This is the book that never would be. The preface tells the story.

The appendices are the original drafts of the book. Thanks for reading. -PHM phmadore.com

Preface

Gmail - submission

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com>

submission
6 messages P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: adam@publishinggenius.com P. H. M. http://freemadore.info
phmpgsub.pdf 71K

Sat, Dec 6, 2008 at 4:08 PM

Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> got it, thanks

Sat, Dec 6, 2008 at 4:09 PM

i think tomorrow i'm going to read a lot of submissions and i'll put yours on the top part of the pile you don't have to send your thugs 2008/12/6 P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> P. H. M. http://freemadore.info

Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> Can you send this to me as a Word file? Or .rtf. PDFs are bad for submitting. I like to make comments while I read.
[Quoted text hidden]

Wed, Dec 24, 2008 at 7:20 PM

-Look at Rupert Wondolowski's book from PGP: http://www.heatedmolesuit.blogspot.com moonpunter@gmail.com <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> attached Wed, Dec 24, 2008 at 9:51 PM

1 of 3

6/22/10 8:11 AM

Gmail - submission

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

[Quoted text hidden]

2 attachments pgsub11302008.rtf 32K pgsub11302008.doc 31K

Robinson, Adam T. <ATRobinson@lmus.leggmason.com> To: moonpunter@gmail.com Cc: adamrobinson@gmail.com Hi Paul, Thanks again for sending your work. This collection is more "direct" than the sort of stuff I generally publish -- I mean to say that there is a clear, external theme that's prominent in the writing, a sort of "us-against-them" protest speech that at times comes through the stories more clearly than the tight style of the prose. But I love the way the stories culminate into something that is more personal and, above all, comprehensive. I would be proud to publish this if you'll take a look at some of my suggested changes. I tracked a lot of small things. I think the book should be called "YOUR" and I think the order should be: Yearning Utopia Hate Corners Communication Reason For the other suggestions, see attached and let me know what questions you have. I'm CC'ing my gmail account because I don't check my work account over the weekend, and I can't access my Gmail acct from work. So please reply to me at the Gmail account. Thanks again. Adam
[Quoted text hidden]

Fri, Dec 26, 2008 at 11:07 AM

IMPORTANT: E-mail sent through the Internet is not secure and timely delivery of Internet mail is not guaranteed. Legg Mason therefore, recommends that you do not send any action-oriented or time-sensitive information to us via electronic mail, or any confidential or sensitive information including: social security numbers, account numbers, or personal identification numbers.

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Gmail - submission

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

This message is intended for the addressee only and may contain privileged or confidential information. Unless you are the intended recipient, you may not use, copy or disclose to anyone any information contained in this message. If you have received this message in error, please notify the author by replying to this message and then kindly delete the message. Thank you. Robinson, Adam T. <ATRobinson@lmus.leggmason.com> To: moonpunter@gmail.com Cc: adamrobinson@gmail.com It's attached now, sorry.
[Quoted text hidden]

Fri, Dec 26, 2008 at 11:07 AM

pgsub11302008.rtf 60K

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6/22/10 8:11 AM

Gmail - Your

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com>

Your
2 messages Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> Hey Paul, Hope you're doing well. Just touching base with you regarding "Your," which I hope to put out toward the end of June. I've done a preliminary layout of the reader pages. Still have to do the cover. Take a look at the attached, do a read, and let me know if you're thinking the text is still as you want it to be. I'll be reading it closely again in the next few days/weeks and will let you know if I find anything. I read your MLP chap this morning on the bus. It was great! Really tautly poetic, sensitive and smartly critical. Have you been getting mad props for it? Okay, I'm off to bed. -http://www.publishinggenius.com http://www.pw.org/content/taking_poetry_public Tue, May 26, 2009 at 9:43 PM

PHMtpc21screen.pdf 120K

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> Adam,

Wed, May 27, 2009 at 2:34 AM

Mad props, nah. I am the bastard son of eLit and this is an unspoken code. You are the third person out of the 54 who have it. I think most people deeply resent me for reasons they refuse to elucidate, probably for fear of having those reasons debunked. I also am quite paranoid in that respect. Anyway, I think the Green brings a tone of neutrality to the text that I didn't muster in the text, and that is a good thing. I think you did a good job laying it out. I looked it over. I showed my squad leader. It looks good from here, but let me know your findings nonetheless. I'm glad you've moved it up on the publishing schedule. I feel like August is often a bad month for publishing while October is unusually creative. Sleep well. 10:34AM here. Paul phmadore.com

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6/22/10 8:15 AM

Gmail - Your

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

[Quoted text hidden]

2 of 2

6/22/10 8:15 AM

Gmail - "Your"

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com>

"Your"
13 messages Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 8:11 PM

I'm working on Your now, should have some suggested edits to send you soon. Let me know if you come online and we can Gchat. -http://www.publishinggenius.com http://www.pw.org/content/taking_poetry_public

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> i'm on got fucked with guard was just thinking about YOUR on guard, though, so this is good! get on phmadore.com
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Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 8:57 PM

Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com>

Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:00 PM

You had guard duty? what time is it there? I'm attaching a file with some little stuff, nothing too major.
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PHMtpc21screen.pdf 146K

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> It's 5:02AM. Guard started at 3. phmadore.com
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Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:02 PM

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Gmail - "Your"
Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> let me know if you have any questions about anything there
[Quoted text hidden]

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...
Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:05 PM

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> page 6: I don't know what the right word would be

Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:15 PM

it wasn't victory because the fight never really took place; it wasn't any sort of traditional revolution, and anyway i don't want to use that word; .... re: Hate the man i think when i wrote it, which was many moons ago, that was a way of setting him apart. if you have another idea of setting him apart, that might work. he was definitely standing still. and what else did he do that made him different? he kept his hands down his pants. meanwhile the world crashed around him. i guess i was trying to say he wasn't lifting a finger. i don't believe in fake words but what do you want to replace assholery with? keep in mind i use a "fake word" in the title of a magazine i give countless hours to... page 13: to rewrite this part seems difficult and i'm feeling lazy. we could just go as simple as "I will feed him." 16: okay 17: "I like sex." 20: still makes me laugh a little. you didn't comment on it, but do something with it if you want. 22: it's nothing, it's words; remove the last sentence.

phmadore.com
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Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com>

Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:30 PM

P6 -- no, I meant use "the right word" instead of "even accurate" -- it just sounds better. Probably at a different time I wouldn't have got caught up in this at all. I'll send you another copy with my ideas for the red passages like "hate the man" and the feeding him passage. assholery = combativeness? i like sex is great, i laughed

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Gmail - "Your"

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

i see what you mean, i like it, about "doing" -- just wondered if you thought it was funny What about adding the first sentence of the book to the end, so that it is the first and last sentence of the first story, and also of the whole book? And it fits with the last piece, so it nicely ties the compilation up. gotta go change the laundry
[Quoted text hidden]

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> yeah, just send me the next copy and i'll see if i object to anything. phmadore.com
[Quoted text hidden]

Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:32 PM

Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> OK, check it out. Take your time if youre tired and stuff.

Thu, Jul 16, 2009 at 9:42 PM

Any ideas for how to put this together as a printable version? I'm thinking about switching the print-it-yourself model to just a letter-sized, traditional format (but nicely designed), since I don't think anyone actually prints these themselves.
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PHMtpc21screen.pdf 118K

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> belligerence instead of combativeness Hate was a motionless man on the corner fondling himself and looking blank. that's all--the rest looks good. phmadore.com
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Fri, Jul 17, 2009 at 3:23 AM

P. H. Madore <moonpunter@gmail.com> To: Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com>

Sat, Jul 18, 2009 at 3:45 AM

Regarding print distribution. I think this one should forgo it--that is, make it so nobody can print it--until I get home, at which time I'd like to sign ten copies and let you sell them at some kind of outrageous price. Say $15 a piece. Then you'll make $150 out of the deal. I wouldn't want any of it, of course, because I think PGP is a worthy effort.

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Gmail - "Your"

https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=1270b713ea&view...

However, I did want to point out two things: dispatch does not publish chapbooks. The issue format is one it's had since 2005, and it retains it now, and in spite of the fact that I'm only publishing a single author per issue at this time, it does not necessarily look like that will always be the case. It's just that is all I feel I can probably get in a two-week period at any given time, so I don't want to commit to publish more than I will be able to in the future. Which brings up my other point, that I am not a newcomer. Perhaps I quit for awhile, but I have evidence (the last two issues have trickled back so far, trying to get the first three still), but I was still there in 2005. phmadore.com
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Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com>

Sat, Jul 18, 2009 at 4:15 AM

I knew that dispatch had been around before, but not in its current incarnation as litareview, publishing singleperson PDFs. I guess I was part right. That paragraph didn't come out right; I had meant to finish up by saying something about how I meant "competes," how I meant it in a good way, as in, other presses who are doing worthwhile stuff so I don't have to worry about continuing This PDF Chapbook. So anyway, good job being around since 2005. Did you know I started my first online journal in 1999? I predate a bunch of stuff!
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Adam Robinson <adamrobinson@gmail.com> To: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> I'm going camping for a week and will get this book up when I come back.
[Quoted text hidden]

Sat, Jul 18, 2009 at 4:16 AM

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Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate by P. H. Madore “I hate the taste of medicine.” --Hot Water Music, “Trusty Chords” “In the glow of twilight, our world has finally come.” --Rise Against, “But Tonight We Dance” “If I come to New York, can I sleep on your floor?” --The Promise Ring, “Jersey Shore”

1/18

P. H. Madore

Yearning
If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret. I'd keep walking, down back roads and forgotten routes until I reached a highway somewhere. Every couple of days I think that I would stop to bathe in legendary brooks amongst water bugs and nature. I'd keep walking until I found a new place to call home, and once there, I'd take all the money in my pockets and rent a shitty basement room. On the first night there, before going to sleep, I'd say, “If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret.”

2/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

Corners
On this corner of these two streets, you've got a man shouting about the tired, hungry, cold, angry, desperate, and poor. His words are powerful. I've seen him here for weeks, somehow he subsists. His clothes are always in good repair. People are afraid of him but no one has called the police on him. Sometimes he speaks directly to the police, sometimes he speaks about the police, and sometimes he speaks of a world where there are no police or need of them. On that corner of those two streets, you've got an old man, dastardly, senseless, preaching of hell fire and eternal damnation, indicting everyone from the Pope to the President in his own version of the Sodom our world has supposedly become. Frequently he gets
3/18

P. H. Madore

violent, throws things at passing sinners, and sometimes I see him under arrest. This is the only time he talks about the police, accusatory, as if they've failed him. This other corner, here, it's quiet. This is where I occupy during my lunch breaks. In my own right, in my own head, in my own words, I'm screaming within the confines of my head. Screaming for solace, some kind of reprieve. Something has to give, that's all I can think anymore. I think of burning flags and bridges, of broken homes and dreams, your world generally, and I think: the man on this corner of these two streets should forcibly remove the man on that corner of those two streets. Just make him disappear. The man on that corner of those two streets lives in misery, dramatically, and is intent that everyone
4/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

should be miserable. Everyone just wants to get to work on time and keep their threadbare philosophical differences in tact on the way. A better future will not be born until the man on this corner of these two streets is hailed by mass media as a visionary and a savior. “Better” might be subjective, but today I have decided to bring enough lunch for two every day from now on. I will not speak to him, I will not deter him from his mission, I will give him half my lunch each day. Perhaps my silent support will catch on, and eventually the man on that corner of those two streets will be disappeared by popular demand. There's no telling, there are too many channels to change. Sparks, flames, cleansing. Tomorrow may be the day. Until then, I trudge on.
5/18

P. H. Madore

We trudge on.

6/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

Utopia
International, national, and local economies collapsed when everyone quit The System. Nobody went to work, spent money, locked up at the end of the day. Everyone went on a strike too advanced for description. Strangers embraced in the middle of days no longer recorded on calendars no longer printed. Nobody wrote articles for new encyclopedias. Artists painted things in their basements and distributed them to friends and neighbors. Writers felt suddenly, madly renewed. Life was now fueled by spontaneous unity. A harmonious cultural vision. Goods and post made it cross-country via chance, good-natured travelers.

7/18

P. H. Madore

After a decade-long break from its beauty, I returned to Maine to observe. To breathe. In the last major city south of our native Sebec, in the back of an acquired 1986 Subaru, I stockpiled water, canned foods, and, in case of a backsliding, two-hundred thousand in your legal tender—supplies for my decade of recuperation from the war, work, and worry of the old world. Our home stood undisturbed, your grave majestic. At your feet I wept tears of relief and joy. It's over, I said, we won. I knew you heard none of this. Victory was an insufficient term. I stood in a world liberated, Morrison's Soft Parade begun. Unspeakable elation vibrated the earth. The expected period of rape and tyranny never took place—such anti8/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

social elements were dealt with so swiftly by the communities they sought to terrorize that those with perverse old-worldly motives were discouraged enough to commit suicide. Former policemen did penance. What they'd done in the old world for power they now did temporarily, for legitimate justice. Even the most radically battered and faithful of us dreamers had never hoped for anything like this. Women smiled for the first time in years. Ancients with flawed ideas had heart attacks the continent over. The morning breeze delivered peace. First class. No lies were told the day I made my pilgrimage to Hughes Road. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I climbed up in the tree-house of my childhood. Rickety, rotting, and run
9/18

P. H. Madore

over with squirrels. On the wall a passer-through had written three words: “Utopia is born.”

10/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

Communication
A man always said things I could not understand when I stepped into the shower. Every time this happened I thought of a form of secret communication that could be developed through this method. Clarity would have to be attained, of course, but given the inherent impossibility of actually hearing what someone was saying through the pipes, it could be quite cryptic. A modified morse code or something. Anything to rebel, rebellion was easy in the shower. I showered, rubbed soap across my private parts and stumbled out. Quite drunk on whiskey and beer. Morning neared. Work would follow, the physical demands of your market. I'd have to steal an hour or more of sleep. Otherwise I'd be useless. Hated being
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P. H. Madore

useless to the bosses and masters even though none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore except on-demand television, dry spells in Central Asia. These interested me more than anything. I was taking notes on Mongolia one morning when she knocked. This was days ago. I answered the door. She said, “Some call me a rat. I know not why. I detest the rats of the wharf. I'd simply like to share your bed this morning, have you the time? We need not even have sex.” “I could use some sex,” I admitted to her. “I like every time I have sex, and for this they call me a slut.” “They're always calling things. They're always on their cell phones with gossip. And who are they? They are
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porous and ugly. I want no part of them. Come in,” I said to her. “My name is Jackie.” “I did not ask your name.” “What is your name?” “My name's Pete, if that works for you.” “I'd rather call you Hank,” she admitted. “Well, do so,” I said not looking at her, finishing up my notes. They'd never amount to anything, these notes. I just liked making notes and calling them “jottings.” Lately things had made so little sense in my life that I failed to question even the great morality of the pressure cooker I found myself scrambling across the floors of. I told her something to this effect as I shut off the lights and crawled into bed with her. I asked her if I could use her phone. I made the call to work, told them I
13/18

P. H. Madore

was sick. They said the matron of the front desk would demand a doctor's note. I told them to please hold. I asked Jackie if she knew any doctors. She said she had a pad of doctor's notes she'd stolen in order to write herself prescriptions for Vicodin and Preparation H. I said very well. I returned to the call and assured them a Doctor's note would be no problem. Jackie and I had sex all morning. At around eleven in the morning, Jackie declared she had somewhere to be. “I am a waitress.” “Marry me,” I said. I didn't know why. I was thinking about the Mongolian countryside. “Silly boy,” she told me. Jackie left. I walked through the haze of my apartment to the bathroom. I stood naked at the shower. I sad to the pipes,
14/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

“I am immoral. I have spent the morning inside a complete stranger. There is no forgiveness for men of my kind. Beef jerky.” Someone yelled back, “Lurchuawhat?” I didn't say anything in response, just turned on the shower and cleaned myself of the morning's madness. In that moment I was elated.

15/18

P. H. Madore

Reason
Find myself in a hall, surrounded. Fight my way out. Have no recollection of the fighting just ten minutes later. They say, this is not new. I could tell you a thousand broken stories if you'd have them. I might manage one coherent tale of love. Loss. I might manage anything given the weather today. Clear, cool, and darkening. They say, we are not all this fortunate. Inspirations will scatter on you. Things will occur. You will forget why and where. Memories will become musical notes. You will orchestrate a forged harmony to live by. Trying to record it will be futile. Always you will feel inadequate. They say, we are not all this infinite.
16/18

Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate

Find myself in a room, disoriented. Figure my way out. Have no foundation just ten hours later. They say, this is not a love affair. On this day I have learned that reincarnation is as much a matter of willpower as it is cosmic. Reason can be a product of copulation between fantasy and fact. Cancer smoothed over with promises of brighter days.

17/18

P. H. Madore

Hate
Arrests were made. Thieves stole time and hearts. Letters of recommendation came out of the debacle. Requests were called into defunct radio stations for revolutionary power punk. A hundred new sitcoms were inspired. Hate was a man standing on the corner with his hands down the front of his pants. Clouds cleared up, and a plane nosedived on the merriment. The only survivor was Hate, who had not moved. Hate smiled and trudged off to a new street. His infection would spread.

18/18

YOUR P. H. Madore

NEXT
If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret. I'd keep walking, down back roads and forgotten routes until I reached a highway somewhere. Every couple of days I think that I would stop to bathe in legendary brooks with water bugs and nature. I'd keep walking until I found a new place to call home, and once there, I'd take all the money in my pockets and rent a basement room. On the first night, while trying to fall asleep, I'd say, “If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret.”

UTOPIA
International, national, and local economies collapsed when everyone quit the system. Nobody went to work, spent money, locked up at the end of the day. Everyone went on a strike too advanced to be described. Strangers embraced in the middle of days no longer recorded on calendars no longer printed. Nobody wrote articles for new encyclopedias. Artists painted things in their basements and gave them to friends and neighbors. Writers felt suddenly, madly renewed. Life was now fueled by spontaneous unity. A har-

4

monious cultural vision. Goods and post made it cross-country via chance, good-natured travelers. After a decade-long absence from its beauty, I returned to Maine to observe. To breathe. In the last major city south of our native Sebec, in the back of an acquired 1986 Subaru, I stockpiled water, canned foods, and, in case of a backsliding, two-hundred thousand in your legal tender—supplies for my decade of recuperation from the war, work, and worry of the old world. Our home stood undisturbed, your grave majestic. At your feet I wept tears of relief and joy. It's over,

5

I said, we won. I knew you heard none of this. Victory wasn't the right word for what was taking place. I stood in a world liberated, Morrison's Soft Parade begun. Unspeakable elation vibrated on the earth. The expected period of rape and tyranny never took place— such anti-social elements were dealt with so swiftly by the communities they sought to terrorize that those with perverse oldworldly motives were discouraged enough to commit suicide. Former policemen did penance. What they'd done in the old
6

world for power they now did temporarily, for legitimate justice. Even the most radically battered and faithful of us dreamers had never hoped for anything like this. Women smiled for the first time in years. Ancients with flawed ideas had heart attacks the continent over. The morning breeze delivered peace. First class. No lies were told the day I made my pilgrimage to Hughes Road. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I climbed up into the treehouse of my childhood. Rickety,

7

rotting, and run over with squirrels. On the wall a passer-through had written three words: “Utopia is born.”

8

HATE
Arrests were made. Thieves stole time and hearts. Letters of recommendation came out of the debacle. Requests were called into defunct radio stations for revolutionary power punk. A hundred new sitcoms were inspired. Hate was a man immobile on the corner with his hands in his pants. Clouds cleared up, and a plane nose-dived on the merriment. The only survivor was Hate, who had not moved. Hate smiled and trudged off to a new street. His infection would spread.

9

CORNERS
On this corner of these two streets, you've got a man shouting about the tired, hungry, cold, angry, desperate, and poor. His words are powerful. I've seen him here for weeks. Somehow he subsists. His clothes are always in good repair. People are afraid of him but no one has called the police on him. Sometimes he speaks directly to the police, sometimes he speaks about the police, and sometimes he speaks of a world where there are no police or need of them. On that corner of those two streets, you've got an old man, dastardly, senseless, preaching of hell10

fire and eternal damnation, indicting everyone from the Pope to the President in his own version of the Sodom our world has supposedly become. Frequently he gets violent, throws things at passing sinners, and sometimes I see him getting arrested for this combativeness. This is the only time he talks about the police, accusatory, as if they've failed him somehow. This other corner, here, it's quiet. This is where I sit during my lunch breaks. In my own right, in my own head, in my own words, I'm screaming within the confines of my skull. Screaming for solace, some kind of reprieve. Something has to give, that's all I can think anymore.
11

I think of burning flags and bridges, of broken homes and dreams—your world generally, and I think: the man on this corner of these two streets should forcibly remove the man on that corner of those two streets. Just make him disappear. The man on that corner of those two streets lives in misery, dramatically, and is intent that everyone should be miserable. Everyone just wants to get to work on time and keep their threadbare philosophical differences intact on the way. A better future will not be born until the man on this corner of these two streets is hailed by mass media as a visionary and a savior.
12

“Better” might be subjective, but today I have decided to bring enough lunch for two every day from now on. I will not speak to him, I will not deter him from his mission, I will just give him the same lunch I’m eating, so that I can help him survive another day. Perhaps my silent support will catch on, and eventually the man on that corner of those two streets will be disappeared by popular demand. There's no telling, there are too many channels to change. Sparks, flames, cleansing. Tomorrow may be the day. Until then, I trudge on. Until then, we trudge on.

13

COMMUNICATION
A man was saying things I could not understand when I stepped into the shower. Every time this happened I thought of a form of secret communication that could be developed through this method. Clarity must be attained, of course, but given the impossibility of actually hearing what someone was saying through the pipes, it could be somewhat cryptic. A modified Morse code or something. Anything to rebel. Rebellion was easy in the shower. I showered, rubbed soap across my private parts and

14

stumbled out. Drunk on whiskey and beer. Morning neared. Work would follow, the physical demands of your market. I'd have to steal an hour or more of sleep. Otherwise I'd be useless. Hated being useless to the bosses and masters even though none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore except on-demand television, dry spells in Central Asia. These interested me more than anything. I was taking notes on Mongolia one morning when she knocked. This was days ago. I answered the door. She said, “Some call me a rat. I don’t know why. I detest the rats of the wharf.

15

I'd simply like to share your bed this morning. Have you the time? We need not have sex.” “I could do some sex,” I admitted to her. “I like sex.” “They're always calling things things. They're always on their cell phones with gossip. And who are they? They are porous and malformed. I want no part of them. Come in,” I said to her. “My name is Jackie.” “I did not ask your name.” “What is your name?” “My name's Pete, if that works for you.” “Hank works better,” she said.

16

“Well, use that,” I said not looking at her, finishing up my notes. They'd never amount to anything, these notes. I just liked making notes and calling them “jottings.” Lately things had made so little sense in my life that I failed to question even the great morality of the pressure cooker I found myself scrambling across the floors of. I told her something to this effect as I shut off the lights and crawled into bed with her. I asked her if I could use her phone. I made the call to work, told them I was sick. They said the matron of the front desk would demand a doctor's note. I told them to

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please hold. I asked Jackie if she knew any doctors. She said she had a pad of doctor's notes she'd stolen in order to write herself prescriptions for Vicodin, for Preparation H. I said very well. I returned to the call and assured them a Doctor's note would be possible. Jackie and I had sex all morning. At around eleven, Jackie said she had somewhere to be. “I am a waitress.” “Marry me,” I said. I didn't know why. I was thinking about the Mongolian countryside. “Silly boy,” she said. Jackie left. I walked through the haze of my
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apartment to the bathroom. I stood naked at the shower. I said to the pipes, “I am immoral. I have spent the morning doing a complete stranger. There is no forgiveness for men of my kind. Beef jerky.” Someone yelled back, “Lurchuawhat?” I didn't say anything in response, just turned on the shower and rinsed myself of the morning's madness. In that moment I was elated.

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REASON
Find myself in a hall, surrounded. Fight my way out. Have no recollection of the fighting just ten minutes later. They say, this is not new. I could tell you a thousand broken stories if you'd have them. I might manage one coherent tale of love. Loss. I might manage anything given the weather today. Clear, cool, and darkening. They say, we are not all this fortunate. Inspirations will scatter on you. Things will occur. You will forget why and where. Memories will be-

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come musical notes. You will orchestrate a forged harmony to live by. Trying to record it will be futile. Always you will feel inadequate. They say, we are not all this infinite. Find myself in a room, disoriented. Figure my way out. Have no foundation just ten hours later. They say, this is not a love affair. On this day I have learned that reincarnation is as much a matter of willpower as it is cosmic. Reason is a product of fantasy and fact, and if I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret.

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Yearning, Corners, Utopia, Communication, Reason, and Hate by P. H. Madore “I hate the taste of medicine.” --Hot Water Music, “Trusty Chords” “In the glow of twilight, our world has fnally come.” --Rise Against, “But Tonight We Dance” “If I come to New York, can I sleep on your foor?” --The Promise Ring, “Jersey Shore”

Yearning
If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret. I'd keep walking, down back roads and forgotten routes until I reached a highway somewhere. Every couple of days I think that I would stop to bathe in legendary brooks amongst water bugs and nature. I'd keep walking until I found a new place to call home, and once there, I'd take all the money in my pockets and rent a shitty basement room. On the frst night there, before going to sleep, I'd say, “If I could walk out of this place right now, I'd do it without regret.”

Corners
On this corner of these two streets, you've got a man shouting about the tired, hungry, cold, angry, desperate, and poor. His words are powerful. I've seen him here for weeks, somehow he subsists. His clothes are always in good repair. People are afraid of him but no one has called the police on him. Sometimes he speaks directly to the police, sometimes he speaks about the police, and sometimes he speaks of a world where there are no police or need of them. On that corner of those two streets, you've got an old man, dastardly, senseless, preaching of hell fre and eternal damnation, indicting everyone from the Pope to the President in his own version of the Sodom our world has supposedly become. Frequently he gets violent, throws things at passing sinners, and sometimes I see him getting arrested for said assholery. This is the only time he talks about the police, accusatory, as if they've failed him somehow. This other corner, here, it's quiet. This is where I occupy during my lunch breaks. In my own right, in my own head, in my own words, I'm screaming within the confnes of my head. Screaming for solace, some kind of reprieve. Something has to give, that's all I can think anymore. I think of burning fags and bridges, of broken homes and dreams, your world generally, and I think: the man on this corner of these two streets should forcibly remove the man on that corner of those two streets. Just make him disappear. The man on that corner of those two streets lives in misery, dramatically, and is intent that

everyone should be miserable. Everyone just wants to get to work on time and keep their threadbare philosophical differences in tact on the way. A better future will not be born until the man on this corner of these two streets is hailed by mass media as a visionary and a savior. “Better” might be subjective, but today I have decided to bring enough lunch for two every day from now on. I will not speak to him, I will not deter him from his mission, I will simply deliver the same portion I am having of whatever I am eating each day, so that I can be sure that he will survive to see another day. Perhaps my silent support will catch on, and eventually the man on that corner of those two streets will be disappeared by popular demand. There's no telling, there are too many channels to change. Sparks, fames, cleansing. Tomorrow may be the day. Until then, I trudge on. Until then, we trudge on.

Utopia
International, national, and local economies collapsed when everyone quit The System. Nobody went to work, spent money, locked up at the end of the day. Everyone went on a strike too advanced for description. Strangers embraced in the middle of days no longer recorded on calendars no longer printed. Nobody wrote articles for new encyclopedias. Writers printed things in their basements and distributed them to friends and neighbors. Artists felt suddenly, madly renewed. Life was now fueled by spontaneous unity. A harmonious cultural vision. Goods and post made it cross-country via chance, good-natured travelers. After a decade-long break from its beauty, I returned to Maine to observe. To breathe. In the last major city south of our native Sebec, in the back of an acquired 1986 Subaru, I stockpiled water, canned foods, and, in case of a backsliding, two-hundred thousand in your legal tender— supplies for my decade of recuperation from the war, work, and worry of the old world. Our home stood undisturbed, your grave majestic. At your feet I wept tears of relief and joy. It's over, I said, we won. I knew you heard none of this. Victory wasn't even accurate for what was taking place. I stood in a world liberated, Morrison's Soft Parade begun. Unspeakable elation vibrated the earth. The expected period of rape and tyranny never took place

—such anti-social elements were dealt with so swiftly by the communities they sought to terrorize that those with perverse old-worldly motives were discouraged enough to commit suicide. Former policemen did penance. What they'd done in the old world for power they now did temporarily, for legitimate justice. Even the most radically battered and faithful of us dreamers had never hoped for anything like this. Women smiled for the frst time in years. Ancients with fawed ideas had heart attacks the continent over. The morning breeze delivered peace. First class. No lies were told the day I made my pilgrimage to Hughes Road. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I climbed up in the tree-house of my childhood. Rickety, rotting, and run over with squirrels. On the wall a passer-through had written three words: “Utopia is born.”

Communication
A man was saying things I could not understand when I stepped into the shower. Every time this happened I thought of a form of secret communication that could be developed through this method. Clarity would have to be attained, of course, but given the inherent impossibility of actually hearing what someone was saying through the pipes, it could be quite cryptic. A modifed morse code or something. Anything to rebel, rebellion was easy in the shower. I showered, rubbed soap across my private parts and stumbled out. Quite drunk on whiskey and beer. Morning neared. Work would follow, the physical demands of your market. I'd have to steal an hour or more of sleep. Otherwise I'd be useless. Hated being useless to the bosses and masters even though none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore except on-demand television, dry spells in Central Asia. These interested me more than anything. I was taking notes on Mongolia one morning when she knocked. This was days ago. I answered the door. She said, “Some call me a rat. I know not why. I detest the rats of the wharf. I'd simply like to share your bed this morning, have you the time? We need not even have sex.” “I could use some sex,” I admitted to her. “I like every time I have sex, and for this they call me a slut.” “They're always calling things. They're always on their cell phones with gossip. And who are they? They are porous and ugly. I want no part of them. Come in,” I said

to her. “My name is Jackie.” “I did not ask your name.” “What is your name?” “My name's Pete, if that works for you.” “I'd rather call you Hank,” she admitted. “Well, do so,” I said not looking at her, fnishing up my notes. They'd never amount to anything, these notes. I just liked making notes and calling them “jottings.” Lately things had made so little sense in my life that I failed to question even the great morality of the pressure cooker I found myself scrambling across the foors of. I told her something to this effect as I shut off the lights and crawled into bed with her. I asked her if I could use her phone. I made the call to work, told them I was sick. They said the matron of the front desk would demand a doctor's note. I told them to please hold. I asked Jackie if she knew any doctors. She said she had a pad of doctor's notes she'd stolen in order to write herself prescriptions for Vicodin and Preparation H. I said very well. I returned to the call and assured them a Doctor's note would be no problem. Jackie and I had sex all morning. At around eleven in the morning, Jackie declared she had somewhere to be. “I am a waitress.” “Marry me,” I said. I didn't know why. I was thinking about the Mongolian countryside. “Silly boy,” she told me. Jackie left. I walked through the haze of my apartment to the bathroom. I stood naked at the shower. I sad to the pipes,

“I am immoral. I have spent the morning inside a complete stranger. There is no forgiveness for men of my kind. Beef jerky.” Someone yelled back, “Lurchuawhat?” I didn't say anything in response, just turned on the shower and cleaned myself of the morning's madness. In that moment I was elated.

Reason
Find myself in a hall, surrounded. Fight my way out. Have no recollection of the fghting just ten minutes later. They say, this is not new. I could tell you a thousand broken stories if you'd have them. I might manage one coherent tale of love. Loss. I might manage anything given the weather today. Clear, cool, and darkening. They say, we are not all this fortunate. Inspirations will scatter on you. Things will occur. You will forget why and where. Memories will become musical notes. You will orchestrate a forged harmony to live by. Trying to record it will be futile. Always you will feel inadequate. They say, we are not all this infnite. Find myself in a room, disoriented. Figure my way out. Have no foundation just ten hours later. They say, this is not a love affair. On this day I have learned that reincarnation is as much a matter of willpower as it is cosmic. Reason can be a product of copulation between fantasy and fact. Cancer smoothed over with promises of brighter days.

Hate
Arrests were made. Thieves stole time and hearts. Letters of recommendation came out of the debacle. Requests were called into defunct radio stations for revolutionary power punk. A hundred new sitcoms were inspired. Hate was a man standing on the corner with his hands down the front of his pants. Clouds cleared up, and a plane nose-dived on the merriment. The only survivor was Hate, who had not moved. Hate smiled and trudged off to a new street. His infection would spread.

P. H. Madore has never made a viral video. He was born in 1987. He is an associate editor at Girls with Insurance and can be contacted via moonpunter@gmail.com.