Art by Jim Fuess

Joy

Worm Wars Attack 2

Art by Tom Besson

Death of an Atheist

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum and a spring Toucan....

Well, we hope everything can be explained away by the fact that May 1st is Laura's 21st birthday. Gaah. So, there might be a few formattting issues and typos, we'll fix that once the rum is gone and forgotten, which hopefully will be soon....you're only 21 once, you know...so go read this while we sober up...or stare at Wyl Villacres's cover, it's entertaining.

Happy Spring Issue!

Chicken Fingers Parmagina, Sam D. Church II
Margot and the Dream, Chelsey Baggot
Napalm Has Its Uses, Robert Cormack
Breaking Eggs Has Nothing To Do With Making Omelets
The Story of Sophie and Sam, Arthur Levine
Hatchlings on The Road To Nowhere, Jacob Edwards
The Villainy of Hamlet, Part 1 of 2, Ian Singleton
Lust, Chris Crittenden
Art by Jim Fuess
Two Short Poems, Tannen Dell
Snip Snip Snip, John J. Trause
Untitled, Beth Rolingson
Art by Tom Besson
Toys, George Bishop
She Loves Harpo, G. David Schwartz
14 Ways of Looking At The Diagnosis, Gail Entrekin
Lines on a Page, B.D Fischer
No Answer, Michael Perkins
gardening, JANEisnotplain

Contributor Bios

Editrice Note: mumble mumble (hic)

Whoa whoa, Editrice Note....

There must be some unwritten policy that everything goes bananas in Spring. The trees are busy flowering, the professors busy assigning interminable edits, Editrice Liz busy trying to keep her various projects in the air before they all crash down around her ears, and Editrice Laura busy working her way through a fifth of bourbon. No, just kidding. She’s a very sedate 21-year-old, which is why we appreciate her. Liz, on the other hand, is a dancing machine. And we all knew the Toucan was a party bird anyway. Bit of a sketchy character. We spent hours staring at Wyl Villacres’s excellent cover, trying to figure out each and every symbol the bird’s composed of. Good, maybe that way we can distract you lot from picking out (drunken) typos.


Anyhoo, this issue is a boon to foodies. We’re serving “Chicken Fingers Parmagina”—it’s a recipe, go look!—omelets, more potential omelets… We also are incredibly excited about the epic poem, “The Villainy of Hamlet”, whose conclusion will appear in the Summer Issue. Imagine, in this day and age, and epic poem! (Though we have to say, laying out epic poems is an experience fraught with epic fail.) We’ll introduce you to some new friends—Tannen Dell, editor-in-chief of our hip West Coast cousin mag, Indigo Rising, Chelsey Baggot, the shortest pin-up girl you’ll ever meet, B.D Fischer, new Chicagoan who terrifyingly, follows Toucan advice in regards to Chicago entertainment, and Jacob Edwards, an Aussie who regales with completely true tales of David Byrne and self-propelled cabbages, and who we already know will be headlining our Fall Issue. Plus, we have our intrepid Bahraini, Ali Al Saeed, fighting for democracy one omelet at a time. Old friends include JANEisnot plain, with us from nearly the beginning, Chris Crittenden, our laughing, laudatory Owl pal, and Beth Rolingson/Tom Besson, whose marriage is one of beauty and art. And of course, San Fran Dan throws in his 200 bucks. And now to wrap up this little note.

Liz: Phew, that wasn’t very funny. Laura, anything to add?

(Laura staggers in, a pair of flowered panties over her head)

Laura: The hiiiiilllllsre alive, witda sounda MUUUUUSIC…

Liz: Um, yes, Laura, yes, they are, thanks to your lovely—

Laura: Shubmmitda TOUCAN!

Liz: What a terribly lucid drunk you make. Well, folks, it’s thetoucanmag@gmail.com and thetoucanonline.blogspot.com if you care to take her up on it….

Laura: Don’t WAIT until Augusht!

With as much sobriety as the occasion allows,

Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices

Chicken Fingers Parmagina, Sam D. Church II

So this is a great recipe for when you got a girl coming over for dinner. Chicken Parmigiana says, “I’m classy, exotic, and know how to cook”. Chicken Fingers say, “I’m also fun and easygoing”. Put the two together and you are quite the catch.




INGREDIENTS:

2-8 chicken breasts

An egg or two

Breadcrumbs

Herbs and seasoning

A can or jar of pasta sauce, but not with garlic

A whole bunch of shredded cheese



1. Since you are cooking this for a woman, I would recommend doing a quick cleanup. Take any excess laundry and put it in the closet. Now check the washroom for any drops of urine that might have missed the toilet or hairs and remnants of shaving cream in the sink. It's usually good to do this part after the cooking. Just make sure you wash your hands thoroughly.

2. Okay, now that your apartment look passable and your hands are clean, cut the chicken breasts into strips of about 1 inch wide. I’m usually not such a stickler on specifics, but this is important. You want them to be thick, because of that whole phallic representation thing. But making them too thick is messier, and as a rule of thumb I don’t eat messy food on dates. You don’t want to be making your move with tomato sauce smeared across your face.

3. Next you want to prepare the breading. Actually you should have done this before cutting the chicken strips. Now you got chicken on your hands. Give them another wash. Lots of soap and really hot water. I know it hurts, but so does salmonella. Once your hands are clean again, get two bowls. In one bowl, mix the breadcrumbs with some seasoning. I like sea salt and oregano, but you can do whatever you want, except cilantro. Let’s be reasonable here. In the other bowl crack the egg and remove the yolk. You broke the yolk and a bit of shell got in. That’s okay. Don’t sweat it. It should still work with a whole egg. Just remove the shell and keep going.

4. Dip the chicken strips in the egg then the bread crumbs with whatever seasonings you chose other than cilantro, and put them into a frying pan with some oil. Shit, I guess I should have put oil in the ingredients list. You don’t have any more oil. Fuck. Just use butter then. You start cooking the first half of the chicken fingers and the phone rings. You shouldn’t get it, because you don’t want to overcook these. The phone continues to ring and you think it might be Jill, your date for the night. You should probably get it, make sure she knows that you’re here and ready. You answer the phone. Oh, hi mom. I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. The chicken’s cooking. I’ve just been busy... Now you know that’s not true... I would be over every day if I had the time. You smell they are ready to be flipped. You should have got that cell phone. Don’t kid yourself, you were just pretending to be shopping for a phone to get that hot brunette’s number. Shit damn, that blouse fit well. You didn’t even get her number, did you? You kind of got her number. Don’t defend yourself. You got her card, you pussy. That doesn’t count and you know it. Of course I’m listening to you. People who work at grocery stores are idiots. Why do you care what they think... Look I’m sorry... I ... can I call you back? I swear I will... tomorrow... If you must know I got a date tonight... Well, I just met her a couple of weeks ago... Trust me mom, if I was in a relationship, you would be the first to know. It's burning now. Okay, I got to go... Okay, bye... Love you too... Bye.

5. Return to the pan and flip the strips. Cook the other side of the strips and put them in a casserole dish. Make a note of which side they are on so you can make sure that Jill doesn’t get the burnt strips. Bread and pan-fry the second half of the chicken strips. The phone is ringing again. Don't answer it. But you gotta. It could be Jill. You get the phone. If it’s your mom again, you are going to snap. Hello... Hey Jill, I just about got everything ready to go here... Really... Sorry to hear that... No. No, I understand... It’s all good... Well, I guess we'll have to try it again. What are you up to this weekend... Oh, yeah... That’s cool... Well, maybe some other time... Okay, well, I guess I’ll talk to you later...Maybe we can...Hello?...

6. This half of the chicken got burnt too, not like it matters at this point. What’s a little extra carcinogens in the grand scale of things. It’s not like you’ll want to be alive forever anyways. Cook the other side of these strips and put them in the casserole dish. Smother them with cheese, pour the pasta sauce on them, and throw them in the oven at about 350 Celsius. For real, anyone who isn’t using the metric system by now is an idiot. Throw them in the oven for around a half hour. At this point, you should be making some pasta and a Caesar salad to go with this, but there is not that much a point to that now that it has become a meal for one. While the chicken is baking, go across the street and get a liter of ice cream to eat for dessert.

Margot And The Dream, Chelsey Baggot

The contestants, drenched in glistening sweat pushed their wheelbarrows to the invisible start line. The man overseeing the race held the silver pistol in his hand. The gun seemed to raise itself, bringing the man’s hand with it. Margot blinked in confusion. She tried to twist her body in half, bending at the waist to look at Papi. Her twig-like legs were held tightly in his hands by her ankles. Papi’s burly eyebrows were straight in determination, eyes never wavering from the bright orange cones that stood one hundred yards away.


“Papi, what’s going on?” Margot whined, wiggling her hips, attempting to free herself from his grasp. Papi said nothing. The hot Iowa sun was directly over the large field, the contestants’ skins were crisp and golden, like potatoes baking in an oven. Frowning, Margot peered along the line of wheelbarrows on either side of her, their rough wooden handles clutched in sweaty palms: there was a dozen total, some blue, some black, some so rusted all paint had flaked away, leaving splotches of withered metal among the wheelbarrows contours. She was the only person being substituted for a wheelbarrow, but nobody seemed to notice.

As Margot turned to the right, an old woman holding a red wheelbarrow glanced back at her. A handkerchief, caked with a layer of dirt, was tied around her head. The deep crevices and lines in her face parted at her lipless mouth. Margot could see saliva gathering at the center of the old woman’s tongue. Toothless gums smacked together as the old woman gurgled at her.

Margot somehow knew the old woman was trying to tell her a secret, but her words lost their meaning in the gaps and pickets of her mouth, and thus came out as mere noises.

The pistol could no longer contain itself. A single bullet careened through its barrel, rocketing through the hazy sky. Wheels began turning, unanimously groaning in protest. Papi pushed into her white mary-janes, quietly commanding his daughter to go forward.

Utterly bewildered, Margot picked up her left palm, then her right, her entire body wobbling forth as Papi pushed her on. She could not understand what was happening. How did no one notice? Or worse, they noticed and didn’t care. Still, Papi was a big man, a proud man. Nobody talked back to Papi.

Tiny rocks pressed into Margot’s palms as she paddled her way to the line of orange cones. All the other contestants were ahead of her, bent in half over their wheelbarrows, huffing. All save for the old woman, who was at least three paces behind, feeling dignified enough to walk to the finish line. Every other step was uneven, her peg leg leaving circular indents upon the earth.

She moved as quickly as she could, her palms brushing against the patchy ground. She panted, the looming orange cone shaking violently in her vision. She vaguely wondered what they were for. Every so often Papi would grunt, “Comon, Betsy!”

“But I’m Margot!” She would cry, hurrying her body forward one finger at a time.


The young girl skidded to a halt, pebbles grinding into her skin as the orange cone was suddenly in front of her. She had no idea of how to proceed. Was it over? Or was she meant to turn around? She jerked her head around, staring into her own frantic reflection on the red wheelbarrow beside her. Wheels were aligned in a row, barging into the cones in front of them. All wheelbarrows were at a standstill.

Margot’s eyes trailed up, watching twelve butts wiggle toward the cloudless sky. The contestants, young and old, were driving tiny shovels into the dirt around their cones, shoveling the soil into the buckets of their wheelbarrows.

“Comon, Betsy,” Papi said again, coming to stand near her head. He stared at her a moment, his body a silhouette in front of the hot sun. She was thrust into a patch of shadow, the tiny shovel that protruded from his shirt picket making her suddenly weary.

In an instant, he was on his knees next to her, jabbing the shovel’s point into the soil. Clusters of chocolate colored dirt rolled along its concave edges as Papi quickly, yet steadily put the shovel to Margot’s gaping mouth, letting the dirt drop onto her tongue.

Her eyes squeezed shut in protest as she spit onto the ground, trying her best to be rid of the muck pressed into every cranny of her twelve-year-old molars.

“Papi, what are you—” But Margot could not finish, her teeth grinding in horror to another serving of mud.

“Comon Betsy” was all that Papi said. Margot could only grunt in reply. Her father was too persistent; he would never stop until her mouth was full. Eyes wide in shock, Margot stretched her jaw to its fullest, letting Papi pour the dirt into her mouth. She had to remind herself not to swallow, or spit it out, it was so foul. It tasted like how she imagined feet would taste like. It made sickening crunching noises between her teeth, as she tried to keep her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

Finally, she could take no more. Her golden cheeks puffed out like a squirrel collecting nuts for winter. Bits of dirt sprinkled out of her mouth as Papi guided her by her ankles once more, turning her around. The other contestants were already half way across the field again—there was no way they could win. But Papi pushed against her, wanting to see the thing through.

Eager to be free, Margot propelled herself, ignoring the dirt collecting underneath her fingernails. They were last to cross the invisible finish line, the very same line they had begun at. Papi unceremoniously let her ankles go. Her legs flopped to the ground, bringing the rest of her with them. She could not feel her thighs.

Papi stood up straight in his dusty overalls. His arms were crossed, little hairs swaying in the light breeze. He said nothing. Margot stared up at him from the ground, too overwhelmed with confusion to pick herself up again. Her mouth, void of the vile mud, hung loose, bits of soil still clinging to her dry lips. She could not speak.


A rustle from a nearby tree announced the appearance of Margot’s older sister. Francesca glowered as she stomped her way towards them, eyes never wavering from their father’s face. Her long blonde hair billowed behind her, making Margot think of sorcery and magical lands.

“I’m not even a virgin!” Francesca shrieked at their father, flicking her arm into the air. Papi blinked, and flinched backward, clearly not expecting her outburst.

Seemingly against physics, Margot’s jaw stretched even further as she turned to gape now at her sister instead of her father. She had never been so confused in her entire life. Francesca gritted her teeth together as she jammed a fist into her jean pocket, letting a handful of condoms spill onto the ground. They were of all colors, teals, pinks, purples, and reds, falling to the ground in silence.

Papi stared down at them, his head tilted in astonishment. As if he had never seen such things before. They were silent, each too stupefied or angry to speak.

Papi’s face began to redden. In moments, his cheeks were similar to what hers had been, full to the brim with earth. But his cheeks were not all that inflated. His nose, flat and wide to begin with, seemed to expand outward, his forehead also pushing out further from his scalp. His eyes bulged as his face began to morph, puffing out into a perfect sphere. Every inch of skin was the color of a ripe tomato, as finally Papi’s head detached from his body, and floated off into the clear blue sky.

Napalm Has Its Uses, Robert Cormack

It was the start of the fall car launch and Chicago was sending up their latest commercials. Our job was to decide which ones worked for the Canadian market and which ones didn’t. The creative director had us in the boardroom that morning, briefing us on next steps. “We won’t have much time before we present to the client,” he told us. “The account group’s already gone through the spots and have some thoughts. Let’s listen to their suggestions and decide on next steps.”


His name was Meeks and he suffered from rosacea. His nose was very red. When the account group came in, he nodded to each of them. They had the Chicago reel. We all sat around the television and lit cigarettes.

“The car spots are fine,” Burt Kelly, the account director said. He held the remote with nicotine-stained fingers. “Our concern is the truck spot. Let’s look at it now.”

The commercial started with helicopters flying in a straight line across the sky towards the camera. Suspended beneath each helicopter was a new pickup. Music rose in the distance as if it came from the helicopters.

“You might remember this from Apocalypse Now,” Kelly said, freezing the picture.

“We’ll be advising the client not to run this. Ted will explain our reasoning.”

Ted Simmons, the account supervisor, put out his cigarette and stood up. He leaned on the boardroom table as he spoke.

“If you remember this particular scene in the movie,” he said. “Those helicopters are flying in to napalm the village. Thus, Robert Duvall’s famous words, ‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning.’”

“Amazing scene,” the art director said.

He had one leg tucked up under him. He drew caricatures while Simmons talked. All of his drawings were signed Laz, although his real name was Lasko and he was the youngest member of the group. As the commercial played, he drew, pushing his glasses up on his nose, glancing at the screen, then drawing whatever came into his head.

“Amazing it may well be,” Kelly said. “But war imagery is hardly what a car company should be showing. Are we all in agreement on this?”

Simmons sat back down and picked up his cigarettes.

“So you’re proposing a new spot?” Meeks said.

He looked at his watch.

“I think we should in good conscience,” Kelly said.

“I agree,” Meeks replied. “Do you want the team to develop new creative now? Or wait for the client’s response?”

“I think we should go in with something,” Kelly said.

Meeks nodded.

“Just so we’re all on the same page,” Kelly said. “We’re killing a commercial that cost over seven hundred thousand to make. Whatever we present had better be good.


“Understand, boys?”

He looked at Lasko and myself.

“When are we presenting this?” I said.

“Chicago still needs to final edit these spots. That gives us about three weeks. In other words, we need to move fast.”

“I’d like to set up a meeting for Friday,” Simmons said.

“That’s only four days away,” Lasko said.

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Kelly said, standing up.

He walked with Meeks to the door.

“We’ll need to see something internally by Thursday.”

Lasko and I went back to our office. We worked through the afternoon and most of the evening. By eight o’clock, we had ten sketches on the wall. One showed the pickup racing across the desert, tearing up cactus like in a Roadrunner cartoon. As the commercial ends, a large boulder lands next to the pickup, with the music ending like a cartoon as well. The other spots were fairly typical, trucks in motion, rugged scenery, etc.

We ran everything past Meeks the next morning.

The desert spot was his favorite. His only criticism was the special effects. He thought we were spending too much time on flying cactuses.

“We’re selling trucks, for chrissake,” he said.

Ted Simmons came upstairs told us the client would be in first thing Friday morning. “We’re going through media first,” he said, “So plan to present around nine o’clock.”

Most of Thursday was spent tightening the spots, mocking them up, then showing them to the account group. Everyone liked the desert commercial. Meeks still wanted the copy revised to sell the features more.

“Concentrate on the performance,” he said to me.

“That’s what’s missing from Chicago spot,” Kelly said to Simmons. “The trucks are suspended from the helicopters most of the commercial. We don’t see the trucks in motion.”

“I think that’s the argument we go in with,” Simmons agreed.

“Good work, boys,” Kelly said to us. “Make those changes and we’ll get some quotes from the production department.”

The client arrived at eight o’clock Friday morning. Coffee was served first, then the media people went through the fall schedule. Simmons said he’d phone us as soon as they wrapped up.

We waited in my office, going through the storyboards again.

At nine thirty, they called us into the boardroom.

The media people were packing up.

Jack Clement, the client, was up getting coffee. He walked stiffly around the room. He lost a leg flying planes during the Second World War. He was a big guy with huge hands and long creases down his cheeks.


“Good morning, boys,” he said when we sat down.

“Morning, Jack,” Lasko said.

Kelly took a last drag on his cigarette and stood up.

“We’ve seen all the spots, Jack,” he said. “Overall, Chicago did a good job. Our biggest concern is the truck series. There’s a script on page five of your document. Why don’t we look at that now.”

Jack sipped his coffee and turned to the script.

“I know we’ve all seen the commercial,” Kelly said. “Let’s look at it again and Ted will give you our thoughts.”

The lights went down.

Simmons played the spot, then left it on pause.

“We have two concerns, Jack,” Simmons said. “First, too much time is spent on the helicopters. Almost twenty seconds. We aren’t selling helicopters, Jack, we’re selling trucks. We’re selling performance.”

Jack nodded without saying anything.

“Our other problem is the imagery,” Kelly said. “This spot is obviously showing a familiar scene from Apocalypse Now.”

Simmons rewound the commercial to the footage of the helicopters starting their approach on the village, “If you remember the movie, Jack, they’re coming in to napalm a village. It’s very violent. People are killed.”

Jack sipped his coffee.

“You’ll agree it’s pretty serious stuff,” Kelly said.

“I’m familiar with the movie,” Jack said.

“We recommend you don’t run this spot, Jack,” Kelly said. “We have alternative suggestions. The creative group can go through them now.”

Lasko and I stood up, keeping our storyboards face down on the table.

We showed Jack our four ideas, keeping the desert spot until last.

Jack rested his chin on his hands while we talked.

When we finished, Simmons stood up again.

“The last commercial could be very effective, Jack. It certainly gets us away from negative imagery. I’m sure you don’t want your company associated with napalm. We’ve talked to the production department and our spot could be ready in three weeks.”

“We’ve got costings and dates for shooting,” Kelly said.

“That won’t be necessary, Burt,” Jack said. “Your concerns are duly noted. The truck spot stays.”

He pushed away from the table and stood up slowly.

“War is a reality, boys,” he said.

“Napalm isn’t everyone’s idea of reality, Jack,” Simmons said.

Jack gave Simmons a meaningful look.

“Napalm has its uses,” he said.

He put his coffee cup in the garbage and got his coat. He walked stiffly to the door.


“Send me those revised media as soon as possible,” he said. “We can discuss the budget again on Monday.”

Everyone lit cigarettes and waited until he was down the hall.

Kelly blew smoke up at the ceiling.

“That was a lot of work for nothing,” Lasko said.

“It happens,” Kelly said.

“Can you believe that?” I said.

“Believe what?” Kelly looked at me.

“What he just said.”

Kelly put out his cigarette and stood up.

“Thanks for your work, boys,” he said. “Everyone put in a good effort this week. We’ll keep you informed of next steps.”

Lasko and I went back to our office. Meeks called us up.

“Let’s go over the print advertising briefs after lunch,” he said. “We don’t have much time. Jack wants everything by Tuesday. Good work today. I think Jack appreciated your efforts.”

After lunch, everyone got together again. The cigarettes came out, and we went through next steps. An internal review was booked for Monday. That would mean working the weekend. The account group thanked us and gathered their notes.

On the way out, Simmons looked at a caricature Lasko was drawing. He seemed to ponder the image, not sure what to make of it at first. “Don’t let that get around,” he said finally and walked out. Lasko handed it to me. It showed our client crouched down on a beach next to a pickup with helicopter blades and napalm canisters strapped to the sides. There was a voice bubble in sharp black script that said, “I love the smell of a new truck in the morning.”

Behind him, the jungle burned, villagers ran for cover and bodies lay in the sand.

Breaking Eggs Has Nothing To Do With Making Omelets, Ali Al Saeed

Dad just made an omelet.


You could tell not just by the smell of the burnt omelet he’s tried to make the first time around, but also from the buzz and excitement around the house. There’s a lot of running around, bad jokes and backroom preparations.

Dinners aren’t usually a big thing in our household. The highlight meal of the day is lunch, but every time father decides to show off his culinary skills, dinner suddenly becomes far more interesting.

For starters, we get to see father in an apron. This in itself adds value to the experience of having dad make dinner. But it’s also because it means we’re having something different for a change. It has also become a sign for us that dad is in a good mood, because that would be the only time he would venture into the kitchen out of the call of duty – such as beating Harees in Ramadan, cutting fresh meat.

This good vibe travels through the whole house and father’s positive energy suddenly transforms us all into giddy little kids. One would think – seeing us huddled around the dinning table – that we were sitting around Christmas tree waiting for Santa to drop off our presents.

It’s just that in our case, the present is made of eggs and tomatoes. Well, mostly.

For all seven of us, it’s one of those rare occasions that not only do we all get together over dinner, but also revel in the prospect of not quite knowing what’s going to eventually turn up on the table when dad’s imposed himself as Chef for the night.

Let’s face it, fathers are not designed to cook. They are also most certainly not designed to be in the kitchen. Something is just wrong about that image. Take father for instance, standing there at the counter, chopping up whatever he can get his hands on. Is that beetroot I see? He’s wearing an apron with colorful floral patterns over his good ole trusty Sirwal and Zinjifrah. Not a pretty sight, I tell you.

As dad takes over the kitchen, mum, bless her soul, is demoted to the role of table-setting. She spreads sheets of old newspapers on the table, we loved reading random tidbits off these sheets. I would usually, and predictably, sit next to the sports section, while my elder brother, Mohammed, goes for the world news bits. Occasionally, mum would also prepare a jug full of Sunquick, a drink we solely associate one of two things with: Ramadan or summer.

But she finds it hard to stay away from the kitchen. Every once in a while, she would pop her head in just to make sure her husband hasn’t completely made a mess out of dinner. She’d hate for her kids to go hungry for the night.


When dad cooks – and yes, he refers to the act of making omelets as cooking – no one else is to partake in the process. The kitchen becomes his domain and we all stay away from it, as he juggles between breaking and beating eggs, chopping veggies and preparing mixes.

“Don’t forget to add the bagdoonis!” Mum would remind him, to which he’d just tut and shake his head as if to say: “I know what I’m doing. Now leave before you break my concentration.”

But the truth of it, is that most of the time, he – like most men claiming to know how to cook – really doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is evident more so towards the end of the evening, when we would ask him how he’s made his so-called famous omelet.

Of course, when things go wrong, he suddenly becomes very innovative in coming up with the reasons behind it: wrong kind of oil, bad cheap pan, veggies not fresh enough. But when it’s right, it’s thanks to his genius mastery of all things culinary.

He would eventually emerge from the kitchen with a broad smile on his unshaven face, his short silver hair standing as tall as he is proud, holding the big round pan with both hands on the handle, and announce to the entire household that “dinner” is ready.

Miraculously, more often than not, and even though it all seems random and chaotic, it smells and tastes heavenly.

Sitting around the table, we are served by the chef himself.

“Make sure you get a bite of everything,” he’d advice us, “Try it with some fresh Khuboz.”

His layered omelet is covered by a surface made of ripe moist tomatoes and cloud-light eggs with a bottom layer made of spiced slices of potatoes and cooked onion rings. In between? Well, it’s a lottery. You and your luck will get what you’re served.

I once was almost traumatized when I unfortunately discovered the effects of chomping on an entire chili pepper in one bite. I couldn’t taste anything else for the rest of the meal, but I didn’t have the heart to complain.

But the crumbly, tender texture and aromas bursting with each bite seem to scatter their loveliness across the room to make us all realize that making good omelets has nothing to do with breaking eggs.

The Story of Sophie and Sam, Arthur Levine

The Story of Sophie and Sam in One Thousand Four Hundred and Thirty Three Words (Over Twenty in Italics!)

Once upon a time there was this girl named Sophie.


That’s a pretty tired way to begin, but it’s too late to do anything abut it now.

Nobody liked Sophie. Not her Mom. Not her brother. Not the kids in her school. Especially not her teachers. Nobody.

Why? Who knows? She smelled all right. Better than all right. She smelled nice. Didn’t pick her nose in front of anybody. Combed her hair. It probably had something to do with her attitude. That’s what people usually say when they don’t like somebody. It’s on account of her attitude.

It’s okay, though, because Sophie didn’t like any of them either. On account of their attitudes.

Well, that’s not exactly true. There was this one boy in Speech, Sam. Sophie did like Sam. In fact, Sophie liked Sam a lot. Why? There was just something about him.

Sam didn’t like Sophie, but he didn’t not like Sophie either. You could say that when it came to Sophie, Sam didn’t have much of an opinion one way or the other. Sam wouldn’t care if you said that. In fact, he’d probably agree with you.

(You could also say that this whole thing is starting to get too cute. Like everything else, except maybe money and sex, a little cute goes a long way!)

People didn’t care much for Sam either. He smelled okay, but not as good as Sophie. So if you asked them why they didn’t care for Sam, they would probably say he smelled okay but they didn’t like his attitude.

(There’s a sentence or two missing here, but nothing important, just some extra words to help make the story flow better. If they turn up, I’ll add them later.)

Sophie was on her way to American History where they were about to finish a chapter on The Tariff of 1828, collect the homework and have a pop quiz, when she heard the screams and a noise that might have been firecrackers, which you probably know as well as I do, wasn’t firecrackers at all, but gunshots, and Sophie was so confused by, what some hack writer might call, this sudden turn of events, that she ran into the Boy’s Lavatory by mistake.

Meanwhile, coincidently enough, more than enough, actually, there was Sam was in a stall right there in the very same Boys Lavatory, smoking a Lucky Strike. When he heard the screams and the noises that might have been firecrackers, he flushed his half-finished Lucky Strike and left the stall to see what all the fuss was about.

 Sophie ran right into him. You could even say, right smack into him, and she grabbed Sam and held on, which I guess is what people do when they run right smack into somebody, or anyway that’s what Sophie did.

Like everybody else, Sam thought Sophie smelled very nice. He thought she smelled like herbal shampoo and hotel soap and some kind of flowers. He didn’t know much about flowers so he couldn’t tell you exactly what kind.

That might have been why he held on to her holding on to him. Or it could have been that’s just what people do when somebody else holds on to them. Anyhow that’s what Sam did

*

They closed the school for the rest of the week. That was fine with Sophie. She hadn’t done her homework about the Tariff of 1828 and got an F on the pop quiz. If, later on in life, her boss were to ask Sophie about the Tariff of 1828, she’d be in deep trouble.

Sam didn’t care one way or the other about school on account of he didn’t go very often, so whether they closed the school or not it was all the same to him.

When school started again it was just like before.

Well, not exactly.

All the entrances were locked except for the main one in front of the school. Also they had a cop in the front hall checking backpacks and acting like he would if he were writing traffic tickets, confrontational, but not too confrontational, which is pretty much how they probably taught him to act in cop school.

He had all the usual cop stuff, a Glock, a billy club or baton, as they like to call it, something that looked like some kind of ray gun that might have been a taser (or maybe it really was a ray gun, who knows that kind of cop stuff they have these days?) and so on.

In addition to the cop, there were new rules. Lots and lots of new rules. Rules about lockers. Rules about backpacks. Rules about leaving the building.

(There was another part to this here a minute ago. I wonder what happened to it?)

The very next assignment in Speech was, fittingly enough, a eulogy.

First up was Regina Chen.

“No longer will we hear the purposeful patter of our dear friends’ footsteps echoing among these hallowed halls of learning…”

Next was David Shapiro.

“They may be taken from us, but they will forever remain in our hearts…”

When it was finally Sam’s turn, he began, “We grieved in silence, my stepfather and I, watching the clouds of smoke rise from the transmission under the hood of his beloved classic 1979 Firebird Trans Am. Never again would we feel the exhilaration coming off the line from zero to sixty in six and change…”

The bell rang before he could finish.

Well, obviously, the teacher expected everybody to use this assignment to express their grief about the recent tragedy, and not about a blown transmission in their stepfather’s classic 1979 Firebird.

Everybody was supposed to act like they felt bad about the loss of their five classmates, their Health and Hygiene teacher Mr. Wally, and old Mr. Bullock, the Vice-Principal. Not to mention all the wounded. That’s what everybody was supposed to do. And that’s what everybody did do, until it was Sam’s turn.

Everybody knows that whenever somebody doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do, it confuses things. That makes people nervous. People don’t like other people who confuse things and make them, the people (not the other people and obviously not the things), nervous. I know I don’t.

Sam thought the rest of the class and the teacher were acting like people who felt bad. That it was just an act. Sam believed that the class and the teacher were just glad it was five other students, some other teacher and the Vice-Principal (not to mention all the wounded), instead of them.

Maybe not. Maybe he was wrong. Okay, maybe only about half wrong. Maybe the class and the teacher really did feel bad some; my guess is it was only about forty-five percent.

Sam and Sophie, on the other hand, really did feel bad some. After all, it’s always sad when horrible stuff happens to people who really don’t deserve it.

But they hardly knew any of the five students and only one or two or maybe four at the most, of the wounded. And they didn’t know any of them very well either.

And there had been some disgusting rumors going around for a long time about Mr. Wally.

And old Bullock the Vice-Principal was a sadistic bully.

I suppose as far as Mr. Wally and Dr. Bullock go, it’s like they say, “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred in their bones.”

(Once again there seems to be something missing here. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will turn up later.)


It would be kind of a nice ending to this story if Sophie and Sam lived happily ever after, but for some reason, I don’t think they did. They just don’t seem like the types. I think the best we can hope for is to have them live happily, but not ever after. Just for maybe about a year, six months and maybe five or six days.


Maybe right up to a few months after the baby arrives. Or until Sam’s drinking gets worse. Or when the bad storm hits one winter and Sam is out of work and they can’t scrape up the money for heat and have to move in with Sophie’s folks on account of the baby.

So I guess the best I can do is end this story in the same tired way it began:



THE END

Hatchlings On The Road To Nowhere, Jacob Edwards

If humanity did indeed roll-start its evolutionary cycle by inventing the wheel, how then should we view the ancestral highway that stretches out behind and in front of us, guiding us through our formative years, leading us on?


Literally, figuratively, it is a question that bears some incubation; so I sit here – in a hatchback, no less – a philosopher to the slaughter as I bleat my way along Lambert Road.

In my mind, the streets of Indooroopilly are cool and lightly overcast. This is the way I picture them now, and this is the way they’ve always seemed, a perception that stems from every second Sunday of my childhood, when we’d drive to visit my grandparents at Chapel Hill.

People actually live in the Walter Taylor Bridge, in little flats above the road, with tiny balconies and drooping plants, suspended up there as the world beneath them changes. Cars have advanced and multiplied. Traffic is congested. The western lane now spasms fitfully à la a piano accordion’s purgative death throes. Vehicles bunch together at the lights, wheeze slowly apart with indomitable ambition, but then compact once more. Big Bang, Big Crunch, Big Fizzle. When viewed from above, this free-spirited calamity must look like the endless, tragi-comic struggle of a large millipede on skates.

But such is the oddly serendipitous nature of evolution: the individual remains proud and resolute while the environment transforms, ticking over with the dramatic poise of a roulette wheel at the end of its run; bestowing favour on heretofore unappreciated minorities; recognising all manner of quirkiness and idiosyncrasy. Mutation is not a reaction to change so much as an uninformed pre-emption. It sneaks in first and then waits with fingers crossed while the numbers of natural selection are called. Evolution, in short, is a gamble in what may or may not become fashionable.

Like Charles Darwin’s sideburns, appearing suddenly out of the misty smog of time and industrialism.

Indooroopilly and Chapel Hill used to be so peaceful, so green, as if untouched by the metal fingers of civilisation. Traffic was sparse – many of the roads were just narrow tracts through bushland – and on the drive home we would cut through Woodville Street and onto Finney Road without encountering a single vehicle; just the mandatory scrub turkey, surging neurotically from the undergrowth and charging across the asphalt with intensely single-minded disregard.

The pulse of the bush; nature’s little electrons.

I remember the scrub turkeys very clearly, for unfailingly there would be one, usually aimed north, a scrabbling, bobbling, demented mass of bones and feathers, held together by loose flaps of skin and rocketing hell-for-leather across the road as if having gobbled for other turkeys to lay down covering fire.

(Even today, a stigma will fall upon anybody unfortunate enough to hit one of these manic bolters, for there is something quite compelling about a scrub turkey’s unpredictable derring-do. It demands a certain amount of respect – a perverse admiration, perhaps – and so cars must diligently give way to these wizened-headed kamikazes of the western suburbs; the closest thing we have to Hinduism’s sacred cows.)


That is how Indooroopilly rests in my mind: cool and lightly overcast; its streets quiet and uneventful (save for the odd rat-a-tat-tat burst of turkey ebullience). The impression is strong and ever so deeply rooted, to the point where it approaches tradition, like a group of Celts trudging the moors and seeking shelter in which to drink beer and sing proud a capella.

Nostalgia.

But none of that is any help to me today, here and now, where memory and reality collide with a sickening thump and a mushroom-cloud of feathers. Indooroopilly’s streets are sunny and hot. The entire suburb is a sweltering mess. I sit, wilting, in a dark blue Daihatsu Charade, leaning on my elbow, head lolling against a closed fist, the car burning up like a jammed toaster in hell. My feet restlessly balance clutch and accelerator, and I steer with my left hand. There is no need to work the gear-stick beyond first; not at this pace; not while travelling at speeds easily achievable by a moderately-motivated, self-propelled cabbage.

How did it come to this? Why am I here, drifting like untreated sewage through the back streets of Indooroopilly; twisting wry lips; blinking the acrid sweat of self-recrimination; head shaking in helpless disbelief; snarling, as the gormless shitheads in front of me let another four-wheel-drive bully its way into the traffic flow’s stagnant waters. Why? Why? Why?

I glare balefully at the rear-view mirror, squeeze a few metres from the Charade’s most recent, pitiful spurt of momentum, and then grimace to a halt (à la the brothers Grimm upon reading back an early translation of Kinderund Hausmärchen and discovering that the ‘r’ and the [space] have been left out of ‘Frog King’). On one level, this entire nightmare is my own fault. After all, I’m the one who hopped into the Daihatsu and decided, rather whimsically, that it would be nice to avoid Moggil Road and instead take the scenic route from UQ to Indooroopilly Shoppingtown. I’m the cast iron, 24-carats ninny who suffered a salmoning convulsion of the brain and forgot all about school traffic.

(Hark! Hear the anguished howling of spirits damned! – massage eyes; rub cheek; twist upper lip – Clip-clop, here we go, clip-clop, a beastly procession of aimlessness. School traffic! Clip-clop, clip-clop, the knackered old Clydesdale of the Apocalypse!)

So yes, there was an error, but – animalistic rage and snarling antagonism returning – if we were temporarily to disregard this unpardonable breach of good sense, this senseless slip of sensibility, if we could just move on for a moment, then it would become evident that, yes, on one level this is all my fault, but on another level, a higher plane of existentialism, this whole fiasco is really just an appalling reflection on modern society and the evolutionary pinnacle to which mankind aspires to shimmy up and nick off with the flag.


The Daihatsu inches past a sign proclaiming 40 km/h between 2pm and 4pm. Talk about your mis-placed optimism. My fists clench. My jaw muscles ache. The blood rushes to my head, but then...then...

Nothing.

Of course. It was always fated to end that way. (It’s the kind of realisation where profanity gives way to profoundness, where Stop Making Sense starts to make sense.) There’s just nothing for it. I exhale a deflatory, dejected, dying breath, and let my ambitions expire. My once-proud, belligerent aspect sags in upon itself, muscles instantly atrophied, and melts away to merge with the sickly black asphalt. Roadkill and Despair. Dali would have been proud. I experience a strangely peaceful release, as of the soul, a sudden sense of belonging, of oneness with the dysfunctional madness. Cars line the street, and society grinds to a halt as I’m given my very own, personal welcome to Purgatory. Whereas just moments ago I was on the verge of something quite, quite terrible, now I am merely nowhere.

Nowhere.

Unencumbered, relaxed, smiling even, I now sit back and remember last Friday’s David Byrne concert.

David Byrne has re-invented himself. Here was a man who used to be all about incongruity – jerky motions, urgent guitar scratchings, wide-eyed stillness; a bizarre kind of evangelical neuroticism – and yet now he is at peace with the rhythm over which he presides. His eyes are shut so as better to feel the music. His arms rise and fall in a conductor’s dance. He is his own marionette in an invisible big suit, moving wheresoever the music takes him.

“Thank you,” he notes, as the Latin beat sashays to a halt and the orchestral strings fade away to gossamery remembrances. The words are immediately thrown back at him: “No, thank you, David!”

David Byrne has moved on – David Byrne has evolved – and so now, if he chooses to jut his neck forward a few times, turkey-like, it is more an act of nostalgia than one of necessity. David Byrne is his own man, and yet, David Byrne has embraced his past. David Byrne is everything he was but more, running on the spot in time to Naive Melody and waiting for natural selection to strike.

That is how I remember the David Byrne concert, and it is of every help to me today as I ease Veronica’s dark blue Daihatsu Charade through the shimmering heat-haze that enshrouds Indooroopilly’s 3pm exodus. School traffic? I shrug one shoulder and purse my lips with new-found tolerance; a certain, bobble-headed wisdom. C’est la vie.

And that, with serendipitous if somewhat graceless panache, is when the baby scrub turkey lurches out in front of the Charade, hesitates for a second as if chemically imbalanced, then darts twitchingly across to the far side of the road and disappears into the undergrowth. It is the grounded equivalent of a chick learning to fly. Scrabbling steps, bulging eyes, an ingrained sense of direction, fixated but ineluctably erratic.

Today’s hastily launched conker is tomorrow’s loose cannonball broadsiding the good ship Evolution.

So godspeed the scrub turkey. When greeted with such a spectacle, the modern day Charles Darwin would probably suffer a major coronary – sputtering incoherently in the heat while nearby ambulances wail their impotence – but I find the sight curiously uplifting, and in my mind the sunny streets of Indooroopilly begin once more to cloud over.

Past, present or future; the road will always be with us.

The Villainy of Hamlet (Part 1 of 2), Ian Singleton

A story in blank verse having taken place during Hamlet's journey en route to England

Far, far, far from everything
I know, I watch the sun on Elsinore
descend, a deep red stain draped o’er
a blood-drenched stage, so Greek a tragedy.
Peace, wealth, and too much good, methinks,
has caused it all. The kingdom Hamlet ‘tis
a lamb deserving naught but sacrifice.

There’s too much coddling, too much play, and too
much laughter, too much thought, yet more there’s too
much love, and too much good aborts me in
my very act of vengeance. Now become
I murder marked. Good Hamlet slain. I say
my better self lay slain! No one can hear.

Our ship now lurches and I stagger, grab
a cable, grasp its width, the same as dear
Ophelia’s wrist, as I have taken hers
before. The Phönix sails to England, land
of murderers. I stare o’erboard upon
the sea, a phalanx made of open mouths
and each one clacks upon my fortune. Sad
indeed, for I know not the tongue they speak.
Aye, sad to ponder poor Ophelia. She,
methinks, her father same, is victim of
impulsive excess thought. Such is my love.

The sea’s salt lips do gently rock the crew
thus into walking slumber as we scud
across its face. I turn and see the two
grim figures. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

“I see the lullaby of motion hath
not drowned your passions, friends!” They nod and both
glance tight-lipped at the other. “Friends!
My ever settling and resettling friends!
You both are open at the maw. I see
inside your empty stomachs, troubled minds.
And I as well. Perhaps a sailor’s prized
repast will gorge our yawping guts.”


Again, the two look friend to friend but not

at me. Friend Guildenstern screws up his eyes.
If only I could see inside their lobes
the way the truest knower did, the One
who saw through souls and died for them. I must
be better-witted to match these dullards both,
who make together not a rabble but
a cunning double-headed snake in their
commiserating brains. I shall forbear.

Now down we go below the deck to sit
within the galley. But I bid us stop
before the empty cargo bay. “Why
no goods along with such good company?
What symbol have we yet to show the king's
benevolence except this empty floor
that's stained by old dried blood?”

But Guildenstern
does naught but nod and glance upon the floor.
And Rosencrantz displays a grin and wrings
his palms. “Excuse me, sir. I see no blood,”
says Rosencrantz. He opens wide the door.

Now Guildenstern has passed already, “Nor
did I, my lord. Let’s eat. I’m famished.”

“Blood
is there although you dare not look!” I scream
in hatchling’s voice. Poor Rosencrantz retreats
himself against the wall and bows his head.
Then Guildenstern returns and steps inside
the hold. He looks upon the floor. “’Tis so,
my lord. But now ‘tis naught but shadow of
a stain. And naught but save for that,” says he.

I brace, send Rosencrantz to run ahead
from fear. “Hast thou no living honor for
spilt blood, though blackened it may be? The air
surrounding causes such corruption, no?”

“Again, sir,” Guildenstern drones on, “you have

surpassed our base morality and shown
your own to be superb.”

“Again, and yet
again,” I mock dear Guildenstern. “Now on
to our respite,” I say.

Dear Rosencrantz
stands far ahead and gestures to the door.
And while he smiles, my thinking turns once more
to blood as if that word, that “honor” word,
made blossom wounds yet halfway healed. But what
of honor have they shown to me, methinks,
that I am sent away? My Lord, I see
no future, still no present, even has
the past forsaken me.

The undergirdle
of the ship is made of crooked warped oak wood.
It keeps the rhythm of the sea that soon
takes hold of every shipmate's heart. Each plank
becomes a rib connected to the spine
and lined from bowsprit to the stern. And all
creeps slow and fast unto this center. If
I lie upon the spine, connected to
that downward-pointed sail, the keel, that is
a dowser from the deep, I could become
aware of each desire, emotion, base
distraction of all men aboard. I need
but listen and each drop of brain would leave
through resting ear and slide along the plank
then whisper into mine each secret known.

It's here I lay myself once entered. “Seest!
He lies there to astonish us,” I hear
the wiser whisper to his friend.

“Good friends!
I shall be thus when I have drunk enough
to meet your ranks,” I say and spread my arms

outstretched such as He suffered. “Sir! You do
right mock our wits severely,” Guildenstern
replies. “Indeed you make it hard to call
you friend.”

At this remark, I stand abrupt.
“’Tis true and better that I keep conceits
like that inside my mouth, deceive my friends
in order that I not offend but smile
and cheat the peace of meaning, honesty,
and manly truth.”

Then Guildenstern sits on
a bench. “Well said, my lord. Here’s drink for you.”
He fetches a tankard. “Please. Continue. Tell
your lesson.”

“O! My lesson, sharpest Guildenstern?
Methinks, ‘tis you who are the man of the
occasion.” Then I slap friend Guildenstern
upon the back and take my seat next to
him on the bench. Friend Rosencrantz stares wide
at both of us and, speechless, lifts his tankard
up and drinks. “I’ll watch and drink while you
debate. For I’m the cleverest triumvir.”
He swigs again.

I keep my cat-fanged smile
and Guildenstern his drooping mug. We stare.
“’Twas low and underdone,” says Rosencrantz.

“Shut up your mouth, you fool, for every crew
man’s sake!,” yells Guildenstern. With this he hands
the tankard back without a glance until,
returned and once more filled, he sets it down
before him.

OF COURSE THERE'S MORE, IT'S AN EPIC POEM! CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE THIS ISSUE'S INSTALLMENT!

The Villainy of Hamlet (Part 1 of 2), Ian Singleton, Cont'd

                     Now his smile has fallen and

he quaffs until just foam lies buzzing from

his lips. Again he hands the tankard back

but of a sudden takes the swabber’s hand

and whispers close to him, “Pour’st out and let

us probe some liquor. Then we’ll find what sense

there is in crapulence.” The jolly lad

turns out a thick and heavy jug from down

below and pours out cups of clear-hued drink.

Dear Rosencrantz drinks down his beer and raises
his hand up in affront. “Forget’st not Rosencrantz,
my boy, for no one here may yet declare
a greater need.”

The swabber turns and sighs

for all the burdens of his duty,

for duty grants that fools fall into high

positions. After we have drunk our fill

we see red splinters in the eye and croak

out foul-breathed curses on the other.

                                            “Thou

art foolish just the same to utter curse,
for thou know’st not how few thy friends now count.”

I turn my head down low as if to smell
dear Rosencrantz’s underlip. Before
I speak, a glimpse of dead Polonius
makes stir within my mind. “Aware am I
of how I am so hated. The same, I count
myself in luck to know who ‘tis that hates
me so. I then can kill him. Those I love
must suffer all my worried words.”
                                                         Then
comes Guildenstern’s retort, fast snapping at
the heels. 'Twas ready as my words began.
“Be not astounded, Rosencrantz. Thou speakest
true to call him fool when all he does
is inverse morals, turn the world on end
and make preposterous utterance. ‘Tis naught

but knavery such as would speak a boyish
bos’n, as simple as our swabber here,
a villain’s trick.” His lips still dribbled thick.

“He doesn’t drink his beer he’d rather lick!”
I cry. I stretch my hand and nod to tell
the swabber, bring more liquor yet to sip.
“Thou hast now found me out, and yet thou addest
insult calling Denmark’s Prince a low
and thoughtless villain. Say’st thou there is honor
for the house of Hamlet?” Here I pause.
“Can it be true? Thou thinkest of me so?”

“Not but to prove a point,” whines Guildenstern.
“None but a fool would wonder so!” He laughs
out hoarsely, then he grabs the shoulder of
the nearby Rosencrantz and holds himself
to goad more wind from out his gullet.

                                                              I’ve
not smiled for long. Who could at jokes like that?
I wonder what gives Guildenstern such petty
confidence, such pride in speech, as if
he knew some punctuation lay outside
my reach.

                      Then Rosencrantz speaks almost as
alarm. “Oh wait! Wait for finitude
for thou art not the only one who has
the mind for villainy!”
                                             Again, I pause
and train my gaze. The words still strike me. I
turn pale. My callous friends, one wheezing out
his laughter while the other grins same as
the dead. What rancor they import, what hate
my friends so spurned by witty words but yet
so full of blackest treason. “How have I
so wronged you, friends, dear friends and cousins
mine? Why don’t we seek an end to all
this parley, all this whine?”

                                          “Thou criest out
now for thy wounds,” spits Rosencrantz, tongue touched
to teeth. “Dost see him, Guildenstern. I think
he’s drinking tears. Beware then, for ‘ere soon
thou shalt not swallow anymore.” With this,
he slides his hand along his throat and scowls
with glassy eye and humor venomous.
But as his finger nicks the apron of
his ear, the hand of Guildenstern enfolds
inside a fist what Rosencrantz would tell.

He says, “He knows not what he does, dear prince!”

“I’m sorry, friends, you feel it’s such. But must
it come to blows? Must ev’ry word we say
be slaughter?” Yet again Polonius’ ghost
pierced through my mind. I drop my head down low.

“You’re right, dear friend, I’m sorry for what I

have said,” the somber Guildenstern replies,

still clutching mad and sobbing Rosencrantz.

“I’m sorry too for what I said. Let us

rest peaceful on our journey.” Then I raise

my head and singly nod then lay it down

to rest, for not since I committed my

most mortal act have I had any sleep.

When once again I raise my head, I find

myself alone amongst ‘midships. They all

have left me, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

and even my beloved swabber. True,

tomfoolery has taken all: the wrong

man’s life, my friends, my love. My head must drop.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Art by Tom Besson, www.tombesson.com

Lust, Chris Crittenden

the pen nudges her hand

like a seed, trying to nestle

in her grip. she becomes its lover,

unretractable, and they write
clouds of ink, monsoons of letters,

until desires rage, form liquid lions

that snarl and moan,

rippling across each other,

hungry in streams.

the pen sucks on her fingers
as if they were roots
and she gets pulled down,

turning into muscles

of the loins that merge

on the tortured sheet.

the pen branches through her,

binds and spreads. she stretches

into the pulse of the lions,

feeling herself bloom in a
starburst while the beasts blur

into tawny fire. she wakes up later

to find the pen empty

and withered, the sheet

of paper rumpled, the loins

slain.

"Joy" by Jim Fuess, http://www.jimfuessart.com/

Two Short Poems, Tannen Dell

Vendetta Grey


Non-thinking albatross white tooth necklace, bladed charms under willows slow Enchantment between
Ceiba & Yggdrasil nothing compared to carpeted arms bent behind click tower elbows under festive neon grunge violin played with strings
that reform forgotten
and reincarnated
hands.


_____________________________________________


Where?


When anger turns
to joy
Pheromones collaborate
deliciously.

Untitled, Beth Rolingson

As the dark solstice nears,
the wheel is turning
inward,
toward sleep.
And death.

The old ones are departing
(another Arthur, another Guinevere)
like withered leaves
letting go of the tree,
like birds taking flight.

We can’t see, we don't know
the mystery
gathering force within the roots
preparing to push the leaves
outward,
into the light.

The birds soar
toward the strengthening sun.

 

Art by Tom Besson, http://www.tombesson.com/

Toys, George Bishop

Who would’ve known
my childhood could come apart
easy as Lincoln Logs, quick
as a first kiss.

And who would’ve known
lust, deceit and obsession
were ever that young,
all Slinky and Silly Putty.

Who would’ve known
there were rooms in those forts
I made out of bed sheets,
that every kiss since

would come with conditions,
warnings and the broken
underworld of imaginary
friends.

She Loves Harpo, G. David Schwartz

My dear wife says she loves Harpo
A funny man who says no words
Well, I don't wish to be like this
But why does she always want to talk with me
And then when I get into it
She tells me to shut up
And listen a bit

14 Ways of Looking At The Diagnosis, Gail Entrekin

1.


In the waiting room,
filling out forms.
Someone has hand-written in pencil
under diagnosis: leukemia.

2.

She sobs every morning
the second he closes the door.
She understands, as he doesn’t yet,
that it’s never going to be the same again.

3.

For a long time he believes

it’s a mistake.

4.

She emails all the kids.
Some of them come homing in a flock,
incredulous and stunned.

5.

She searches his body
for new signs. She stares at the swelling
on the side of his face, almost
licks it.

6.

He tells her he dreamt she told him
they should divorce now
so the children get used to
not having him around
before he dies.

7.

She looks up statistics on the Internet,
acquaints herself with worst case scenarios,
imagines waking up alone in their bed.

8.


He becomes timid, begins
to think of himself
as a dying man.

9.

He shaves off his 40-year-beard,
says he wants to see
himself one more time—
is shocked to find
an old man.

10.

After a couple of months
he wakes up from the long
slow trance. He says
he plans to live.

11.

He stops her in the kitchen,
takes her shoulders in his hands,
says he’s glad it’s him
instead of her. She says
she wishes they could share it,
each be only half as sick.

12.

They plan to simplify their life
in case he becomes unable to help.
She says she hates
their unique life
becoming a cliché.

13.

When they make love
she weeps, is sorry for
ruining the present
by grieving the future.

14.


They don’t know how it will end,
but everybody dies.

Lines on A Page, B.D Fischer

In the best
of all possible worlds
the pig and the chicken
are one, flippable,
in a cast-iron skillet (which takes on now
a cowboy history, and I imagine
the imagination
of cracking an egg in a pot of coffee
before plunging the press
of a foreign country, and
enjoy my meal
more) that can be purchased
but cannot be used
without a handsome length
of preparation. It is
the only thing I know
that is like this.

Victory breakfast—
three sources
of smoke or steam:
pipe, plate, and coffee—
grows cold.
Exhaling, I am the fourth.

This is my return to certainty,
except the better metaphor
is a staff
of quarter-note yolks,
except I don’t play an instrument
and my pen against the page may
(but what about the percussive keyboard?)
make a sound
but no music.

Scraped clean from the skillet,
dripping, unmatched,
draping the cheesy toast on my plate
the lines on the page have grown twisted.
I half-suspect Cash’s remorseless “Mercy Seat,”
but an inquiry into the causes of the sprawling geography of my breakfast distracts

from the pig-and-chicken issues more closely at hand,
or, rather,
more keenly attentive
to my knife
and my fork.

No Answer, Michael Perkins

the windows and gauzy drapes

obstruct the frayed light
drifting into the room

by the bed
a telephone stand
draped with a phone book
held open by an ash tray
with cold ashes
and bent stubs
then the black telephone
an old rotary dial
rings

startlingly loud
breaking the heavy silence
with hopeful anticipation
then an abrupt cruel silence
as the darkness increases
with no answer