You are on page 1of 93

Q uiet L ightning

sPARKLE & bLINK
5

Q uiet L ightning
sPARKLE & bLINK
as performed on Jul 7 10 @ Space Gallery © 2010 by Evan Karp + Rajshree Chauhan

ISBN 978-0-557-53197-4

front + back cover sketches by samir chauhan cover design by dawn andres [dawnandres.com] edited + layout by evan karp
Promotional rights only. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from individual authors. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the author(s) is illegal. Your support is crucial and appreciated. For information: http://qlightning.wordpress.com lightning@evankarp.com

Quiet Lightning
is a monthly submission-based reading series with 2 stipulations you have to commit to the date to submit you only get 3-8 min submit ! ! each month 1 attendee of those who put their names in a hat gets 2 weeks to respond via mail or email to the last reading b4 break « s·napse » it will be published on the blog printed and read at the subsequent

Quiet Lightning
! !

« contents »
jesús angel garcía
peace, love & understanding at first church of the church before church » an excerpt from badbadbad 8

sam sax
c-wall and what i thought i remembered clean getaway 11 15

lauren becker
the things we would not be 17

roger porter
language barrier 20

tess patalano
serial killers· grocery lists mandescending 27 30

kelci m. kelci
a spring of mornings looped where parallels are lived my mother and father portrait of the muse as a young woman 32 34 38 40

jennifer capo
dear sugar 43

missy church
wreckage bedding down with a saint 48 49

charles kruger
a spanieled cocker why i do it 51 54

mira martin-parker
an envelope full of cash completely still thick 57 58 59

chris cole
her olive was just a dull green » an excerpt from the speed at which i travel

60

j. brandon loberg
taxi hour 66

nic alea
apology 69

m.g. martin
an imagined eulogy crossed eyed & full of honey (children pressing knives to mother·s throat) isn·t fun ` 77 80 82

paul corman-roberts
thank god for dave 87

Jesús Àngel García

Peace, Love& Understanding At First Church ofthe Church Before Church»
adapted from badbadbad, a multimedia novel (forthcoming) » originally published in Vol. 1 Brooklyn From his shrimp-like curl on the altar floor, the Reverend asked, ´What is the first step to happiness?µ * * * Standing tall now at the lectern, he proposed in today·s Sunday story a ban on the sale of sex toys within the city limits and a re-zoning of kink clubs or ´any establishment with explicit intent to arouse prurient behaviorsµ two hundred yards or more from schools, churches, ball fields and shopping malls. The city was a suburb. Inspired by the Holy Spirit to shore up ´natural bonding in the conjugal bed,µ the Reverend worked with civic leaders at Bliss U and in the city council to draft a bill to ´expel perversion and encourage sanctity in sensual union. I·m no prude,µ he said, his radioactive hair peach-bubbly in the track lighting. ´The pleasure of relations between a man and his wife are a gift from God, an organic outgrowth of a caring, committed relationship consecrated by the church and supported by communities of faith.µ

«8»

Jesús Àngel García

My stomach churned. I leaned forward in the back corner pew. ´But ¶sexual enhancement devices,·µ the Reverend said, ´and ¶adult entertainment· undermine this spiritual bond while distorting physical, psychological and emotional clarity.µ He removed the reading glasses from his scarecrow nose. I was sure I·d throw up. He wiped the lenses with a gold-stitched kerchief. I·d aim for the collection basket. ´What man wants to lie with a wife,µ he said, ´who ¶knows,· as the Scriptures put it, an e-penis in the same way she knows him?µ He stepped back from the lectern, stared down the congregation. ´Tantamount to adultery.µ I belched into my hands, upchuck rising in my throat. ´What wife,µ he said, ´wants to serve a so-called man who soils his psyche with images of other women in unspeakable acts of degradation? If thoughts carry the same sinful weight as deeds, then this, too, is adultery.µ He put his glasses back on, licked his finger, turned a page in the supersize KJV. I glanced at my watch. ´The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak . . .µ While the Reverend catalogued the wages of flesh sin³ AIDS, impotence, abortion, divorce³I itched my crotch through a pants pocket, felt a migraine coming on.

«9»

Jesús Àngel García

´Is there a message?µ The Reverend framed his damp pink face with large hands. ´Is there meaning in the madness?µ They looked like wings sprouting from his chin as he gazed child-like at the ceiling fan. ´Most assuredly,µ he assured us. He was beardless Uncle Sam with Hollywood teeth. ´It·s up to each and every one of you to see it, believe it.µ Dramatic pause. ´Vote on it.µ I snuck outside and puked in a potted hibiscus. The Reverend·s voice shot through the vestibule speakers: ´This legislation is designed to aid our community in its war on weakness of the flesh. There·s no greater joy,µ it said, ´than public service that reconciles lust and greed, the empty desires of free will, with faithful adherence to God·s law. In Jesus· name, I urge you to fear not! Contact the mayor and council members with your support.µ * * * The Reverend bent down low, pretending to mark the floor with a pen lifted from his breast pocket. He sat crosslegged on one side of the imaginary line.

« 10 »

Sam Sax

C-Wall and What iThought iRemembered
It was hard to tell whether the smoke rose or fell said my friend jabari leaned up against that brick wall we all called c wall as if knew how to hold him. that one too many times place outside our middle/high school where we drank anything with a burn where we smoked hairspray dipped herb through an aluminum coke can --pulling screaming poltergeists through --a closet door where we first really learned about metaphor. c wall·s call to arms sounded like the sloppy progression towards getting too drunk to remember whether you lost your virginity or if someone else found it. stumbling whalebone ivory industrial commodities. we students. i suppose called so cause we were supposed to be studying something.

« 11 »

Sam Sax

would write our names in chalk on that brick wall outside our high school. cause we all knew that chalk like youth lasts forever. so we·d asphyxiate ourselves on purpose trying to stub out the very improbability of our lives. asking each other to find the strength in their hands to return blackness back to our eyes. i can·t breathe the smoke is both rising and falling. and when i wake up again for those twenty timeless seconds i wont understand what i see. and what could be more beautiful? and somewhere between the first time i sagged my pants to my knees and the last time she was ever admitted to needing me for more than conversation. i let her fuck me like a hospital bed. fill me with enough sickness that i might remember what it might feel like to feel alive. but after we came that plan caught backfire. and our bodies became brick walls covered in chalk
« 12 »

Sam Sax

held each other like stumbling drunk like stumbling drunk was a thing that we·d want if we weren·t so scared to death of what sober might involve. maybe then i would remember her last name. or the last time i chased those screaming ghosts back into the closet. from that day forth i became a truck load of explosives slow rolling with my ghost fleet down the freeway. never admitting we·d need its shoulders to hold us if we ever broke down. supposed to be born already knowing how to fix ourselves when smoke would shoot piston fire out our broke down mouths both rising and falling like the last full gas chamber in a gun. at c wall. we students would see walls built higher everyday as classrooms became more like calendars and my faggot perfected its swagger impression and teachers impressed on us the importance of lessons not enjoying to learn but learning to enjoy being taught. i wonder if those metal detectors are searching for gold in kids hearts. every day they pass through that machine harvests their thoughts and we all knew that an education was just something else
« 13 »

Sam Sax

that you bought. so we learned to hold each other like brick walls like our arms were the smoke in our chests like our bodies were two trucks colliding so there would be some kind of explosive impression that we left behind. to all my friends who i don·t speak to from back then. remember how we·d write our names in permanent marker on each other·s skin. how we somehow knew that this was all that we·d ever meant to each other how something that we knew was forever would either rub off or bleed in.

« 14 »

Sam Sax

Clean Getaway
it only takes a little bit of blood to turn the bathwater red a good way to get the death off your hands and still end up with the same effect. we left this city like the crime of a scene i riding your skeleton of a metal motorcycle you with that detergent smile which left trees bare clutching their leafless branches to trunk wondering what the fuck just happened?! same as you did me in the little time we had before we left you packed a bag with a bathtub filled with colonialism a metal step ladder leading everywhere but up and paper proof of your birth made it hard to carry on purpose evidence of your desire to stay reminded me of how i·d fill my mother·s bags with every heavy thing that i had to keep her from going away. but we had to go the bloodhounds had found our trail appetizing
« 15 »

Sam Sax

and you enjoyed the chase was why we turned from highway to back road and river bank carrying your heavy on your back with those sharp shoulder blades of grass cutting into the fabric that held you together. unraveling as we walked casting off each artifact like taking on a new burden we move on twelve steps and two years later i watched you naked bathed in the moon·s bloodlight your smile striped me to brittle bone and bleach your face didn·t remember our city and no longer knew the difference between getting away and getting clean.

« 16 »

Lauren Becker

The Things We Would Not Be» originally published
in The Nervous Breakdown We are not exhibitionists. We are confessors. We express excruciating moments with carefree wit.We use writing as a means to an end, the end being someone else. If we laugh³if others laugh³those things will leave us.We can rename those things as if they never were the way they were. I would not have been so shy that the first day of school was the worst day of my year because my parents named me Lauren, but called me Laurie, and I had to tell my teacher when she called attendance.I would not have been so afraid to ask to go to the bathroom that I peed in my pants in the library.I would not be the one who came home on the first day of seventh grade with her bra up around her neck because she didn·t know how to ask her mother how to adjust it. I would not be the one who asked, mortified, only to hear her mom laugh while telling her friends about it later. I would not be the one who stole candy from her babysitter·s car.I would not be the one who assumed no one liked her. I would not be the one who ate her way through law school instead of quitting.I would not be the one whose dad·s cousin raved about her mother·s beauty, then told her she looked just like her father.
« 17 »

Lauren Becker

I wouldn·t be the one who found a napkin stuck to her boot last night after walking across the bar to the restroom.I would not be the one who won·t finish the novel that tells the truth.I would not be the one who worries that nobody will comment on this introspective nonsense.I would not be the one who worries that people will judge. You won·t be the one who didn·t go to your prom.Or who was beaten up by a younger kid when older meant stronger.You will not have been short, fat, frizzy-haired, tall, skinny or a late bloomer.You will have had perfect skin and teeth.You will have been friendly with puberty.You will not be surprised when people like your writing, or think you are pretty or handsome or want to spend time with you.You will not be the one who ate lunch in the library, or played fantasy games, or collected stamps or couldn·t talk to boys or girls.You will not be the one who read words but could not say them. I will be the one who Brian chased on the playground so he could kiss my hand in its red mitten.I will be the only freshman to have had a part in the school play.I will be the one whose first submission was published.I will be the one who makes people laugh when I tell them about the worst things.The things I think of 20 or 30 years later.The things that still don·t make me laugh. Not really.

« 18 »

Lauren Becker

We write ourselves into different stories and then edit.And edit.Until the original is disappeared.Mostly.Run your fingers across our scars, knotted and raised.

« 19 »

William Taylor Jr.

Rush Hour and the Girl Who Almost Made It Bearable
Prodded and driven on crowded subway cars like doomed animals we are faced with it. We are forced to see, there is nowhere to look away. We close our eyes and there is still the smell and the noise of it, the sick feel of it brushing against our skin. Humanity confronted with itself. Sweating, sneezing, coughing, wheezing hunchbacked and stink mouthed, toothless, weepy, obese and sickly, leering and glassy eyed, lustful and impotent, confused by our destination and hurtling towards some darkness we will never understand, pretending we are whole and with purpose instead of the broken things we are.

« 20 »

William Taylor Jr.

And on the seat opposite mine, crushed between two nightmare beings whose laughter is the sound of death is a young skinny girl with an awkward almost smile, as if embarrassed by her transient beauty, her pale hands folded to her lap, her eyes cast down upon them like two dying suns.

The Dead and the Living Alike
Today I read how they found a woman in a suitcase drifting in the San Francisco bay and in such instants the true terror of life reveals itself when you realize this is how it ends up for all of us more or less at this moment and every moment you too are a woman stuffed in a suitcase and thrown to indifferent waters

« 21 »

William Taylor Jr.

maybe it hasn't happened yet or maybe you don't remember but the fact of it is there and I guess that's why we have god and television drink and drugs and on days such as this I am frightened of the dead and the living alike the enormity of the sky and the purity of its blue strikes a fear in me as I walk beneath it weeping for things I don't understand.

« 22 »

William Taylor Jr.

Most of What They've Said
Friends, there's not much to it, after all. Years pass, things fall away. Most of what they've said isn't true. There are precious few things that need remembering: keep bitterness at bay as best you can, kindness whenever possible. Listen to the ancient music of things, let it guide you. Seek out the deeper joy within the blanketing sorrow. Embrace it and become whatever it is you are.

« 23 »

Roger Porter

Language Barrier
It was a clean hit. For five hours he waited on the rooftop of the roach-infested abandoned house. It was the same house he lost his virginity in a few summers ago. And the same house that he, as a child, had tagged his hood on with a bottle of green spray paint he found behind the liquor store. But this hit, it wasn·t about his hood at all³but then it was all about his hood. It was a much larger idea but he could only express it through the one concept that he understood. For this teenager·s first language was his only language and thus he saw the world with a clarity that has never actually been. The white man had fallen out of the car and red puddles of blood began collecting upon the blackness that he shook upon. The hard asphalt that so many of The People had died on throughout this neighborhood, this town, this Republic,this world, was now the place where this man flopped around and twisted while he cursed and screamed like«well, like a child. It reminded him of the children he had seen at the grocery store who would fall on the ground flailing their arms wildly over a candy bar they could not have or chocolate milk their mother could not afford. He had waited five hours for this man to approach the stop sign, and when he saw him roll up³as soon as he saw him roll up, he did not hesitate. Pop!
« 24 »

Roger Porter

Only one shot but it was a clean hit because the white man had his window down and his elbow jutted out of the car as he looked for someone, anyone who was out of line so he could jump out of his car and put them back in their place. The white man always wore dark sunglasses so that if he got in your face, which he loved to do, you could not see his eyes. All you could see was your own reflection; your own hatred, your own tears, your own trauma, your own fear. The teenager had not been trained but he had been told. They told him it was the most righteous act a revolutionary could commit. That somehow this would result in freedom for people that had never known such a thing. Freedom? They always talked like that; Freedom, the struggle, liberation, the movement, militancy, the people, Di-as-po-ra. Just nod your head. Look him in the eyes and he·ll think you understand. Remember when he said you·re different than the rest of them? He said you have potential, you·re already a soldier but you need to be fighting in the right war. Then he gave you that 40-year-old book about the dude who had caught that case and was downtown at the courthouse when his little brother came in there blasting and shot the judge³or something like that. Anyway he said the little brother was just a year older than you are right now. Then he said ´I believe in you.µ He said he believed in you and then slowly you began believing everything that he said.

« 25 »

Roger Porter

The cop reached for his walky-talky. Pop! Pop! Pop! The cop still shook but now he shook with no purpose. He only shook because his body could not help itself. The teenaged sniper now stood up on the top of the house. The barrel of his gun smoking. The tip of his nose sweating. The inside of his chest pounding, and pounding, and pounding. He smiled excitedly as he took baby steps backwards trying to take in the last glimpse of the beauty which he created. He then escaped quickly into the very short remainder of his own life. This is not murder, this is not sin, this is not wrong³this is Revolution. Or at least that·s what he believed.

« 26 »

Tess Patalano

Serial Killers· Grocery Lists» A Poem of Five Parts
I.Fred
Fred suffers from suffering.Fred was a good student at Fairmount High school, in Wyoming, and was active in a local church, serving as vice-president of the Youth Fellowship. He doesn·t know what makes people attractive to one another.He, like most, is comforted to be in the same room with something else that is breathing but prefers the creature to be nonhuman.He goes grocery shopping and practices his faith once every three months. List » Bread Squirt gun Pedialyte Cat food ½ gallon of Milk Eggs Apples etc. Dye remover

II.Joan
Joan is 5·8·· and weighs 200 pounds.She is a strong and, by most standards, an attractive woman.When she wakes up, she thinks that it is so terrifying, waiting for the city to compose itself.She has a true love that she corresponds with almost every day.In one of their last correspondences she wrote: ´My heart
« 27 »

Tess Patalano

beats in wild rapture for you, my Matthew, I love you. Come prepared to stay forever.µ List » Bread Hot peppers Push pins 5 boxes of Pop Tarts Frying pan Lemons x 3 Plastic Baggies Feta Cheese

III.John
John is currently in the ´cooling offµ period between his murders.He is part of the 60 percent who wet their beds beyond the age of 12.He is a thrill seeker and enjoys skydiving over a jug of fierce red wine.His neighbors are too busy to notice. List » Jimmy Dean Sausage Links Shampoo Ketchup Coffee Drier Sheets 100 watt light bulb Advil Cheap Red Wine

« 28 »

Tess Patalano

IV.³³
No one knows ³³·s name, not even her creator.She moves between thoughts as to go undetected.The one doctor she ever visited told her it would be easiest to forget her past, but she doesn·t remember him saying this.She hates the color red and tries to rid the world of it in any way she can.When on her period, she notes its occurrence in every room she enters, ´I am menstruating in the kitchen. I am menstruating in the laundromat.I am menstruating in the coffee shop,µ and so forth. List » Dried Apricots (2 bags) Saran Wrap Lean Cuisine (Sundried Tomato Pesto Chicken) Rice Spam Leeks

V. Nic
Nic cannot get enough.She finds the piercing yet warm attention her victims surrender to her comforting.Once captured, she lets her victims loose in an open field, hunts and kills them while running memories of her father·s smile into and out of her mind.She is gratified when thinking that there is always more that needs to be done. List » 2 bags almonds
« 29 »

Tess Patalano

2 gallons of milk 4 New York Strip Steaks 6 Valu packs of gum 3 cake mix 10 vegetable beef soup cans 12 pack Pepsi Cheerios Ziploc bags (a lot)

Mandescending
Enters below the everyday possibility of entering muffled by night and to focus down and to gently leave down a ladder

(the lowliness cannot be overstressed)

he is wetwith knowingflashlight beam

he is entering a drip

« 30 »

Tess Patalano

I am going I am going moon up out of holehead pitted in sink

there is dark work to be done down there, there is a reticulum

of sludge to walk through,to reach.

« 31 »

Kelci M. Kelci

from 52

Sundays

23:ASpring
i lean back and watch my past through the tip of my pen³ sylvette runs through fields marbled with periwinkle shadows pure lavender of the sunrise sky fuchsia dell's buxom moss blooms upon jesse's emergence bruce twirls wired daisies and tassels their minds with all the fun drugs bruce and jesse rub her heart like thumbs across the flint all three crave gliding clouds slow like glaciers but they land like i landed too:

of Mornings Looped

« 32 »

Kelci M. Kelci

flicked specks in the crotch of sidewalk and apartment from inside rising morning always yellows the dew's now-instant as sylvette strokes the couch her crush their catch³ i watch sylvette count pills lines hits and last chances just as i knew i counted my last chance too³ to think in fiction is to romanticize my life and poetry wants a hard edge to buck trauma

« 33 »

Kelci M. Kelci

44:Where

Parallels Are Lived
i.

in a jumble of lethargy bare arms and legs wilt across patio furniture light jitters and bursts through tussled leaves the atmosphere sags heavy with vapor

ii.
did my mother wilt like me but didn't consider recharging her problems so intense her drinking not a problem or was succumbing simple like sitting down after walking

« 34 »

Kelci M. Kelci

or going to bed in the evening

iii.
motor noise fills the yard as an air conditioner switches on³ i'll admit my head has been steeped in red wine warmed by new orleans nighttime my body has been soused with other sheen bodies as we hiked the dream borne landscape and sharpness in day makes my mind oscillate blankly

iv.
i never listened to their warnings i always believed no one totally knew me

« 35 »

Kelci M. Kelci

to think i would toast to drinking³ to think i would drink to addiction is totally wrong³ i drink so dull life slips into an interesting smile³ to talk with others about anything as if it really matters when what lives within me can only see birth-suffering-death in spirals

v.
i wonder if this is where her outlook differed from mine³ her sober patience
« 36 »

Kelci M. Kelci

was a tentative waiting until her black russian gave voice to her aggression so that soon she required the glass in her hand to cope with her partner the loss of her mother and father her missing daughter

vi.
now in the heavy new orleans afternoon i come to slapping away flies and mosquitoes³ the image of her alcoholism grows faint but it will never disappear³ i'm finally startled awake to let in the brakes i just want to decelerate and feel ok for a while

« 37 »

Kelci M. Kelci

50:My
he strums a drifting chord with a nightmare he pounds an echoing piano with a bloody heart he asks me what will you do

Mother and Father

now that your mother and father are gone he sings a vibrating lyric with insatiable fate tripping each beat threatens rhythmic collapse and i answer him if only my mother and father were gone
« 38 »

Kelci M. Kelci

that pied piper peels back layers of armor he weaves a two-step trot to an unforgiving altar he inspects inside my chest all that decay reads my eyes their drunk scan across his face and i confess i don't know how to get along with my mother and father please just pound that piano just cast that voice to waver in my soul i'll figure out

« 39 »

Kelci M. Kelci

how to get along

» in conversation with "Your Mother and Father" by Cass McCombs, off the E.P. Not the Way

31:Portrait

of the Muse as a Young Woman

this is her teepee face playing keno on the brink * your chroma cheeks considered perihelion in this state your eyes glint oxide stained winks tangy kisses half smile puckered in kiwi kink * a tatty smooch stings the talking chorus

« 40 »

Kelci M. Kelci

kinetic baby bathes in tahiti glinting, pours zaffer * my alarmed cunt teeters in teary choler threatens cocky kibosh smear of lips tense and stocky * in landscape of katydids and stalactite tallies, sexy chica tie-dyes her aura performs tai chi for flies * check out your tektite chest
« 41 »

Kelci M. Kelci

tits tight yes yes you nod tilt head-back you kickstart joy with unparalled gleam * no no always i percolate choky want to blow kisses not dicks listen to me pesky stunts aren't fuck worthy

« 42 »

Jennifer Capo

Dear Sugar
It·s a warm summer afternoon and my ex-boyfriend·s dog gets run over by a beautiful man·s SUV. I live a few blocks from the ex, and I am doing a 10-minute abs workout on the VCR in my living room, as it·s happening. At age 34, I am still doing high school girlish things to make myself feel better about being passed on in this last relationship. I·ll never outwardly admit that it·s his decision«but I knew he thought I was a little too wild and unsettled. I should have had my doubts about him as he looks me in the eyes after a month of dating and says, ´I want to be sexually liberated.µ All women know that the best medicine for a break up is looking good. So I pop in the workout tape and Susan appears, the over-jazzed hardcore workout instructor with super white teeth. ´That·s it, you can do it, breath in for five then out for five.µ She says as she makes her cheeks look like a blowfish. I·m embarrassed to do the breathing, but I want Susan·s abs so I follow and with each crunch, I blow for five as I push past the place that I think is my limit while Susan counts from ten. I lift my leg for the scissor abs and with each kick, I decide -I deserve better. Another kick, I wanted to break up way before he did. One more kick, I want a hot summer body to parade ½ naked for summer festivities. Three. Men. Uh. It·s an all-girls summer. Two. I won·t settle on mediocre. One. My friends agree.

***
« 43 »

Jennifer Capo

Rick was his name and it·s an amicable break-up. The first actual drama-less break up I·ve had. A simple situation. I read the book, ¶He·s Just Not That into You· and I realized he fit the profile«not to mention, that after six months of serious dating, he claims he is capable of loving his dog, but incapable of loving me.

***

I·m half way through the ab crunches that are now my revenge crunches and I·m holding my breath, trying to look as good as most of the women on the tape that make it look so easy. I know this tape by heart but I still stare mesmerized with envy at the girl in the tight pink top with the big perfect boobs and effortless smile. I wonder if Rick would like her and tell her that he loves her. Someone that dresses in pink, girly, stars in workout videos. Perfect cheerleader. I decide that he would love her and that most men are looking for this kind of girl, not a quirky, brown-haired wanderlust like myself. I·m ashamed of myself for having these feelings. The phone rings and I ignore it. The phone rings again and I want out of this workout pain and run up to grab it.

It·s Rick·s voice coming through the earpiece.

« 44 »

Jennifer Capo

´Kim,µ There·s a heavy silence. I hear him cover the phone and burst into a sob and than come back on. ´Sugar was hit by a car. She·s dead.µ I·m frozen. I never thought I·d hear these words. I·ll admit I fantasized numerous times about her disappearance ² her picture tacked on telephone poles. One eyebrow up. Rick petting ME, kissing ME, telling ME that I·M the best girl in the world³not her. ´Where are you?µ ´I·m in the back alley by my street.µ He bursts into tears and doesn·t stop. ´I took her off the leash to chase a cat and she just ran in front of an SUV. It·s all my fault.µ I listen and feel embarrassed for him. I·m suppose to be MAD at him. I·ve ALREADY made it through the break up withdrawls. Why now? Then I realize something. This is the moment I·ve been waiting for. Sugar·s gone. Rick needs ME. I toss the phone at the ground and run out the front door. I sprint barefoot on my tippy toes with perfect running form. My hands are like razors cutting through the air at full speed. In less than a minute, I round the bend and see Sugar·s lifeless Pitbull body in a driveway, on her side, not a scratch. An SUV blocking her at an angle. The sun shining through the trees that line the street. Rick crouched on the curb with his head resting on his bent knees. He sees me and jumps up as if I·m his only hope, I open my arms and he head dives into my neck. He grabs me so tight, water on my shoulder. Snotty nose running. He smears his hand

« 45 »

Jennifer Capo

across his face and wipes away his nose drippings so he can breath and out of his comes a small mouse like squeak comes. What kind of person am I? How could I wish this on him? How many times I told my friends that Rick will never appreciate me until Sugar dies. My stomach drops and turns. I·m a terrible person. And it hit·s me. I don·t deserve Rick. I don·t deserve love. Everything is still and calm«like a photograph. Sugar peacefully lying on her side. It·s a perfect bbq beach day. The grass so green. The breeze so faint. I stand here ashamed of myself as I look around«and than I see him. The dog killer. He·s hiding off to the side of the driveway near the SUV. He·s the most beautiful creature I·ve ever seen. He has a pile of brown curls winding in all directions. I can·t believe I have never run into him before. He looks like a statue I saw in Rome. He has both of his hands in the front pockets of his jeans like a model in a diesel ad and he·s looks raw, conflicted, guilty«like me. All I can think is that here I am with two manly men that are in a rare moment of emotional display. This could possibly be an emotional ménage a tois, which on my female level is at the height of all of my womanly fantasies. Forget about Rick. I hated Sugar. Sport Center sucks. I·m a good person. I do deserve a chance. My hold loosens and Rick backs up to the curb and crouches down again. And It was this moment that I did the strangest thing. I walk right over to beautiful dog killer, without hesitation, and I put my arms around him. At first he pulls back, but then, he rest his hands

« 46 »

Jennifer Capo

around my shoulders. He·s tall, and I just turn my head and rest it on his chest. I feel Rick·s eyes glaring behind me and I ignore them. Been there, done that. This might be my only chance. This just doesn·t happen everyday. I·m getting older, I don·t have time to waste. The smell of suntan oil and sweat swirls up my nose. His hard pecs on my face. He·s strong. He can hunt. I can gather. It·s perfect. I wish I could just stay here forever, but his arms drop. I·m left with my both my arms around his waist, hanging on, trying to figure out why I have my head on his chest in the first place. Weird. I take a step back and try to figure out what·s happening. Oh, Sugar·s dead. This guy ran her over. Rick·s over there. My name is Kim. I·ve lost control and I have to recover³fast. So I touch both of his arms, lift my head, look at him with sad eyes. Blink. Blink. And say, ´It wasn·t your fault.µ

« 47 »

Missy Church

Wreckage
Do you want to fuck me? Will you take me down with your relentless intent? Will you peel me of these dirty night clothes And gently fold them along their creases? Will it be you who runs your supple fingers along my Thick rough stretch marks, swollen with Spent sentiment that still wildly writhes from misuse? Will you mop up the rivulets of pus Leaking from my swollen groin, that resembles A plate of undercooked, pounded flesh Which has been sifted through the rusty holes of a meat grinder? Will it be you who takes thread to needle and Delicately stitches the angry fascia back together That throbs beneath a layer of skin that grins From hip to aching purple hip? Will you bind my weeping nipples³ Thrust then into my breasts with The rationed gauze of convention? Will it be you who gathers up my regrets like A wilted bouquet of week old sentiment? Will it be you who takes responsibility for this wreckage? Do you want to fuck me?

« 48 »

Missy Church

Bedding Down With A Saint
When the city slowly sighs At the five o· clock hour, She becomes an entirely different beast. A beast of glory and sauntering persuasion, A beast who lets you cum in her mouth and Sleep well past noon « in ¶her· bed. She won·t ask you for your number or Drag you out to the local night-after-show for breakfast. In fact, she·ll even wait until after you·ve gone Before she strips the well-worn sheets From the sweaty night bed. If you make the mistake of offending her³ Asking for her facebook name, Crapping in her toilet without a courtesy flush, Not asking when using her toothbrush or Letting the ´L-wordµ slip. You know, stuff like that³

If you do make a mistake, she·ll let it slide Because she·s cool like that. She·s cool like silk in the palm, Like an aged whiskey,
« 49 »

Missy Church

Like perfectly tuned jazz On an early Sunday afternoon, Like the smell of your first kiss, like The sight of the exact person You want to see at that exact second³ She is cool like that, San Francisco. She is a beautiful beast With secrets seeping from her concrete hair That flows from her salty shores to The shallow muddy bay. She has a million lovers. If you are graced enough to become one Treat her like the beast she is and Take her down like Santo Amor upon a Thick sultry bed of urban desire.

« 50 »

Charles Kruger

A Spanieled Cocker
sparkles like candle flames point directions flapping wings on current moving trains along dusted pockets last ditch efforts mingle in ecstasy the road to laughter in the geometric morning stripes accumulate and meanings challenging Jack O'Lantern grins taking us heavenward and nothing topples the beatitudes like sex in the afternoon rough tackles crunch bones peripherally and zoom to futures droning cat balls and limericks that last like all day suckers fingering our throats until the final vomit * the bird flaps a ribbon in the air and two eyes appear to stare from the twin tits of twin peaks accusing me of committing poetry
« 51 »

Charles Kruger

another bird an oversized eagle winks at me with Jimmy Cagney's pug face as it flies past carrying in its talons the Doyly Carte Opera Company singing H.M.S. Pinafore I strain to see more clearly through my speckled window a murder of crows (is that right?) collides in a rainbow of black fluttering onto a lamppost that bends under their weight like a vaulting pole springing them into the sky like pies set to splat in the face of the sun I can hear them laughing in a back woods clearing in North Carolina Good ol' boy Will spits into his palms where the stigmata stings and bends a branch of willow until it snaps as loudly as a gun shot the report wakes me where I was sleeping soundly in a dirigible floating over Lake Michigan
« 52 »

Charles Kruger

´is the tapioca ready so soon?µ I ask the attending wolf whose tongue lolls out at me dripping grape kool-aid the wolf smells of my mother's talcum powder it cradles my head in its hairy paw and begins to speak in Coconut Grove handsome Jeffrey is jacking off after shaving the hair off his arms, legs and chest and fitting himself into Patsy's bra and singing panties it is so delicious he thinks he'll swoon too soon from the perfume of her honey sweat and it is the eye of the hurricane so hot it hums like an electric wife the dust dances fairy patterns outside my window and I hear a rooster crow at the traffic and the neighbor's cocker spaniel shouts ´Good Morningµ at my star spangled cock so I slap my face to wake up drink more coffee and totter into the day

« 53 »

Charles Kruger

Why I Do It
Desperation begins this poem Where the hell is my voice? Fearful Sunday wake up Worried about lost job and Lonely in my morning prayers and Masturbation Grade the last student paper before Moving on from failure Sitting to write Empty and scared So I drive the car Searching for voice Along new roads Cruising California Delta first time Redneck towns Country western motorcycle bars And³ I'm not making this up³ A spam festival and cooking contest: Artificial food for the artificial poet. I eat Chinese in an old river town Red walls and paper lanterns Ancient grandmother chopping in the kitchen
« 54 »

Charles Kruger

Forever Pay and drive off Looking for my voice Finally Sacramento bookstore And Ginsberg's last farting poems And a beautiful boy at the cash register Who tells me He has begun a metaphysical novel But he is not really a writer because There are only two chapters And I tell him: You are! If writing is worth doing, I tell him, It is because The action itself is good The urge is good And who cares about product You don't refuse to shit, I tell him, Because it isn't chocolate Do you? And we love, we love I tell him Fascinated by his eyes We love because

« 55 »

Charles Kruger

It is good to love and Not because We are good at it And don't ever say you are not a real writer Because you are Because you do it Not because it is good or you publish or anything else And he says With a smirk I see Whatever And I buy Ginsberg's book And eat double chocolate cake And write him this poem.

« 56 »

Mira Martin-Parker

An Envelope Full of Cash
You never know when it will arrive. That·s what makes it special. Most of the time, you just wait. Day after day you go downstairs and check the lonely box, the only time you dress and leave your apartment. You put on lipstick and a clean shirt. You brush your teeth and slip on some sandals. But no, there·s nothing waiting for you when you get there. Just a book of supermarket coupons, a catalog with ladies in bras on the cover, a depressing little tidbit about disconnection, a note or two about cancellation, a threat of legal action, a jury summons, and a postcard from somewhere you will never go. So you head back upstairs and sauté some leftover brown rice and put a little mayonnaise and mustard on a cracker, and day after day it goes on like this³the powder, the lipstick, the trip downstairs, the box full of solicitations and ladies in bras, the lunch of crackers and mayonnaise and then one day, damn it, for no reason at all, a hand written letter arrives. You recognize the writing (it·s from him!). So you run upstairs and sit down at the table and tear the thing open and they start falling out, greenback after beautiful greenback. Then life is good again and there·s ciggy butts and beer and bread and cheese and the phone is turned back on and maybe even the lights and damn it, don·t say it can·t happen. Please.

« 57 »

Mira Martin-Parker

Completely Still
Walking through a residential street in Westchester, Los Angeles. It·s about sunset, or just a little after. See the little succulent gardens? See the 50·s tract homes? In the yards there are flowering tulip trees and tropical palms here and there, to suggest a cocktail or some wrongdoing. There is a mixture of cars both old and new. But the truth is the car painted the exact color of the house it belongs to. The truth is the car the same age and color of that house. The one with the sea plants lined along the front window. The one with the pale green living room. There might also be a rose bush the same shade as both the car and the house. And a woman inside the house named Pearl, with pale skin and ash blonde hair. It·s the blue hour and the colors are disappearing. It·s the blue hour in Westchester, Los Angeles.

« 58 »

Mira Martin-Parker

Thick
I like ladies with thick legs. See that lady, the one over there, the one in pink with that thing in her hair, she has thick legs. Her ankles are logs of wood, loaves of bread, they work. They come out the bottom of her skirt, they hit the ground hard. Yes, that·s her. That one over there, the big girl. She·s got thick legs. I like them like that. Thick.

« 59 »

Chris Cole

Her Olive was Just a Dull Green
» an excerpt from The Speed at Which I Travel My only real friend in Elysium, Iowa was Peter Porlucas. He was Italian, but he wasn·t, cause he was adopted. His mom was a one-woman assembly line of food, feeding us cheese-laden, breaded dishes bathed in olive oil with names that I couldn·t begin to pronounce, let alone spell. Tastes so different from anything I had ever put in my mouth, I was never sure they were supposed to be eaten.She had hair in places that you normally saw bare, and there was something around her eyes, a Mediterranean depth that belied any Midwest roots. Her ankles were as big as my father·s, but she had an olive beauty that you could make out beneath the surface. His Dad was stout and had a Boston accent, despite being from Missouri. He always sat by the TV with a pipe and nodded at Peter and me as we·d go in and out of the house, tapping his pipe loudly on the end table if we forgot to shut the door behind us. Peter had reddish hair and freckles, with a rabbit·s overbite and the build of someone who tried hard to be athletic, despite all that nature had held back. You could see in Peter·s body the things he tried hard to be, they reached out like arms grasping for something perpetually out of reach. It earned him the nickname ´little Italy.µ

« 60 »

Chris Cole

One afternoon, behind a dead barn, Pete taught me how to masturbate. I pretended I didn·t know how. We plowed through the arcana of boyhood archetypes together and he made me promise we·d always stick together and never let the outside world get to us. We were both outcasts, me by choice, sort of, and him by defiance of his will. He tried so hard to fit in, that it made the chances of such a thing happening hopeless. I·m not sure if he settled for me or if there was some kind of magnetics that brought us together. Either way, he would shed tears in front of me, about his brother who beat up on him, about his height, about everything that he kept inside. He·d always end these confessionals by pretending it was all in jest. But there was a spark of knowing in his eyes, a silent pact he was making with me. When we were at school, though, and the kid·s would get bored and start picking on him, he·d turn on me. Every time. ´Hey, I saw Indiana taking a bath with his mom.µ Things that had no basis in fact, but would do the trick in re-routing the attention and ridicule from himself for a few minutes. For my part, I would take it in stride, either letting it wash over me, or in braver moments, murmuring back to the biggest kid who would ask me, in a mocking bellow so that everyone could hear, ´Is it true, you take baths with your mom?µ

« 61 »

Chris Cole

´No.µ I remember answering one day, after my father had disappeared, ´It was your mom.µ That incident sent me to the nurse·s and then to Dr. Handler·s for stitches. Peter would never disclose to the others any real confession I made to him. The ones he·d let loose were from out of nowhere. I wonder if they were, in part, things that were true about his own life, things he was embarrassed about. I figured he·d never let slip anything we had talked about, thinking it would maintain the bond of trust we had. Whenever we were alone, we·d never discuss it, why he·d turn on me and make up those lies. Partly because I think both of us knew why, but the words weren·t ready for our pre-adolescent lips. One day we were playing war in the woods behind his house with his father·s old army gear, which we·d snuck out from the garage. It had just rained the day before and everything was mushy, except the air, which was crisp. I had captured him and was standing over his body, his arms pinned under my feet. He kept saying I could wear the gear next, but it would always be ´five more minutes.µ I held in my hands the hard metal helmet he·d been wearing and we looked at each other. It was a dull, brown green and I held it over him, examining it like a spoil of war, as he looked up at me from the ground. I caught his eye and, both by accident and on purpose, I let go of it. The hard stained helmet came down on his face, catching his buck-rabbit teeth and making a clink that

« 62 »

Chris Cole

echoed like a bee-bee gun hitting a bell. I watched the sound escape through the branches above, like a bird fleeing. He let out a loud ´Ahhhhhhµ that rose in volume, as he got up and felt his lips, which were bleeding. I was frozen with shock, not quite believing what I had just done. ´I didn·t do thatµ is the first thing I said. When he took his hands away from his mouth, I could see that both of his front teeth had been chipped. ´My mom·s gonna fucking kill you.µ He lisped. I watched a speck of blood fly out, as he spoke, and land on my soiled, white t-shirt. In between the dots of mud, it almost blended in. And I thought to myself, maybe no one will notice. By the time they found the cancer in his stomach, it was the size of a baseball. He spent four weeks at the hospital up in Iowa City and then died, the day after our eighth grade graduation party where I kissed Sally Potter, behind Ed Nance·s Gazebo. I never visited him in the hospital, not once. Not because I was scared or angry. Not because I didn·t love him. Things were just moving, in their own direction. And I didn·t know I had a choice, or maybe I didn·t want to know. I saw his mom. She came to our graduation and wailed the whole time like the women in those spaghetti westerns or The Godfather would, dressed in black and huddled in the midst of consoling arms. Her olive was just a dull green now. I

« 63 »

Chris Cole

avoided her the whole time, like I had when she·d come to our house, offering to take me to the hospital so I could see Peter. I was always gone, or hiding, when she came. My mom never pressured me, maybe because my father. Maybe for some other reason I don·t understand. I was coming out of the bathroom after the service; everyone had left.I was staying back to help clean up in exchange for a missing P.E. credit I had needed for graduation. She was there waiting. No one else was there in the gym where our ceremony had been. The silence ricocheted off the walls like the sound of basketballs dribbling. I was cemented to the ground with the bathroom door swinging behind me. I wondered where all the women were that had been consoling her, propping her up. It hadn·t seemed that she could stand on her own before. She had looked like a black cloud being carried along. Now she stood squat, suspended by those ankles, girders propping up a leaning tower. And I wondered if it was evolutionary biology that gave her those ankles, knowing she would one day have to support herself under a weight that normal anatomy would never have allowed. She broke what seemed to be an infinite silence. ´He loved you. Gary. He loved you.µ I wish I could have cried, broken down right there and held her, or at least have her hold me. But I was silent. I couldn·t

« 64 »

Chris Cole

even move. After what felt like minutes, she left me standing there. And I continued to stand there for another half-hour, unmoving, unblinking, until my mother came in looking for me. ´Gary, I·ve been waiting outside for twenty minutes.µ ´I·ll walk, Mom. Just go.µ As I watched her leave, I thought of how he·d turned on me, those moments on the playground. I wondered if, somehow, some part of him knew we·d need this balance. But it didn·t really seem like balance. It just seemed like air. A distance that was there, but that I couldn·t see.

« 65 »

J. Brandon Loberg

Taxi Hour
In moonlit eyes from a Marin hill Filament streets etch deeping fissures In the darkened cityscape, Constellar reticulation where the land folds furrowed In a care-worn Himalayan brow Above cracked-plaster Byzantine eyes Welling tears between crossed lines Where the life passes Two headlights at a time It's taxi hour And i'm walking. Tripping the cool breeze and clouds Lit silver under a midwinter's moon, The lost Third Street bums Morose and juxtaposed On a park bench Over wine To the sound of an out-of-tune guitar And there's a cold sweat, Unlike discontent

« 66 »

J. Brandon Loberg

When the chords swell And we're abject, But the light pools on the pavement Splashes flashing with every passing car Each solitary passenger Nexus of myriad explosions Innumerable as the stars. And likewise On a midnight drive They pass silent under silhouetted trees Fading to dust trails As eventually we do. This is a prayer canto For the habitually broken-open, The hot tea soothes the throat When you've misspoken So, Put all your eggs in one basket Take the last train to the edge of the world Wind up and toss it Headlong into the ocean With the sun on your back in the morning³

« 67 »

J. Brandon Loberg

It's taxi hour And the night Is young.

« 68 »

Nic Alea

Apology
part i. is me talking to myself like some fit of vanity (this part was written by the charred limp wrists of an 18 year old power pop anorexic, it goes along the lines of): what did they call me the night before the storm? what did they call me in bathroom stalls and in parked volvos across the valley? did they call me by name or by selected identity? did they call me? did they dress me in fabricated words, tell me. did they rip street
« 69 »

Nic Alea

signs off posts just to show me that there·s part of me that lives across the interstate, lies deep in riverbed, and i should have apologized then, but i think i want to just glow full tonight, i just want to act like the moon tonight, try to steal satellite messages off the rafters of some closeted children tonight, i apologize that this is not a real story but i·ll spin it around so it sounds true. part ii. do you know what it·s like to hate yourself for the majority of two decades?

« 70 »

Nic Alea

(this part was written by the cracked hands of some boy worker from an appalachian farm town) between the first intentional cut and girl on girl internet porn is a spot along the highway that has two gravestones behind a vacant barnyard and there he dress like his mother, take rags from the stonewall basement he dress like his mother in rags he dress like banjo frequency plucking strings of front porch whiskey, yes, those are real, yes, those are real wounds from a from a small town gay bar cat fight. he spend hours struggling with striped overalls
« 71 »

Nic Alea

memorizing the shape of the moon through outhouse carved crescent wishing that those curves were on his own body, feel his own body, do you feel your own body? do you say, baby, it·s ok, you·re ok, baby you are ok, do you feel your own body? and he dress like his mother, he writes poetry from the backyard into his wishful fists hoping that all his apologies can be lifted like sky dust winged angels because someone has to break the cycle, by writing romanticized poetry about transphobia and suicide

« 72 »

Nic Alea

so he sticks lead pencils into his mouth to grind his teeth loosen the strain of carrying a closet door on a chain around his neck and he apologizes for his poetry because no one will ever read it and he apologizes because he can·t help but dress like his mother and this isn·t a real story but we·ll just let it be. part iii i write more apologies than love poems (this last part was written by someone i don·t know) and he held me and he held me in his fucking hands way before the moth light drew dim and he wrapped new pieces of lace
« 73 »

Nic Alea

around a switchblade dropped me into bathtub and said, ´this is the heaviness of a purgatory lifeµ, and everything tastes like copper these days, everything so metallic these days how are you these days? how are you yourself these days? what is your name? what is your sign? baby, i·m asking you what you know about yourself these days, what do you have to say about mopping dust bowls with wire brooms, i say his pa woulda left him on the highway i say his pa wouldn·ta been proud of his hemline

« 74 »

Nic Alea

but i say a lot of stupid shit i don·t mean, so throw this dog fur around my shoulders, i need to walk to the mountains bury myself beneath a flannel blanket and i apologize because i just want to act all holy like crater face tonight, and i apologize for things i shouldn·t associate with apology like, i·m sorry but i have to go home early tonight, you know gotta go sleep; i·m sorry if my honesty threw you off tonight, but it·s embedded in me like, i·m sorry i got all emotional and was my full self in front of you tonight, and i·m sorry, more sorry

« 75 »

Nic Alea

than flat bedded trucks with a license plate holder that says ´this is heavenµ under a rifle bed and i apologize because this isn·t a true story, except that it is.

« 76 »

M.G. Martin

An Imagined Eulogy
when the person in the reality television show about writers who is the worst writer makes a comment about the irony of owning the ´freshest & fastestµ typewriter: I think: of the blue music of a fastwearingpredictablepoeticrhythm & also of a series of words written by a sibling of mine,

´Animal Heartµ In this moment we are one we are all things of nature, we are the birds and the trees, the long grass swaying against the african sky. we are the thing that tells the lion to leap, and the gazelle to run, watching in the distance the lion·s eyes sharp as it·s teeth, taste the flesh and blood before the skin has broken and the heart has stopped. we are the drum beats deep within the forest, the song of our ancestors singing to the stars. we are the moonlight like a fire that has turned blue, and still,
« 77 »

M.G. Martin

we are the wind that blows between your ears, hearing the moans of all animal creatures. in this place we have many bodies many names and faces but we are one warrior. that warrior spirit that speaks of survival, slowly moving our limbs up and down, bending back to the earth, breathing beneath the sky, slowly inhaling the sunrise in our broad chest, we are all one, in this moment. balanced, for every moon, the earth will give us a sun.

a sibling of mine who may or may not still be taking breath into his or her lungs whom i obviously love whether or not this all may be true including the poem within this poem which is certainly not

« 78 »

M.G. Martin

a double negative meaning: he or she is not speculative.

« 79 »

M.G. Martin

Crossed Eyed &Full of Honey
it·s easy to waste time when you sharpen wood filled w/ graph ite then opt out for plastic called BIC or change your mind again & switch to a box filled w/ wires made in chinaaw but paper is so charming so now you·re at a loss for words which are what you·re try ing to gen erate in or iginal type
« 80 »

M.G. Martin

ways so why did the iamb cross the page the hell if i know is a bad joke like this was te of time called try ing to be a poem but i·m happ iest when you cross your eyes & dot your tea w/ honey ilu.

« 81 »

M.G. Martin

(Children Pressing Knives to Mother·s Throat) Isn't Fun
when a skunk flexes rectum & it·s anal scent glands spurt: the bravest of wolves & bears flee, retreat, take heed: phobic, indeed, of rotten egg garlic burnt rubber cologne, an exodus: spewing, spouting, erupting out of the bunghole of Pepe Le Pew!

human beings seem to be keen on gasoline! as a matter of fact, the fact of the matter

« 82 »

M.G. Martin

is: if as much time $cha-ching$ & energy were spent feeding the mouths of the hungry, as the aggregate of time $cha-ching$ & energy spent feeding the bellies of s.u.v.s oily tankers jumbo jets & submarines i wouldn·t grumble or gripe, no as a matter of fact, the fact of the matter is:i just might, perchance, be alright with gasoline!

« 83 »

M.G. Martin

gasoline! gasoline! so obscene is gasoline! *** don·t you see that i am older than art? i can out break a wave i can out dance the devil i can out set the sun i can out croon a canary i can out run the horizon i can out talk your tongues i can out phantom a shadow i can out venom the viper i can out-weigh gravity i can out naked an infant, but

i can·t out live eternity when you smother me choke me gag me squelch me asphyxiate me with your onyx moonshine. The smog of your urban haikai:
« 84 »

M.G. Martin

an acidic conjuration of empty language & vertigo image dispersing into my body of renga: a garden of truth & echo dangling behind the eyelids, nestled like an hourglass in my belly.

***

don·t you smell my ancientness, bawl for me: linfen, tianying, sukinda, vapi, la oroya, dzerzhinsk, norilsk, chernobyl, sumgayit, kabwe. but, i don·t mind vietnam, where gasoline doesn·t reign supreme & isn·t so obscene, where bicycles are still the paramount instrument of transporting: children to the circus & rice cakes to the marketplace i don·t mind vietnam, where it is said all men & women suffer only four diseases: drinking gambling
« 85 »

M.G. Martin

prostitution & smoking.

barbarous vietnam may seem balanced beside your gasoline disease it·s romantic juxtaposition to your petroleum malady, your maniacally draconian vampiric craving

gasoline! gasoline! so obscene is gasoline!

« 86 »

Paul Corman-Roberts

Thank God for Dave
- » In loving memory of Reverend Sam, who assuredly changed my life Alas. I am not a good soldier. I got bored. I abandoned my post. I went to my Squadron Commander·s private washroom. I stroked off thinking of the Commander·s daughter. I got my nut thinking of his wife. I washed up. I decided to go to the bank. I needed to deposit some drug money. I got horny again halfway to the bank. I decided to stroke off again. I reached for my dick. I made a chilling discovery. I had left my dick in the Commander·s private washroom. I had left my dick on the sink counter. I faced a choice. I decided money was more important than my dick. I continued to my bank. I got to my bank. The bank was closed.
« 87 »

Paul Corman-Roberts

I knew I was wrong. I knew my dick was in trouble. I knew it was my fault. I hurried back to my post. I hurried back to the Squadron Commander·s private washroom. I went inside. My dick was gone. I looked for it in the garbage can. I looked for it out the window. I looked for it down the sink. I reached for it down the toilet drain. I still didn·t have my dick. Oh well. I would need to get a new one. Hopefully I could fool my wife. Then I had a disturbing thought. What if my Squadron Commander had taken my dick? What if the Commander·s secretary had taken it? What if it had been taken by a foe? What if it had been taken by a friend? I had left my dick in a vulnerable position. Politically and personally. If someone had taken my dick, would they know it was my dick? It didn·t have my name on it. But it was covered with my fingerprints.

« 88 »

Paul Corman-Roberts

It wouldn·t be hard to figure out whose dick it was. It could have been found only by friend or foe. It was possible I was going to get fucked in the ass by my own dick. I was powerless. I couldn·t say anything. I could only wait. I didn·t have to wait long. Only half an hour. Talk about fuckin· lucky. My co-worker Dave had it. Dave was a friend. Dave turned out to be a good friend. Dave had sucked my dick many times. He knew it like the back of his hand. He gave back my dick. Without wanting to put it in my ass. Without wanting to suck it. I let him suck it anyway. I knew he wanted to. I was happy to let him. Even though Dave·s not my type. But Dave is a good, good friend. Thank God for Dave. Thank God for friends. A soldier can·t have too many friends.

« 89 »

Paul Corman-Roberts

One foe is one too many for a soldier like me. And I·m not a good soldier. Alas.

« 90 »

Subscribe to http://qlightning.wordpress.com for info & updates Go to http://bit.ly/sparkandb for back issues All who attend Quiet Lightning events have their choice of free books. First come, first serve! Also, feel free to bring a book to put on the table. You Might Also Like rEADING sERIES Monthly Quiet Lightning | 1st Monday The Rumpus | 2nd Monday Bawdy Storytelling | 2nd Wednesday Why There Are Words | 2nd Thursday Literary Death Match | 2nd Friday Writers With Drinks | 2nd Saturday Portugese Artists Colony | 3rd Sunday Porchlight Storytelling | 3rd Monday InsideStoryTime | 3rd Thursday Quarterly Babylon Salon Bang Out East Bay on the Brain Hard Candy [ just google it ] Evan films these and other things and talks about them @ http://bit.ly/sflitter and evankarp.com http://therumpus.netquality writing about all things literary + cultural http://instantcity.orga literary exploration of san francisco

Related Interests