The Bicycle Review
Issue Number One, 15 June, 2009
Photography by Kristin Fouquet, Original Artworks by Joe Rosenblatt
All images Copyright 2009 by Fouquet, Rosenblatt
Bicycle Review #1
Tomorrow is Bloomsday. I considered holding off publishing until then, but figured I'd made too many promises. Then I considered staging an elaborate hoax where I pretended that the site was having trouble for a day...but we all know how things like that go.
Thank you all for coming. Why 'Bicycle Review' ? Part of it is the layout: intentionally understated so as to draw attention to the content and away from the site itself. Like a book, but on your computer. It sounds good, too. It has that certain ring to it that 'Unidirectional-simultaneity Review' somehow lacks. I must also admit to a certain bias for the bicycle as a means of transportation. This review will not make your parents think you've grown up, finally. It will not impress members of the sex of your choice, nor can you draw attention to yourself by blasting loud music out of it. It will not get you to the Arkansas state l in 22 hours flat as long as you don't make any long stops. Sorry.
Thanks to our writers, too numerous to name here, and who range from well to un known. Thanks to Kristin Fouquet and Muttsy for making it look good. And thanks to M. Andreeta for giving me the idea to do this. 'What do you really want to do with your life?' What a great question to be asked.
Share the Road,
- J de Salvo
MUSIC FROM ANOTHER ROOM
When the main character is asked to explain what true love is, he pauses for a moment before answering, still holding the fork in his left hand. He tells the other dinner guests that true love is hearing your favorite song playing in another room in your own house—something so familiar that even when the song is interrupted (by a passing car, a train, other voices) when you can hear it again you are still in the right place with its melody. The scene ends and everyone at the table is quiet. Probably they realize, as I do, that they have never truly been in love; that it was never their favorite song playing; that the music they heard was music from another room in some other house on another block in a suburb of some other MajorUSCity.
Copyright 2009 by Jessica Kruse
GATE CHANGE
The monkey wrench
throws trouble of its own --
clang-clusters. Even this snafu:
arriving soon or late,
you find your gate
a vacant tomb, with ketchup blood
on vinyl mummy-wraps, plus scattered jewels,
fried pearl, Mc’gold.
Can’t sit.
You double-check, destination,
the city name up there, and it’s
that label doesn’t fit
whatever spirit you’ve
been nursing. Name up there, it rolled away
the stone. Hauled away the stiffs down here,
recycling, like. Now,
where were you? How
far off, and cashing in what check, what kiss?
Lands pledged to you, your Grand McLuckless
Road Atlas --
forget that promise.
A Twilight “sign-post up ahead.” Besides,
America these days, the names on all
the gates read SAME.
The corporate re-lo game,
post-9/11: Traveling Lite. New York,
L.A., these cities aren’t invisible,
they’re indivisible. No
identifying marks
among the gypsies here, no tribal scars.
Your cowboy hat will come out flat. A suit,
a three-piece? Might
as well strap tight
your straightjacket. Dream on, dream Erehwon --
these days, the idiosyncratic get
nowhere. The debt
our freedom con
must charge is this: this cluster-fuck,
benumbed, beneath this spanner in the works,
this unstuck
blue heaven,
not even neon, flat-screened PowerPoint
input on distant keys. You’re out of joint.
Your poem, that’s on.
Copyright 2009 by John Domini
OVER THE RAINBOW
Breakfast in the gay cafe
eat what you can swallow for free
hellish Kenny G coffee muzak
to wash the dance licks away
almost alfresco where nakedness just won't do
complete with panicked manager puss
and a cocky cook cock
California Dreamin'
an aftershock before orgasm
1-900-Valley Boy
sunshine,
oh, it's out there
it's happy, carefree,
you know, gay
so are us,
oh, what a cornucopia we are
out outta here
(everywhere)...
Horny Huntington dudes wanna party now
sand, suntan oil and all
1-900-Surfer-Suck
bad boy men mulling the hotel halls as if they were bars
{imagine the bathroom}
free faggot forest hidden in the pool deck palms
tight and tan need only apply
Real Big Bear men tell it like it is
full of mosquitos, graffiti and straight gang bangers
1-900-Butch-Bitch
settle for the swishy wish of welcome from
the pretty poof at the front desk
incompetent, but cute
(concierge cock!)
who knows the real meaning of the phrase "lunch hour"
using the house keys to sneak into your upgraded room
to leave a white rose in an impolite puddle of love
Intimate, very revealing fantasies and confessions
I think Al Gore is cute
1-900-Get the Fuck Out of the Closet
romantic dinner at Wang Phuc Luc Sino-Vietnamese Cafe
the lavender fortune cookie reads:
When you swish upon a Walk of Fame star,
Your publicist's dreams come true
all over the floor
the mauve fortune cookie reads:
bright - that's what the dicktionary sez
bright accessories, at any rate
"If we fags are fruit,
and who doesn't enjoy some fruit juice
every now and again,
are dykes vegetables,
good for you,
but not always
your first culinary choice?
Who is the red meat, then,
besides Marky Mark?"
incompetent, but cute
happy-get-lucky far out bathhouse for dessert
pride, in the name of lust
joyous hotel boys in the cheerful dear bubbles
weaving family homemade quilts with underwater fingers
sunnydale for sons of a queer God
happy happy joy joy
where's my Guest Services survey?
Rules for Homosexuals in Public:
* Don't make fun of straights...
who are queerer than you by fate
who travel in groups, often late
who wear cheap cologne or can't color coordinate
who take your phone number but never call for a date
who look at your dick in the bathroom without sate
* Don't go to a straight bar and be gay, unless...
you travel in a group no less
you're having a bad fashion night mess
no one believes you're gay - bad guess
the bartender gives you free drinks in largesse
the bartender gives you his phone number without jest
* Don't bring a straight bud to a gay bar, unless they're...
already drunk and won't remember anything sub par
wearing hot cologne you rubbed onto them in the car
a closet case and you've run out of sympathy by far
not going to start a fight in the bathroom bar
your fag hag in a jar
* Don't make straight friends, unless you...
have a hard time making gay friends, too
secretly enjoy a sense of sartorial superiority, woo woo
are still in the closet and enjoy being there, boo hoo
like never being gay in front of anyone else, old or new
like masturbating instead of actually having sex, yahoo
In England, a fag is a cigarette,
something you put in your mouth
and suck on until it kills you.
Halloweeners and in-betweeners
think we're all age-differentiated,
chicken-hawks, professor,
just because that new Romeo is cute
and Liberace is dead.
If there weren't any dykes, Holland would be underwater.
Catholic Repression Question:
Have you ever sat in the bathtub
trying to decide whether to jack-off
or take confession the following day?
Latter-Day Saints Repression Question:
Have you ever male-ordered a sex toy?
If so, did you do so without embarrassment?
Did you use this toy without disappointment?
Were batteries included, or assembly required?
What was the name of the toy?
From what address did you obtain this toy?
Protestant Repression Question:
Do you feel inadequate because
your sexual tastes, if they were
ice cream, would be vanilla?
Bathroom Door Question:
Are there any gunsels or catamites out there?
Psycho-Optometry Question:
Are the following phrases made up of one word,
or are they an agglomeration?
* cruiseflirtfuckdate
* boyfriendmatememory
Part Two:
Do you feel manipulated by the question? You should.
'Fraid I still can't hear that band...
what is it playing, anyhow?
Dial-a-Daddy * 24-hour Service
Credit Cards Accepted * Ask About Our Specials
(real advertisement found in magazine)
(to be read in drag voice) -
I'm a Leo.
Look at the stars, girl!
Jupiter's having Neptune again, the whore.
Get OUT there and buy some Twinkies, ho ho ho!
The sin isn't in the beefcake, it's in the guilt.
(real horoscope found in magazine)
Labels and names are a '90's thang -
Butch was a Little Rascal. Now he wears combat boots,
talks like Dan Rather, and does all the work;
Bears won the Super Bowl, once. We used to go off
to summer camp acting that way to scare the straights;
AC/DC was a loud rock band for scruffy white suburbanites
turned on by electrical union members in sexual crisis;
A drag used to be a race or a good puff or a bummer, man;
Fruits like apples, oranges, and grapes? Passe, Mary.
Trade - baseball cards for your first blow job,
Dad's used car, and commerce, too, you capitalist sluts;
before cruising (twenty bucks in the Third World,
five more if you don't have a rubber), before grunge
(rejoice!, the intersection of poverty, bad taste, and fashion),
before nose, ear, nipple, and penis rings
(call me vanilla, but it all looks painful);
Queen...the broad (Elizabeth, the ugly bitch)
Queens...out queers out on the town, scandalizing
AARP members throughout the Republic, dark Thursdays.
Label this, big boy.
Fags and hags,
dykes on bikes,
lubes for tubes,
beers for queers,
lays for gays.
Euro Boy - Adult boys for Adults Only
Free Sexy boys with paid subscription
Are U a hunkaholic?
A new spunky subject in every issue
Hot studs for horny lads
Every conceivable type of seriously sexy sleaze
permitted by Her Majesty's Government
(outside the Palace, of course)
(real magazine; real disclaimer)
(to be read in the horniest voice you've got) -
Where's my phone book...?
(ring ring ring)
Menu reads...foreplay - strip!
cum in my mouth - and do what?
well hung 18 year old - where?
spanked to climax - ow
boys in uniform - salute this
two soldiers one bunk - sitcom material
chained to the desk - management!
your length between my cheeks - uh, which ones?
stripped then sucked - sounds good to me
ripped t-shirt bulging shorts - on the phone?
gay virgins first pull - and then the jackpot!
gay virgins sexploits - ah, those fun-loving Republicans!
steamy sex in sauna - loofa this
builder works his erection - unionise me, bitch
virgin husband's seduction - straight but available
your head between my legs - in for the weekend?
I come in my cycling shorts - sounds sticky
...how much per minute?
...further bent thoughts...
"Mas de doochy ba ba," sing the little brown children,
singing the whirly organ reggae tune to drive you mad.
Do you find discos irritating? Visit an empty one
with the music still on. An early death appeals.
An empty hotel swimming pool suggests lust with the bellboy,
swimming alone with your unrequited lust;
swimming under empty water invokes love with the opera boy,
swimming alone with your retail reminiscence.
The deserted resort is a psychological prison,
where all boys are one big chlorine morphine,
dysfunctional images shimmering beneath the surface purity
where all boys are the aqua blue blues.
The sun runs off behind the mountains.
Waves in the black crash, hostile night fire
soundtracking your hard sand perdition,
shaking your head and hands at the ink sky
and crescent moon's starless cunning.
The resort's house physician orders complete restlessness.
Write postcards 'til your fingers hurt;
dream nightmares 'til your heart bleeds;
tour the lawless roads in search of a cool cat.
stop press
Hot ass Eighties' techno-chase tune sings from the cobwebs:
'I want candy! I want candy!'
Follow the chords in hot pursuit -
EXT. BEACH ROAD, Baja California DAY
Car chase on the condado to catch the mother fucker.
Unload the Browning. Fire at will in fury.
Tight editing and great shooting
(recipe for great sex)...
this baby'll test-screen right out the door.
back to holly hard-ups and downwoods
Let's get seven-figure, three-picture rich,
and vote Republican to laugh at the homeless.
Let's pay a million bucks to butt-fuck a butch mensch,
and piss away red Ferrari residuals on Rodeo.
Let's submit to white powder arbitration on the Santa Monica,
and fire Armani artillery for a designer death.
Let's dry-out in the most fashionable rehab synagogue,
and come clean on the faces of our ex's tabernacle.
Let's tone up and tan out with righteous wrath,
and unload the Browning on the tinsel trash.
Let's frag the fucked up flotsam filling the screening room
and daunt the rest 'til their comment cards are dead perfect.
Let's do lunch in the gym with the tone queens,
and listen to them laugh at us in the shower.
Let's let them die hiding in your hands
and cut off their dicks before cutting their throats.
Let's go - no one sings in the sauna tonight -
unload the Browning and leave no stoner unturned.
back to the Omega Man Resort
Pool dive alone to an insincere dinner of shrimp fajitas,
the poor Richard's proxy for a fuck fest with a friendly date.
Lick your fingers and floss your teeth suggestively.
Be the refried beans unpounded in bed, come uncame.
In your first r.e.m. dream, swim with illiterate sluts,
shower with shattered figments, and sex it up with Amaretto cake.
The sucrose is happiness, the chocolate is consolation.
Embalm yourself with agua minera and stick lime in your ears.
f a l l o u t
Mumble, between bites, some impertinent half-prayer
for a private recital by an off-limits orchestra.
"What sweet music, these bullets of classical music!
...erasing relatives suffocated in a cast-iron safe,
(thrown overboard well away from the dusty shore)
...baroque beneficence for an expensive British convertible
(riding naked with nine under-age immigrants)
...choral cheer for a scintillatingly privy pool
(skinny-dipping dumb pool boys into aquatic abasement)
...operatic opulence for the venomous rich
(buying the best morphine money can buy)"
A seashell and a piece of jetsam converse among themselves. The broken wood remarks on my sneaky, illegal moments on company time, and wonders who exactly pays me to write such things. The shell shrugs.
The wood continues. "Taping and typing with the little boys. That's all I've seen him do. Some job, huh?"
The seashell giggles. "He wants to impregnate them with his purple wisdom, but he's pretending not to."
The wooden jetsam exhales grumpily. "We ain't at Mardi Gras, James. He's left white miracles all over the beach, and the comorant tells me the pool's filled with red, pulsing clevernesses. Too much rape seed in the chocolate, I'd say."
The shell laughs again. "So whose fancies are good enough to be filmed? He's got an entire calendar's worth of ancient medicine in his carpet bag of bones. The bodies laying around here don't deserve any better, Woodrow."
Copyright 2009 by Adam Henry Carriere
DOOR MAT
I can still remember how
annoyed she got the first time
I used it, “Door mat,”
the way her mother let a brute
of a man walk all over her.
“Door mat”—you’d think I
called her mother whore or
bitch. Not strange, I went on,
so many women are at times.
I started a list of them: the
ones who faked orgasm to
keep some man, the ones who
say nothing when strangers
look and call their husbands,
“charming, so nice.” Door mat
I say. I like the word. The ones
someone else wipes their feet,
their penis all over: what
woman I want to say without a
job, a good job and kids hasn’t
had a stint keeping her mouth shut,.
making excuses. One friend has
taken to buying cheap sexy
clothes, bustiers and fish
net instead of painting. Door
mat, dour mat. Door mat
I want to scream at my
aunt who coddles her 45
year old son who probably
steals her money. Even Hillary
was, I hiss, standing up for
him with his penis in who
knows whose mouth. I want
to say, maybe because I feel
so tired and hardly an Amazon
today, walking about, some
one not me, afraid like all the
other D.M’s to say what I
am really thinking
copyright 2009 by Lyn Lifshin
CHURCH BEACH TRIP
Our parents dropped us at the parking lot
of the Bethany Baptist, where we met
the youth pastor at the bus. We carried
sack lunches, blankets, suntan oil, boogie boards.
The boys wore OP shorts, the girls, one-piece
bathing suits. It is our job, the youth pastor’s
wife had said, not to tempt our young brothers.
On the way home from the beach—tired,
saltwater logged, and sandy—I let
Cory Richardson finger me under his
beach blanket—The others sang,
“Now I belong to Jesus.” Cory mouthed
the words. I looked out the window,
watching the Malibu hills unfold
onto a canopy of blue sky, not feeling much
of anything but a distant, uncomfortable
fumbling, years from being able
to ride the current of my desire, but still
enjoying an irony I could not yet name.
copyright 2009 by Suzanne Roberts
THE DREAM
night sealed its dream
in a stone's mouth
and stars bedded down
with the dream for
half a million years
before wind and rain
wore the stone to dust
it hatched out a man
with a small pebble
on his tongue
May 31, 2007
copyright, 2007 by Eric Basso
BICYCLE POEM IN
6/5 TIME SIGNATURE,
WITH SOME SYNCOPATION,
NO SMALL MEASURE OF GUILT,
AND A FEW BORROWED THEMES*
I have never driven
A car sober I guess
I only wanted to
When I needed to drive
Someone’s for drugs for gas
For meat and every
Metaphor for it and
For sex, and, just for time
Mostly, which made me want
To own a stop sign, I
Tell you I was not a
Bad driver, I could beat
Anyone, drunk or not
When everyone was
Drunk they asked me to drive
I took, actually
My drivers’ ed course high
On heroin and did
Just fine I did not kill
Anyone that day or
Any other day I have
Clipped the mirrors of bus
After bus, but I have
Paid more bus fare than you
I promise you unless
You happen to be the
Worlds’ record holder
For bus fare paid as due
I am not that, and I
Am sorry to offend
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Sunset Boulevard end
To end, I’ve biked that just
For the love of it and
Topanga, S’pulv’da
I have done them too much
To brag about it, though,
It’s not as hard as you
Think, I must say and I
Don’t apologize for
Saying so at all, no
But the most inverted
Guilt trips plague me and I
Have learned how to say no
Like Nancy Reagan said
And I encourage you
To do the same, I do.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
All the irony that
We have inserted in
To everything is
Counterproductive to
The “joke” itself, so don’t
Overdo it, because,
In time even you won’t
Be sure if you mean what
You meant to anymore
Capably negative
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
First of all, forget it
That ugly face we use
To make our selves look old
The cynicism that
Demands so much respect
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Don’t think I don’t think but
I try not to think much
I’ve thought enough, to know
I’d rather take a ride
Than justify my life
Socrates, I say, he
Would ride a bicycle
In this day and age, he
Would ride a Peugeot, and
Smirk at all of the cars
Diotima would go
Barreling up the hill
Ahead of him, showing
Teeth, engaging, turning
Lips not soon forgotten
It would be a sincere
Smile but some how you’d
Know it wasn’t really
Funny, get that with just
Eye contact, and grin
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I, we, we’re trying to
Set things right, not that we
Think it will work but on
Philosophical type
Principals, bicycles
I know it’s a “simply
Horrible” cliché, but…
I’ll tell you what I’m not
Getting any younger
And I have to lie more,
Than ever, to get by
I like the honesty
Of metal and muscle
It makes you realize
You have to drink water
Or else, you’re just kidding
Yourself, not cycling through
Your body rebels at
A certain point it says:
Here are my terms, there will
Be no others, so get
Ready to meet them now
A good machine: that is
A comfort, really, a
Fairly silent, useful
One, as the weedwhacker
Outside stops me writing
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I have never driven a
Car sober and neither
Have you, it is its own
Kind of high, addiction,
Disease, divorce, death-wish
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Five half-built bicycles,
On my porch, this is a
Wasteland, and we are the
Words about waste and rust
Past tense, if words remain
Copyright 2009 by J de Salvo
* Dedicated to the memory of David Foster Wallace
At the Malmaison
At the Malmaison,
am having truly a feast
watching people
walk hungrily down
Boulevard Victor Hugo.
100 francs for
tough veal and
french fries--
Americans are not
the only masters of
the rip-off --
it appears
to be
universal.
There are only
women at this
restaurant
middle-aged
women dining
alone --
possibly guests of
the hotel.
God only knows
how many calories
this stupid veal chop
has.
The waiter looks like
William F. Buckley this is
definitely a place to
avoid.
Alex called me again
at the hotel.
I was tempted to tell him
vegetables don't
interest me, but this is not
quite true. The carrot was
quite refreshing only the
man behind it was
absolument not!
A butcher would
struggle trying to cut
this veal. My father would have
said to strictly avoid veal in
second rate hotels.
The woman at the table
next to mine who, by the way,
looks like Balzac in drag, just
asked the waiter
"Vous etes compris, n'est-ce pas?"
He looked confused
"Le service est compris, non?"
"Oui, madame," he said with a look of
quiet resignation. She must be
American, I shuddered.
"Vous etes compris" essentially means
"you are included," or you are part of
the price --- prix fixe.
How terribly American to
avoid gratuities.
Copyright 1989 by Jayne Lyn Stahl
visual poetry at the stateline
no one saw this but me, and they were there
seeing something else
it was visual but it wasn’t visible or photographable save for these words years later
i once spent hours and hours upon hours and hours of a late afternoon on one of those humidhot late late summer carried over to fall LA days
driving around through echo park crossing and recrossing alvarado
and silver lake
waiting at lights stopping at signs starting haltingly
sweating asphalt shimmering mirages and oil stains chewing gum melting on concrete tarpaper shingles softening and baking hunkering down on rooftops
with the windows down
a mother hiking carrying plastic bags of groceries home
up and down hills traversing hills doubling back three point turn arounds making blocks of left hands retracing to try that street not taken no i’ve been down this one before going the other way i think driving becomes strenuous
stopping at signs looking for signs of places for rent
writing down numbers of houses and apartments and back houses
rolling by houses and houses and houses having to register each one in one way or another
burnt orange stucco, tan brick, slate blue clapboard, white plaster, dark red of manzanita window sill and fascia board parked cars colors and colors of flowers palms hydrangeas (they must have been there; how could they not) yards kids playing bermuda grass chinese elm and sycamore pickets fencing hibiscus how overflowed shrubs and trees disheveled in profusion dirt patches yellow and red plastic slides white plastic chairs randomly angled evidence of sittings past dogs being walked
bougainvillea tang on retinal tastebuds
i stopped moving my head from side to side and the houses began rolling by the windows at the sides of my eyes
snapshots movieing
became alone not noting people not hearing sounds being only placeness motion
floating up one street and down the next floating floating
driving by by driving by being and being driven
i drove myself to altered perception hyperattentive distraction minutiae of living visual overload signs no longer seen
and then with no volition
i turned my head, poet tic
to watch as if in slow motion a picture passing by framed
by the open window
an old man sitting on the stairs between the two walls that cut the stair case out of his front lawn that loomed to either side above him and his house above that
bougainvillea there somewhere
felt a huge wince pang of loneliness and longing oceanism
things wheeled and froze and reeled at the same time condensexpanded
sidewalk sky blue house street garage purple
at that moment the man was already gone rolling on into peripheral visions
copyright 2009 by Michael Willard
Fly Me to the Moon
Three bikes stood on the sidewalk. Beth, Kim, and Wendy, all wearing short shorts, sat on the front lawn. The St. Augustine grass, too high for suburbia, scratched the backs of their exposed legs. Beth’s dad hadn’t been around in a while.
“Where is she?” Wendy asked as she pushed down the rough blades.
Gazing across the street, Beth said, “Don’t worry. She’ll come out.”
Kim passed a stick of gum to each of them. “Here. My mom finally went to the store.”
“I saw her.” Wendy confirmed, “Looking through the window.”
Beth smiled. “Good. She knows we’re waiting.”
“Yeah,” Kim said to the brick ranch house. “Your audience is here.”
The three girls fidgeted in anticipation.
With the slam of the screen door, Miss Diana appeared in a purple house dress and red sandals. Her long black hair was swooped up high into a beehive. Despite it being a summer morning, her face was high gloss: purple eye shadow, heavy eyeliner and mascara, red lips, and drawn on black eyebrows, which gave her the expression of constant surprise.
She did not address her audience, not even with her eyes. After the dramatic pause of her entrance, Miss Diana carefully made her way down from the walkway to the driveway. She ran her right hand along side the blue Dodge until she came to the front. Head to the sky, she edged her body on the hood. Then, she closed her eyes. She remained still and stiff, arms and legs straight.
Suddenly, she yelled, “Countdown. 10, 9, 8, 7, 5…”
The girls giggled.
“6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Blast off!”
Her arms rose quickly, she slid off the car, and returned inside.
The girls clapped.
“That was a good one,” Beth said as she chomped gum.
Kim agreed. “Yeah. So what ya wanna do now?”
Beth said, “Let’s play Charlie’s Angels. I’m Jill.”
“I’m Kelly,” Kim claimed.
Wendy pouted. “I don’t want to be Sabrina.”
“Why? She’s the smart one,” Beth offered.
“Then you be her.”
“No way. She’s ugly.”
With that settled, they got on their bikes and rode down the suburban street, looking for clues.
*
“Here she comes,” Wendy alerted.
The girls took their places on the lawn.
Miss Diana emerged in a beige terrycloth robe and slippers. Her hair was up in a sloppy topknot. She wore her surprised eyebrows, but was otherwise devoid of make-up. Squatting down, she made a little pile of envelopes and paper on the grass. Then, she took a box of kitchen matches out of her pocket. She struck one on the concrete walkway and lit the pile.
“That’s how you get rid of bills,” she mumbled and went inside.
The girls watched the small fire in silence until it eventually died out, leaving behind a dark hole on the green lawn.
*
Kim and Wendy flip-flopped down the sidewalk. Beth was sitting on a manicured lawn, chewing bubble gum. A silver Buick was parked in the drive.
“Your dad’s back?” Kim noticed.
“Yep.” She shifted the gum to the side of her mouth with her tongue. “Y’all heard about Miss Diana?”
“No.” Kim sat next to her, then Wendy next to Kim.
“They took her away.”
“No,” Kim said. Wendy palmed the short blades of grass.
Beth continued, “I heard my mom talking on the phone. She tried to kill Mr. Manny with a kitchen knife.”
Kim and Wendy shook their heads, pigtails swinging.
Beth nodded. “Yep. She got him in the arm with it.”
“Wow,” Kim said. “I never woulda thought she’d do somethin’ like that.”
“Glad she didn’t try to get us. Let’s go watch TV.”
Beth and Kim ran inside. Wendy stared at the house across the street. She got up and went over to the Buick. On the hood, she closed her eyes and mumbled, “Countdown. 10, 9…”
Beth stuck her head out the door. “Wendy, get off my dad’s car and come in.”
Opening her eyes, she slid off the car. “OK.”
***
Copyright 2009 by Kristin Fouquet
Reflections Of Life From A Greyhound Bus Terminal,
Oakland, CA
sometimes
it is all about
waiting
like a proud fish
on a barbed hook
waits to die
or at least
collapse
from the exhausting
struggle
a struggle
that seems like
the only thing to do
when you realize
that you are waiting
like everyone else
for the unknown signal
to give in, give up
to stop fighting
and sink away
into an ocean
of nothingness
where you will
finally
wait no longer
copyright 2009 by A. Razor
Wheel of Fortune is Hangman for Consumer Culture
Used bullets
Empty roaches
One person plays
A four arm duet
A generic armful
Of carbohydrates
An engine that
Shifts from first
to third place
works for me
Ahoy, my dreams
are obesity and booty
Avast, I didn't
want to see you
ever again with
the strange
transitions?
Copyright 2009 by Robert Louis Henry
One More Thing
Cleaning, you say. This place is a sty. You say this in your moving-out voice.
Let’s just add this to the list. One more thing I don’t do right. Cleaning, making coffee, being someone else.
I can feel you pulling at your reins while you sleep. Let me go, you say, though you don’t say it.
By morning, it’s gone. You swing your legs off the bed. “I’ll make the coffee” is all you say.
We drift through our day like carousel horses. Side by side, but parallel. Never touching, and up and down at different times.
One day, soon maybe, you’ll be gone. I know nothing, but I know this. When you’re gone, I won’t have anyone to do anything wrong in front of.
That day I’ll be as close to perfect as I can get.
Copyright 2009 by Francine Witte
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Thy kingdom comes,
His will is done,
Two universes end in cheap Latex...
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he was yours...
Copyright 2009 by Vincent John Ancona
Leopard Print Conversation
the words wore clothes
there was no naked
conversation
between the two
they had never
been lovers,
though they had
fucked, twice
he claimed
to have forgotten
the second time
the conversation
wore leopard print
gloves
she pulled
the words
from her hands,
slowly
the conversation
wrapped a leopard
print scarf
around its neck,
and choked
copyright, 2009 by Puma Perl
Applying Mint Julep and a Hot Pink Story
On a hot summer evening in 1995 I stepped back into a classroom for the first time since graduating from college. It had been 16 years. I wanted to prove to myself that I still had what it takes to be good a student. I promised myself that if I was successful – that is, won with an “A” – I would apply to graduate school.
I was feeling nervous and a bit shaky, not knowing what to expect. It had been so long since succumbing to a teacher’s instruction, regular meeting times and silent listening. Could I do it? I wondered.
To calm my nerves, I began to imagine the class as though it were a game, a competition, just like my days as a team tennis player, and that this was going to be warm-up match, a scrimmage game, to practice and to help me get my bearings for the world of education.
I spent time preparing, reading up on the subject, buying the necessary supplies, pens and a tablet, and began to feel anxious, like a giggling little kid about to start a new adventure. The course title: Program Design and Development.
***
When the day arrives, with my registration in hand, I drive to the school near Pittsburgh, eager to begin my first college course. The evening is humid and despite this being the dinner hour, it is still warm – 90 degrees – when I walk into the classroom. A large fan circulates hot, steamy air and I am glad to be wearing a linen skirt and sandals.
I walk up the steps and down the hall, poking my head into the first classroom, before I see the number overhead. Then, when I finally find mine, I take a deep breath, walk across the threshold and hear, “You paint your toenails,” from a man, I assume, is to be our teacher.
A flush of heat rushes across my face and I look down at my feet, then back at him and say, “Yes,” before walking across the front of the room with its large, dirty wooden desk and lectern. I scan the classroom in search of an empty desk toward the back. When I spot the one I want, I maneuver through the rows to claim it. I squeeze in, fish for a pen in my purse and balance my books on the table top before turning to introduce myself to the woman two rows over.
“Hi, Sue, I’m Jessie,” responds the young-looking, 40-ish woman and I am relieved to find out that like me, this is the first college course in quite a few years for most of us who now fill the room.
While I continue chatting and exchanging phone numbers with those near me, the man who made note of my toenail polish looks up from his desk and belts out, “Good evening, class. I am Dr. O.,” with a baritone voice that fills the room not once, but twice, with an acoustic echoing. Dr. O. is a short, round man of 50 or so years. He has a black moustache and a full head of long, wiry hair that seems to stand on end. Irish? German? Czech? I wonder, but cannot be sure. He stands tall for a short man, stretching every inch of his height as he announces the procedures for his classroom and what he expects from us, his students.
His voice fades as I study his features and notice how close and exact he holds his feet together when addressing us; moving slightly as he shifts his weight.
It’s as though he is standing on ice, a penguin in charge of an egg, I think.
Just then I tune in again to hear, “You will be graded on these two assignments,” and I realize that I have just missed most of the instructions for what will decide my fate. I wonder what he means by “other hobbies” that he mentions quickly, but then backs off. “I won’t go into that right now.” He chuckles.
***
Dr. O. switches his persona back from the keeper of dark secrets, to lecturer. “Your mid-term paper is to focus on what you learn in the first five weeks of this course, your final paper, an accumulation of the entire semester’s work,” he says, enunciating each and every word with an elongated staccato while pointing three fingers, squeezed tightly, to emphasize the instruction.
He has practiced that move in front of a mirror, I think.
Dr. O. then adds more specific details, leaving his perch and walking slowly, rhythmically, back and forth, across the front of the classroom, telling us his expectations. He has many. With each pass, he stops at the lectern, aligns his shiny black shoes carefully, side-by-side, like a guard at the Arlington National tomb of unknown soldiers, and casts a glare as he delivers another major point.
Dr. O., our shepherd of education, has small, deeply-set black eyes like buttons on a double-breasted military coat. As he speaks, his eyes dart to the right, then left, then right again, before zeroing in and locking his gaze onto one of us. The victim of his stare is now his focus while he speaks from this lectern position reserved for the one in charge. He enunciates carefully as he delivers his convoluted description of what we must do to earn an “A” in his class. We sit quietly and listen.
“You must design a program for a company that will sell its products,” Dr. O. finally says. He stops. He stares. Then he starts up again, “That’s it – pure and simple,” he says, adding that he will give us all of the information and tools to do this, over the next ten weeks.
I adjust my position as I drift into my thoughts. His delivery is not in synch with what seems to be the task at hand. Doesn’t matter. I can do this.
Our class meets for two hours, every week, and Dr. O., by the fifth week, is predictable. He stands at attention and rifles us with information. I am used to him, we all are, and I have nearly a notebook full of instructions.
When the night comes to turn in our first assignment, our midterm, I feel confident. My program plan, created by using all of the materials provided and based upon everything I had learned from Dr. O., no doubt, will earn a winning score.
A week later, however, I am disappointed when I find that I have earned only a “B-”.
Where have I gone wrong? I think as I study my plan bearing sparsely-written notes that point to the places lacking key ingredients.
His note on the front states: “You do not seem to be getting it. Your plan is lacking. If you would like to discuss this, I would be happy to meet with you.”
What? No way. I’m not doing that!
But then I decide to stay after class and let Dr. O. set me straight.
Sitting across from him, embarrassed by my “B-” which, to me, is a loss – a failure – Dr. O. explains, in the same jargon language he has lavished upon us for weeks, then finally says, “….It’s sex…. You don’t have anything going on in your plan that makes it interesting, attractive or enticing.”
I am dumbfounded. Have I just heard Dr. O. correctly? Is he suggesting that I write about sex in my plan?
“Sex sells,” he adds.
And this is nothing new to me – really. Still, I question. I am in a classroom. I thought there was more. I wanted there to be more. I paid money to attend this class to learn that there was more. But no; not this time. This is Dr. O.’s class and this is what he wants. I take a deep breath, sit back and think.
I walk to my car following our consultation and spend the rest of that night and the following week, thinking.
Then I get busy.
***
I spend the remaining weeks in this course I had signed up for as a practice round, taking notes, asking questions and paying extreme attention to every word, directive and request of Professor O.
Then, with just one week before our final program plan is due, Dr. O.’s lecture is more emphatic than it has been throughout the semester. “It’s about creating buzz,” he explains. Dr. O. is on fire this evening – hands flailing, sweat dripping from his forehead, and an excitement in his voice that makes me believe that he is all about creating buzz.
I am ready. I am going to write a perfect program plan – with plenty of buzz – I promise myself.
On my way out the door that night, armed with the directions for our final paper and a clear understanding of my challenge, Dr. O., with his feet firmly planted, stops me and hands me a large white envelope marked Confidential. “Do you remember me asking you to read a story that I am working on?” He asks me.
“Yes.”
“Are you still willing to read my story and give me feedback – one writer to another?”
“Sure; I’d be happy to,” I respond and take the unsealed envelope from him while wondering if this is appropriate since the semester is not yet finished. As I begin to reach in to pull out his manuscript, Dr. O. interrupts.
“No. Don’t. Wait,” he says. “Wait until you get home to read it.”
“Okay, I’ll read it later and get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Take your time. You can give me feedback any time,” he says.
I leave the classroom and hurry to my car, curious to see what Dr. O. has just given me. Under its dome light I open the envelope to find a 50-page manuscript that is typed, double-spaced, in black ink and printed on shocking-pink paper.
I begin to sweat.
I take a quick glance through it – flipping the pages quickly to read about a man and a woman engaged in a variety of sexual acts – all involving the feet and lots and lots of tickling. I freeze. Then I see the dedication on page 2: “To Sue”.
“Oh my God,” I say out loud and throw it on the seat next to me, quickly start my engine and drive home as fast as I can, in this pre-cell-phone age, to phone my sister and tell her the whole thing. I am panicked. She can hear it in my voice, she says.
“Calm down,” she tells me. “You’ll get through this.”
My fear turns to anger which turns to rage which turns to creativity as we review the situation.
Together, we agree that the practice scrimmage is over; the real competition has begun. We explore my options, decide on a course of action and I become clear as to what it is that I have to do now to win.
My heart is pumping and I feel the buzz. I am determined to win, to get my “A,” which is now more symbolic than a true evaluation of my educational fortitude, I realize. No matter.
***
Within an hour I have my final project mapped out as well as a list of websites and online opportunities for writers who have an affinity for all things to do with the feet. Over the next seven days, however, I flip flop between panic and laughter. Should I really being doing this? I wondered. No choice.
Then, when I think I am finished and my plan, complete, I call my sister to test it out. She laughs and laughs, and we both laugh and can’t stop laughing – deep belly laughing – that brings tears to our eyes.
The night that my final paper is due, I click the “send” button on my computer and hope that my final program plan for an imaginary cosmetics company will reach Dr. O. safely. If the technology works, I am confident it will meet his educational standards.
***
The following week, the final class night, when we are to show up during regular class time and receive our final papers and grades from Dr. O., I wait my turn outside in the hall, then enter the classroom and take a seat on the chair across the desk from him. Despite the warm evening I am wearing jeans, a suit jacket and white t-shirt, as well as shoes and socks.
“What did you think of my story?” he asks.
“I think it has great potential for a particular audience,” I respond, handing Dr. O. the list of websites I found for him. “You should check them out.”
“Thanks,” he says and hands me my final paper.
I glance down quickly and see a large “A+” that is circled several times, on the top of the page. I smile and stand to leave.
“Maybe I’ll see you again,” Dr. O. says with a slight question in his voice.
“Yeah, maybe you will. Gotta go,” I say as I leave his classroom, tucking my final program plan into my bag.
***
As I get into my car and head for home, I think back to my freshman year of college, 20 years earlier, when I was 18. That year, my Geography professor, during our midterm exam, while walking up and down the aisles of the classroom to assure no one was cheating, stopped at my desk, leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You wouldn’t need to worry about this test if you’d go out with me,” he said – not once, but twice – most likely because of the look on my face.
I froze and sat perfectly stiff in my seat. The smell of my teacher’s burnt morning coffee seeped out and engulfed me. He was inches away from my ear.
My eyes locked onto my test. I did not respond.
He eventually walked back to his desk, sat down and looked at me as he resumed drinking his coffee.
I sat perfectly still, in disbelief and shock, from this professor’s proposal. The clock was ticking and I was unable to concentrate. I left the classroom 15 minutes or so later, despite leaving many questions blank.
I attended class sporadically after that and when my final grade report arrived at home at the end of the semester, I willingly, but voicelessly, accepted the low grade he shot at me.
This time I was determined that things would be different.
***
My final Program Development Plan? I designed an entire line of foot creams. Not just any foot creams – edible foot creams.
My greasy gushes of gooey greatness, guaranteed to delight and tickle the senses, permeated my plan. On the page, I painfully and descriptively introduced Dr. O. to many, sensory delights:
- Hot Apple Pie - applied only after slight warming,
- Mint Julep - with a cool tingle to open the senses,
- Derby Day Bourbon - for a hint of spirits and the call of wild, and
- Jamoca Almond Rub - with tiny morsels of real almonds to warm the skin.
Each edible foot cream came with a full description of application procedures that really got Dr. O.’s pen going. Ink marks flew across my paper in such a way that made it evident he clearly felt the buzz for all I had invented. His slashes, stars and underlines, which were absent from my midterm, now engulfed my final work with great, enthusiastic strokes.
“This is tickly,” he wrote at one particular program description and I knew, from this phrase that matched his shocking pink story of bound feet being tickled mercilessly, that my program was a success. He drew circles – round and round again – and added “Me First” overtop of my description of the implementation and promotional plans invented especially for him.
It was here. It was raw and it was what Dr. O., in his miserable, isolated life enjoyed most about teaching.
The power and control he loved and used to his advantage enabled Dr. O. to be successful – once again – in getting what he wanted from a specially-selected student. Something he had, no doubt, done many times before.
My return to college, as it turned out, was not what I had expected, yet it showed me what I had learned over the years. And while my plan succeeded in earning me an “A,” in Dr. O.’s course, it was not until a year later that I felt a true sense of accomplishment.
***
The following year, after this first of many graduate-level college courses I would eventually complete, in a quick, face-to-face meeting with the administrator of this fine institution of higher learning, the man-in-charge looked at my three papers: my midterm, my final, and his shocking pink story.
As he sat and turned the pages, I explained the situation.
I was not sure how much he heard of what I was saying, but I forged on. I told him the details of my conversations with Dr. O., how I ended up with one of his stories, how I had to use blatant sex in my plan in order to earn an “A” and how I was sure that if he did this to me, he had done it before. Occasionally I reached across and turned to a specific page, a specific star or fuzzy comment that verified my claim. Then, after I had told him the whole story, I added my plea for some action to be taken. I said that I hoped he understood the problem they had at the school and that if he cared for the students, he would want to find a way to fix it.
Then I sat back and watched him poke through, again, the pages – a bit of the pink, a paragraph of the final – and as I looked at Dr. O.’s pen marks that now lay open on the administrator’s conference table, I thought of how things can change with time, with distance, and perspective.
The once-energetic strokes of adoration from Dr. O.’s pen had become stains on the white pages of my plan – permanent evidence left behind by a man who called himself a teacher.
Then the administrator forgot himself and slipped, saying, “I’m not surprised; this isn’t the first time we’ve had this type of complaint about him – the foot thing.”
I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t.
I gathered my papers, calmly saying that I felt certain that he would do what was right, what was best for the school as well as the students, thanked him for his time, shook his hand and walked out.
***
I did not return the phone calls that came from the administrator over the next few days.
The first time he called, I immediately recognized his voice: his words were jumbled, his message unclear, and a voice in the background told him what to say.
The second time, he left a message: a repeat of the first, but now clearly focused and outlined with the steps I was to take.
The third: he questioned if I had received his messages.
I had, but ignored them all, including the final message that he left on my answering machine two weeks after our meeting. This time he conveyed “a demand….,” not from him, but from his boss who “insisted” that I send him a copy of my collection and “….anything else that you have….”
I sent them nothing.
***
It has been years since I returned to the classroom that warm summer evening. Since then I have gone on to complete a master’s degree, but not in business.
I took a different direction.
I completed one master’s degree and soon will complete a second, this time, in creative writing. Sometimes I think back to those earliest days when I made the decision to pursue an advanced degree and curiosity wells up, wondering how the administration finally came to terms with this man and his sickness, as well as their negligence and me, with my three-paper collection, including the hot pink story.
I may never learn the answers to these questions, but I have heard through the grapevine, the same vine that warned me not to pursue official procedures to complain about this professor because “….It doesn’t work….it’ll come back at you and you’ll lose – we all have….,” Dr. O.’s contract was terminated.
And I wonder if he ever learned who finally beat him at his game.
Copyright 2009, by Sue Kreke Rumbaugh
Memoria, Contorted
Because you know
better than anyone
that if forced to bite my tongue,
I will bite it off,
just to prove a point,
I'll give you my life.
And because
I somehow built this life from nothing
but freedom, rhythm, and air,
I hope you laugh. I want you to.
I want you to roar,
titter, giggle, whatever....
And when my stories hit
a pitch of sadness, hear them
as something absurdly yours:
like eerie songs from a tree saw
played on a tiny stage
by a tattoed girl,
famous among her own
because
she winces so pretty
when the quivering
saw teeth bite
the high notes just below
her skillful calloused thumbs.
See it all as something
you've earned: a cat-gut carnival
where nothing is smoke and mirrors,
except the lack of light.
Copyright 2009 by Sarah M. Daugherty
On Memorial Day, 2009, for the army brats I grew up with, many now in the wars.
INTERSECTION
As the old woman deliberately planted the rubber tip of her cane on Georg's Converse clad foot in her attempt to board the bus, Georg gazed up into the blue vault of the L.A. sky and discovered politeness was his downfall. From the gentle, bloody smiles he offered in payment for the frequent beatings from childhood bullies to the indentation he acquired on his left shoulder during his adolescence when scores of pretty girls wept away their pain between engagements. During these encounters, Georg often ran simulations of gratitude in his head, which increased during his five year tenure as a junior accountant at a Big Eight firm where he worked nights and weekends and three of the four seasons of the year with no chance for promotion. Georg remembered the day the firm let him go; as he walked out into the warm, windy October afternoon with his final evaluation in one hand, and his two weeks of severance pay in the other, he gazed, uncomprehending, at the phrase no ambition, in the middle of the page until his eyes watered, and then, walked two blocks west to the faux British pub where he spent his check on an evening's worth of drinks for anyone who felt like being his fair-weather friend. It was the best three hours of accolades Georg ever experienced, except, of course, for that memorable evening last spring, when he received a heart-felt thanks from his best friend upon offering him a tumbler full of Jim Bean whiskey... minutes after Georg discovered him in flagrante with Georg's wife in a bed he was still making payments on... Thirty five years of rage burned a hole in the top of Georg's head at the sudden departure of his angel of civil behavior. For a nano-second, he beheld the words political correctness in flames before him. As intoxicating waves of new-found arrogance washed over him, Georg pushed past the old woman and took the last available seat.
copyright 2008 by M. Lecrivain
CIRCUS MONKEYS
Not quite best friends.
We don’t share secrets,
play dress up, or bake cookies.
Instead, I am your sparring partner.
And we speak loudly without saying words,
competing for his love and attention
while he tosses us peanuts.
Copyright 2009 by Erika Sage Kelley
THE VISITORS
Three horses –
two roans and a ghostly gray –
muscle across our lawn
at the first light of morning,
stop in the suburban street,
as their breath clouds widen
in cold that knifes.
Fathers in buzz cuts shout across driveways.
We kids wake to urgent voices, commotion,
run outside
followed by sleepy Medusa mothers in pink rollers.
People stand frozen
electrified
by this vision --
like something out of the dead time
when pathways in the tall grasses
were no wider than flanks,
three horses --
in the cul de sac.
Bart and Scott Hancock’s hunter dad
orders a posse of neighbors.
With yells and prods--
golf clubs, butts of rifles--
they herd the horses
into a car port,
block them
with a red-and-white Rambler.
Bart and Scott once drew me
into their garage
to show off what it was
their dad brought home
from the woods.
In the dark I edged up against an object
bristly, delicate, suspended,
the floor sticky.
When they flicked on the light
I was face to face
with a bruise-eyed buck,
shot and hung
by its hocks,
the head and small antlers swinging downward,
drops of its blood
on the oily concrete.
Fear for the visitors
surges through me
until a Tesuque man
in a white pick-up appears,
its headlights blinding
as a spirit’s eyes.
He carries blankets, rope and reins,
and in monotone chants
the strange names
of what it is he seeks.
Copyright, April 2009 by Georgia Jones-Davis
Another One Bites the Dust
He sat me down and said “this is gonna be hard for you to watch” and I had no idea what he was talking about. He gave me a nervous glance and then pressed play on the DVD player. It was a collage of my monumental anger. Throwing the utensil drawer to the floor littering it with knives, forks and spoons. Typing on my computer and aggressively pounding the buttons until the keys flew off the keyboard. Slamming the door as hard as I could five times to imitate the neighbour across the hall. Ripping down our curtains and the curtain rod in a rage of anger about something unrelated. Shouting “SHUT THE FUCK UP” at the cute (but loud) little dog who lives next door while banging on the wall. Throwing the cordless phone against the wall because it was dead. These types of things…
The movie played for about 10 minutes and featured an impressive selection of footage. I wondered how he had managed to capture so much footage of me without my knowing.
He turned off the machine. “Don’t be mad” he said.
My face was getting hot, my teeth were grinding, and my heart began beating fast. I forced an artificial passive aggressive smile “Mad? Why would I get mad at that? It was funny!”
“I think you need to talk to someone” he said
“Why? Because I have a couple of bad days and you manage to capture them?”
“You’re getting worse. Nobody feels comfortable talking to you anymore, because they think you’re just going to insult them. Nobody wants to say no to you, because they’re afraid of the repercussions. The apartment is beginning to look like a domestic case. Holes in the walls, damaged floors, lots of broken shit.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just like to get it out. It’s not good to repress your anger you know.”
“It’s not good to be a rage-a-holic either” he said
I felt myself getting pissed! I wanted to punch him in the face and light his hair on fire. Most men appreciated my anger; it made me damn good in bed and added to my already intense personality. Yet this sensitive little fucker who I’d only been dating for 3 months was telling me I had a problem and needed therapy! Where did he get off?!
“I don’t feel that it’s necessary to talk to anyone. I’m not into talking about my feelings and shit. I feel better after I freak out about something. I think a therapist would just make it worse. I don’t wanna sit on a couch with a tissue box beside me telling some fucking stranger who’s just as fucked up as I am what my problem is, when there is no problem! Yes I get very angry sometimes… So what.”
“Will you try? Just once? Please?”
“No”
“So I should just sit by quietly while you destroy the apartment, scare the neighbours and just generally rage about life”
“Yes. That would be nice”
“You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?”
“What’s your point? This is me; I don’t want or care to change. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”
“How can you be so cold?” he asked
“Because I’m Frosty the FUCKING SNOWBITCH okay… Leave me alone. Fuck off. Go fix your own life you fucking pansy.”
He stared down at the floor. I think I saw a tear fall from his eye. He knew he wasn’t gonna change me and that his efforts were futile. I don’t go into relationships to be changed. I like who I am, angry or not. And I don’t care if I offend, insult, or scare people. That’s their problem, not mine!
He looked up, his eyes Red and watery. It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not ask him why he was crying like a little girl. I didn’t feel comfortable with this situation. I am not the woman who appreciates the over-sensitivity of a man, especially one who routinely wears chapstick. And I’m not the kind of woman who can handle seeing him cry about something so ridiculous. Someone dies… Okay, cry away. Your girlfriend says no to anger therapy… Suck it up bitch!
Comforting someone (especially a man who’s dropping tears all over my couch) was definitely not my forte.
“So, where does this leave us?” he asked with a shaky tremble in his voice.
“I don’t know…Why don’t you give your balls a squeeze and we’ll talk” I said
My tongue was sharp. I knew that. I’ve never been the type to have one of those internal filters that stops you from saying things that are hurtful or mean to people. My brutal honesty and willingness to say what I “really” think has been an ongoing theme in my life.
He got up and stormed to the bedroom to pack a bag.
Again, my complete lack of internal filters allowed me to continue on. “Oh so you’re gonna pack and leave now because you didn’t get me to do what you want? Is that how this works? Well what about YOUR issues… Like how you piss the bed every time you get drunk, or your fucking crying… What the FUCK is with that? I know chicks going through menopause who cry less than you. And let’s not forget your unnatural obsession with your mother. Why don’t you just go fuck her and get it over with.”
Clothes hanging out of his half-packed bag, he brushed past me aggressively and said “I’ll be back for the rest of my shit when you’re not here.”
He slammed the apartment door and headed down the hall to the elevator.
I ran to the kitchen to grab the tissue box. Opened the door and threw it down the hall, hitting him in the side of the head. “Here’s some tissues you pansy.” I said “Maybe you should go write this in your journal”.
I went back inside, lit a smoke and sighed a huge sigh of relief.
The remote was still sitting on the couch. I pressed play and sat there laughing hysterically at my epic anger collage rewinding and replaying the funniest parts until my stomach hurt from laughing.
Copyright 2009 by Selina Jane Eckersall
1:03 AM
The neon blue numbers
Read 1:03 AM
The bars must have
Lost their appeal
Early tonight
Or she really is that lonely
Either way she’d now want to
Invade his body like
A conquering foreign power
Rolling across his borders and
Claiming them as her own
After her initial offensive
She’d have to ask
‘When’d you start smoking again?’
And he’d answer, half truthfully,
‘Since we started playing this game again’
After it’s all said and done
The awkwardness of
What to do next
Will lull them both to sleep
Deciding he’d rather forgo such pleasantries
He goes back to sleep
Ignoring an all too familiar number
Calling at an all too familiar time
The neon glow still said 1:03 AM
Copyright 2009 by Christopher Coleman
Seven Secrets
1.
I miss the dicks and tongues of the boys before you, want variety.
2.
I ate the cheesecake.
3.
I love the dogs. There is no room for you.
4.
When he died, I skipped the funeral and drove through a hurricane to grieve.
5.
I’d like to rip eyelids off people who can’t be bothered to recycle or pick up their dogs’ shit.
6.
I want my CV to surpass his one day, soon.
7.
I don’t want your children. I don’t want my stomach to stretch fat. Reclaiming through denial; you will not get this vanity.
Copyright 2009 by Allison Wilkins
FOXY
a fox of course
is not a two-wheeled animal
the saddles of bicycles nevertheless
are to some extent reminiscent
of a fox's face
you riding your bike
would never dream
of sitting on a fox's face
but even now perhaps
you are thinking of faces and sitting
the way you lean forward
on your bicycle's saddle
applying pressure where pressure is due
thinking that no one
could possibly notice
your pedalling for pleasure
just for fun
discretion
complete discretion that is
would require you
to show the world a face
without
the foxy look
copyright 2009 by Levi Wagenmaker
after hours
mannequins cavort, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Their coffee mugs clink against the heavy saucers and idle chatter melds into a low unnerving murmur that smells of whispered secrets. The counter displays and neatly folded stacks of sweaters and clothes hanging on racks are full of empty longing disguised as expectation. Loudspeakers play instrumental versions of barely recognizable sixties songs. The air tingles with the perfume of citrus and orange and preformed houses surround the sprawl and run to the horizon in row after row, housing sleeping residents who in the morning will wake wanting goods and services provided by the floors and departments of this very place. Can you feel your blood turning to cement and everything fading out like the end of a movie without credits? I am turning to stone and no one is watching.
Copyright 2009 by Alan C. Reese
The Bicycle Review is edited and curated by J de Salvo and Kevin Jeffrey Watson
