Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
ightning
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& bLINK
2.2
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Mar 7 11
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Contents
Q
Graham Gremore
Humans are Actual Animals 7
Renee Nelson
Cock Blocker 11
Sean Taylor
Stay 17
Rob McLaughlin
My Place 21
Russell Dillon
Secret Damage 25
Self-Portrait in Styptic Pencil 28
Bled into Sepia 29
Shideh Etaat
Her Bloodstained Hands 33
Clive Matson
Song 20: When You Dropped Out of the Sky 40
Song 17: Is this an Accident? 43
L
Elise Hunter
The Lonely Psychic 49
Chris Cole
A White Sheet Over the World 55
Don’t Look Down 57
The Past is Just Ahead 59
James Warner
Excerpt All Her Father’s Guns 62
Maureen Duffy
Kanno Doko 70
Susan Browne
Buddha’s Dogs 74
Mandolin 77
Maureen Blennerhassett
Tender 80
2.2
Molly Unquera
Fish. 09 front cover
Birds back cover
Moths 46
Moth Eye 47
Humans Are Actual Animals,
or Mrs. Hibbish Is A God Damn Idiot
8
Graham Grenmore —–––––––––––
“So what’s the problem?” she
chuckled. “Aside from being somewhat
loquacious, I think it’s quite funny.”
But Mrs. Hibbish felt otherwise.
“Graham is the only student who said he
wanted to be a human. All the other
students said they wanted to be actual
animals.”
“But humans are actual animals,” my
mother protested.
“One student said she wanted to be
a blowfish,” Mrs. Hibbish continued,
disregarding my mother’s comment.
“Another student said he wanted to be
an elephant. And another, a duckbilled
platypus. Do you see where I’m going
with this?”
My mother thought for a moment,
then said: “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Mrs. Hibbish let out a heavy sigh. “I’m
a bit perturbed, that’s all.”
“About what?” my mother replied,
her frustration mounting. “He enjoys being
a human. What’s the big deal? Frankly, if I
were you, I’d be more perturbed about
the little girl who wants to be a goddamn
blowfish. I mean, what’s that all about?”
Mrs. Hibbish shook her head in a
condescending fashion. “Mrs. Gremore,
there’s really no need for that kind of
language.”
9
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On the car ride home, I asked my
mother why Mrs. Hibbish was so
concerned about my desire to be a
human. It was raining outside. Heavy
sheets of water whipped against the
windshield faster than the wipers could
whisk them away.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Some
people are just idiots.”
“But Mrs. Hibbish is a grown up.”
“And Mrs. Hibbish is a god damn
idiot,” my mother said, flipping on the
blinker and switching lanes as we zipped
down the soggy interstate and back into
real life.
10
Graham Grenmore —–––––––––––
Cock Blocker
1
Past participle, my ass. Nouns are so post
colonial. We go around pointing and
naming things, as if some dude in charge
said: go out and name things.
I was godding.
2
Don’t forget to read the nutrition label on
your prescription. She goes on Weight
Watchers and Jenny Craig, counts points
for her mayonnaise and her ass still looks
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fat in those jeans. I want to give her all the
points in the world.
3
There’s a little bit of tweeker in all of us.
Inside each and every boy & girl is a bike
thief waiting to happen, a scrounger, a
paranoid flea market vendor selling cell
phone car chargers, a boss who slips
12
Renee Nelson —–––––––––––
lesbian porn into your locker at work. Pop
Rocks today, Meth tomorrow.
4
think of the moment between the past &
future perfect, the passive form of finger
curling in the killing position & polished
metal passing like a solid specter through
skull
13
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think of a dream between 1 &
penultimate, the co-worker with the semi-
automatic & your cats who know the
universe’s name asking for a pen & paper
like they’re about to forget
6
not in the business of telling the truth but if
you want my opinion
Oz called.
15
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16
Renee Nelson —–––––––––––
Stay
19
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20
Sean Taylor —–––––––––––
My Place
This is my life?
24
Rob McLaughlin —–––––––––––
Secret Damage
27
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Self-portrait in Styptic Pencil
Landscape, apothecary.
Ungather us now, come loosed
28
Russell Dillon —–––––––––––
Bled Into Sepia and the Jesus Year
31
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32
Russell Dillon —–––––––––––
Her Bloodstained Hands
33
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Word spread quickly, because back
then this was the only speed words knew
how to travel, like a lightning bolt through
Idgah and the other neighborhoods in
Mashhad, and suddenly the screams and
cries of the mourners came to a halt. The
city was bloody and silent. What had this
Jew done? Why on this of all days? It was
a mockery of Husayn, of Islam, and
particularly offensive because dogs were
so goddamn dirty. Had it been a goat, or
a lamb, or a graceful horse, perhaps they
could have forgiven Khorsheed. But a
dog was unacceptable, a dog turned a
rumor into rage and soon an angry crowd
stormed the mahaleh, burning down the
only synagogue they had, destroying the
Torah scroll, breaking into homes, and
looking for Khorsheed, the woman, and
her bloody hands they were set on
destroying.
Hearing word that the men were
coming for her, Khorsheed blocked her
door with a heavy wooden table and
wrapped her hand which was now a
deep red almost turned into black from all
the blood and guts of the canine, around
her two daughters. There was only a small
window in her home, but a ceramic vase
filled with Jasmine flowers sat on the table
and brought a freshness inside the space
giving them more air to breathe. The
34
Shideh Etaat —–––––––––––
angry men stormed into her home,
knocking over the table and the vase,
and as they stepped on the flowers with
their boots they released the scent into
the air and Khorsheed’s daughters
suddenly transformed into pieces of her
body. A liver. A heart that she needed to
protect in order to survive, to keep
breathing in this world. Her very eyes.
“Give us the pretty one,” they yelled,
pointing to Hannah, Rabbi Kohan’s aunt
who had light hair the color of wet sand
and eyes that looked like two green
moons, “those eyes are so beautiful, they
look edible,” they said. They were
unaware of the tiger stripe that went
through Touran, her other daughter’s eyes
making her look like some kind of exotic
animal. They forced Hannah away from
her mother and Korsheed shrieked as if
her two eyes were being torn out by their
roots. It was a mother’s shrill cry and one
that for a moment, and really it was just a
moment, made these men with their
knives think of their own mothers and of
Husayn, the martyr, and it made them ask
themselves if he would in fact have
approved of such a brutal act. But it
really was just a moment, one that passed
as quickly if not even quicker than the
smell of an innocent fart, and as
Khorsheed held onto what was left of her-
35
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her very heart, Touran- Rabbi Kohan’s
mother, they brought a cold knife as if it
had just been dipped into a stream where
even the fish had stopped in their paths
from the sharp readiness of the blade, up
against Khorsheed’s neck.
Her husband, Koorosh, had been
there the whole time, but watched from a
darkened corner where he looked upon
his family and silently wept because he
was a coward. Because even during sex
he could not speak, would not make a
peep, had never said to Khorsheed one
nice thing, had never made her feel like
more than a woman who washed things.
As a child his father had beaten his voice
out from him and he never really could
find it again.
The men presented a Torah to
Khorsheed as graciously as if it was their
own holy book and the man who held
Hannah’s hand with his bloodied one, the
one whose bare back had been
scratched up and torn open from his own
abuse, his nose hairs almost merging with
his mustache, demanded that she spit on
it. And the other one who had blood
even in his eyes presented her with a
plate. On it was a skewer of sweaty meat,
a perfectly formed piece of kabob and
next to it a few spoonfuls of yogurt- the
nemesis of any properly kosher Jew.
36
Shideh Etaat —–––––––––––
“Eat this meat with the yogurt,” the
one with the bloody eyes said. Khorsheed
didn’t budge. “It is the only way to know
you believe,” the man continued, “that
you are willing to become a woman of
our faith.”
Khorsheed looked at Touran’s eyes
which were so wide now it seemed the
gold stripe that went through her brown
pupils were in fact covering her entire
eye. Hannah screamed and the man with
the nose hair mustache slapped her,
leaving a streak of blood across her lips,
which made her face look rosey and
grown up. Although Khorsheed was an
illiterate woman, a woman who had
believed the doctor because he was
after all a doctor, and she was a fat
woman who loved kabob more than
anything in this world, she could not let
her daughter see her become this, a
woman who merely washed things and
ate meat with yogurt when a Muslim man
told her to do so. It was the woman’s job
to preserve their culture and their religion,
this she believed with all her heart. With
the ferociousness of some wild beast she
gathered spit in the back of her throat
and with dry eyes she turned her face
slightly and spit into the man’s blood-
stained eyes,
37
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“Take my God from me you khar, you
ass, and you take my life.” They slit her
throat in front of her two daughters and
her husband Koorosh, and before her
eyes closed for good she noticed a small
figure jerk its body away from the men
and towards the door. A little boy, not
more than four years old, who had come
in with the men, but who she had not
noticed until then. A little boy who when
Khorsheed finally fell to the ground had
already begun to weep.
When Koorosh saw the trail of his
wife’s blood that reached his feet, he
finally screamed, a sound they both had
been waiting a long time for. The walls
could not contain the sound, a long crack
began to form on the washed out
greynesss, a crack like a line on the palm
of a hand that predicted longevity and a
strong will to live.
But there was only silence after that,
even after his wife’s eyes closed and
Hannah was taken to Imam Jom’eh’s
house where she was given a pretty
necklace with a ruby in the center and
wedded to him, still Koorosh remained
silent. Forty others died that day and
Jewish leaders climbed onto the rooftops
of what was left of their unsturdy homes
and announced that all the Jews of
Mashhad would convert. The Jews
38
Shideh Etaat —–––––––––––
believed they deserved this, that this was
God punishing them for their sins.
Koorosh lived a quiet life with the only
other person left to him, Touran, and in
fresh air and rain storms, or when the sun
hit his hot, black head he bowed and
prayed on his knees when the other
Muslims did, changing his name from
Koorosh to Ali Reza. But when he came
home to Touran they would light the
Shabbat candles and she would prepare
Kosher meals for him, and Touran would
ask him questions about what being
Jewish meant because she knew she was
the only one who could save it for the
both of them. Her father began to talk to
Touran, would tell her what he knew of
the Torah and the stories of their people
and more personal stories of her mother
Korsheed and how much she had loved
her daughters, but more than that her
God. Touran wished to know this God
deeply. Her father began calling her
Khoshgel, Pretty, instead of Touran, and
even though she missed her sister she was
happy to be considered the pretty one.
Father and daughter preserved their
religion through these simplistic rituals. Ali
Reza and Khoshgel lived as Muslims, but
many years later when they finally moved
to Isfahan, they had survived as Jews.
39
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Song Twenty
If This Is An Accident
If this is an accident
how can you step in these heavy currents
and not
smash bones
when your feet slip on the wet boulders?
42
Clive Matson —––––––––
Song Seventeen
45
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46
Clive Matson —––––––––
The Lonely Psychic
54
Elise Hunter —–––––––––––
55
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Like Someone Dropped a White Sheet
Over the World
57
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Don’t Look Down
she remembers
when each breath
needed to be forced
like she was pushing them
out a window
onto the street below
59
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The Past is Just Ahead
we took a road
that used to be an orange grove
decades ago
before
the roman calvary
before
bugsy siegel
before
reality was televised
back then
it took up a whole city
in my mind
now it's squeezed between
rows of houses
gasping for breath
bumper crops of stucco
planted in concrete soil
60
Chris Cole —–––––––––––
it is an orchard once again
of human waste
and architectural indifference
we fill it up
with whatever they have to sell us
fast food
that seems to take forever
slow sex
that's over before we know it
tinier lives
in bigger houses
62
Chris Cole —–––––––––––
Excerpt All Her Father’s Guns
65
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Viorela blew some smoke rings. She
made me feel like I really was having a
mid-life crisis after all.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my
grip,” I told her. “The whole business is
emotionally biased towards the
economic downside right now. That's just
not what I'm about. I’m worried Igloo’s
pissed with me. Igloo's one of my
partners.”
“What are you doing to piss him off?”
she said.
“Following hunches. Igloo wants to
play by the rules. He’s the kind of guy who
keeps all the money in his wallet facing
the same way. He cuts his steak into little
cubes before eating it. He can spend
weeks reevaluating our screening metrics
and valuation formulas. I’ve always said,
when you look at companies, you’re
looking at the people. Early-stage
investing is supposed to be a gamble. It’s
about feel, knowing when you’re in the
zone. Isn’t there a law against smoking
during therapy in Berkeley?”
“You are free to look for another
therapist.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be
improving my health?”
“There is no such thing as health,”
Viorela said. “The only alternatives are
66
James Warner —–––––––––––
hysteria, obsessional neurosis, psychosis, or
perversion.”
“Which is better?”
Viorela shrugged. “You are searching
for something that does not exist,” she
said.
“Maybe I’m just looking for a
woman.”
She nodded. “La femme n’existe
pas,” she said. “Lacan said that. Woman
does not exist. Your session is over now,
Mr. Lyte."
"But there’s something I have to tell
you. I had… Tabytha and I had…” Viorela
stood up. “We had a son.”
“Your session is over,” she repeated.
“A son who...”
“You may go home.”
“But it’s only 6:15.”
“I decide when we are done.”
“But I thought… I never even
mentioned Dale to my other therapists…
Are you totally winging it or what?”
Back outside, cardboard notices
advertised yard sales and bake sales. A
tricycle had been upended on an
otherwise perfect lawn. A woman put
down suitcases on the porch opposite,
before knocking insistently on the door.
Some barbarian had slashed the tires
of my BMW, and they’d keyed the
paintwork too.
67
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A homeless guy asked me for spare
change. I thought of the sermon Pastor
Joey gave the Sunday before. He said
today’s liberal bureaucrats were like the
monks of the Middle Ages, and their so-
called charity served only to breed
legions of beggars. Pastor Joey learned all
about history as part of a Deliverance
Ministry extension course.
After calling a garage to tow the car,
I returned to Viorela’s door and pressed
the buzzer. "Hello?" she said.
“Sorry I came unglued there,” I said.
“You know what they say. Americans think
problems have solutions. Europeans think
solutions have problems.”
“What happens,” Viorela told me, “is
one desires a solution, then to justify
imposing it, one fantasizes a problem.”
I grappled with that for a while. The
business mindset is there's always a
solution. "My car's out of commission,” I
said. “Since we both know you’re not
doing anything for the next forty-five
minutes, do you know somewhere good
to eat around here? And do you want to
go see a movie first?”
“There is a late Godard film playing
at the Pacific Film Archive in half an hour.”
I'd been thinking more along the lines
of “Mutant Arachnids 5,” but I said, “Sure.
68
James Warner —–––––––––––
You'll have to drive though. And let’s get
something to drink first. I’m parched.”
Once the garage owner showed up
in his tow truck, I signed some forms, then
Viorela drove me in her white Subaru to a
café in Albany that was known for defying
the California smoking ban.
She’d changed into a black skirt with
a red top, and a jacket with a zebra-skin
pattern. She also wore leather boots. As
we entered the café, the waitress
recognized Viorela and hurried over with
an ashtray.
The place was closing already, and
somebody was stacking plastic chairs.
Past the café windows swarmed late-
returning commuters. Viorela ordered a
vodka straight up, and I asked for a
Gatorade. She rested her foot on top of
mine. “Why don’t you run your own
business?” she asked. “Instead of helping
other people to start theirs?”
“You run into more liabilities that way.
I guess I’m happier coaching people? But
maybe you’re right. Maybe I’d be
happier as an individual private investor,
you know, an angel.”
Viorela said, “You’re already an
angel.”
A bearded man in a lumberjack shirt
sat reading a book of poems by Jimmy
Carter. On the sidewalk, a child strapped
into a high-tech-looking stroller let out a
69
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wail. “What’s your deal?” I asked. “I don’t
get you at all.”
The moon was already visible in the
still-blue sky. “Early-stage is meant to be a
gamble,” Viorela said and, leaning across
the table, ran her hand breathtakingly
through my hair.
70
James Warner —–––––––––––
Kanno Doko
Here,
I feel the rhythm of his
71
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steps against the cadence of the bell
and I pause
“in perfect oneness”
with the bell
I stand before—
74
Maureen Duffy —–––––––––––
Buddha’s Dogs
75
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the eating meditation and walks outside
with the other
77
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Mandolin
80
Susan Browne —–––––––––––
Tender
inhale.
exhale.
mocking
laughing
everyone is a predator
84
Maureen Blennerhassett —–––––––––––
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