trampled and broken, well, it’s you that is shattered. And he is no more equitable than others in
how he is to them. How can he say he is?

I stopped caring about him when the person he needed the most stopped caring about him.
(And we did stop caring about him, although we may protest otherwise, because another lesson
we learn in life is that nurture is more about giving what someone needs than about giving what
you want to give: I hate him more than anything for his pretence that the latter is often enough
the former, and for his hurt when others react as they surely must when it is not. As in so many
other things, I hate him not for lack of sensitivity, but for his willingness to ignore what he
is sensible of because it is too hard, or he cannot gain from it.) But it is very hard not to care
about someone you are intimate with (it is so much easier if you can keep them absent). Slowly,
contempt fills the cracks that love should be filling. (If you could not be with them, they re-
main maybe a statue, an ossification of what they were to you; and it may crumble some but its
quality would not change--where it was beautiful, it would remain so, and perhaps come more
burnished, as you rubbed it with memories.)

I feel burdened because he does not have a future. I feel weighed down by anxiety about how
to live. How could he have built so little for me? He has left me concerned that I cannot live
beyond this spring, that I will finally have run out of options. Yet I chose to do the right thing; I
suffered for years because I had obligations I believed I should meet, even if spiritually, emo-
tionally, my reward for meeting them was to lose everything that matters at all to me, leaving
me unable even to be proud that I had done the right thing, because now I must drown in chaos
for it.

Why doesn’t he think I am worthwhile? Why does he hate me so much? Well, I know, he can-
not love because he is unloveable. I have always known that; it’s not something you can fix. It
is a weight you have to carry, sometimes cheerfully, cynically and brutally, sometimes regret-
fully, sometimes with despair.

32
Canaries
The bang and the clatter. The rattle and the wheeze.
Bang, clatter. Rattle, wheeze.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He is a man. He is a man who is smacking that cheap, plastic keyboard.
He is a man of thirty-seven, thirty-eight years – I’ve never asked, never cared to ask – who shows
the keyboard who is boss.
Fuck it. Fucker. Fuck it. Fucker. The bang and the clatter. He stops. Sucks his teeth. The rattle and
the wheeze. Fuck it. Fucker.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He is getting the minutes in there by some sort of two-fingered Morse code, I swear. He is a man
among men. You’d think he could have learned to touch type. Bang. Bang. He is fierce.

I am fierce. I stalk the corridors a mighty warrior. I hunt the prey. I jerk my hips like a savage when
I get the picture of the pool secretary. Then I remember the cameras and stop it. Stop it, stop it. Is
she begging or teasing? Wanting it really. I catch sight of myself in the glass panels.

No natural light touches me nine to one, two to five. I breathe the breathings of those who have
breathed before me, and when I am done with it, the system takes my air for them to breathe once
more. The building hums gently. The air tastes strange. Everyone but me has bad breath.

Fuck it. Fucker. Fuck it. Fuck it. Everyone is breathing the air I have breathed and their breath is
worse every day. They are talking under their breath and under that oppressive weight what they
say never rises above a mutter. A murmur. Fucker. Bang. Fucker. Bang. Fucker. Bang.

This is how we compete. Someone is talking about targets. I am looking at a spot on the table. If
I look harder, ever harder, the voice becomes a drone, the drone a hum, the hum indistinguishable
from the aircon, the aircon a whisper of nothingness. I am glaring at the spot on the table. Glaring.
Someone asks me something. I haven’t a clue. Yes, I say. I nod. Yes, and a nod. Nod, nod.
The drone begins again. They’ll send the minutes. He’ll send the minutes. Action. I find out what
I agreed to when I see the minutes. I don’t care. This is how we compete. Say yes, nod, move on.
I can vanish into the spot on the table. I can vanish and they won’t know I’ve gone. They will
keep on putting the money into my account at the end of every month and they will not know I’ve
vanished. Bang. Clatter. This is what you agreed. I don’t know. I just nod, yes, nod, and read the
minutes.

Someone is talking about targets and I am wondering if time began or whether the world has al-
ways been. But I’m thinking, in here time begins at nine. There is the world out there, beyond these
four walls, and the world in here. The same rules do not apply. We are sealed off from the rest of it.
We are breathing the air we’ve breathed.

continued...
33
 Someone is talking about targets and I am watching the pulse in his neck. I wonder whether anyone
could stop me if I dived across the desk and bit through his neck.

I need sharper teeth.

I am looking at my teeth in the mirror. My shirt feels uncomfortable. I pull it, I tug it, I move it
around, but it bunches. I have to pull it out from my trousers. I glance up. I wonder whether they
have cameras in here. You’d think it would be wrong. Wrong. But what is wrong? They have cam-
eras in every corridor. If they want to watch you shit, they can.

The door opens. A guy walks in. He knows me. I know him. We are nodding. Nod, yes, nod. Hey.
Hey hey.

He doesn’t ask why I have my shirt pulled out. He doesn’t even look curious. I tuck it back in. I
look at his prick as I walk out the door. Not a long look, just a sneaky peek. It is small and the fore-
skin hangs over the glans.

If there is a camera in the washroom, they’ve seen my looking at another man’s cock. I don’t know
what they will make of that. I don’t know what the rule is for that.

Bang. Bang. Bang. BANG.

The end of his typing hangs in the air. He is breathing heavily. He has chased it down, hunted it,
killed it, skinned it and fucking roasted it. The minutes. They are done.

If I could see through the walls of this room – do you still call it a room when it is so big? – I would
not see the forest, I would not see the hills. But if I could stand up, on the roof, I could see far
enough, far enough to see beyond the grey, to another, whole world. I could breathe.

What the fuck am I thinking about? He passes me a copy of the minutes. He has been talking to me.
I have been nodding. Yes, I say. It’s amazing how often yes is the right thing to say.

If I could only climb up the sheer face of the glass outside, reach the roof and breathe. If I could
get high enough, just for a moment, I could see the forest, I could see the hills. They must be there.
Even if in here there is no forest, out there…

Yes, I’m saying. Yes, yes. I nod. But what the fuck am I thinking about?

I am thinking it over. The figures are not right. Someone has changed the figures. I am thinking over the
figures. Who would I tell? If I wanted to tell, who would I tell about the figures? I am trying to think
who would care. continued...
34
Someone has stolen a large amount of money, I’m almost sure. I am trying to think who would
care. The same amount of money passes into my account at the end of every month. I’m trying to
think who would care that someone has changed the figures.

I can see my reflection in the monitor. I am looking at my teeth. They are flat and blunt, not the
teeth of something that lives in the jungle. I need sharper teeth before I start to care.

These figures don’t look right, I say. But I am not sure anyone has heard me. I am not sure I said it
aloud at all.

When we are born, we are the whole world and everything in it. Then our lives, one long process of
finding out that others have made the world, and the space they have left for us in it grows smaller,
ever smaller, until it is a speck of nothing, blowing in the wind.

I am looking at my teeth, reflected in my monitor. It is close to five o’clock. I should file my teeth
like a savage. It is five o’clock. I should leave.

Lamorna Cove by Dr Zen

35
 Stone House by Dr Zen

Houses at Lamorna Cove by

Dr Zen
36
Lamorna Beach
In my dream, the wind was in your hair.
We never had harsh words.
There was nothing to forgive.

In my dream, we have the sand between our toes.

And you know that the sea would drown you if you let it.
But I am not pushing you in, dragging you down, holding you back.
Or doing anything.

But I have a good heart.

Confused in the melee.
Sometimes. Easily broken.

I am always talking, talking.

Saying nothing, meaning nothing.
I just want the hours to pass.
Until you kiss me.
Once again. Just dreaming.
Nothing to fear. We are ever further apart.
never coming near.

Contact Dr Zen:

http://zenmb.blogspot.com
drzen1@gmail.com
37
Father Luke
My name is Father Luke. I write. I’ve written my
whole life in one form or another. I mean, who hasn’t
right?

Seriously, we all write checks, grocery lists... we write

letters home to Mom and Dad, we write a note if we
bump into a parked car... we write notes to the land-
lord when we are late with rent, or to the boss when
we want a day off. So, I’m pretty much like everyone
else.

I saw my first dead body when I was four. I watched

people walking along the roadway chased off the road
and killed for sport when I was about six. I was asked
not to bring guns to school by the time I was seven years old.

I was having “sex” with my nineteen year old babysitter when I was eight. I put sex in quotes
because how can an eight year old little boy really have sex? But she and I sure had a lot of fun
trying, though.

I know first hand the ravages of drug addiction, poverty, and violent crime. I watched my
mother being beaten and raped daily until I reached thirteen years old when she escaped a
marriage I called a detour into fear. By the time I was 21 I had cirrhosis of the liver from
drinking. I’ve lived with strippers and crack whores, and I’ve been beaten with bottles and
sticks by thugs in the night, with no one to scream to for help.

I lived on the streets of America alone for 27 years, and I’ve done just about every drug there is
to do.

George Mortimer, the guy who owns and runs Media-Underground.net, told me I should put
what I wrote on the internet. On a lark I did just that. I noticed lots of people reading what I
wrote. In 2003 my writing began gaining attention. Eventually someone wanted to publish me.

Today I live in Oregon with the woman I love. She started LiteraryMary.com. One day I’ll die,
just like everyone else, despite my best efforts to live forever in my physical body.

My name is Father Luke. I’m a writer. I’ve written ever since I could hold a pen. Writing is
what I do. And, as I said, I’m pretty much just like everyone else.
--
Okay,
Father Luke

38
Chugga Chugga Chugga
sitting
in the cab
of an 18 wheeler

driving lost

looking at the day through

smashed bugs on the windshield

listening to
outlaw country on a
stolen radio

good song

i turn up the radio

i throttle up some
to drive with the music

not caring...
not caring i’m lost
not caring i’m late
not caring i’m lonely
not caring i’m broke
not caring, not caring at all

then a smile grabs my face

and i let it

39
40
41
 Betty and Wilma
The Rush Inn, by The Clock Tower in downtown Santa Cruz, used to be an old man dive bar.
During the day it’s still like that. Wood floors, a couple of pool tables with ripped green felt, stained
with blue chalk. Weekend nights it does this weird werewolf transformation and The Rush Inn
becomes a kid’s bar, with tourists from Silicon Valley looking for good times in the real Santa Cruz.
Sometimes I go there to watch the Silicon Valley cubicle rats feeling out of place. I met Wilma
Flintstone and Betty Rubble there, at the Rush, one weekend.

I’ve had my share of women. Plenty, actually. If you do anything long enough you become good at
it. Good enough, anyway, to have fun. Betty and Wilma responded to that like an ink pen waiting
to break recognizes a clean shirt pocket ready for action. Betty and Wilma stained my soul. They
stained me permanently.

Wilma eyed me head to ground as I was walking in. I first saw Betty as she was bent over a pool
table near the pinball machines. She had her ass pointed full in the air toward the front door, and
right at my face.

I nodded and Wilma took a drag off of an unfiltered cigarette. She licked her lips, and let the smoke
go up her nose in a French inhale. I bellied up to the bar, and I ordered a beer.

There was a smart “c r a c k”, and billiard balls spread out over the table. Betty walked around the
table and gave Wilma a long, deep, French kiss. They were both looking at me as they swallowed
each others tongues.

Betty cocked a finger to me, motioning me over. I walked over. Ma’am, I said, holding my beer
toward them in a jaunty little salute.

They looked at my crotch where my pants stretched against my growing cock. They giggled their
little Wilma and Betty giggles, which I knew so well from the Saturday Morning cartoons as they
stared at my package.

You need some help, Betty said. She grabbed me by the shirt collar, and pushed me against the wall
next to the video games.

I’m an honest man my hands were shaking. I set my beer down on the video game, bracing myself,
as Betty worked the front of my pants with her hands. Wilma stood in front with her back to us,
watching the bartender. He was working a dirty rag around the inside of a glass behind the bar, and
wasn’t paying any attention what-so-ever to us.

Wilma turned, and looked at me. She looked at Betty, and then she reached for my zipper.

continued...
42
Girls, I said. I’m happy to continue. Why don’t we move over to The Pigeon Coop, where I live.
It’s just a few blocks up the street? Wilma smirked at me. Betty went to her knees, and put me in
her mouth. Think you can hold out until then, Wilma said.

I pushed Betty off of me. She made a suction popping noise with her mouth, and landed on her ass.
I said to Wilma, Watch. And we all headed to my hotel, and out through the back door.

When we got to The Pigeon Coop they pushed me into the room.

Betty began tearing at my shirt, and pulling my hair. Wilma was stripping me of my shoes, and
pants. I stood there in the hallway, cock getting stiff, my balls hugging close in the chill night air.
The girls looked at one another, and gave with the Cartoon giggles again.

Then they began kissing one another deeply, and removing each others clothing. My cock throbbed,
dripping pre-cum.

Then we were on the couch. I was in the middle, the girls on either side of me. We were naked, and
they were gently tugging each others nipples.

If I would have said anything then, it just wouldn’t have made any sense. I would’ve been too
hoarse, and my voice too shaky from my level of excitement, to be able to be understood. And
judging from the color blue which my cock had become, I was only thinking of one thing anyway.

The girls moved from tweaking each others nipples to fondling my cock and balls, rubbing pre-cum
all over everywhere.

Wilma, the dominant of the two right from the start, fingered my cock, and guided Betty’s mouth
to my ball sack. I could feel hot cartoon breath warming my nuts. Wilma pulled my face to hers,
and opened her mouth. Her tongue was soon counting my teeth one by one. I could feel the warm
moistness of Betty’s mouth as she made my cock an all day candy in her mouth.

Betty cooed, and Wilma pushed me off the sofa and onto the carpeting. Betty grabbed my
shoulders, and spun me around so my ass was in the air, then she put her tongue inside me. Wilma
got underneath, and took my cock inside of her, hugging her legs against anything flesh. I grabbed
at her tits, and flicked her nipples with my tongue, lubricating them with drool I let drop as I bit her.

I could feel Betty’s tongue working my anus.

Wilma screamed as she came. I was sure I’d get another notice about all the noise coming from my
room.

Wilma pushed me off of her, and swung me on my back.

Betty now faced me, as Wilma tongue fucked my asshole. Betty swung up and positioned herself
on my face. I could smell cartoon juice, hot and nasty. She tasted just great.

continued...
43
 Don’t. . . Stop! ! Betty screamed, even louder than Wilma, and I ate her pussy till there was no
movement left in her at all. Betty collapsed on top of me, hugging my neck.

Wilma giggled, her mouth full of my balls. I heard Betty’s breathing, and felt her nipples moving
up and down on my chest.

Then the girls took me like this: Betty crawled down my body, smearing juice all over me, and
sucked my balls. Wilma worked my cock slow, and easy with her tongue.

The cartoon giggle came up once more before I came spraying both of them in the face.

They turned around, and asked me eat their ass until they both came once more. We want you to
open us up with your tongue, and then fuck us both hard in the ass, Wilma said.

When we were done, I sat on the couch, with a threadbare towel wrapped around my waist. I
watched as they slowly got dressed.

I knew I’d never see them again. They were a cartoon fantasy, here to see the real Santa Cruz for a
weekend. It was enough

44
Nonviolent Criminals
Grimes knew. The best economy in the world for a swindle was one
running scared, and he had profited most when times were the leanest.
He waved a match in his hand until it went out, then let his arm down
to his side. His shirt cuff showed under the sleeve of his suit coat.

Grimes Patterson opened his fingers. The match fell to the ground. He
watched smoke from the match curling in the air, as quiet as fog on a
lake. Then he looked up to the taxi driver through the window, and he
took his change.

Heard any good jokes?

The taxi driver shook his head no, rolled up the window, and drove
off. Grimes looked at his suitcase on the sidewalk. It was time to go
to work. He gripped the handle, and walked. The wheels on the suitcase
made a clack-clack sound on the concrete as it rolled along behind
him.

45
 “When the Grim Reaper comes for Father Luke, he will have to wait by
the door while he finishes whatever he is working on. That is all you
need to know about Father Luke: he has the good fortune to be able to
sum himself up with one word: writer. It is not just what he does; it
is what he is. Father Luke has tasted chaos in his life, dwelled in
misfortune, seen days of despair, but they have not crushed him. From
the material of a hard life, Father Luke spins the cloth of art. When
I read his writing, I hear a quiet yet insistent voice, a poet singing
an urban blues, an observer capturing us like butterflies with a pin:
without pity but not without generosity. I could spew a thousand
cliches that speak about Father Luke, but he is best understood by
simply reading his work: he is not hiding; he is there, in every line
of his poetry, every sentence of his fiction, every word that he
writes, honest and unflinching.”

-Dr. Zen

46
Contact Father Luke:
http://FatherLuke.com
47
Jeff Fleming
I am almost 40. I am starting to look it, even if I don’t
feel it most of the time. But I weigh about what I did
when I graduated from high school. I ran my first
marathon on March 1st of this year. It took me 3 hours
40 minutes and 53 seconds. I hope to run one more
before I turn 40 and several after.

I am the editor of nibble, a small press poetry maga-

zine that publishes the best small poems we can find.
Based on the responses we get, we are doing a damn
fine job. We just passed the one year mark, published
our eighth issue, and are currently accepting poems
for issues nine and ten.

Last year, after a five year hiatus, I took up pen and

paper and began writing poetry again. Shortly after, I
felt the itch to edit again and nibble was born. About
midway through 2008, I began sending my poetry out into the world for publication. I was
very fortunate to have many of my poems accepted by some pretty good small press maga-
zines, both paper and electronic. I had a chapbook of poems published as well. It is called The
Bones of Saints Under Glass. Copies are available from Propaganda Press. You should get one.

In real life, I am a cubicle rat. I like to joke that a monkey could do my job, but to be honest
I think it would take a great ape, a gorilla or a chimp. I seriously doubt a spider monkey or a
capuchin could do what I do. I sit in a chair, in a cubicle, in an office, in a big(ish) city and type
things into a computer. I try to respond to all the emails I get that need my attention. I try to
do everything they ask of me. They are paying me after all.

I spend a great deal of time chaperoning my kids. They have reached an age where I don’t
have to hover over them all day long, but they still need a lot of guidance. One of the most
important things I have learned is that they listen to what I am trying to teach them and, for the
most part, they act accordingly. They just don’t do it while I am around. They are little angels
when in the care of their aunt or their nana or when at a friend’s house. When I am watching
over them, they often test their limits (my limits?). Good for them. I love them dearly and
would do anything for them. This does not mean I will give them anything they want.

Most of my time is spent sleeping. After that, comes work, then hanging out with my kids. I
spend five or so hours a week trying to stay in shape. With the little time I have left, I work on
nibble and my own poetry. It isn’t perfect, by any means, but it’s pretty good.

48
Such a Great Weight
At the beach today,
twenty-two years ago,
you leapt
from a massive rock.

Your father,
poised with his Nikon,
caught you there

and even though

the camera
has long since
been lost
or stolen or sold
at history’s
garage sale

and the photo

has faded, torn,
dropped through
that tiny crack
in time,

you are still

there, frozen
in the air
until his breath
stops, his heart
quits in the night

and you will feel

the years crash
down around you,
driving you
to your knees.

49
 “Jeff Fleming’s writing is a private look inside a hefty heart, scarred with brutal battles and bitter
questions, evoking passionate memories and anecdotes of one’s self, arising from very real moments
and places of Jeff’s past, present, and very core. He is universal, weaving tales of fatherhood, fa-
milial grievings, pain, joy, sorrow, and unabashed happiness in one sudden breath, collapsing into
a myriad of emotions, hip-hip-hoorays, and cry-out-loud moments. In every facet, in every honest
way, Jeff is just real, relatable, transitioning from fantasy to true life in seconds -- a few very beau-
tiful seconds.”

leah angstman,
Coordinator, Propaganda Press

Untitled by Jeff

50
She is calm as the
Buddha
Not a fat,
smiling, dropped-
in-a-suburban-
garden Buddha, but one
that has glimpsed
enlightenment

and knows
how it hides
in the morning
sunlight, the shade
of old fruit trees
in the middle
of August,
in the death
of winter.

It can be found
ebbing slowly
from heater
vents, one
in each room
of her grandmother’s
old farm house.

Contact Jeff Fleming:

nibblepoems@gmail.com
http://nibblepoems.wordpress.com
51
Nathan Graziano
When someone asks me what I do for a living, I
answer honestly: I teach high school. I feel no need
to puff out my chest and bluster about writing. Writ-
ing called to me in my early-twenties, and I answered.
That’s all there is to say about me as a writer. The rest
I try to say in my work, although it doesn’t always
work out that way. Most of the time, I fail and have
to trash the piece I’m working on. That’s life. That’s
writing—at least as I understand it.

I grew up in West Warwick, Rhode Island, the home

of winners. As a kid, I wanted to be the catcher for
The Red Sox when I got older. Then, during my teen-
age years, my goals changed, and I either wanted to
direct porno films or drive a Zamboni. Instead, I went
to
college.

I did my undergraduate work at Plymouth State University in Plymouth, New Hampshire,

where I joined a frat and drank a lot of beer, but somehow managed to come away with a de-
gree in English and my teacher certification. After college, I lived and taught in Las Vegas for a
year—a long story—then moved back to New England, where I’m smack-dab in the middle of
Red Sox country and can watch all the games on cable. In December, I will finish my MFA in
fiction writing from the University of New Hampshire then stare at it hanging on the wall in my
bedroom.

I currently live in Manchester, New Hampshire, with my beautiful wife Liz and two beauti-
ful children, Paige and Owen. For the past decade, I have been teaching English at Pembroke
Academy in Pembroke, New Hampshire.

In 2002, my first hardcover collection of short fiction, Frostbite, was published by the now-
defunct Green Bean Press. In October of 2003, my first full-length collection of poetry Not So
Profound was also published by Green Bean Press. I am the author of seven chapbooks and my
work has been nominated for numerous Pushcart Prizes and resoundingly denied every time.
In 2007, Teaching Metaphors, a collection of poetry that documents my experiences teaching
high school, was published by sunnyoutside and named Best Local Collection of Poetry for
2007 by The Hippo Press in Southern New Hampshire. In September of 2009, my third full-
length book of poetry titled After the Honeymoon will be published by sunnyoutside.

My poetry, short stories, non-fiction and reviews have been published by some of the follow-
ing print journals, zines and newspapers: Rattle, Night Train, Front & Centre, Qercus Review,
Nerve Cowboy, The Owen Wister Review, The Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, The Meadow,
The Dublin Quarterly, The Nashua Telegraph, The Hippo Press, The Leaflet, Controlled Burn,
52
On a Former
Student’s Spread in
Hustler Magazine
She seemed much happier in the nude
with her fingers clamped to stiff nipples
and legs spread wide in a claw foot tub
than she ever did in my classroom,
half-listening to me blather about Blake,
her head down on the desktop.

As I search for lint in her bellybutton

and dirt behind her airbrushed ears,
I realize she would not know Hamlet
if he were to show up at her photo shoot
with his foil’s tip dipped in poison
and drawn to some greasy photographer’s throat.
Even if the prince were to introduce
himself by name, nothing would register,
as if “Hamlet” was plucked from a phonebook.

But she couldn’t miss the look in his eyes

when she glanced back from her pose
to find him ready to cry or scream.

From Teaching Metaphors

53
 Almost Christmas
Jackson told me, over the telephone, that this new girl he’d been dating liked to be choked and
slapped while getting fucked.

I said, “Jackson, this isn’t going to end well.”

The beer bottles were lined up, two finger-lengths apart, on the table in front of me, one plugged
with wet cigarette butts. I had the phone book spread open and the number for Alcoholics Anony-
mous underlined in pencil. I told myself I was going to call, as soon as I got off the phone with
Jackson. The next morning, I was heading to jail—doing ten days in county after my second DWI.
Something like a clenched fist had been floating in the center of my chest for weeks, a hardened
pit of fear that had been making me nauseous. I’d never been to jail and never imagined I would.
I’m soft. And somewhere, at that very moment, my ex-wife was probably riding her cop boyfriend,
some handsome bastard named Brad, straddling him in the same bed where we once slept. And
somewhere Jackson’s first wife was probably fucking a black man while Jackson was talking to me
about his new one, a divorcee who worked at the Target in Oxford and liked to be roughed up. And
somewhere, even farther away, there was this vague recollection, the dimmest of the dim stars, that
all of this, at one time, used to be fun.

A beer popped on the other end of the line. “The other morning, when I was coming out of the
shower,” Jackson paused and sipped and burped. “And Mark, I ain’t shitting you, my friend. Cindy
was standing in front of my bedroom mirror in her bra and panties, talking to herself in a baby
voice. Then she turned to me and asked, in this baby-voice, if I’d choke her.”

“Did you?”

“I couldn’t.”

It was almost Christmas, and the convenience store across the street had recently put a single plastic
candle behind the bars in the front window. It hummed to me. “Jackson, you’re a good man.”

“No,” he said and he kept drinking. “No, I’m not.”

54
Screwed by the Easter
Bunny
For Matt Guenette

My two-year-old son scrapes rabbit shit from his shoe

with a twig from a dying tree. He tells me,
The Easter Bunny isn’t coming this year.
No baskets, no eggs, no chocolate critters to behead.

He’s not coming, my son screams.

I tell him rabbits don’t have thumbs,

therefore, they could never hold a basket
or palm an egg with plausibility intact.

Rabbits certainly don’t have the giving instinct,

or the desire to watch a loved one’s eyes light up
like a pair of suns rising behind a closed tomb.

Starting next year, I tell my son, we’ll stop

celebrating rabbits and resurrections on Easter.
Instead, we’ll toast to the absence of ghosts,
the empty spaces beneath the sink.

And in place of painted eggs, we’ll stuff our fists

in our mouths, then joyride through cemeteries
listening to the static hum on AM radio.

Like a room of cynics, drunk at a séance,

we’ll cry shenanigans as we shift the candle’s flame
and scoff at the things we don’t feel or see.

From After the Honeymoon

55
 “Nate constructs multidimensional characters that awaken the reader to the wide
range of human emotion that they often neglect. Seemingly effortlessly, he trans-
forms love to hate then back again. And somehow during the journey you see your-
self and wonder how the hell he dragged you in. Later, I always find myself going
back to uncover how it is that he did it!”

-Rebecca Schumejda

56
Above: After Dinner by Nathan

Left: Teaching Metaphors was pub-

lished by sunnyoutside and named
Best Local Collection of Poetry for
2007 by The Hippo Press in Southern
New Hampshire.

Contact Nathan Graziano:

ngrazio5@yahoo.com
www.nathangraziano.com
57
Stephen Hines
I didn’t meet my biological father until I was 38. I’m
going on 42 now. He seemed very nice and kind and
wanted to marry Mom, but she wasn’t ready. Married
at nineteen isn’t for everybody, I suppose. So they
went their own ways. Mom left Newfoundland for
Nova Scotia. Small mining towns in the 1960’s aren’t
the ideal place for unwed teenage mothers. My child-
hood was happy, this isn’t one of those stories, and
my Mom eventually married my step dad. They were
together until she died six years ago.

When my own son, Sam, was born in 2004 I knew I

wanted to be there as much as possible for him. My
wife went back to work after maternity leave, and I
asked my boss if I could scale back to three days a
week. Surprise; he said ok. I like my job, I do window
displays and mannequins for a major department store
here in Dartmouth, but the pay isn’t stunning. In fact, in my 25+ years of working, I’ve only
had one job that paid well, but it ate up my time, which doesn’t sit well with me. But now I
have plenty of time. Do I use it for writing? Some, but not all. What I did get done went into
my first chapbook, the confusion will be enough for them to leave you alone, put out by Chance
Press.

People ask writers why they write. When they ask me, I tell them it’s because I think I can tell
the reader something in a way they never heard it told before. Vain? Sure. But writers are vain,
no matter what they tell you. I’m sure you knew that already.

58
In This Field
Flannels and gumboots and the weight of water, the bay drew him down like smoke into its lungs.
In the spring when he washes ashore the villagers semicircle him, watching and distant, no one
willing to go close. With no doctor or undertaker in town, the priest calls on the truest Christian.
People look away and stare at their feet. Nods and murmurs when someone says A priest ought to
know a sin when he sees one.

Someone has to look after Gerald now, the priest says. Lord knows I would except for my faulty
heart. Someone in the back laughs. The Lord knows who that was, the priest says. The Lord has an
excellent memory. And He’ll remember the ones that help Gerald now in his greatest hour of need.

He’s dead now Father, he don’t need nothing anymore.

Mae, you know better than that. Gerald needs to be put properly to rest. Now, hands for volunteers.
Father waits and people start to walk away, shyly at first, mindful of the eyes watching them. And
then with the dam broken open, striding with purpose, a pointed look at the priest.

Can’t the Stabs look after him? Mae says. She takes a step closer, not going anywhere.

Who knows how long the Constabulary will take to get here, we can’t have Gerald rotting on the
shore.

At the mention of rotting, more people wander away. The wind almost stopping and leaving the
smell hovering above them. Men and women with handkerchiefs to their faces, leaving with white
flags of surrender clutched to their noses. Mae is the last, standing in the sunset, asking the priest
questions. Where’s Gerald’s soul now? Purgatory? Limbo, like? Or straight to Hell because every-
one knows he did it on purpose. Probably reached the bottom and held onto a rock to make sure he
got the job done. Right?

The priest looks out at the water, the setting sun striking the tips of the waves and sending off
sparks of light. No one knows he did it on purpose, Mae.

Well, God knows, don’t He, Father?

Father looks at Mae and then Gerald and says You should go home Mae. You father’s probably get-
ting hungry and the wind’s got a nip.

He can feed himself and I ain’t cold.

Just go Mae.

Mae shrugs and starts for her house, looking back at Gerald. Father looks at the village, salt grey
and treeless. Buildings so few you could almost count them on your fingers. The General Store,
continued
59
 Sarah Penney once said, is called that because it generally has nothing. The Noseworthy’s didn’t
like that, and it cost the Penney’s store credit for a time until bygones. Rocks the colour of seals
barely humping the terrain. Nothing to stop the wind when it decides to blow. And the rain when it
comes is horizontal.

Father sits on a rock and knits his hands together and puts his forehead on them. It’s some time
before he hears a boat approach and then boots on the pier. The light of a lantern swinging.

Father? Is that you Father?

The priest looks up, craning his head up to the person above him. Dil?

Yuh, it’s me Father. What’re you doing down there?

Gerald came up today.

What? Confused for a second, Dil scrambles down to the beach, holding the lantern out before
him and sees Gerald. Yes boy, that’s his sweater. The loose checked flannels and gumboot. He lost
a boot, Dil says and Father laughs. He don’t look too bad for six months in the bay. Salt water, I
guess, and the cold, hey Father?

I’m not sure, Dil.

I dunno, Father. Dil sits beside the priest. How come yer all sitting here?

No one would go near him to help me. Scared or something, like he’s catching.

O. Jesus, he’s ripe. Couldn’t you even cover him?

The priest pauses and gives a small smile and says No one thought of it.

Sure. Poor Gerald. He probably didn’t want nobody finding him at all. Probably wanted to stay
gone.

We don’t know that, Dil.

Maybe you don’t, Father.

Quiet some more, both men watching the form on the beach. Then Dil says Hold tight, Father. He
leaves the lantern and behind him the priest hears Dil grunt his way up onto the pier and the boots
again back to his boat. He wishes Dil had taken the light, the flickering makes it look as if Gerald
was winking at him. Soon Dil is back and throws to the beach a tarp, blanket, an oar and some rope.
He hops down beside the priest and pulls a plug from a bottle, drinks and passes it and says Some
medicine for you heart, Father. Drinks while Dil lays the canvas tarp flat next to Gerald. He takes
the oar and works it under Gerald’s lower half and rolls the body partly over. He ain’t going to fall
apart, is he Father? He repeats the same action for Gerald’s upper half and works at him
continued
60
until he is square in the centre of the tarp. Wraps the tarp around Gerald. Hell of a Christmas gift,
hey Father? Lays the blanket and with his hands rolls the canvassed Gerald into the middle of it and
folds around and takes the rope and ties the ends off like sausage. He bends over and says Easy up,
Gerald. Throws the body over his shoulder and does a little circle shuffle step until he sees the lan-
tern, stoops at the knee to get it. Walks up over the rocks onto the road not saying a word, leaving
the priest to watch the light of the lantern fade.

In the morning Dil’s sitting on his boat lighting matches with his thumbnail and throwing them
lit overboard. The flame gone before it hits the water. He remembers standing in the field behind
the schoolhouse trying to teach some of the boys how to do it. Lookit, he said, rattling the wooden
matches in his palm like dice. Lookit. And he flips one up into the crook of his fingers, the head
just over the first knuckle of his index finger. His thumbnail at the red tip and quickly pulling down
and across and flame born but suddenly dead in the wind. Shit, Dil said and turned his back to the
breeze and said Boys, get in close and lit another one. The boys whooping and clapping like it was
Saturday night and shouting Hey Dil, show it again, and the racket bringing Dil’s wife out of the
schoolhouse saying I’d appreciate it if you would stop teaching my students to play with matches,
Mr. Skanes. Shielded giggles when she called Dil Mr. Skanes until the look from her silenced and
scattered then slowly home. And at their home her yelling and him not able to look at her, just
her shadow on the wall from the light of the fire and saying I meant no harm. Harm? she said and
started into something but he just watched her shadow move up and down the wall, her voice grow-
ing dimmer until it was nothing and nothing left to her but shadow.

After sunup people start coming to the shore looking at the spot where Gerald was the night
before. Dil hears Bill say The tide must’ve took him back out. Good riddance, Mae says and several
nod. He sees the priest walking slowly towards them and Dil gets up and goes below deck to put
coffee on. Ten minutes later he hears slow shoes on the pier.

Dil, you down there?

Come on down, Father.

The priest ducks below and settles on a chair.

Coffee?

Thank you.

Dil pours a cup and hands it over and then one for himself and sits down on the bed across from the
priest and says How’s the heart?

He smiles and taps his head and says That medicine you gave me was a mighty strong dose.

Got that on the mainland.

Well, you can’t trust mainlanders, Father says. They both laugh. When he first came, all the talk
was of the preacher with the city accent.
continued
61
 They sit and drink their coffee and Dil watches the priest hunker over his cup and says Cold?

A little.

Dil gets up and puts more coal into the stove, sits again and they finish their coffee in silence. The
priest holds his empty cup in his hands and tries not to look at them shaking and puts the cup on the
floor and tucks his hands into his armpits.

Dil picks the cup up and half fills it with coffee and half with what is in the bottle that he pulled
from under the mattress. The priest looks away and pretends not to notice and accepts the cup. Dil
does the same for himself and when he sits Father says Where’d you put Gerald?

O, in the basement of the church. Nice and cool there until we figure things out.

The priest nods and thinks of Sunday with the congregation sitting above Gerald and old Mrs.
Noseworthy whispering Do you smell anything off? He smiles to himself and takes a swallow and
almost coughs it up because he forgot what was in there.

Don’t waste any, Father.

They laugh and over that Dil hears what he thinks is the wind until he pays attention and recognizes
Pickles, Pickles. Some kids had taken to calling Dil that and he wasn’t sure why until Sarah Penney
told him.

Pay no mind, Dil.

Dil shrugs and listens some more and tries to make the voices something else, something good like
the waves or the fine fiddle that little Joshua plays or anything, but he can’t. The worst noises can
only stay bad. He gets up and goes on deck, ignoring the priest’s Now, Dil. He stands and stares
at the kids on shore and is surprised to see the beach also pebbled with adults. They all stand and
watch each other and time stretches and stretches until the voices stop, petering out slowly. People
start wandering away, not sure if they should be ashamed, looking at each other to find for clues.
But Dil stays stock frozen until the last one of them is gone and then goes below deck and sits
across from the priest. He says Did you tell them I took Gerald, Father? The priest says nothing and
Dil stares until Father can’t meet his gaze anymore. Dil keeps looking until he feels his look lose
its’ meaning. He gets the bottle and pours heavy all around and catches the priest’s eyes and says
softly I wish you didn’t tell them, Father.

Father makes a sign and nails it to the door of the church.

ATTENTION CITIZENS!!!

TOWN MEETING TONIGHT 6 PM!!!

ATTENDANCE REQUIRED!!!

continued
62
 Father stands outside the church at 10 of 6. No one shows until twenty past. Mae walks to him
slowly and squints up and says No one is coming, Father. The priest watches her walk away up the
hill into her house. When the door closes he goes inside the church.

Take us out, Dil, Father says and Dil loosens the lines and they motor out until the village is a dull
smudge and Dil drops anchor. The wind is baby’s breath. The evening large and clear and the water
moving like the sheets on his wife’s belly in the night. Dil looks away from the water on onto the
horizon. His wife has been gone for over a year. Left and shut the door behind her because she
wanted to. A soft click of the lock and onto Todd Penney’s boat and gone.

Don’t let the bottle be a stranger, Dil, Father says and Dil puts some into the priests’ cup. The vil-
lage fades and cups get lower and Dil is watching Father stare into his drink until he says I’m sorry,
Dil. Dil doesn’t react and the priest repeats it, louder. Sorry for what, Father? Dil says and stares at
him until the priest looks away. Dil’s face flares red and looks at the deck and says No need for that,
Father, it’s not you fault. People go when they want to go. Whether it’s across the water or under it.
You can’t stop them. The reasons are their reasons. Right or wrong has nothing to do with us.

Father nods and holds his cup out and watches the dark water.

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let
them drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more, Father says into his cup.
Proverbs chapter 31, verse something or other, he says and laughs. Six or seven, I think. Or both.
Six and seven. It’s six and seven, I’m sure.

I dunno, Father.

It’s alright, Dil.

What?

It’s alright you don’t know, Dil.

O.

It’s okay, Dil. We forgive you.

Okay, Father.

Their sins are not your sins. You can’t be blamed for them. Go in peace.

That’s enough, Father.

Go in peace. Ready to perish, give strong drink. Where’s the wine? Our hearts are heavy, Dil. Wine
unto those that be of heavy hearts.

Father, I’m taking us in.

continued
63
 They don’t deserve us, Dil.

Dil pauses at the wheel and says You don’t mean that, Father.

What?

You don’t mean what you’re saying. That’s not you talking, Father.

The priest shrugs and says I suppose not, and looks unconvinced at the water and then the sky and his head
falls back and he doesn’t shift for a time and Dil thinks he has fallen asleep. Dil goes to take the boat home
and Father says without moving Keep an eye for the dove with the olive branch, Dil. It means there is land
and all is forgiven and it is safe to take us home. Make no move until you see the dove, Dil. Promise me,
you have to promise, Dil. Your soul relies on this, Dil. Trust me. Dil? Only you can get us home safely.
Dil? Make it safe to take us home.

Dil says nothing and stands frozen until he hears even breathing and then heads them home.

There should be a box but there’s not going to be one. Six feet? Dil jumps in and looks up at the edge
above him and guesses close enough. Scrabbles out and rolls Gerald in and pays no mind to the awkward
thud. Covered and crossed and named in crank grease with his finger, guesses at the dates. Dil walks to his
boat and looks east for first light but no hint of it yet.

On his boat Dil watches the sun come up and when the heat of it reaches Father the priest stirs and slowly
rises and leans over the side and lets it all go. Dil tries not to listen the best he can. Father eventually stops
and struggles from the boat with barely a nod toward Dil.

Dil waits for someone to discover the grave in the small cemetery. Watches the town awaken and some
boats leave for the day and laundry ghosts go up in backyards. He makes coffee and drinks three cups. It
could be awhile before it’s found. He thinks about going up and showing it to people. Just before noon he
leaves the boat and goes up the dock and unto the path that leads to the bluff above the village. No one
speaks to him as he passes. Dil stands in the dry grass and imagines himself going to each person in the
village and asking them what he did to turn them against him. Letting his wife leave him? Closing the door
of his house and locking it and living on his boat? How can he fix it? Tell him and he’ll ask for forgive-
ness. Apologize and look at his hands and humbly walk off. Will that fix it? Dil imagines doing this and
knows that nothing of the sort will ever happen. He wouldn’t apologize and if he did, no one would listen.

He takes from his pocket some matches and does his trick. Watches them burst and burn out and flutter in
the wind to the ground. He does this one after the other until the grass starts to smoke. Turns his face into
the wind until he feels the heat on his back and without looking goes down the path and out onto his boat.
Sits and watches as the wind swirls the fire through the grass. Voices low then flaring to alarm. He sees
the priest run from the church. Sees him standing and looking at the fire, his arms limp at his sides. Dil
can almost see his mind turning, wondering which way to turn. To or away. Then Father runs to the person
nearest to him, and then another. Minutes pass and a line of people forms from the shore to the fire. Buck-
ets of water being passed hand to hand. And at the top of the bluff the priest with his arms stretched wide
and his robes flying in the wind. Walking the line and leaning into certain ones to urge them on. Touching
some on the back and clapping the efforts as the line speeds its progress.

Dil watches the smoke, dark and heavy in the sky. Starts his boat and casts off. Looks back once, not to see
the village, but to make sure his wake is pushing him away.

64
This Poem
by Stephen Hines

65
 “Stephen Hines will tell you he is only a “fair” poet, not much of a painter - just a
regular guy. Yeah. The best among us always show that kind of humility. I think they do it
to subtly put us in our place, but I may be paranoid. If he tells you he is only a fair poet,
don’t believe him.

His best work is a diabolical exercise in tension and release. Long lines tumbling out,
running together, building toward something he wants you to see or feel, something he
wants to rub your nose in so you don’t ever forget it. And you won’t forget. Those lines
are thick, prime cuts of language, and a “fair” poet will only give you bones. Madden-
ing, dry bones that only make you aware of what’s missing.

So don’t believe Hines when he is forced to talk about himself or what he does. Make
no mistake, he is out to get you with each piece. He knows just where to aim to make
his mark, and he’s a damn good shot. Just believe the written words. You can’t help but
believe the words.”

-Michael Phillips
author of Alternative Man and Riding Out the Dumb Silence

66
One More
by Stephen Hines

Contact Stephen Hines:

www.stephenhines.net
67
Mr. Lally
All and nothing about me

I sit in the park on a Wednesday and drink cheap filter

coffee. I smoke rolled cigarettes and when I walk my
left foot tries to trip me. Some days I wake up and the
cat rolling outside in the trash seems more important
than breathing. Other days I wake up and I want to
strangle the cat. I write letters daily. None of them
matter. I write about smoking and pigeons. Every time
a comma appears in my poems, I’m stopping to think
about sex. This year I’m going to be publishing a
book, it will be beautiful. Each writer will see a visual
interpretation of their work. Some may need therapy. I
keep asking myself why they call it a cow. Until they
answer that question, I won’t eat one.

68
Resurrection
The temperature had risen
sweating the curtains and bed sheets
what air was left, stank
of tiny feet turning a wheel

After a month of a hundred degrees

the hamster’s testicles began to swell
a month later, it died.

When the vet handed me the corpse

it was rigoured, like a furry stick
and I waved it around my head
the cool breeze fanning
my restless thoughts

Work in
Progress
by Mr. Lally

69
 “Mr Lally’s writing is all, or mostly, about sex”

- Mr Cuss

“He writes about dead animals and masturbation, but rarely

both together.”

- Mr Lally’s Mum

Feeding a Frenchman
by Mr. Lally

70
The Cat
We watched the cat die
it seemed deflated, with bones
pointing through its manged fur

It was seventy-four in cat years

but we never knew
where it had spent most of them

When the Bees Die So, there he was again,

drinking hot coffee in the park, smoking cigarettes,
and thinking.

The day was still early enough

that the flower petals stayed closed, hugging
the remainder of yesterdays sun.
Somewhere, there is a bee, lost
on his way home from work; a face full of pollen
and wings weary from flight. If he stops searching,
he will surely die, and the man, drinking coffee
and smoking cigarettes,
will mourn its passing. Just as he mourns
the passing of each day.

Contact Mr. Lally:

lally_is@hotmail.co.uk
www.lallyvalley.com
71
Hosho McCreesh
I live, work, write, and paint in the sweltering bad-
lands of the American Southwest. In days past I trav-
eled the globe as a jet-setting vagabond, picked clean
the swollen vines. I’ve been writing for 12 years, and
have been lucky enough to publish with some of the
most talented bookmakers of the small press.

Cropped Devil’s Claw

by Hosho

72
Romance
Damn it’s hot. I remember last night—walking the strip. I was drunk, snapping pictures with some
sorority sisters from Louisiana State. They were in for spring break and thought they’d try a little
gambling, maybe some one night stands.

It’s a badly edited movie—last night—a flash here, a memory there. Vague impressions of some
Nick Cage flick being filmed at the Sands. Her eyes. And the heat.

I remember the first blackout came mid-beer—the last of too many. Next I remember throwing up
in the bushes at their hotel. The Hard Rock, of course—where all the beautiful people go to be seen.
I don’t think anyone saw me. That’s important, you know—nobody seeing you throw up. One of
them called me “a gentlemen” just because I moved over one seat at a blackjack table—so they
could all sit together. I guess it doesn’t take much to impress these days. Makes you wonder what
sort of guys they are used to. Truth be known, I don’t feel too impressive myself.

So that was last night.

As for now, I need to throw up but can’t. I see cottage cheese thighs and ripples of flesh around her
hips. Her name?...Jenni—Joanie—something like that. She isn’t beautiful.

I keep thinking that maybe one day I’ll wake up next to a beautiful one, and then maybe I’ll stop
doing this. I want to get up—leave. But I can’t find my pants, and still need to throw up, so I plant
myself in one of the uncomfortable hotel room chairs, and watch the TV while the world keeps tilt-
ing. It’s the porno channel. A flash from the night before hits me—us flipping between the weather
channel and the porno channel—so we wouldn’t get charged for the Pay-Per-View porn. She’s
laughing—imitating the girl on the porno flick—moaning and faking it. She’s drinking tequila,
and dancing all sexy-like. She starts grinding on my knee, slides her hands up my leg, her tits in
my face. She smells like perfume and lotion. Her friends make out with their guys in other dark
corners. Sounds like two people fucking in the bathroom. She’s rubbing herself with one hand,
and me with the other. She tugs at my belt, and unzips me. She goes down as I fall back on the bed
and close my drunken eyes. I guess we pass out, start fucking, or just forgot the whole thing—I’m
not sure which.

The room is empty—all crumpled sheets, panties, cigarette butts, and empty bottles of Cuervo
1800. Quiet. Only sunlight and porn—still blazing, muted. Some guy in socks and some Asian
chick with implants—on the stairs. There’s this ridiculous robotic rhythm to it, almost hypnotizing.
A genital metronome. “Nice socks,” I say to no one, head still spinning.

Another flash: her talking about her ex, who never helped with the laundry, and who she stayed
with for “three fucking years,” she said, “because he had a car.” Three years. A Car. Some world.

continued...
73
 I flick off the TV and look out at Las Vegas. My town. The air conditioner blasts up past my skiv-
vies, up my chest, and I think to myself “there is something wrong with this town when the sun is
up.” It’s a dusty dirt-clod of a town without the neon.

She mumbles something, and rolls over. She has a big nose. And her eyes are too far apart.
Stringy hair. Her eye makeup is smeared. Nice mouth, though—full, warm. I imagine, in the right
light, some might even call her cute. Probably not beautiful. But definitely cute.

I look at her breasts hanging awkwardly in the slant and dust of morning, look at her poochy stom-
ach—wonder what her parents would think. There’s a scar on her bicept—the Norplant. Her hair
fell out so she got it removed, she said. She also said it was a mistake.

And what of it? What of mistakes? What if I wanted to marry her? Meet her folks? Pick out cur-
tains, flatware? What if, instead, we’d been going steady since the 11th grade? What if she loved
me? What if I had something to offer—if I was something worth loving? What if I wanted to have
kids, and a life—everyday—waking up to her thighs and love handles and our mistakes? What
of it? What if we had a house—not a big house, but decent? And a garden, and maybe a sensible
family car made by a reliable company? Sure, we’d have problems, who doesn’t—but I bet I could
love her. And if she could love me...we’d do all right. We’d lie to our neighbors about how we
met—we’d romanticize it—say it was instantaneous, and that we knew from the start. How our
eyes met—no, connected—across the smoky blackjack table. Or maybe we’d leave Vegas out of it
all together. Say we met at a bookstore, or a train station, or in a hotel lobby—or some respectable
place where people meet people. And if we did have affairs, we’d stay together for the kids and for
true love and romance and forgiveness. We could make it work. We could.

She snorts awake, rubs her tired blue eyes. She turns to me, awkwardly putting it all together, and
the sunlight glints just right. Beautiful.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says, covering herself with the sheet. She drops her head into her palms. “My head is
fucking killing me.”

“You should eat something,” I say. Inside I reach for her eyes. Deep blue pools. I can’t get over it.
And in the morning light, cute—definitely cute. “You want to get some breakfast with me?”

“Do what?”

“Some breakfast. You know—eggs, bacon, pancakes?” She doesn’t say anything. “Cap’n Crunch,”
I say.

“I don’ think so,” she says, and stumbles off to the shower—draped in her lousy hotel sheet.

continued...
74
She doesn’t come out. I decide to wait for a while. I thought maybe I’d try again. I mean—she’s
cute—definitely cute—and I could love her, I could. I’d try, at least. But she’s not interested in
breakfast. Or anything else. She’ll stay in there until I leave—I’m sure of it. And I’m not the type
to usually hang around.

I stumble half-dressed down the hall, stare at my reflection in an Elvis mirror. The dough-faced
king, etched in glass, singing into a huge 50’s mic: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” says the
mirror—words flanked by musical notes. Yeah—and then some.

The elevator doors open on the ding-ringing, coin-dropping, vibrating roar of slot machines, ice-
cold air conditioning, and the blinking, glitzy, flashing neon and ozone hum of Las Vegas, baby. Sin
City. Home.

Cabezon In Front Of a Thunderhead

by Hosho

75
 “I first read Hosho McCreesh when I lived in Santa Cruz, California, where I could smell kelp in
the cool salt air of the Pacific Ocean, as it breezed in through my hotel room window.

His titles stopped me:

That The Dying Sun Turns The Leaves A Blazing Yellow, A Furious Red

Something Random & Tragic to Set The Guts Aflame

These weren’t titles thrown into a web log journal like confetti thrown from a street corner on New
Year’s Eve, first to be cheered then later swept away as trash. No. These titles were written to be
read. Not a blog journal entry. Uh uh. No way, man. No way.

Hosho’s writing has guts. His writing reads like if all of our dreams, stricken with wanderlust and
driven insane, had gone lost somewhere in the heat of the South Western United States deserts
When finally they came home to tell us about it, we’d sit with our mouths hanging open, listening to
it all -- about all the things we miss every day by being smug and content in the roles we’ve adopted
as the fat landed gentry, which is something Hosho has abandoned in order to hear his voice echo-
ing back to him from a canyon somewhere on the brink of forever.

No one writes like Hosho. Not anyone. He’s been writing longer than I’ve know him, and he’s not
finished writing. Not yet. Not by any elastic stretch of the imagination. As long as Hosho is living
we’ll have stories to guide us back to a world we might have known if only we had dared it. Then,
once he’s gone? H. will rest comfortably with those who wrote before him, and secure in the knowl-
edge he belongs among those voices who whisper to us into today long after they have gone.”

--
Okay,
Father Luke
Still alive, in Portland Oregon

Taos Sunset
by Hosho
76
As Our Bones Still Rot
In Belgium
Yes, justice doesn’t know much here
as we send millionaires on another walk,

send celebrities and wife-beaters to rehabTV.

The murderer of 3 goes back to the foothills

while the man pinched with a 3rd dimebag

gets an 8 year bitch, mandatory.

At work they tell us

no raises for at least 2 years,
economic crisis they say,
meantime we’ve been sent to collections,

over $9.68 for gout meds.

Yes, we find the man scribbling

counterfeit dreams in the shitter
while the bosses fart, watch clocks;

we find the man murdering

prostitutes, snitches, and Cuban queens
in the war zone near the State Fair;

we find the man with the bottle, the gas-soaked rag;

continued...
77
 we find the man gone to Switzerland
to make watches, to write poems,
as if the world has
any use for either;

then there’s the man, pockets lined with bonemeal;

the man selling toothbrushes

to fine European hotels, and
the man sharpening toothbrushes
into prisonyard shanks;

the man at the mall, the school, the gov’t building

indiscriminately shooting;

and the man sitting down

to a sack of fast food

on a concrete bench
in Sad Town, USA;

there’s the man dragged through

the dusty streets, bullet-ridden;

and the man with a small, defeated heart,

heavy as a cobblestone,
bitter as the almond from a
rotted peach pit;

and the man randy as an ol’ goat,

his hackles up, twisting at
a whore’s nipples
like mustache wax; continued...
78
there’s the man
still tangled in the nettles
of a bougainvillea;

or the January man

in the sewers under Paris,
rats gnawing like cannibals,
teeth chattering like
rotting, unloved bones;

or the man with midnights

all slipping away,
hours spent walking,
room to room,
searching for a
comfortable chair.

They all know that justice

doesn’t go around here,
that the wars have been
fought and long-decided,
that we’ve been run laughing
into the blood-rusted pikes,

heroes stepping on our backs,

marching off to impossible victories,
off to medals, and V.E.-Day lovemaking,
off to ticker-tape, and uproarious applause

as our bones still rot in Belgium.

Yes much was decided, is decided,

long before we learn our names or places,

long before the world forgets us,

and stays decided long after we’re finally continued...

79
 forgotten by our loved ones,
forgotten by our own eyes.

There is no freedom–only process,

only the doing of the things

we’re made to do.

Yes, doing them and calling it

a living, a dream fulfilled,

doing them, and calling it

destiny.

But there are no gods at work here,

no heavenly hand, no divine machinations

either for or against us.

There are only men

dreaming ways
to be richer,
to have bigger cocks,
to be more beautiful
than the Coachella Valley;

only the doing of

whatever it takes;
only the being of
whoever they must;
only the taking of
whatever’s not nailed down
to the goddamned floor;
and only the naming of
our supposed great men,
those who take continued...
80
every goddamned thing,
those far beyond
hesitation and regret,
those beyond even
consequence.

Yes, better that we

butcher our dreams,
so we’ve at least
decided that much;
and that we move
silently beyond this,
settling on
something
else.

Contact Hosho McCreesh:

Point4504@gmail.com
http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/
hoshomccreesh
81
McGuire A thin 27 year old Glaswegian man, touch giddy in
the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty
prose, sporadic drummer, drunken grammarian, waf-
fler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher,
pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shad-
ows, irritating whine. He has a collection of poems,
prose, and stories: Riddled with Errors.

Below Lert: Old Man Bent

Below Right: Poems For Ladies
both by McGuire

82
A Skittish Boy
A skittish boy

The Ancestors’ albums

All the photo albums of my family history
Are stored in the eves of the attic.
In the night the attic doors shudder in the wind,
And depending on the strength of the wind
Sometimes the rattling wakes you.

Queer memory
A hot summer tent, flap flailing in the breeze.
We climbed in and out, naked, blithe. Two boys uncovered.
Our clothes still inside. Our bodies without recoil.
Little luminous white skins not without a blemish.

In Art class,
We made Valentine cards
and marked our kisses with an X.
I never painted much always drawing
stick soldiers in battle scenes.
Later adding underground bunkers for safety,

now here I am
And I’m thinking,
(And the thinking screws it)
become a type writer,
a word dresser, an honesty monster.
Something straight along the line.

83
 “McGuire does not deal in dichotomies. Constantly pushing the boundaries of
what should work, he succeeds in expanding the limits of what ‘good writing’ is.
Capable of moving and disgusting in the same line, he grapples with hard truth,
wrestling it down and pinning it, if only for a few seconds of frightening clarity.
Sometimes he is a little boy throwing a tantrum, hurling his paints at the walls only
to leave us with a breathtaking piece of art when he calms and walks away.”

-Jenifer Wills

84
To be opened up, read
and discarded.
A letter to myself.

Three pit bulls with razor wire barks scream at me, like starved prisoners, behind an iron fence
frothing at the meat of me as I pass. I only want to deliver the post, get through without trial, or
some yapper priming for my fingers, gnashing at my heels.

The owner of the dogs is a large building of a man, strong lean, with scar and muscle, a face hag-
gard with rage and alcohol. ‘Awright...’ He sits with his dogs in his garden, looks at me smiles
is content. ‘Not bad, some weather we’re having. Murder hiking up all these closes, in this heat.
Somebody’s definitely left the oven on!’ I reply while eyeing the dogs and move on.

I strain into the sun walking through its heat into another close. On the second floor there sits in
the middle of the stair a bucket kit for smoking hash. I move on up the stairs delivering then I walk
back down; a group of five young approach the bucket, begin to stone their minds inhaling large
potent lungfuls. I watch their pliable minds, play dough for the drug, sooner or later burning into
dust.

Back into the heat, I shift my large post bag, stretch my arms up into the space of the sky, with its
weight pulling me down, I close my eyes, moan in prayer to the sun. ‘I fucking hate stairs: all 1467
of them.’ I’m like a woman in distress carrying a filing cabinet on my back, but the job must be
done. It’s rational, insanely rational, to post the mail, juggling letters like an idiot clown in a circus
prelude to hell.

Monkey’s every last one of us, burning in the sun, sagging in the brain department utterly happy
splashing in the dregs of ourselves. I’m roasting. Somebody offers me a bottle of chilled water, and
they are a miracle. A non-descript unasked gift of a moment. Thank you, Mrs Anonymous someone.
I guzzle the chill down the desert of my camel throat. It is a snow ball of ice to me; I finish it off,
rapidly.

I march with my steel toe caps and think of Sisyphus. Carrying his rock like it was the meaning of
the thing, or a punishment stubborn and convinced, like a man who has finally grasped something
of his own dull recurring suffering. An idiot man sitting inside the workings of a clock, with which
he is baffled by.

God. I’m delirious with this labyrinth of steps and stairs, and the turmoil of dark closes, the reek of
damp dog hair. The presence of the day. I cannot wait to end this mountain. Only to begin again and
again climbing this dragon.
85
 44 Charing Cross
It never arrives but when it does it’s at the last minute. The innards smell of sweat and a faint hint
of urine. We lodge beside two by two. Battalions dip heads into newspapers and scroll through the
mobile locked in the screen. Everyone rudely brought to life by morning finding themselves here
daily.

Passing by Queen’s park, the sun spears through the trees, making a greenhouse of the bus; wel-
come in the morning. A baby startles the air with her primal cry. The bus moans and stretches as it
takes a right corner. We sit in rows two by two and someone accidently brushes the leg of another,
they flinch as though they had touched something cold and disgusting. They shift gingerly and
settle back down again, no eye contact,settling down for a few more paragraphs of gibberish.

At the back of the bus a man and a woman talk nonsense to each other through long awkward
pauses. Someone cringes and coughs. Two strangers admire the view from the window but one
actaully only stares through the glass. The bus lurches and hisses down Victoria Road, passangers
move and sway like audience memebers, the lights halt us, we each say a short prayer - red, orange,
green. We play Monday morning solitaire in separate chairs. In ritual. And someone always sends
out a thought or two for the angel left standing.

Centipedes crawl the road and moments run like cats under cars. Blurred flashes of headlines as
pages turn. Everyone is generalising internal monologue and the brains creepy almanac informs us
of a dangerous future. The bus pushes on through the streets. An aging crossword puzzler has dozed
off. A lady is blabbering about a recent biopsy and a few of the men over hear and think of their
testicles and the women their breasts, and some others, the rectal passage. The sun pours through
the glass pure orange juice. Morning stretches and yawns and wedding bells are tolling somewhere
for lovers in the universe of a quite perfect mortgage. And the spelling mistakes in the newspaper
forgive themselves, a zebra crossing in sub-Saharan Glasgow halts us, a set of lights, again, betray
us. Some are running late now.

The congregation shuffle their feet nervously. ‘Better to be safe than sorry’ says an aging widow
wearing a long brown coat. The man beside her says nothing. She is afraid of her naked body.
Heliotropic trees inhale their fix of the sun. Everyone is taxed and no one has anything to say and
wishes to tell the world about it. And the ego is being fiddled with by signs and beta rays; no one
can take themselves lightly, someone farts in divine silence, four wheels make 840 revolutions
every mile, five passengers yawn in synchrony.

The arbiters of life sit neatly in their pews. Heads in papers soaking up the inky meaning. All waste
and pine against the routine of work. Many hearts beat in time, but it’s impossible to know exactly
when this is happening. The engine roars. The noise fills the bus like colourless smoke. One rusher
is tapping his feet desperate to urinate. Most are sullen and inconsiderate. A prayer it sent up: ‘I
must be joyful.’ And now they enter the city, out of the mountains, down into the valley into the
uterus of the business zone. continued...
86
Someone makes a mental note to re-read the book of John - ‘those who believe in the Son are not
judged’; someone concludes that ‘some things are under our control while others things are under
the control of others’. A lady confesses to herself she must edit her diary to take out the truths she is
ashamed of. And a man smiles, his face touched by the sun, thinks to himself ‘take care of a thing
as though it where not your own’. The bus comes to a halt, and the professionals, the marching
band and the fingered administrators of practical reality queue off the bus, at Hope Street. They sink
into the day, in swarms of fabric and wrist chains, clock in time together under the grey sky of the
same nullifying office blocks throughout the city.

Umbilical Cord
Mundane.

The telephone rings, There is no answer,

I don’t answer. they say.
It won’t be Only a mountain track
the voice of God. where few dare to climb.
Only another
breather trying But the phone persists,
to articulate each ring,
important information knives my sleep.
regarding practical reality. Exhuasted,
waiting only for
I have not slept the mercy
peacefully of summer.
for ten days. Slowly I wake
I’m run down. without offence
l have no affection without the need to win
for battles. and lurch from my bed
I have been poisoned pull the phone
by ennui. The hair from the plug.
on my neck grows
like the hair of
a wolf but I’m a hermit
in winter not a wolf.

Those who exist high above

and away from the cities
and their scaffolding,
outside of the whole game
of spectacular society.
How lucky these
types live like Contact McGuire:
single roses
on a plateau http://a-glaswegian.blogspot.
beyond all office. com/
87
 David McLean
I am Welsh but have lived in Sweden since 1987. I
live there on an island in a large lake called Mälaren,
very near to Stockholm, with woman, cats, kittens,
and a couple of dogs. I have a BA in History from
Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much
later and much more seriously studied for, from Stock-
holm. Up to date details of many zine publications,
and several available books and chapbooks, including
three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and
a free electronic chapbook, are at my blog at http://
mourningabortion.blogspot.com.

88
If There Were Omens
if there were omens they would be bad
and devils on the highway, not ghosts

in their importunate and dissolute nothingness

taking the form of absence and beckoning

to us, dead lovers and other scum

that haunt the darkness, indifferent cruelty

of parents and all the other murderers.

the woman’s lament tends to die

as her body does. she was never loved, but

if there were omens there might be memories

in the dead bones, the dusty skulls,

there might once have been love.

but Jason Voorhees saw sluts fucking

animal man, he saw the path of the blade

and the reason there are memories and murder

and pain, so he became a saint and love’s mercy

releasing us, repetitive

memory, born again

the only way

89
 “Primarily, for me, poetry is affinity. It is a recognition of something in
oneself, but nothing so comfortable as feeling at home. Reading David
McLean will never make me feel comfortable, and that is part of the
attraction. Art should disturb not reinforce, but it should disturb beauti-
fully and not gratuitously. McLean is a philosopher as well as a poet, and
therein lies my deep affinity with his work. He is brilliantly but not wholly
dark: he works with kittens as effortlessly as blood. Heidegger says that,
“The poet reaches out with poetic thought into the foundation and the
midst of Being”. This is not something that the poet does but something
that the poet should do, and something that David McLean accomplishes
with such exceptional employment of language and ideas that it makes
him my favourite living poet. He has inspired me intellectually and artisti-
cally and is, in my opinion, the sine qua non of contemporary poetry.”

-Gillian Prew

90
Dead Men Follow
Children
a dead man follows the child
through lifeless rock

and rests skeletal his hand

upon a living shoulder.

he stands memory
of ancestral slaughter

and the child’s eyes are bright

with death and life

Contact David McLean:

/mourningabortion.blogspot.com
91
Patrick Nathan
It wasn’t long ago that I likened my history with writing to the building
of grandiose warships into which was poured every lost tatter of hope
only to watch those ships buckle against the world’s waves and fall
forgotten into the benthic dark. Needless to say I was upset at the time.
This year has been different. After a surprising struggle I graduated
from college. Why this particular incompletion was preventing me
from being happy I can’t say, but only a month later I returned to work
on this novel I’d forgotten—one of those ships overwrought with coral
and crustaceans and sinister octopi. I took it upon myself to raise it
from the black deep and give it another chance. This was in January of
2010. Only three months later I finished the first draft—105,000 words
of raw and pliable novel. I see this as analogous to my entire relation-
ship with writing which is developing every day. Right now I’m taking
a break from the novel. I need a little distance before I go back and tear
it apart again. My hope is that I’ll have a finished manuscript ready for
submission by the end of 2010.

In my spare time I sweep the floors at xenith.net. Xenith is an online magazine started in 1997. For the last few
years it has served as a community of writers working to improve their craft, but in 2009 it was re-launched in a
non-issue based format. It features prose and fiction, poetry, experimental pieces, essays, and several regular
columns. I’m always reading submissions (if you know what I mean).

Sometimes it’s hard to stay hopeful in a world filled with faceless and heavily armed editors shooting dreams
out of the sky, but at the same time it’s hard to lose that hope. That hope and the world that threatens it are all
one really has. I tell myself that I’ll be a novelist. If there is anything that writing has taught us it’s that the
imagined is just as good as the actual, and I have such beautiful dreams.

92
Hymn
I: Chimera (It’s When You Know Each Tree Around You—that’s When You Become a Prisoner)

The world has lost its shadows.

The woman with the red hair

wakes when the naked trees gasp
in the grey light. The forest hasn’t changed
but still cries out when stripped
of its consoling night.

She starts the day

with a trochaic sigh and thinks
about the firewood, the empty
corner near the old stove. I didn’t look
last night. In the cold room she imagines
a fire like the forgotten sun
and in this way
still considers her heartbeat.

Snow has covered yesterday’s tracks,

those destinations lost, but she knows
they lead nowhere, that every tree
shivers wrapped in the same brittle
bark, that the sky refuses
to speak. She knows
there are no ends.

She undoes the latch

on the door. Won’t be long
before all the good wood’s gone. She brings
that old axe which carries
in its rust and steel
no memory and cannot tell her
about the world in which it was forged.

The fire starts slowly.

Patience earns her a rabbit which she holds

by its cold ears. The remaining eye
in that crushed skull bears
something she cannot identify
and doesn’t wish to. continued..
93
 It’ll be dark soon. She considers
gathering wood for the morning,
another meal. The sky is only
another shade of grey.
Instead she listens
to the silence of the trees

who without the rustle of leaves

or the pulse of sap
are a finite and childless race
of titans.

There is a memory of birdsong.

II: The Bleeding Hands of Those Left Behind (Survivors)

When she was still alive I asked my grandmother

how it happened. I was just a little girl.
She and my brother and I were sitting
around the fire. It was winter.
Collin was running the poker across the burning
logs and leaving fiery scars in the wood
when he said it was an alien attack.
Instead of correcting him she smiled. He spat
into the embers and it sizzled.

I was just a young girl, she said. I went to bed

on a hot night in August. I remember dreaming
about a boy I liked who lived down the street. His name was Trevor
and his eyes were blue. He had blond hair. I dreamt
he was holding my hand and we were walking
down the sidewalk and in my dream I told everyone
we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
Then I was dreaming about being shipwrecked.
When I woke up in the morning
something was different. I went to the window
and saw that all the trees lining the street were dead.
There was a car parked sideways, blocking traffic,
but there was no traffic. Nobody was in the car
and there weren’t any others. The sky
was grey and there was a cold drizzle. I looked
and saw the ground covered in ash.
Some of the houses across the street
were caving in and looked
like they’d been there a hundred years. I stuck my head
out the window and saw ours covered continued...
94
in dust and soot and I was scared.
I went downstairs to find my mother and she was
in the kitchen, slamming the phone on the counter. Nothing
works, she said. Not the lights, not the stove, not
the microwave, not the TV, not the radio—
none of it even turns on. She looked
like she was about to cry. Come on, Emily, she said,
we’re going to your father’s. She grabbed my arm
and took me to the garage. She found the release cord
for the door and pulled it open herself but
when we got in the car it wouldn’t start.
She hit the steering wheel with both hands and sobbed
into the vinyl. I didn’t know what to do so I waited
until she stopped crying and we went back inside.
She told me to stay at home while she walked
around the neighborhood. She would always come back
without any answers, without anyone else. There’s nobody,
she would say. Nobody at all. Three days later
someone came to the door. He banged on it until we let him in.
He said he saw the light from our candles. My mother
asked him what was going on and he said he didn’t know.
The three of us were starving and went to the grocery store the next day,
two miles away. We walked there passing dead trees
and empty cars but no people. The store was locked
but my mother was so upset she slammed her fists
against the glass until it broke and fell to the ground. The clatter
was the only sound for miles and then we knew
we were alone.

I looked up at my grandmother and saw the memories

in her eyes. I thought about asking her
what microwaves were, or phones or TV.
I had seen cars in the streets—rusting
evidence of another time. I wanted to ask her about Trevor
and what happened to him but I didn’t. She sighed
and smiled at us both and the fire died slowly.

III: That Whimper which Deafens (Blood Under a Bruised Sky)

I gotta tell you what we did

a couple years back.

First thing you gotta understand

is that nobody fucking tells me or my friends
what to do. I can’t fucking stand
that shit. I’ll fucking do
what I want and so will my friends. continued...
95
 We all grew up together and knew
each other pretty well. Spent a lot of time
walking around the old streets looking
for shit that nobody found yet,
stuff from before. Most of our parents
were dead or dying or too weak to find food
so we was used to finding
our own shit. It’s what we did.

The old man, he had one eye

and raised chickens. Lived in this
fucked up looking flat building
sort of by my house. Kept
the chickens on the roof
in a bunch of cages. Wore
a torn shirt over the empty socket.

One of us thought it’d be a good idea

to grab one of those fucking chickens
and bring it home to eat, and then
we all wanted one so we went up to the place
and found a window open in back, crept in,
tried to be quiet.

We were looking for the stairs to the roof

when he found us, stared at us all with that one
blue eye and looked mad as hell. He knew
what we were doing and he didn’t like it. He grabbed
the smallest of us—little guy about fourteen—and held
him by the throat. Told the rest of us to get the hell out.

My best friend, he was behind him,

cracked that old fucker
over the head with some rusty
fucking pipe and the guy let go and fell. He rolled over
and looked up at him and he
was about to hit him again, but I
said no, hang on a minute. I went
and stood over that fucking piece of shit
and got the knife my dad gave me
out of my pocket. I sat on the bastard’s
chest and showed him the knife. See it? I asked
him. He said yes, yes I see it, and I
leaned over his face and had
one of the guys hold his eye open. It was all wide
and staring back at me and I didn’t
want to look at it anymore so I stuck continued...
96
the blade into the white part, just under
the blue, and popped it out of his head,
cut the bloody threads. He laid on the floor
and cried and moaned. I don’t know whatever
happened to that old shit. I don’t know if he heard us
go upstairs to the roof, if he ever knew
we let all those chickens out and killed
every last one.

IV: What She Didn’t Tell Her Grandchildren was that She Had Prayed (Ten Nights)

I woke up today and everything

was different. I saw my mother cry
and I don’t know if my father
is alive. Is this the end of the world?

--

We’ve been burning candles and eating

what hasn’t spoiled. We haven’t seen anyone else.
Are we the only ones left? Are we alone?

--

We ate the last of the food today. She says

we’ll go get more tomorrow. I’m afraid,
scared to go out there when there’s nobody
left. What’s gonna happen to us?

--

Someone found us. He promises

to take us to the store tomorrow,
out by the highway. I cried
when he walked in, I was so happy. I don’t know
who he is and I’ve never seen him before
but I’m glad he’s here. Did you send him?

--

There’s nobody left but a few, hiding

in their houses. We’ve seen
maybe twelve in a town that once held
ten thousand. What do you plan
to do with the rest of us?
continued...
97
 --

I’m so scared. Please

tell me you’re out there. Can’t
you answer me?

--

Where are you?

--

Are you gone?

--

We’re leaving tomorrow, going

on a long walk with all the others
to the city, to see what’s left. I
don’t know what to do anymore,
or what to say. I feel
like I’m crazy, talking to empty space,
to nothing. Why did you do this?

--

Did you know that I loved you?

--

V: Asleep in the Soil, and the Ice, and the Marrow (What Withers and Blooms)

One of the few surviving mirrors

belongs to a pregnant woman
who currently stands before it naked
and afraid and running her hands slowly
over her stretched skin. She is broken
into segments that don’t line up, made
of jagged triangles, muted
by the years.

Through the cracks in the boards covering

the windows she can see the night
swallowing the day. She understands
that the crumbling buildings around her
will soon step back into the dark. She knows continued...
98
she will soon use the last of the day’s strength
to move the chunk of concrete
in front of the door. She understands
blankets and their warmth, solitude
immeasurable, dreams:

slivers of certainty in the flakes

falling from the sky, their undoing in the dull
light—that unfailing erasure, undoubtedly
symbolic; the nebulae within her daughter’s womb,
her granddaughter’s; the burning skies
bestowed by her sons
and grandsons; the lone and unblinking eye
of the dead rabbit—timeless
as it is perfect; echoes in a dead city, slapping
the buckled concrete; questions asked
by her child on the shore of a grey and birdless
lake—a maturing mythology
in lieu of answers; the morning, sweeping
westward over all those bones, speaking
languages no one has quite forgotten, sowing
trust and doubt into each dewdrop, remembering
isolated flames, awakening:

a pale but ceaseless pulse.

99
 “Patrick Nathan’s understanding of language sur-
passes the limits of a writer who merely knows the
rules of writing. He knows which rules to break and
how precisely to break them to achieve his desired ef-
fect. His work achieves a tone of fluidity, strength and
realism without coming across as affected, pretentious
or bitter. In the end, our reward is uncommonly and
unapologetically beautiful writing.’”

-Jenifer Wills

100
Contact Patrick Nathan:

patrick.nathan@gmail.com
101
William Taylor Jr.
Hello. My name is William Taylor Jr. and, among
other things, I write poems. I live in San Francisco
with my wife and my cat and write a lot about San
Francisco and its people. Much of my writing comes
from things I collect while walking around the city;
random images, conversations, stories, shapes and col-
ors. Anything that might hold some kind of meaning. I
jot them down. Eventually I sort them out and see how
they work together. Sometimes they become poems.

I’ve been publishing my work in the small press for

over 15 years. I’ve published many chapbooks and
a small handful of full length collections, the most
recent being The Hunger Season from sunnyoutside
press. It is a very beautifully made book and I recom-
mend it highly. An Age of Monsters, a collection of
my stories, is in the works from Epic Rites Press.

I like Robinson Jeffers, videogames, Thai food and vinyl records. I don’t own an ipod or a cell
phone.

That’s all.

102
This Quiet Room
Give us this,

these few decent moments

in between all the rest of it.

Enough wine,

some music,

and the simple

pleasures of each other.

Just this quiet room,

and the world outside like

a sad old war,

long grown tired of itself

but continuing on
because that’s all it knows
to do.

103
 The Hunger Season
The days and the hours hold us down
like animals

and the more we strain and twist

the more they dig and bite
and keep us still.

I sit in a small apartment

sweating in my underwear
at two in the afternoon
trying to write it down

as if there might be some kind of

salvation in this.

I buy junk food and energy drinks

at the corner store
where an old man spends his dollars
on the scratchers that have become
his only chance at victory.

A trail of losing tickets

follows him home

where a woman stands

smoking endless cigarettes
glowering at the world
with a joylessness
as pure as the sun.

The night comes quickly this time of year

and it seems there’s not much we can do
for one another.

An old couple
sit on a metal bench
with plastic bags of rice
and crumbs of bread

for the multitudes

of pigeons
continued...
104
and if you asked they might tell you
it helps a bit
to sate the hunger of a fellow creature

when you can do nothing

for your own.

105
 About my book, The Hunger Season:

“These are poems that feel just like San Francisco. Graceful, mournful, they have all the indiffer-
ence of a street that pisses on your iron gate of belief. They are of a beauty abandoned and rolling
and screaming under the wheels of headlights in the Tenderloin night. They are the shared paraly-
sis of city life. These poems hang in the air like dust in the sun. beauty and waste.”

-Mark Eitzel, American Music Club

Figure Two by William Taylor Jr.

106
Wounded Horses
And some days are just like
wounded horses:

there’s nothing
you can do to save them,
you can only
forget and move on.

The first glass of wine

on a late afternoon
that has nothing else
going for it

saves and forgives

more than any god
ever has or will.

Contact William Taylor Jr:

bardamu67@sbcglobal.net
http://williamtaylorjr.blogspot.com/
107
Vincent Turner
I live and works in London, currently as a drug and alcohol counselor,
and as much as I enjoy my job, I would much rather live on a farm with
a dog and a few cute lambs living out my days as a recluse, writing po-
etry, yet then I remember I have two young sons and am soon snapped
out of my reverie. I have been writing for 10 years and recently had my
first chapbook published by erbacce-press. I have also been published
on the net at various zines inlcuding “Full of Crow” “Underground
Voices” “Shoots and Vines” “Ink-sweat-and-tears” “Rusty Truck” and
some others which I have now forgotten.

108
At the Fridge 3 a.m.
In the bottom draw,
a bottle of sauce,
caked in dried spillage
reminds me of that candle
I bought you some years back.
We’d lit it on New Years Eve
to improve the failing mood
but had drunk to much,
argued, and left the flame
to burn alone
as we slept
back against back,
like fallen enemies.
On the milk spilt shelf
There is little left to work with.
Just a snapped celery stick,
and a week-old tomato,
with skin like an old girls neck
I close the door
and contain the fridges light-
welcoming the temporary
removal of month long squalor.
In the deceiving darkness
I picture you-
asleep on the sofa,
curled up like a fireplace dog.
The loosely laid blanket
exposing the feeble- white
of your ankle.
I try hard to hear you,
& squit shut my eyes
yet it is in this foreign silence
I hear the fridges constant hum
and that puts an end to that.

109
 City in a Spin
Sunrise unfolds, spring flowers uncurl
canopying the body of the missing girl.

Rain plays piano on a near-empty street

where two birds share a dry retreat-
Down by the river of trolleys and mire
a swan pecks rubber from a burnt out tyre-
Tattered-black, her heavy wings sag
as she worms her way through carrier bags
that litter the river like dead jellyfish.

Sunrise retreats, spring flowers wilt

exposing her legs that jut from a quilt.

Above the rattle of passing trains

in a red draped room of grunts and feigns
folks get busy in a penthouse squat

No kissing or tongues but £5 for a job.

Under a bridge, encircling a fire
two drunks debate nature/nurture.
Alley cats court the passing shadows
bathing in the light on mossy plateau’s

Outside a police station a woman is sick

her daughters been found, face first in a ditch.

110
Thoughts of a Seagull
During Holiday Season
1.
From late October
to early may
the beach is bare,
only dogs and the suicidal 2.
bother these shores. In summer
they abandon their homes
in droves, as though ants
3. spilling from a nest dis-
The guts turbed.
of gold draped men
shadow the sand.
Children retreat to 4.
the coolness of their Sweat
flabby shade. ferments under a squat
sun,
masking sewage stench
5. that seeps in the shallows
The token drunk, where children bob in its
always the tease, froth.
withdraws
a chip
whenever we swoop-
We watch them
leave
mapping their
slumber from
beach to street,
and with a squawk
we shit on their cars.

111
 “Vincent Turner’s poetry is the creation of a potent and innovative
imagination. He is a poet who takes the realities of life and views
them from a daring and unique angle. Vincent writes with a vision
that lifts the reader from the realms of the mundane and into a world
of verve and passion. His words are often hard-hitting, yet they al-
ways manage to reach out to the reader with a grace and insight that
touches the heart. Vincent’s poetry has the rare quality of lingering in
the mind long after leaving the page. His works are a literary gem.”

-Susan Jarvis- Poet

112
Od Age
I suppose the dragon on your chest
once looked cool, but now
on your flimsy skin,
its fiery breath is but a
fanned out flame.
and those once emerald scales
so carefully etched by steady hand
are hidden beneath
a forest of grey wispy hair.
Even the arrow peirced heart
that eclipses your ankle
with a flood of cherry red
appears to have cracked into two.

Contact Vincent Turner

v_j_poet@yahoo.co.uk
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