Firing Squad
Showing posts with label Issue 9 December 2010. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 9 December 2010. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Happy Winter Issue!
Well, we are in a grouchy mood because we just spent the last 2 hours posting this issue. We need to seriously rethink the whole publishing poems with funny formats thing...ANYWAY, we've decided to be intelligent and helpful this time and actually provide you a Table of Contents with links to the pages. We don't know why we never thought of this before, but luckily our favorite publicity machine, Chris Crittenden, also known as Owl Who Laughs, suggested it last time and the man has a point. In fact, once we have more time on our hands (which at this rate looks like when we get kidnapped by the Tralfamadorians), we'll go back and do that for all issues. But in the meantime, our Christmas present to you is convenience (and the color version of our cover by D.J.R Caron). Use it well
The Musical Mind, Craig Medvecky
Writing, Chris Crittenden
Midnight Laptop, Chris Crittenden
A Long Night Scribbling Between Waves, Jim Davis
Art by Jim Fuess
Two Short Poems, Mike Marks
The Pregnant Virgin Hen, Mike Marks
Dreams of a Fruit Fly, Emily Kurn
Origami, Emily Kurn
Morning on the El Tracks, Gertrude Van Dyke
Obscenity, Zeke Jarvis
Vector Field, Zeke Jarvis
How, Matt Dennison
Skin Still On, Matt Dennison
The Peace Bond, Sander Blome
What Was That Sound? She Asks, Howie Good
Music, Emmanuel Japka
Art, Kristine Ong Muslim
Iguatemi, Hugh Fox
Middle of the Night, Jonathan Warren
1992, John Trause
Apes, Grant Loveys
Sara, Richard Donnelly
At Work On The Psychiatric Ward, Doug Holder
Brief Biographies
The Infamous Note from the Editrices
Editrice Note-To an Unfrozen Computer...
When laying out a magazine, some issues go together very nicely. The Fall Issue was like that. “Finally we know what we’re doing,” we thought, leaning back and sipping our mochas. This issue…was possessed. Pages suddenly classified “read-only”, locked for editing by some unknown force; we suspect a poltergeist. Editrice Liz’s brains deserted her as all Toucandom was nearly treated to a poem twice in the issue—but NO, you don’t want to hear about OUR problems. The Editrice note should be a time of enlightenment, of elucidation. Or, you get to read our minds, which should come with a protective shield and massive sticky security labels.
Last issue was the “Fiction” issue, contentwise. This issue had a preponderance of poetry, as individual as snowflakes and nearly as numerous. You know what happens when you ignore poets—eventually they come out from under their rocks and assault you with snowballs. There are some similarities—the poems are either quite long or quite short, with little in between. And quite a few pieces in here are somewhat depressing, with just a light frosting of humor value. We visit nursing homes, psychiatric wards, communist Russia, “1992”, and the scene of an electrocution. Even our art piece, “Firing Squad”…cheerful. Yet there’s a sort of reflective quality at work in poems like “Midnight Laptop” and “Art”. After all, when you’re stuck inside and it’s dark and freezing out, what else better do you have to do? Oh, we know! Try to teach yourself Portuguese, thanks to the helpful translation of “Iguatemi” included by Hugh Fox.
Winter is not the toucan’s natural habitat, though from our cover picture you can’t really complain about how he’s adapting. Any presents for the darling editrices? No…well fine, then, just don’t forget which side your bread is buttered on, Mr. Anyway, The Toucan, being composed of hardy Chicagoans, is doing just fine with the season’s biting chill. How do you like our new feature, the Poem of the Week? Yes, we are aware it needs a more original name, but at least you know what it is! Every Friday a poem is posted on our website, http://www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com/ for you to peruse and get your weekly verse fix.
Thanksgiving was just a few days ago, so let us run through what we are truly thankful for. We are thankful for submissions, both good and awful. Either way, send ‘em to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. We are thankful for our Toucan Fans—and let us just say we don’t think you’re awful, though if we stumble upon a giant Toucan bonfire, we will certainly revise our opinion. We are thankful that Liz’s mother still finances us. We are thankful that, though it becomes more of a struggle with age, we can still find time to wrestle with poems with funny formats, poltergeist aside. Now, pass the hot chocolate.
Warm regards, happy holidays, and beware the eggnog,
Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices
Last issue was the “Fiction” issue, contentwise. This issue had a preponderance of poetry, as individual as snowflakes and nearly as numerous. You know what happens when you ignore poets—eventually they come out from under their rocks and assault you with snowballs. There are some similarities—the poems are either quite long or quite short, with little in between. And quite a few pieces in here are somewhat depressing, with just a light frosting of humor value. We visit nursing homes, psychiatric wards, communist Russia, “1992”, and the scene of an electrocution. Even our art piece, “Firing Squad”…cheerful. Yet there’s a sort of reflective quality at work in poems like “Midnight Laptop” and “Art”. After all, when you’re stuck inside and it’s dark and freezing out, what else better do you have to do? Oh, we know! Try to teach yourself Portuguese, thanks to the helpful translation of “Iguatemi” included by Hugh Fox.
Winter is not the toucan’s natural habitat, though from our cover picture you can’t really complain about how he’s adapting. Any presents for the darling editrices? No…well fine, then, just don’t forget which side your bread is buttered on, Mr. Anyway, The Toucan, being composed of hardy Chicagoans, is doing just fine with the season’s biting chill. How do you like our new feature, the Poem of the Week? Yes, we are aware it needs a more original name, but at least you know what it is! Every Friday a poem is posted on our website, http://www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com/ for you to peruse and get your weekly verse fix.
Thanksgiving was just a few days ago, so let us run through what we are truly thankful for. We are thankful for submissions, both good and awful. Either way, send ‘em to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. We are thankful for our Toucan Fans—and let us just say we don’t think you’re awful, though if we stumble upon a giant Toucan bonfire, we will certainly revise our opinion. We are thankful that Liz’s mother still finances us. We are thankful that, though it becomes more of a struggle with age, we can still find time to wrestle with poems with funny formats, poltergeist aside. Now, pass the hot chocolate.
Warm regards, happy holidays, and beware the eggnog,
Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices
Balloons-John Rachel
It was an especially cold Thanksgiving on Woodward Avenue in Detroit. Today was the annual Thanksgiving Day Parade and the crowd alternated between shivering and cheering. People shuffled and stomped, attempting to keep their feet from freezing. Gusts of steamy cold blew from their dripping noses and through their clenched teeth.
Suddenly Billy started screaming. “My balloon!! My balloon!!”
“Harold, do something. His balloon!”
“Wake up, Irene. Do I look like I have wings? It’s too late.”
Up, up it went. The string had slipped from Billy’s grasp and the balloon was off to wherever balloons go. The stratosphere? Balloon heaven?
“Stupid kid! I told you to let me tie it to your wrist. But you’re so goddamn smart. See what happens when you don’t listen.”
Billy’s face instantly melted into a chastened mask of humiliation and defeat, as he started to cry like his puppy had been crushed under a bus.
“Nice work, Harold. Give the kid a complex. Let’s find a vendor and get him another one.”
“Over my dead body! He’ll learn something from this. Next time something is so all important to him as that there balloon . . .” Harold jerked his thumb skyward at the latex dot that was all but invisible by now, “. . . maybe he’ll take better care of it.”
“Jesus Christ, he’s only three. Come here, sweetheart.” She reached down and picked up the heartbroken and tremulously sobbing young boy, face streaked and blotchy, mittens wet with the fresh tears of tragedy. Another parade float approached and would soon be right in front of them.
She pointed. “Look, Billy. Look at the dinosaur.”
Sure enough, big as a moving van, bloated with helium, tethered to the 8-wheel steel flatbed of a float frame covered with artificial turf, and looking about as realistic as cardboard and crayons, was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Its mouth was agape in what was supposed to be a scary, imminent man-devouring chomp. Several repairs were visible on the rubber underside, patches which were poorly matched in color to the skin of the faux beast. To underscore the implausibility of the threat, eight baton twirlers circled around the float, dancing, kicking their bare legs high, tossing and twirling their gleaming chrome batons in the clear November air.
“Grrr!! Grrr!! Careful he doesn’t eat you up.” She tickled his cheek with her wool-gloved finger and tried to elicit a smile.
Billy had already stopped crying and just looked confused. He seemed more interested in the baton twirlers than the gas-bag monster.
Next came a landlocked riverboat float, bearing the Flint Banjo Club players. This was their parade debut and they enthusiastically picked and twanged their way through various Dixieland and bluegrass favorites to a crowd who almost seemed to notice. Two mounted policemen followed, their horses snorting and blowing foggy jets from their wet nostrils.
“Harold, I need to powder my nose. Can you take him?” Giving her husband no real choice in the matter, she abruptly reached over and placed the boy up against his father’s chest.
“Mommy, I have to—”
“Just sit tight, Billy. Mommy will be right back.”
“But, Mom . . .”
His father took Billy, obviously under protest, and slung him up on his shoulders. The boy, completely caught off guard by the sudden and heavy-handed move, grabbed on desperately to keep from falling, wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck.
“Easy! Easy! You don’t have to choke me to death.”
Billy knew better than to try to talk to him and just settled in an uncomfortable slump against his father’s head. Before she had left, he was trying to tell his mom that he had to pee. But she was off to find a ladies room and it would have to wait until she got back. He had to go. Really bad.
To make matters worse, his father in a manic attempt to keep himself warm was bouncing him. The pressure of Billy’s full kidneys built quickly and all Billy could do was concentrate on holding it in. He couldn’t even look at the parade floats. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. All he could think of was the critical pressure building in his groin. He clamped his legs together as hard as he could against the urgent and painful need for release.
“What the hell are you doing up there? This ain’t no wrestling match. Back off with the leg lock.”
His dad reached up under Billy’s arms and shook him to drive home his point. That was all it took for the dam to burst. Billy let out a tiny whimpering cry. Then silence. He tried to stop it but his urethral valve was open and it wasn’t about to be turned off until the job was done.
At first Billy’s father only noticed a slight increase in the temperature around and below the collar of his coat. Then he felt the wetness and sensed the faint odor of the boy’s young pee.
“Is that what I think it is? I don’t believe this!”
Billy fought desperately to keep from crying and covered his face with both hands as his father roughly lifted him off and held him out in front of him to confirm his worst suspicions. Billy was still going. Pee dripped from the bottom of his wet trousers, past his shoes, onto the pavement.
His father acted fast. Still holding Billy at arm’s length, he turned around and headed away from the street, towards the public restrooms, just as Billy’s mom made her way back to join them. At first she was puzzled at the way Harold was carrying the boy, then terrified by the look on her husband’s face. Something had gone wrong.
“I asked for a son and you gave me this piece of trash.”
She tried to grab for Billy, both to rescue him from his father’s rage and offer him whatever comfort might be needed. But Harold was too quick. He muscled past her and walked over to a large wire trash basket, already nearly full of newspapers, crumpled lunch bags and food wrappings. He dropped Billy in head-first and stormed away.
“Billy!! Billy!!”
She was there within seconds.
“Are you all right? My poor little boy! My poor little boy!” She fought back her tears and tried to hide her anger, though it burned the back of her eyes, and hurt for her helpless boy filled her chest with sulfurous pangs. As she reached down and righted Billy, she saw his wet pants, and realized what had happened. She immediately drew him into the kind of hug that only a mother can provide a frightened child, covering his cheeks and head with kisses.
“It’s all right. It’s all right, my sweet handsome young man.”
The cushioning of the paper refuse already stuffed in the wastebasket had broken Billy's fall. He wasn’t hurt. No bruises. No scratches. Surprisingly, he wasn’t crying. He just blinked and stared off in the direction his father had taken.
Then he turned to his mom and softly whispered. “Can we watch the parade?”
“We probably should get you some new pants. Looks like you ran through the sprinklers while I was gone.”
To take advantage of the masses of people attending the event, several stores were open for business, though it was a national holiday. His mom carried Billy into two clothing shops and they found some jeans he really liked. The new pants were a little big on him but at least they were warm and dry.
By the time they returned to the parade route, things were reaching a climactic conclusion. This, of course, was the arrival of none other than Santa Claus himself, on a motorized sled drawn by unmoving reindeer figures, deer-in-the-headlights gazes epoxied into their eyes, with the biggest reindeer celebrity of them all, red-nosed Rudolph himself, in the lead.
Billy’s eyes widened as the Santa float approached. Within minutes, there he was right in front of them, the man with the giant belly, rosy cheeks, red and white Santa suit, and huge white beard that flowed down on his chest like angel hair. He laughed his deep, sonorous ‘ho ho ho’ and waved like a prom queen to the excited children and conspiratorial adults who were bonded together in a special covenant to perpetuate and promote the Santa myth, just as their parents had done before them.
When Santa had passed and only the top of his waving arm could be seen over the high back of his red and gold sled, Billy finally lowered his own tiny hand and let it hang at his side. Lost in thought, he watched his fidgeting hands, then looked up at his mom.
“Mommy. Can Santa bring me a new dad?”
Suddenly Billy started screaming. “My balloon!! My balloon!!”
“Harold, do something. His balloon!”
“Wake up, Irene. Do I look like I have wings? It’s too late.”
Up, up it went. The string had slipped from Billy’s grasp and the balloon was off to wherever balloons go. The stratosphere? Balloon heaven?
“Stupid kid! I told you to let me tie it to your wrist. But you’re so goddamn smart. See what happens when you don’t listen.”
Billy’s face instantly melted into a chastened mask of humiliation and defeat, as he started to cry like his puppy had been crushed under a bus.
“Nice work, Harold. Give the kid a complex. Let’s find a vendor and get him another one.”
“Over my dead body! He’ll learn something from this. Next time something is so all important to him as that there balloon . . .” Harold jerked his thumb skyward at the latex dot that was all but invisible by now, “. . . maybe he’ll take better care of it.”
“Jesus Christ, he’s only three. Come here, sweetheart.” She reached down and picked up the heartbroken and tremulously sobbing young boy, face streaked and blotchy, mittens wet with the fresh tears of tragedy. Another parade float approached and would soon be right in front of them.
She pointed. “Look, Billy. Look at the dinosaur.”
Sure enough, big as a moving van, bloated with helium, tethered to the 8-wheel steel flatbed of a float frame covered with artificial turf, and looking about as realistic as cardboard and crayons, was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Its mouth was agape in what was supposed to be a scary, imminent man-devouring chomp. Several repairs were visible on the rubber underside, patches which were poorly matched in color to the skin of the faux beast. To underscore the implausibility of the threat, eight baton twirlers circled around the float, dancing, kicking their bare legs high, tossing and twirling their gleaming chrome batons in the clear November air.
“Grrr!! Grrr!! Careful he doesn’t eat you up.” She tickled his cheek with her wool-gloved finger and tried to elicit a smile.
Billy had already stopped crying and just looked confused. He seemed more interested in the baton twirlers than the gas-bag monster.
Next came a landlocked riverboat float, bearing the Flint Banjo Club players. This was their parade debut and they enthusiastically picked and twanged their way through various Dixieland and bluegrass favorites to a crowd who almost seemed to notice. Two mounted policemen followed, their horses snorting and blowing foggy jets from their wet nostrils.
“Harold, I need to powder my nose. Can you take him?” Giving her husband no real choice in the matter, she abruptly reached over and placed the boy up against his father’s chest.
“Mommy, I have to—”
“Just sit tight, Billy. Mommy will be right back.”
“But, Mom . . .”
His father took Billy, obviously under protest, and slung him up on his shoulders. The boy, completely caught off guard by the sudden and heavy-handed move, grabbed on desperately to keep from falling, wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck.
“Easy! Easy! You don’t have to choke me to death.”
Billy knew better than to try to talk to him and just settled in an uncomfortable slump against his father’s head. Before she had left, he was trying to tell his mom that he had to pee. But she was off to find a ladies room and it would have to wait until she got back. He had to go. Really bad.
To make matters worse, his father in a manic attempt to keep himself warm was bouncing him. The pressure of Billy’s full kidneys built quickly and all Billy could do was concentrate on holding it in. He couldn’t even look at the parade floats. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. All he could think of was the critical pressure building in his groin. He clamped his legs together as hard as he could against the urgent and painful need for release.
“What the hell are you doing up there? This ain’t no wrestling match. Back off with the leg lock.”
His dad reached up under Billy’s arms and shook him to drive home his point. That was all it took for the dam to burst. Billy let out a tiny whimpering cry. Then silence. He tried to stop it but his urethral valve was open and it wasn’t about to be turned off until the job was done.
At first Billy’s father only noticed a slight increase in the temperature around and below the collar of his coat. Then he felt the wetness and sensed the faint odor of the boy’s young pee.
“Is that what I think it is? I don’t believe this!”
Billy fought desperately to keep from crying and covered his face with both hands as his father roughly lifted him off and held him out in front of him to confirm his worst suspicions. Billy was still going. Pee dripped from the bottom of his wet trousers, past his shoes, onto the pavement.
His father acted fast. Still holding Billy at arm’s length, he turned around and headed away from the street, towards the public restrooms, just as Billy’s mom made her way back to join them. At first she was puzzled at the way Harold was carrying the boy, then terrified by the look on her husband’s face. Something had gone wrong.
“I asked for a son and you gave me this piece of trash.”
She tried to grab for Billy, both to rescue him from his father’s rage and offer him whatever comfort might be needed. But Harold was too quick. He muscled past her and walked over to a large wire trash basket, already nearly full of newspapers, crumpled lunch bags and food wrappings. He dropped Billy in head-first and stormed away.
“Billy!! Billy!!”
She was there within seconds.
“Are you all right? My poor little boy! My poor little boy!” She fought back her tears and tried to hide her anger, though it burned the back of her eyes, and hurt for her helpless boy filled her chest with sulfurous pangs. As she reached down and righted Billy, she saw his wet pants, and realized what had happened. She immediately drew him into the kind of hug that only a mother can provide a frightened child, covering his cheeks and head with kisses.
“It’s all right. It’s all right, my sweet handsome young man.”
The cushioning of the paper refuse already stuffed in the wastebasket had broken Billy's fall. He wasn’t hurt. No bruises. No scratches. Surprisingly, he wasn’t crying. He just blinked and stared off in the direction his father had taken.
Then he turned to his mom and softly whispered. “Can we watch the parade?”
“We probably should get you some new pants. Looks like you ran through the sprinklers while I was gone.”
To take advantage of the masses of people attending the event, several stores were open for business, though it was a national holiday. His mom carried Billy into two clothing shops and they found some jeans he really liked. The new pants were a little big on him but at least they were warm and dry.
By the time they returned to the parade route, things were reaching a climactic conclusion. This, of course, was the arrival of none other than Santa Claus himself, on a motorized sled drawn by unmoving reindeer figures, deer-in-the-headlights gazes epoxied into their eyes, with the biggest reindeer celebrity of them all, red-nosed Rudolph himself, in the lead.
Billy’s eyes widened as the Santa float approached. Within minutes, there he was right in front of them, the man with the giant belly, rosy cheeks, red and white Santa suit, and huge white beard that flowed down on his chest like angel hair. He laughed his deep, sonorous ‘ho ho ho’ and waved like a prom queen to the excited children and conspiratorial adults who were bonded together in a special covenant to perpetuate and promote the Santa myth, just as their parents had done before them.
When Santa had passed and only the top of his waving arm could be seen over the high back of his red and gold sled, Billy finally lowered his own tiny hand and let it hang at his side. Lost in thought, he watched his fidgeting hands, then looked up at his mom.
“Mommy. Can Santa bring me a new dad?”
Hiding-Paul Beckman
My wife hides in the bathroom. Our twin daughters hide in the Bronx. My sister hides in Dallas with her family; she knows I won’t go there because of Kennedy and Oswald. It’s been forty years but I still can’t find it in my heart to forgive Dallas. My son hides in Montana with a para-military group and I most certainly wouldn’t be welcome there; nor would I want to go.
Sometimes I miss my wife so I go into the bathroom where Liz is soaking in the tub reading and I sit on the floor reading my own book. It’s her private time so I don’t disturb her with talk. Liz doesn’t acknowledge my presence, not even when she puts her book down to add more hot water. If she would let the hot water run slowly she wouldn’t have to worry about adding any. I’ve told her this before. She’ll come out of the bathroom after I’ve left when she’s pretty sure that I’ve fallen asleep.
It’s no different at work. The other sales people hide in groups talking and go out to lunch together. My office manager picks up her phone when she sees me approaching her office. The secretary passes messages to me via email and the other salespeople in the office leave me voice messages as opposed to walking over and talking to me.
Sara and Sasha, the twins in the Bronx worry me. I tell them I’d feel better if they moved to Brooklyn, or even Queens. They call their Mother but I never seem to get them in when I call. I’d hate to believe they’re screening their calls and I’m not making it through the screening.
Sorry we missed your call, they’ll email and add a couple of more sentences before adding their standard, “See ya, gotta run." Mickey, my son in Montana, calls on my birthday and sends a card on Father’s Day. He uses a pay phone for his call so the automated operator always interrupts his three-minute call with a fifteen second warning.
I offer to meet him outside the camp for a get-together but there’s never been a convenient time. Sara and Sasha can’t commit to planning a dinner or lunch together. They do get together with their mother several times a year. Her schedule’s more in tune with theirs.
I’m not sure what’s going on in my world. I got the name of a shrink from a friend; actually I overheard a co-worker on the phone from the adjacent cubicle mention her shrink and how much good she was doing her. I asked her for the shrinks name, said it was for a good friend who needed to speak to someone. I’ll get back to you she said and a day or two later she changed her cubicle and left the name on my voice mail. I called the shrink. She told me she wasn’t taking new patients but would put me on a list for the first opening. That was almost a year ago. I’ve left several messages since, but to no avail.
Last week I called a new psychologist whose ad I saw in the local paper and went in for my session. He asked me why I was there and I told him that I get the feeling that people hide from me. Why do I think that he asked and I told him I didn’t know but then I slipped in a few comments on how uninviting his waiting room was and what he could do to improve it. Try some prints by Steiglitz or Adams I suggested. He asked me if I did that often and I asked did what? Give unsolicited advice he said and I told him that it was one of my strong suits, maybe my strongest. I have the gift to see simple solutions to other people’s problems, even if they don’t know they’re having a problem. Then I told him he had the wrong kind of chin for bow ties and should consider wearing a turtleneck—it could be your trademark I added. Do you ever have a conversation without giving advice he asked and I told him that he made me sound critical of other people and he said that’s what it sounded like to him and I told him that in his line of work he shouldn’t be quite so sensitive. He said that I was insensitive to other’s feelings and that was probably the root of my problem and since time was about up maybe we could delve into it the next session and I told him that I’d call for an appointment when I had my calendar, but I knew that I wouldn’t because if I walked in and he was wearing a bow tie again I’d have no respect for him. After all, how could I be expected to take advice from someone who couldn’t take good advice himself?
Sometimes I miss my wife so I go into the bathroom where Liz is soaking in the tub reading and I sit on the floor reading my own book. It’s her private time so I don’t disturb her with talk. Liz doesn’t acknowledge my presence, not even when she puts her book down to add more hot water. If she would let the hot water run slowly she wouldn’t have to worry about adding any. I’ve told her this before. She’ll come out of the bathroom after I’ve left when she’s pretty sure that I’ve fallen asleep.
It’s no different at work. The other sales people hide in groups talking and go out to lunch together. My office manager picks up her phone when she sees me approaching her office. The secretary passes messages to me via email and the other salespeople in the office leave me voice messages as opposed to walking over and talking to me.
Sara and Sasha, the twins in the Bronx worry me. I tell them I’d feel better if they moved to Brooklyn, or even Queens. They call their Mother but I never seem to get them in when I call. I’d hate to believe they’re screening their calls and I’m not making it through the screening.
Sorry we missed your call, they’ll email and add a couple of more sentences before adding their standard, “See ya, gotta run." Mickey, my son in Montana, calls on my birthday and sends a card on Father’s Day. He uses a pay phone for his call so the automated operator always interrupts his three-minute call with a fifteen second warning.
I offer to meet him outside the camp for a get-together but there’s never been a convenient time. Sara and Sasha can’t commit to planning a dinner or lunch together. They do get together with their mother several times a year. Her schedule’s more in tune with theirs.
I’m not sure what’s going on in my world. I got the name of a shrink from a friend; actually I overheard a co-worker on the phone from the adjacent cubicle mention her shrink and how much good she was doing her. I asked her for the shrinks name, said it was for a good friend who needed to speak to someone. I’ll get back to you she said and a day or two later she changed her cubicle and left the name on my voice mail. I called the shrink. She told me she wasn’t taking new patients but would put me on a list for the first opening. That was almost a year ago. I’ve left several messages since, but to no avail.
Last week I called a new psychologist whose ad I saw in the local paper and went in for my session. He asked me why I was there and I told him that I get the feeling that people hide from me. Why do I think that he asked and I told him I didn’t know but then I slipped in a few comments on how uninviting his waiting room was and what he could do to improve it. Try some prints by Steiglitz or Adams I suggested. He asked me if I did that often and I asked did what? Give unsolicited advice he said and I told him that it was one of my strong suits, maybe my strongest. I have the gift to see simple solutions to other people’s problems, even if they don’t know they’re having a problem. Then I told him he had the wrong kind of chin for bow ties and should consider wearing a turtleneck—it could be your trademark I added. Do you ever have a conversation without giving advice he asked and I told him that he made me sound critical of other people and he said that’s what it sounded like to him and I told him that in his line of work he shouldn’t be quite so sensitive. He said that I was insensitive to other’s feelings and that was probably the root of my problem and since time was about up maybe we could delve into it the next session and I told him that I’d call for an appointment when I had my calendar, but I knew that I wouldn’t because if I walked in and he was wearing a bow tie again I’d have no respect for him. After all, how could I be expected to take advice from someone who couldn’t take good advice himself?
Denny-Thomas Mundt
The phone rang late last night, woke me up from a dead sleep. My wife Grace rolled onto her side and told me not to answer, that it was probably just Syracuse University trying to sell us ad space in the alumni magazine for the nine-millionth time. I told her, No, this feels important. So, I picked up and got Denny. His voice warbled as he spoke, a wheel loose on its axle. He insisted that I meet him somewhere, anywhere, immediately.
I rolled out of bed and threw on some jeans and a hoodie, told Grace I wouldn’t be long. He probably just needs money, I continued. Couple hundred bucks, tops. He doesn’t know many people in Chicago anymore. Besides, he’s a grown-ass man. Can’t ask his folks anymore.
Grace sighed and pulled the comforter up over her face. Don’t give him a cent, she said, muffled by the layers of down. He’ll be like a dog at the dinner table the rest of your adult life.
She's never let me forget about the last time Denny asked for money. Six months ago I floated him some cash, thinking I was helping him make rent or keep a student loan from going into default. Turned out Denny was two-hundred and thirty-seven dollars shy of the eight-hundred he needed to buy an English bulldog from a breeder up in Wilmette.
I’m sure this time’ll be different, I countered.
Grace snorted.
Famous last words.
***
When I got to the L&L Denny was one of two patrons at the bar, watching NHL highlights on Sportscenter. I saw three empty Stellas lined up in front of him. I wondered how long he’d been there, if he'd called any of our other friends before he got ahold of me. When he saw me approach he got up off his stool and greeted me with a hug. He held on for too long, per usual.
Look at you, he said. All grown up.
We’re the same age, dickhead. And, you saw me two weeks ago.
I ordered a round and pulled up a stool next to Denny’s. I braced myself for The Problem, hoping our conversation wouldn’t dredge up Problems Plural. Instead, Denny just talked business, told me about the world of IT consulting and how he’s usually the only non-Asian on any given project and, yes, he knows how bad that sounds but it happens to be the truth. How the money’s good while it lasts but the problem is that it never it lasts. How his current gig requires him to live out of a Hampton Inn in downtown Hartford. How he’s already racked up five thousand miles this quarter from Chicago to Connecticut every week. How he’s going to cash in all his Rewards Points once he hits six figures from flying back and forth and fly around the world. How he'll make The Balkans his last stop so he can track down this Croatian woman he met at a Linux conference in Newark last month. Et cetera.
This all sounds great, I offered. Living the dream, Den. But I thought you said you had a problem. Because if you don’t...
Denny took a swig of his Stella, did one of those annoying ahhhs after swallowing.
Thing is, I’m gonna have a kid. And I think it might come out retarded.
***
I got the whole story, how Denny and Harry Kwon from the Bloomfield project went out for Happy Hour on a Friday, just to throw darts and kill a pitcher or two. How they met some community college chicks and got to talking UConn women’s hoops and how it’s sad that the Whalers aren’t around anymore and how surprising it is that parts of Hartford are so ghetto because it’s, like, Connecticut, you know? How a couple drinks became several and how the Hampton Inn was right there. How he’s still paying off the TV he broke when he pushed it off the stand so he could fuck Lacey on top of it, ankles on the shoulders and everything. How weeks later he got a phone call from a terrified local, crying into her cell about how she’s sure the baby’s his because he’s the only guy she’s been with since she broke up with Marcus and that was four months ago. How she’s keeping it, end of discussion.
That’s it? You called me down here for that?
I expected Denny to get pissed but he didn’t. He just dissolved into himself, like he was about to slip right through his stool and the floor and into the cellar. Hole up there for a decade or two.
I’m sorry, it’s just... What makes you think the kid is going to come out retarded? Does she...
Denny returned, snapped back into place like a push-button umbrella.
Lacey.
Right. Lacey. Does Lacey have a family history or something?
She was drunk. She was drunk when she conceived.
And?
And what? That kid’s gonna come out fucked up.
I told Denny that wasn’t necessarily true, that I’m no doctor but pretty confident that the problems he’s concerned about arise when a mother drinks during development, not conception. Asked him what percentage of the world’s population he believed could be reasonably attributed to Mommy and Daddy being completely shitfaced before, during, and after coitus. Seventy, eighty? Told him it doesn’t even matter because it’s grade school that fucks you up the most anyway, because that's when you realize that as long as you have the parents you do, you'll never stand a chance because your life's in the hands of two complete lunatics until you hit eighteen. If you're lucky.
Trust me, I continued. You’ll do more damage to that child than any vodka tonic ever could.
Denny grabbed a handful of popcorn from an unattended basket to his right.
That’s reassuring.
That’s fatherhood, friend.
I held up my empty Stella up for the bartender, desperate for a re-up. As he excavated two new beers from the ice trough I took out my cell and texted Grace, told her not to wait up. This was going to take awhile.
***
I dragged Denny to the corner of Belmont and Clark to hail him a cab, his arm thrown across my shoulders Weekend at Bernie’s-style. He could barely talk, let alone stand, and I didn’t want him passing out on the Red Line only to wake up alone and penniless on the South Side. I let maroon cab after maroon cab pass us by, on the advice of a friend-of-a-friend whose own recent maroon cab experience resulted in him getting the Christ kicked out of him in an industrial park in the West Loop. When a white cab pulled up to the curb, I poured Denny into the backseat and gently rested his head against the window. I gave the Polish cabbie thirty bucks and Denny’s address, told him not to fuck with my friend because I’ve got his badge number.
Hey. Fuck you, boss. I am a professional. Besides, your friend? He is not my type.
The cabbie winked, threw the cab in gear when I told him to sit tight. I grabbed the lapel of Denny’s peacoat and yanked him upright, turned his head to face me. His bloated cheek felt cold against my hand.
Look at me, I demanded.
Denny’s eyelids retracted and I saw the full extent of his drunkenness, red and glassy.
It’ll be fine. You’re a fuck-up in a world full of ‘em. Just don’t be one of these island types, okay? Ask for help. Beg if you have to.
Denny blinked once, let his heavy head fall forward just enough to let me know he’d heard me.
He’s all yours, guy.
I slammed the car door shut and watched the cab speed west on Belmont, heading toward Bucktown and Denny’s two-flat. I sighed and tried to wrap my head around the idea that I’d be referred to as Uncle Nate in about eight months. It didn’t take.
I rolled out of bed and threw on some jeans and a hoodie, told Grace I wouldn’t be long. He probably just needs money, I continued. Couple hundred bucks, tops. He doesn’t know many people in Chicago anymore. Besides, he’s a grown-ass man. Can’t ask his folks anymore.
Grace sighed and pulled the comforter up over her face. Don’t give him a cent, she said, muffled by the layers of down. He’ll be like a dog at the dinner table the rest of your adult life.
She's never let me forget about the last time Denny asked for money. Six months ago I floated him some cash, thinking I was helping him make rent or keep a student loan from going into default. Turned out Denny was two-hundred and thirty-seven dollars shy of the eight-hundred he needed to buy an English bulldog from a breeder up in Wilmette.
I’m sure this time’ll be different, I countered.
Grace snorted.
Famous last words.
***
When I got to the L&L Denny was one of two patrons at the bar, watching NHL highlights on Sportscenter. I saw three empty Stellas lined up in front of him. I wondered how long he’d been there, if he'd called any of our other friends before he got ahold of me. When he saw me approach he got up off his stool and greeted me with a hug. He held on for too long, per usual.
Look at you, he said. All grown up.
We’re the same age, dickhead. And, you saw me two weeks ago.
I ordered a round and pulled up a stool next to Denny’s. I braced myself for The Problem, hoping our conversation wouldn’t dredge up Problems Plural. Instead, Denny just talked business, told me about the world of IT consulting and how he’s usually the only non-Asian on any given project and, yes, he knows how bad that sounds but it happens to be the truth. How the money’s good while it lasts but the problem is that it never it lasts. How his current gig requires him to live out of a Hampton Inn in downtown Hartford. How he’s already racked up five thousand miles this quarter from Chicago to Connecticut every week. How he’s going to cash in all his Rewards Points once he hits six figures from flying back and forth and fly around the world. How he'll make The Balkans his last stop so he can track down this Croatian woman he met at a Linux conference in Newark last month. Et cetera.
This all sounds great, I offered. Living the dream, Den. But I thought you said you had a problem. Because if you don’t...
Denny took a swig of his Stella, did one of those annoying ahhhs after swallowing.
Thing is, I’m gonna have a kid. And I think it might come out retarded.
***
I got the whole story, how Denny and Harry Kwon from the Bloomfield project went out for Happy Hour on a Friday, just to throw darts and kill a pitcher or two. How they met some community college chicks and got to talking UConn women’s hoops and how it’s sad that the Whalers aren’t around anymore and how surprising it is that parts of Hartford are so ghetto because it’s, like, Connecticut, you know? How a couple drinks became several and how the Hampton Inn was right there. How he’s still paying off the TV he broke when he pushed it off the stand so he could fuck Lacey on top of it, ankles on the shoulders and everything. How weeks later he got a phone call from a terrified local, crying into her cell about how she’s sure the baby’s his because he’s the only guy she’s been with since she broke up with Marcus and that was four months ago. How she’s keeping it, end of discussion.
That’s it? You called me down here for that?
I expected Denny to get pissed but he didn’t. He just dissolved into himself, like he was about to slip right through his stool and the floor and into the cellar. Hole up there for a decade or two.
I’m sorry, it’s just... What makes you think the kid is going to come out retarded? Does she...
Denny returned, snapped back into place like a push-button umbrella.
Lacey.
Right. Lacey. Does Lacey have a family history or something?
She was drunk. She was drunk when she conceived.
And?
And what? That kid’s gonna come out fucked up.
I told Denny that wasn’t necessarily true, that I’m no doctor but pretty confident that the problems he’s concerned about arise when a mother drinks during development, not conception. Asked him what percentage of the world’s population he believed could be reasonably attributed to Mommy and Daddy being completely shitfaced before, during, and after coitus. Seventy, eighty? Told him it doesn’t even matter because it’s grade school that fucks you up the most anyway, because that's when you realize that as long as you have the parents you do, you'll never stand a chance because your life's in the hands of two complete lunatics until you hit eighteen. If you're lucky.
Trust me, I continued. You’ll do more damage to that child than any vodka tonic ever could.
Denny grabbed a handful of popcorn from an unattended basket to his right.
That’s reassuring.
That’s fatherhood, friend.
I held up my empty Stella up for the bartender, desperate for a re-up. As he excavated two new beers from the ice trough I took out my cell and texted Grace, told her not to wait up. This was going to take awhile.
***
I dragged Denny to the corner of Belmont and Clark to hail him a cab, his arm thrown across my shoulders Weekend at Bernie’s-style. He could barely talk, let alone stand, and I didn’t want him passing out on the Red Line only to wake up alone and penniless on the South Side. I let maroon cab after maroon cab pass us by, on the advice of a friend-of-a-friend whose own recent maroon cab experience resulted in him getting the Christ kicked out of him in an industrial park in the West Loop. When a white cab pulled up to the curb, I poured Denny into the backseat and gently rested his head against the window. I gave the Polish cabbie thirty bucks and Denny’s address, told him not to fuck with my friend because I’ve got his badge number.
Hey. Fuck you, boss. I am a professional. Besides, your friend? He is not my type.
The cabbie winked, threw the cab in gear when I told him to sit tight. I grabbed the lapel of Denny’s peacoat and yanked him upright, turned his head to face me. His bloated cheek felt cold against my hand.
Look at me, I demanded.
Denny’s eyelids retracted and I saw the full extent of his drunkenness, red and glassy.
It’ll be fine. You’re a fuck-up in a world full of ‘em. Just don’t be one of these island types, okay? Ask for help. Beg if you have to.
Denny blinked once, let his heavy head fall forward just enough to let me know he’d heard me.
He’s all yours, guy.
I slammed the car door shut and watched the cab speed west on Belmont, heading toward Bucktown and Denny’s two-flat. I sighed and tried to wrap my head around the idea that I’d be referred to as Uncle Nate in about eight months. It didn’t take.
A poignant story--Caleb JW Brasset
It was a poignant story of incest. I told the guy I liked it very much. In fact I had read it as superficially as possible, to get the names and the gist of the plot, in case he asked, because I wanted to borrow money. He did ask about the story. He wanted to know what really worked. I mentioned some names and some turns in the plot. He asked, did I think it could be published? I said knowingly that it could.
We shook hands and went in different ways. I had borrowed sixty dollars. Another friend from another city called my mobile phone, and we had a conversation as I walked uptown. He was breaking up with his girlfriend. Some other girl had been putting the moves on him. He had to keep her away for a while. Next time she tries to kiss you stamp on her foot, I advised him. Secretly I was jealous of the excitement in his life.
After all that I was in a mood to be alone so I went to a place I hadn’t been to before. It was dimly lit and made of wood. I ordered from the bar and took my drink to the back, and sat at an empty table beside an empty table by the window. Because borrowed money is precious, the drink was most delicious. It was a whiskey sour, with lime not lemon, on ice, without sweetener or garnish. It would have been delicious no matter how it was paid for.
We shook hands and went in different ways. I had borrowed sixty dollars. Another friend from another city called my mobile phone, and we had a conversation as I walked uptown. He was breaking up with his girlfriend. Some other girl had been putting the moves on him. He had to keep her away for a while. Next time she tries to kiss you stamp on her foot, I advised him. Secretly I was jealous of the excitement in his life.
After all that I was in a mood to be alone so I went to a place I hadn’t been to before. It was dimly lit and made of wood. I ordered from the bar and took my drink to the back, and sat at an empty table beside an empty table by the window. Because borrowed money is precious, the drink was most delicious. It was a whiskey sour, with lime not lemon, on ice, without sweetener or garnish. It would have been delicious no matter how it was paid for.
Circling-Cavenaugh Kelly
The waiting home health nurses shivered under the dagger of a frozen gutter, blowing rings of cigarette smoke. Others searched the morning obituaries for a hospice nurse’s greatest compliment, being mentioned, or discussed problem patients, lazy husbands, Christmas debt, the expected “murderous mess” of a coming ice storm, and yet another day “in the old sick factory.”
Donna, the area manager, with burgundy hair, gray eyes, and a gap in her front teeth, laughed and smoked with the nurses outside, sipped coffee over the obituaries with the others, and finally, told everyone it was time for the meeting. She wanted her nurses on the road seeing patients before the storm hit and no one driving after dark unless it was an emergency.
Sagging red and silver garland hung from the walls of the conference room. A few Christmas cards and a fake wrapped present stood beside a percolating coffee pot on a far table. Donna opened the boxes of donuts, pastries and green Christmas cookies she’d purchased on her way to work. As the nurses arrived, Donna offered them food and passed it down, while Elaine, a bone-thin nurse with a smoker’s voice, took requests for juice, soda, and coffee. The talk and laughter grew loud until Donna interrupted with the first patient on her list. His name was John Reynolds, a seventy-five-year old with a spinal cord injury and chronic bladder infections.
“He’s shaped like a I don’t know what,” Elaine said.
“A Buddha,” Mary, a small nurse with frizzy bleached hair and a big voice, said.
“Exactly,” Elaine said, reaching for a donut. “A Buddha. With ears like Yoda.”
“I prefer rotund,” Donna said. “And let’s stay away from his ears. They aren’t clinically relevant.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Mary said. “Not fat, or clinically obese, but rotund. I’m sorry honey, but we can’t do it tonight because you’re too rotund.”
“Whether he’s a Buddha, or rotund, he can’t use the urinal at night because he has a hard time finding it,” Elaine said. “And since he can’t get to the commode, he sleeps in a wet diaper all night, and he keeps getting infections.”
“Don’t the aides clean it thoroughly?” Donna asked.
Kathy, an aide with gray hair and missing teeth, shook her head. “It’s too small and there’s too much fat.”
“Just give it a pull, Kath, and it’ll make an appearance,” Mary said with a grin.
“I’m not gonna give it a pull,” Kathy said, scowling.
“Focus people, focus,” Donna said, tapping the table. “We need to move on. Don’t think there’s much we can do about the man’s…shape. And the fact that it’s hard to find. We just need to clean his peri area best we can and continue with the antibiotics per doctor’s order.”
Jen, the office manager, poked her head in the door. “Elaine, you have a call.”
“Who is it?” Elaine asked.
“It’s Haley’s mom.”
“Oh God,” she said, rubbing her forehead, and left the room.
Donna ran her finger down the list, wanting to keep the meeting moving.
“Isabelle Hanson,” Donna said, “is an eighty-four-year old with a stage two pressure ulcer on her coccyx. She’s been on the program for six months and it’s still not healed. Medicare will not pay for maintenance care.”
Elaine came back white faced. She pulled on her fur-lined jacket and stuffed a pack of Marlboro Lights into her pocket. “My little girl is starting to circle.”
“Oh, Elaine,” Donna said, touching Elaine’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Kathy leaned over and hugged Elaine.
“I need to leave before I lose it,” Elaine said. She grabbed her nursing bag and left.
Everyone reached for tissues and dabbed and blew.
Donna put aside her list. It was no longer important.
“I’ll never forget my first hospice patient,” Mary said. “Started circling the drain Christmas Eve. He was forty-six and had three kids. A wonderful man. Taught English at the high school. Had two hospice goals. See his boy play one more basketball game and survive until Christmas. Did both. Then he died.”
“My brother died the week before Christmas,” Kathy said. “And not a holiday goes by when we don’t think of him.”
“It should be a law. No deaths between November and January,” Mary said.
“And no deaths for anyone under ten,” Kathy said.
Donna took a long drink of tea. The clock on the wall ticked and a brewing second pot of coffee gurgled.
“Grandmother was my first,” Donna said. “A strict Presbyterian. Always made sure every Sunday was quiet. No TV, no games, and no fun. Everyone just sitting around reading our Bibles.”
The nurses closed their notebooks, capped pens, and reached for more coffee and pastries.
“She was sick forever,” Donna said. “Going in and out of the hospital, recovering from this and getting that. Then one morning, she simply said she was ready. Mother believed her right off, and said we all had to go in and say good bye. I was the last grandchild to see her. She was in what everybody called the birthing and dying room. The house was over two hundred years old, and in that room they delivered babies and lay bodies at rest for the viewing. My brother used to tease me about the ghosts from all the dead people and for the longest time I believed him.”
“My great grammy had a room like that,” Kathy said. “Only I think they called it the bucket-kicking room.”
“Great. I can see it all now,” Mary said. “Looking a little weathered there, Nanna. Time to send you off to the bucket-kicking room.”
“I was just kidding about the bucket part,” Kathy said. “They also called it the dying room. And it was only for viewings after they died.”
“Do you wanna hear the rest of my story before the storm hits?” Donna asked.
“I promise, no more interruptions,” Kathy said.
Donna smiled and continued. “When I went into what we called the dying room, Grandmother was propped up with pillows in the big brass bed. Her gray hair flowed down to her knitted patch quilt, her face looked all powdered, and she was wearing her wedding dress. I thought this was all very strange, and I only wanted to turn around and run, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
“‘I’m going to die tonight, Donna,’ Grandmother said. ‘And I have some things I have to say to you.’
“‘You’re not going to die tonight, Grandmother,’ I said.
“‘I’m ninety one, and I’m not going to live forever. So please come in and sit.’
“I did as I was told and sat beside the bed and folded my hands. Sitting there I couldn’t help but stare at her dress. For years I’d sneaked peaks at it in her closet, and I can still remember its intricate lace and little white buttons and ribbons. But it didn’t exactly look dreamy on Grandmother that day. To be honest, it kind of sagged off her, and it was more of a faded yellow than creamy white, with lots of wrinkles and folds, like it needed a good pressing and white-washing.
“‘Number one,’ Grandmother said, waving her finger at me, ‘study hard. Number two, obey your parents. And number three, stay a virgin ‘til you’re married.’
“I was thirteen and I thought, there’s no way I’m gonna do that,” Donna said. “But I didn’t say it of course.
“‘Number four,’ Grandmother said, now smiling. ‘Become a nurse. Don’t let any man stop you.’
“I’ve wanted to be a nurse since I was three,” Donna said.
“‘Number five,’ Grandmother said, once more serious, ‘Raise your children Presbyterian.’
“Didn’t do too good on that one either.
“‘You can leave now,’ Grandmother said, waving me off. ‘Give me a kiss, and send in your mother.’
“‘But Grandmother,’ I said. ‘Why are you wearing your wedding dress and why do you think you’re going to die tonight?’
“‘Please go, Donna.’
“I kissed her powdered forehead like she wanted and left. That night she went to sleep like always and I stayed up all night staring at the ceiling, wanting to run in there and see if she was all right. In the morning I ran in first thing and there she was asleep in her rumpled dress, eyes closed. I walked up to the big bed and nudged her shoulder gently. One eye opened, she said, ‘Oh shit,’ and closed it. And that was that. She never opened her eyes again, lost consciousness, and passed that afternoon.”
Donna, the area manager, with burgundy hair, gray eyes, and a gap in her front teeth, laughed and smoked with the nurses outside, sipped coffee over the obituaries with the others, and finally, told everyone it was time for the meeting. She wanted her nurses on the road seeing patients before the storm hit and no one driving after dark unless it was an emergency.
Sagging red and silver garland hung from the walls of the conference room. A few Christmas cards and a fake wrapped present stood beside a percolating coffee pot on a far table. Donna opened the boxes of donuts, pastries and green Christmas cookies she’d purchased on her way to work. As the nurses arrived, Donna offered them food and passed it down, while Elaine, a bone-thin nurse with a smoker’s voice, took requests for juice, soda, and coffee. The talk and laughter grew loud until Donna interrupted with the first patient on her list. His name was John Reynolds, a seventy-five-year old with a spinal cord injury and chronic bladder infections.
“He’s shaped like a I don’t know what,” Elaine said.
“A Buddha,” Mary, a small nurse with frizzy bleached hair and a big voice, said.
“Exactly,” Elaine said, reaching for a donut. “A Buddha. With ears like Yoda.”
“I prefer rotund,” Donna said. “And let’s stay away from his ears. They aren’t clinically relevant.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Mary said. “Not fat, or clinically obese, but rotund. I’m sorry honey, but we can’t do it tonight because you’re too rotund.”
“Whether he’s a Buddha, or rotund, he can’t use the urinal at night because he has a hard time finding it,” Elaine said. “And since he can’t get to the commode, he sleeps in a wet diaper all night, and he keeps getting infections.”
“Don’t the aides clean it thoroughly?” Donna asked.
Kathy, an aide with gray hair and missing teeth, shook her head. “It’s too small and there’s too much fat.”
“Just give it a pull, Kath, and it’ll make an appearance,” Mary said with a grin.
“I’m not gonna give it a pull,” Kathy said, scowling.
“Focus people, focus,” Donna said, tapping the table. “We need to move on. Don’t think there’s much we can do about the man’s…shape. And the fact that it’s hard to find. We just need to clean his peri area best we can and continue with the antibiotics per doctor’s order.”
Jen, the office manager, poked her head in the door. “Elaine, you have a call.”
“Who is it?” Elaine asked.
“It’s Haley’s mom.”
“Oh God,” she said, rubbing her forehead, and left the room.
Donna ran her finger down the list, wanting to keep the meeting moving.
“Isabelle Hanson,” Donna said, “is an eighty-four-year old with a stage two pressure ulcer on her coccyx. She’s been on the program for six months and it’s still not healed. Medicare will not pay for maintenance care.”
Elaine came back white faced. She pulled on her fur-lined jacket and stuffed a pack of Marlboro Lights into her pocket. “My little girl is starting to circle.”
“Oh, Elaine,” Donna said, touching Elaine’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Kathy leaned over and hugged Elaine.
“I need to leave before I lose it,” Elaine said. She grabbed her nursing bag and left.
Everyone reached for tissues and dabbed and blew.
Donna put aside her list. It was no longer important.
“I’ll never forget my first hospice patient,” Mary said. “Started circling the drain Christmas Eve. He was forty-six and had three kids. A wonderful man. Taught English at the high school. Had two hospice goals. See his boy play one more basketball game and survive until Christmas. Did both. Then he died.”
“My brother died the week before Christmas,” Kathy said. “And not a holiday goes by when we don’t think of him.”
“It should be a law. No deaths between November and January,” Mary said.
“And no deaths for anyone under ten,” Kathy said.
Donna took a long drink of tea. The clock on the wall ticked and a brewing second pot of coffee gurgled.
“Grandmother was my first,” Donna said. “A strict Presbyterian. Always made sure every Sunday was quiet. No TV, no games, and no fun. Everyone just sitting around reading our Bibles.”
The nurses closed their notebooks, capped pens, and reached for more coffee and pastries.
“She was sick forever,” Donna said. “Going in and out of the hospital, recovering from this and getting that. Then one morning, she simply said she was ready. Mother believed her right off, and said we all had to go in and say good bye. I was the last grandchild to see her. She was in what everybody called the birthing and dying room. The house was over two hundred years old, and in that room they delivered babies and lay bodies at rest for the viewing. My brother used to tease me about the ghosts from all the dead people and for the longest time I believed him.”
“My great grammy had a room like that,” Kathy said. “Only I think they called it the bucket-kicking room.”
“Great. I can see it all now,” Mary said. “Looking a little weathered there, Nanna. Time to send you off to the bucket-kicking room.”
“I was just kidding about the bucket part,” Kathy said. “They also called it the dying room. And it was only for viewings after they died.”
“Do you wanna hear the rest of my story before the storm hits?” Donna asked.
“I promise, no more interruptions,” Kathy said.
Donna smiled and continued. “When I went into what we called the dying room, Grandmother was propped up with pillows in the big brass bed. Her gray hair flowed down to her knitted patch quilt, her face looked all powdered, and she was wearing her wedding dress. I thought this was all very strange, and I only wanted to turn around and run, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
“‘I’m going to die tonight, Donna,’ Grandmother said. ‘And I have some things I have to say to you.’
“‘You’re not going to die tonight, Grandmother,’ I said.
“‘I’m ninety one, and I’m not going to live forever. So please come in and sit.’
“I did as I was told and sat beside the bed and folded my hands. Sitting there I couldn’t help but stare at her dress. For years I’d sneaked peaks at it in her closet, and I can still remember its intricate lace and little white buttons and ribbons. But it didn’t exactly look dreamy on Grandmother that day. To be honest, it kind of sagged off her, and it was more of a faded yellow than creamy white, with lots of wrinkles and folds, like it needed a good pressing and white-washing.
“‘Number one,’ Grandmother said, waving her finger at me, ‘study hard. Number two, obey your parents. And number three, stay a virgin ‘til you’re married.’
“I was thirteen and I thought, there’s no way I’m gonna do that,” Donna said. “But I didn’t say it of course.
“‘Number four,’ Grandmother said, now smiling. ‘Become a nurse. Don’t let any man stop you.’
“I’ve wanted to be a nurse since I was three,” Donna said.
“‘Number five,’ Grandmother said, once more serious, ‘Raise your children Presbyterian.’
“Didn’t do too good on that one either.
“‘You can leave now,’ Grandmother said, waving me off. ‘Give me a kiss, and send in your mother.’
“‘But Grandmother,’ I said. ‘Why are you wearing your wedding dress and why do you think you’re going to die tonight?’
“‘Please go, Donna.’
“I kissed her powdered forehead like she wanted and left. That night she went to sleep like always and I stayed up all night staring at the ceiling, wanting to run in there and see if she was all right. In the morning I ran in first thing and there she was asleep in her rumpled dress, eyes closed. I walked up to the big bed and nudged her shoulder gently. One eye opened, she said, ‘Oh shit,’ and closed it. And that was that. She never opened her eyes again, lost consciousness, and passed that afternoon.”
The Musical Mind-Craig Medvecky
Gould debuts at Town Hall and immediately thereafter signs a recording contract with Columbia.
Refusing to shake hands with anyone, Gould sits back from the piano—his left leg crossed over his right—and plays from far below the keys humming as Gould goes. Pale as a sheet and thin, constantly tugging his pants up, Gould plays without shoes on, in socks, with a Band-Aid on his finger. Gould conducts himself with one hand while Gould plays with the other: the second movement of Bach's Italian concerto. Gould is billed as a small-town boy coming out of the Canadian provinces. Everyone knows Gould is from Toronto and listens to the New York Philharmonic broadcasts on Sunday afternoons just as any civilized person is wont to do.
When Gould is at home, he conducts and bobs around no different that when Gould is on stage.
The incredible fluidity of the hands of Gould: the hand is boneless. Audiences can’t imagine how it moves. Even so Gould has clinkers. Gould calls them clinkers, one note in each of the recordings. If Gould keeps making the same mistake at the piano, Gould’s mother closes the lid and will not let him keep going. The day ends for Gould.
Gould insists on the music as Gould feels it and rages at Gould’s mother who prefers Gould to do what is standard. Gould’s mother constantly worries him about hats and coats and colds and catching sick, until in the end, Gould develops a hypochondriac condition.
On stage, Gould does not affect the same mannerism every time.
When hand and arm pain become a problem, Gould shoots a jigger of booze to loosen up.
Before his performances Gould takes diazepam as well as other tranquilizers. The pharmaceutical bottles often remain at hand on a stool of their own close beside him. At home Gould has a medicine closet from which to choose: Trifluopel, Allopurm, Reserpine, Clonidine, Tempazepam, Fiorinal, Neocortef, Sulfatrim, Propinol, Tetracyclaline, Chloroprom, and Phenylcutezone. Gould keeps several doctors going simultaneously.
Gould is a compulsive lister. The person of Gould is ill, highly neurotic about the exact times at which things happen. False significances haunt Gould late at night at the diner counter. Without music's ameliorative, the trillion details of life would swamp his defenseless brain.
The most difficult place to perform, says Gould, is one’s hometown. Who would want to live in such a place? Where one has to fight for a musical living. Most nights, Gould is all over the television. Afterward Gould speaks to the interviewers. Gould finds this amusing. It's the American Grande Dame, Gould says, who comes back stage and tells him, oh my dear you did play enchantingly tonight, you positively must come to my party and play for my guests. Gould finds this very amusing.
When Gould composes, it is only in the standard idiom of the early Modern/late Romantic period. What a shame for Gould that he cannot write post-modernistically! Eggheads say the role of tonality in music is finished. Yet, there is Gould re-writing the classics.
Gould makes Bach come alive by bringing Modern thoughts to neoclassical expressions within the constrained geometry of his neuroses. Gould plays the Viennese composers without difficulty. A few of his favorite are: Berg, Webern, Schöenberg, and some Czech or other. Gould is consistently articulating notes in groups of 2, 3, or 4 within larger phrases that stretch the normal length of measures or bars. These miniature figures eddy, bloom, cast about, follow lives and threads of consequence and then dissipate back into the depths of the piece. Later elements resurface as motifs in other pieces. Nuances persist with such lacey articulation that the effect is oceanic. How could a mind track, process, relate and differentiate that volume of information throughout the uninterrupted flow of time? The feats of Gould assure us that he is a polyphonic being and that we are not.
The Canadian government is not hip to the idea of cultural ambassadors. They want to know: who is Gould and why should they stake their international reputation on his performance? But Gould has an agent, very persistent.
Of Gould the Russian Pravda reports: “A pale young man walks on stage. His face immediately overwhelms us. He sits on a chair so low that we are astonished.”
The Russian people in the front rows dress in uniforms, like generals or prison guards. They are the young Communist League informants who are watching the reactions of the audience. They take note of individuals who respond with fervor when Gould plays.
Afterward, these men make a show of allowing Gould to walk around freely in their ancient city, as beautiful and committed to beauty as any city can be. Moved, Gould tells the camera, “I no longer have any fear of Communism. I have seen its incredible architectures, its sculptures of citywide proportion, massive and colorful. Can such a people possibly be responsible for rubbing out beauty from the face of the earth, after at all they have done to create it.” Back in his hotel Gould takes four seconol and writes a postcard to his dog. It is full of news of the dogs in Moscow. Is this a publicity stunt? No. Glenn Gould loves his dog.
Refusing to shake hands with anyone, Gould sits back from the piano—his left leg crossed over his right—and plays from far below the keys humming as Gould goes. Pale as a sheet and thin, constantly tugging his pants up, Gould plays without shoes on, in socks, with a Band-Aid on his finger. Gould conducts himself with one hand while Gould plays with the other: the second movement of Bach's Italian concerto. Gould is billed as a small-town boy coming out of the Canadian provinces. Everyone knows Gould is from Toronto and listens to the New York Philharmonic broadcasts on Sunday afternoons just as any civilized person is wont to do.
When Gould is at home, he conducts and bobs around no different that when Gould is on stage.
The incredible fluidity of the hands of Gould: the hand is boneless. Audiences can’t imagine how it moves. Even so Gould has clinkers. Gould calls them clinkers, one note in each of the recordings. If Gould keeps making the same mistake at the piano, Gould’s mother closes the lid and will not let him keep going. The day ends for Gould.
Gould insists on the music as Gould feels it and rages at Gould’s mother who prefers Gould to do what is standard. Gould’s mother constantly worries him about hats and coats and colds and catching sick, until in the end, Gould develops a hypochondriac condition.
On stage, Gould does not affect the same mannerism every time.
When hand and arm pain become a problem, Gould shoots a jigger of booze to loosen up.
Before his performances Gould takes diazepam as well as other tranquilizers. The pharmaceutical bottles often remain at hand on a stool of their own close beside him. At home Gould has a medicine closet from which to choose: Trifluopel, Allopurm, Reserpine, Clonidine, Tempazepam, Fiorinal, Neocortef, Sulfatrim, Propinol, Tetracyclaline, Chloroprom, and Phenylcutezone. Gould keeps several doctors going simultaneously.
Gould is a compulsive lister. The person of Gould is ill, highly neurotic about the exact times at which things happen. False significances haunt Gould late at night at the diner counter. Without music's ameliorative, the trillion details of life would swamp his defenseless brain.
The most difficult place to perform, says Gould, is one’s hometown. Who would want to live in such a place? Where one has to fight for a musical living. Most nights, Gould is all over the television. Afterward Gould speaks to the interviewers. Gould finds this amusing. It's the American Grande Dame, Gould says, who comes back stage and tells him, oh my dear you did play enchantingly tonight, you positively must come to my party and play for my guests. Gould finds this very amusing.
When Gould composes, it is only in the standard idiom of the early Modern/late Romantic period. What a shame for Gould that he cannot write post-modernistically! Eggheads say the role of tonality in music is finished. Yet, there is Gould re-writing the classics.
Gould makes Bach come alive by bringing Modern thoughts to neoclassical expressions within the constrained geometry of his neuroses. Gould plays the Viennese composers without difficulty. A few of his favorite are: Berg, Webern, Schöenberg, and some Czech or other. Gould is consistently articulating notes in groups of 2, 3, or 4 within larger phrases that stretch the normal length of measures or bars. These miniature figures eddy, bloom, cast about, follow lives and threads of consequence and then dissipate back into the depths of the piece. Later elements resurface as motifs in other pieces. Nuances persist with such lacey articulation that the effect is oceanic. How could a mind track, process, relate and differentiate that volume of information throughout the uninterrupted flow of time? The feats of Gould assure us that he is a polyphonic being and that we are not.
The Canadian government is not hip to the idea of cultural ambassadors. They want to know: who is Gould and why should they stake their international reputation on his performance? But Gould has an agent, very persistent.
Of Gould the Russian Pravda reports: “A pale young man walks on stage. His face immediately overwhelms us. He sits on a chair so low that we are astonished.”
The Russian people in the front rows dress in uniforms, like generals or prison guards. They are the young Communist League informants who are watching the reactions of the audience. They take note of individuals who respond with fervor when Gould plays.
Afterward, these men make a show of allowing Gould to walk around freely in their ancient city, as beautiful and committed to beauty as any city can be. Moved, Gould tells the camera, “I no longer have any fear of Communism. I have seen its incredible architectures, its sculptures of citywide proportion, massive and colorful. Can such a people possibly be responsible for rubbing out beauty from the face of the earth, after at all they have done to create it.” Back in his hotel Gould takes four seconol and writes a postcard to his dog. It is full of news of the dogs in Moscow. Is this a publicity stunt? No. Glenn Gould loves his dog.
Writing--Chris Crittenden
roll foam that shrinks
to stuff your ears,
where it expands to cork noise
and catch pulse.
sit
on an electric chair
or crag of Golgotha
while slyly forgetting
you’re almost bored,
a little tingle
over a ditch of thought
where anything could happen,
but that’s a cliché,
you can’t write it down;
but you do, defiant,
knowing at best it’s a handy lie,
not art.
pause, hope, cuss.
try not to constipate the flow
as a cushion numbs your ass,
and you struggle to cry.
you’re not sad enough
to surf epiphany.
fate won’t grant
your lame tachycardia
a spike.
you want it too much,
as a Buddhist would say,
or not as much as a Protestant.
when finally done,
the young prince of ink
foresees his own tragic death.
to stuff your ears,
where it expands to cork noise
and catch pulse.
sit
on an electric chair
or crag of Golgotha
while slyly forgetting
you’re almost bored,
a little tingle
over a ditch of thought
where anything could happen,
but that’s a cliché,
you can’t write it down;
but you do, defiant,
knowing at best it’s a handy lie,
not art.
pause, hope, cuss.
try not to constipate the flow
as a cushion numbs your ass,
and you struggle to cry.
you’re not sad enough
to surf epiphany.
fate won’t grant
your lame tachycardia
a spike.
you want it too much,
as a Buddhist would say,
or not as much as a Protestant.
when finally done,
the young prince of ink
foresees his own tragic death.
Midnight Laptop-Chris Crittenden
pale sheet near a face which stares like an asteroid,
the eyes craters full of the screen’s dull silver,
and the latter an impostor,
trying to be whatever the other wants.
neither going anywhere,
both half shut down
with heavy pushy dreams.
neither offering what the other needs,
these phantoms who only share so much:
tender keystrokes
and responsive glow.
the eyes craters full of the screen’s dull silver,
and the latter an impostor,
trying to be whatever the other wants.
neither going anywhere,
both half shut down
with heavy pushy dreams.
neither offering what the other needs,
these phantoms who only share so much:
tender keystrokes
and responsive glow.
A Long Night Scribbling Between Waves-Jim Davis
I wade with Grizzlies, my great paw
swiping at silver and pink fish.
I drink thick soup, trace abstract images
in its skin with the tip of a spoon.
Hokusai captured an image of a great wave,
so as to one day become a notebook cover. Of this I am certain.
Another glass of wine is consumed
and since Jeff Bridges won an Oscar,
I drink white russians in a robe until
my head tells me that I no longer want
to drink white russians, I want to play guitar.
I strum a few chords and sing to my notebook,
to the window and the wall, and I’m sure
I sound terrible, so I mix another drink,
and now I don’t care.
I plow gracefully through blue snow,
I take moguls with nimble charm and verse
flows like water off a mallard’s oily feathers.
Has anyone ever dipped a grasshopper in paint
and let it squirm around on canvas?
What if I was dipped and squirmed just the same?
If the images were compressed, and scale
not considered, you would be
hard pressed to tell the difference.
I’ve got work in four hours, and I can’t get comfortable.
Red, broken numbers. Books on a shelf.
I stuff my face into a pillow, my forehead rests
on the back of my numb hand, my mouth
tastes strange and I have heard that humans
were only meant to last as long as their teeth:
I think mine are dissolving.
I have no other death inclinations.
I am a long, stable canoe,
great waves crash and threaten to spill me
into the waters off Kanagawa.
I wipe froth from my face, to see my reflection
near the shore, eyes focused down the lengthof my brown snout, waiting
for the ideal moment
to strike the water.
"Firing Squad" by Jim Fuess
Two Short Poems-Mike Marks
simple sonic
simple sonic
chugged his tonic
became demonic
_______________________________
Recurring Dream
Birdflying, I’m the master of the sky.
Sprucegoose clumsy, I guide my domain.
It’s too easy to get too high,
Too hard to come down without pain.
simple sonic
chugged his tonic
became demonic
_______________________________
Recurring Dream
Birdflying, I’m the master of the sky.
Sprucegoose clumsy, I guide my domain.
It’s too easy to get too high,
Too hard to come down without pain.
The Pregnant Virgin Hen-Mike Marks
Purving on some star systems gone
before we started, hanging around naked
like wrds mssng vwls—Where did she come from,
the pregnant virgin hen? Her feathered Buddha belly
prosperity billboard, author of religion
the tarry slits on her wrists were jewelry scars
a lover, a bangle, an unwanted triangle.
Her voice of fear out-shouted her voice of pain;
her beak moved our mountains when she happened…
After her brain was packed with enzyme cabbage
and ceremoniously covered with salad berries,
her carbon bones told her mother of time,
father of invention, sage of another.
Where did she go, egg mom of our age?
before we started, hanging around naked
like wrds mssng vwls—Where did she come from,
the pregnant virgin hen? Her feathered Buddha belly
prosperity billboard, author of religion
the tarry slits on her wrists were jewelry scars
a lover, a bangle, an unwanted triangle.
Her voice of fear out-shouted her voice of pain;
her beak moved our mountains when she happened…
After her brain was packed with enzyme cabbage
and ceremoniously covered with salad berries,
her carbon bones told her mother of time,
father of invention, sage of another.
Where did she go, egg mom of our age?
Dreams of a Fruit Fly-Emily Kurn
While his brothers and sisters are rejoicing over the softening pear,
he dreams of quietly slipping away, looking back one last time at the fruit bowl.
He knows he was not put on this earth for fruit alone; he dreams
of rooms beyond the kitchen, of food beyond the fruit bowl,
of flying beyond the window’s glass and learning the language of birds.
He dreams of circumnavigating the house, traveling through each bedroom,
spending a week in one bathroom, a second week in the other,
a month or two in the garage. He dreams of new cultures, new bacterias,
new females for loving insemination.
He was a dreamer before he had wings. In the dim light of his puparium,
his larval mind would wander down dark alleys of imagination, the sound of jazz
drifting through open windows. And even though he came into the world this way,
he knows his family does not understand him. They are fifth generation fruit bowl,
it was his great great great grandfather who founded the Cedar St. colony almost
seven weeks ago upon the rotting of two purple plums and a single green grape.
And so, when it becomes clear
that there is a forgotten banana browning beneath the sweet potato,
he resists the urge to dive and instead lingers above the bowl and watches
his family’s mindless skittering over the sugary rot.
And then, with wings trembling and the sweet smell of fruit heavy in the air,
he breaks away toward the kitchen door and doesn’t look back.
he dreams of quietly slipping away, looking back one last time at the fruit bowl.
He knows he was not put on this earth for fruit alone; he dreams
of rooms beyond the kitchen, of food beyond the fruit bowl,
of flying beyond the window’s glass and learning the language of birds.
He dreams of circumnavigating the house, traveling through each bedroom,
spending a week in one bathroom, a second week in the other,
a month or two in the garage. He dreams of new cultures, new bacterias,
new females for loving insemination.
He was a dreamer before he had wings. In the dim light of his puparium,
his larval mind would wander down dark alleys of imagination, the sound of jazz
drifting through open windows. And even though he came into the world this way,
he knows his family does not understand him. They are fifth generation fruit bowl,
it was his great great great grandfather who founded the Cedar St. colony almost
seven weeks ago upon the rotting of two purple plums and a single green grape.
And so, when it becomes clear
that there is a forgotten banana browning beneath the sweet potato,
he resists the urge to dive and instead lingers above the bowl and watches
his family’s mindless skittering over the sugary rot.
And then, with wings trembling and the sweet smell of fruit heavy in the air,
he breaks away toward the kitchen door and doesn’t look back.
Origami-Emily Kurn
Practice it gently-
the origami of the heart,
the aortas and atriums, left and right
ventricles folding inward like paper
until it is a little boat set
loose inside of you.
It will be a thing without
anchor pulsing along your waterways: the
canal of your carotid, the
gutter of your small intestine, the
still open sea of your lungs.
Your little boat will drift awhile, the salty
air in its sails, the storms advancing and
retreating, the hull strong
until the tide carries it ashore and
at last you will find it,
moored behind your breastbone,
ready to be unfolded
slowly, carefully, back into your heart.
the origami of the heart,
the aortas and atriums, left and right
ventricles folding inward like paper
until it is a little boat set
loose inside of you.
It will be a thing without
anchor pulsing along your waterways: the
canal of your carotid, the
gutter of your small intestine, the
still open sea of your lungs.
Your little boat will drift awhile, the salty
air in its sails, the storms advancing and
retreating, the hull strong
until the tide carries it ashore and
at last you will find it,
moored behind your breastbone,
ready to be unfolded
slowly, carefully, back into your heart.
Morning on the El Tracks-Gertrude Van Dyke
I’m asking myself for directions,
a task made obsolete
by years of psychotherapy
saying you have no direction
you do not receive from others. No, wait,
I’m wrong, as usual—you don’t care.
That’s how I ended up waiting
to be run over by clicking cars
of people who don’t bother.
I’m waiting for someone to
come and suck the platitudes
out of the eerie blue daylight
with a lot of rain. That’s what
I woke up for, and I’m waiting
for it to change into the usual
sunny day that the fog burns into.
There’s a story to be told here,
of staring off into fog without finding
the sun. If that’s it. There’s a waiting
silhouette, waving her feet in the shade.
sort of sad in the Kerouac sense, perhaps
a tiny bit clichéd. I know you’re going
to ask Why because you always do, and
I say, with a smile, I’m not going
to tell you, shouting it from my perch to
scare away the nesting birds. I set the scene;
you stare at the worn bottoms of my sandals
as if the answer were written there.
a task made obsolete
by years of psychotherapy
saying you have no direction
you do not receive from others. No, wait,
I’m wrong, as usual—you don’t care.
That’s how I ended up waiting
to be run over by clicking cars
of people who don’t bother.
I’m waiting for someone to
come and suck the platitudes
out of the eerie blue daylight
with a lot of rain. That’s what
I woke up for, and I’m waiting
for it to change into the usual
sunny day that the fog burns into.
There’s a story to be told here,
of staring off into fog without finding
the sun. If that’s it. There’s a waiting
silhouette, waving her feet in the shade.
sort of sad in the Kerouac sense, perhaps
a tiny bit clichéd. I know you’re going
to ask Why because you always do, and
I say, with a smile, I’m not going
to tell you, shouting it from my perch to
scare away the nesting birds. I set the scene;
you stare at the worn bottoms of my sandals
as if the answer were written there.
Obscenity-Zeke Jarvis
I’m curling with my wife
I’m curling around my wife
I’m curling up in bed with my wife
I’m thinking about obscenity
I’m curling up with my wife in bed
our daughter sleeps with us
my granddaughter sleeps with us
I should say
our little girl sleeps in the room with us
I’m curling around my wife in bed
rarely think of her as my daughter
do I have the right to say this?
I’m thinking about obscenity
a trickster is an embodiment
I have a love on either side of me
do I have the right to say this?
a trickster is a disruption
a trickster is a revision
I’m curling around my wife
I’m thinking about obscenity
and I realize
this is the first time
I’ve considered my granddaughter
my daughter
thought of her that way
and I’m curled around my wife
a trickster
is a disruption
and I’m thinking
and my little girl farts
and I’m thinking about obscenity
and I’m the only one awake
and I’m thinking
my granddaughter is my daughter
a trickster is a disruption
a trickster is a revision
this is the first time
I have a love on either side of me
a revision
I’m curling around my wife
I’m curling around my wife
I’m curling up in bed with my wife
I’m thinking about obscenity
I’m curling up with my wife in bed
our daughter sleeps with us
my granddaughter sleeps with us
I should say
our little girl sleeps in the room with us
I’m curling around my wife in bed
rarely think of her as my daughter
do I have the right to say this?
I’m thinking about obscenity
a trickster is an embodiment
I have a love on either side of me
do I have the right to say this?
a trickster is a disruption
a trickster is a revision
I’m curling around my wife
I’m thinking about obscenity
and I realize
this is the first time
I’ve considered my granddaughter
my daughter
thought of her that way
and I’m curled around my wife
a trickster
is a disruption
and I’m thinking
and my little girl farts
and I’m thinking about obscenity
and I’m the only one awake
and I’m thinking
my granddaughter is my daughter
a trickster is a disruption
a trickster is a revision
this is the first time
I have a love on either side of me
a revision
I’m curling around my wife
Vector Field-Zeke Jarvis
sperm
SPAM
sample slapped together
simple assembly asinine
symbol semblance sublimated
sign similar segue
signifier suggestive so good
significance sags
signification syndication
synecdochal
sin
SPAM
sample slapped together
simple assembly asinine
symbol semblance sublimated
sign similar segue
signifier suggestive so good
significance sags
signification syndication
synecdochal
sin
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