Muster Magazine #2

MUSTER MAGAZINE ISSUE #2



Table of Contents

3. Do You Worry About the Rent? 4. Awake 5. In the Bedroom 6. Tubbles 12. The Story of Seeing a Guy Fall on Polk St. 14. G-Shit -Part Two 17. In the Past 19. Alarms Ring for a Reason -Part Two 23. Pretty, Petty, Pity 25. The Exorcism of an Atheist 28. Smooth Landings 29. The Suntan Poem 30. Ninja Star Hurricane 31. The Silent Type

Kevin Belew Kevin Belew Barbara O’Neal M. E. Brown Manuelito de la Gente Jesse Hall The Dervish Kevin Belew Kyle Enright John Costa Sarah Krebs Sarah Krebs Jesse Hall Sarah Krebs

Collected by Chris Gould Accepting Submissions; [email protected] Copyright The Well-Fed Artists League, August 2009

Do You Worry About the Rent?

Kevin Belew

When I look at the calender, Next to the computer, I see that it has been marked. Friday, July 17th, 2009 – $300 (still owe $100 for June) My lady, In the bed to my right, Wonders what it would be like to have my children. I’m still wondering, As she passes me a cigarette we’ve been sharing, How she’s been able to stand me for six months.

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Awake

So I awake. Erection, I can’t help it. I thought about it. Well, at least ive got that. Stepping off my bed, Its four feet tall, I put on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Slip on some shoes, grab a bukowski paper back and hit the john. Finished, I go back to my room. Undress and grab my razor, toothbrush and towel. I wait a little and hit the shower. I appreciate hot water. I thought about it. Well, at least ive got that.

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Kevin Belew

In the Bedroom

Barbara O’Neal

In the bedroom your sadness streaming down the walls. Passionate love binding, loss at the end of this second. Shattered hopes, bittersweet cries. An envisioned perfection of beauty, forgotten again. A bountiful new season. Tender closeness breaking the curse. Framed memories, fresh footsteps. A new bridge beckons. Counting backwards. Truth in seclusion. Lightness of body. Sinking deeper all sound disappears. Awash the black sea of despair covered in a blanket of mystery. That same sinking feeling, Disconnected. Am I forever bound to these relentless rants of fear? Swimming nearer calm seas Loss of limb rejoined to body. Dug my feet deep into the sand. Unleashed a demon too long trapped. Freed my spirit in one smile. Intend for joy and all else follows. I am the beauty. I am the brightness. That glow I see in others, now can be found inside of me. Planted my seed of life, promise to water it despite my strife. Can you smell my happniess?

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Tubbles

M. E. Brown

I was at the bus stop. I had just hit my wife. I had hit her in a real blind-bat kind of way three days prior. She forgave me, even asked for me to stay. I’m a real asshole, but so is she, the only exceptional thing about either of us is that we hadn’t fucked up and had a kid. She’d never even had an abortion; I think her cunt doesn’t work that way, doesn’t take to my come, or seem to like it. The babies just fall right out into the toilet, I mean the gross shit, born-dead and nameless. She’s not my wife; really, I call her that, it seems a lot better than the alternatives. I don’t mean swears or anything real crass, just girlfriend, old-lady, significant other, it’s all bullshit. “Wife” seems to have a legitimate history; even god would say okay to usurping the word, fuck the state and religious institutions. It’s a goddamn title, or a fucking, “objet d’art.” Or objective art, I don’t really give a shit. And her real name, it’s Winifred, so wife is just a good, old-fashioned and precious sobriquet, anyhow. I take the bus to and from drinking. I hate bars—not the prices, even, just the real jerks, like real ridiculous dudes wearing mustaches, sometimes combing ‘em out after a swig, you know, all fancy and ironic, the cropped black hairs, twisted handlebar ends with water repellent pomade or thick coagulated wax. It’s just make-up that comes in a can in a real masculine way. I don’t know, something about styling facial hair really bores me. I don’t get in fights, and no, I am not about to say some dumb thing against physical violence or about how we should all just use our minds and take to battling intellectually ‘cause I don’t sit around being all philosophical either, discussing “brain in the vat” with some douche bag who really might as well have his brain in a vat of shit. It’s always the same damn bar on the same night that has the deep-thinking street philosopher and the juke box heavy with coin gobbling quarters from the hand of some “it’s my twenty-first birthday” drunk girl paying her allowance to hear Madonna on repeat, while she and her friends, at the top their lungs, as good as the preacher himself, sing, “What I need right now is some good advice, please…” So I said I hate bars. Well, it doesn’t mean I avoid ‘em at all costs, which is why tonight, thanks to a real shit heat wave, I’m on the bus—a storm that I’m sensing was as angry as a bull ridden ‘round a pen, bucking its hind in a real frenzy, with his heels in our direction leaving a hot dust, so striking hot it makes a noise that coos my ears a real mean harmony—and so it’s the bus, which leaves nothing but a real lousy argument against drinking at The Crooked Tooth. This bus always runs late, and it did. The sun, that lump of a star beat down on my black hair like a good slave-whipping, but escaping domestic incongruities, even if late, is of a fundamental supremacy, so I stayed a patient man, unruffled, but beaded in a salted wet. I was of stable mind, committed to sitting my ass on a stool with ceiling fans above buzzing and swirling the damp air, cooling off real good twice, once for each of my problems. I am sitting down, drinking a vodka straight—just basic drinking. A girl, something little, spindly in the shoulders and anxious stands next me. “Hey, I know your cousin, yeah. Chester, right?” I am next to a poker machine, digital. It’s blinking in a dumb inanimate gadgetyas-fuck kind of way, a spangle of twinkling cards ripple across the screen and then it goes back to a real mundane looking dollar sign. “Yeah, Chester, he’s half

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English, British whatever, it’s all the same Queen, right? And half like Native American, some tribe that gets a lot of publicity for having been bad-ass, I don’t know, Apache or something. He’s always red, a real streak of rouge across the poor guy’s entire face, but just constantly.” A real ‘90s type of tube TV is muted and The Simpsons is on. The bubbly round gut of the dumb TV has an impressive glare going on and its portly oversized plastic is sitting on one of those metal wall mounts, the kind that’s always freakishly hanging from the ceiling and shit, like the ones in video stores that always look like they’re about to fall and fuck your face up real bad cause you’re the twit who’s under it reading the back of a Mel Gibson movie. “Hey yeah, I like this episode,” she points up from a pretty nefarious angle; should the fucker fall she’d be sure to get hit with some shrapnel. “Yeah, so I like him, your cousin, you remember the creek, the bike path…” “Yeah, it’s still there.” “Yeah, in those bushes. Remember the cops would ride by on their bikes at night? We’d camp there with booze and acid. Me and your cousin, we’d make out, and a lot of homeless kids would sleep there, stash their packs during the day and cruise around bullshitting people at the Safeway for, like, money and cigarettes.” “That’s a really great story” I’m sure it’s not but I am being patronizing and sweetly reassuring out of kindness. “Well, no, you totally hung out with us. You remember, we had Jack Daniels, and we were drinking it out of that Mason jar, ‘cause Chester stole it from his stepdad, yeah, and my friend with the blonde short hair….” “Oh, shit, yeah your Kathy cock block, right, and your, you had that friend, Warble Eye!” She interrupts, “Oh my god, what? cock block? That’s such bullshit…wait, who the fuck is Warble Eye” “That girl from that night, I guess that same night, I don’t know. I think that summer I was sleeping in laundromats and shit. My parents thought I was a real dick for being eighteen and jobless, whatever. So like yeah, Warble Eye. What’s her real name? Kathy is still standing, waddling, doing a kind of drunken shuffle that I can’t place. It could be the sexy flip-flopping of a junkie or a crazy, if you like the unpredictability, but the bounce might be just meaningless, like a chewed up stick of gum glued to the floor all sweaty and fleshy. I hadn’t remembered and hadn’t really given her thighs a good look to see if she’s just a kind of off-balance fat girl, the kind with the face of a 90-pounder but with that round bowling pin middle, or if she has the genuine egregiousness of a sketchy little wingnut. If anything she’s probably just a dyke now, with a girlfriend who makes sweet art and rides a skateboard. “Oh, her name, is Gina. She’s, like, overweight now….” I guess that answers it, assuming a fat chick isn’t going to tell on herself and get all cruel on her other fat friends; that would just be impolite. I look down; the former, she’s a tiny wisp of a girl and as wound-up as a sickle mower fucking the shit out of a really big yard. “…and Gina has 3 kids with this Mexican named like Juan-Carlos who is superillegal and always cheating on her.” “What do you mean super-illegal?”

“Like, he even has kids who were born here and the government or state, whatever, won’t even let him stay. I mean he’s just really that bad, you know?” “I guess.” She finally sits down, but then gets up immediately. Real jerky but lithe and asks, “You want to do some coke?” “Ok, but not in these fucking bathrooms. They’re a real fucking mess and Bernard, the owner, gets a firestorm about him if more than one person fucks around in the same restroom. He watches ‘em both real close like a fucking anti-drug emissary. He hates fucking and he hates drugs. He’s like the cock and coke proxy.” I was sort of leaning in, telling her, with my arm resting on the bar, until I pulled two dollar bills outta my jean pocket and sat them down for Bernard. At that point I couldn’t muster a conversation or competent enough motor skills to talk to her and do some shit. You know, I really didn’t believe she had coke, or at least not enough worth a damn. She seemed a little on the bust—having not even ordered a drink—to possess any relevant or substantial amount of cocaine. I’d take her for a more methamphetamine type, addicted to the caustic flavor of Tide laundry detergent and broken dreams. Whatever. “We aren’t getting in a fucking car are we?” I stopped getting in cars pie-eyed or high since I got in this totally insane accident, totaling the car. It was twisted and grotesque like a baby’s face the first time its welfare Mom feeds it high fructose corn syrup in its Sesame Street bottle. I mean the car was destroyed into little pieces that sparkled like Shirley Temple’s eyes. But not the real Shirley, like a porcelain doll with those glass eyes that reflect light and animate likeness. A real parboiled kooky kind of tangle and mess. The car; unrecognizable, except for the bits of frosty blue enamel, and this is true, my mom drove by the accident, didn’t even give a shit, wasn’t her problem, and she just couldn’t tell it was the debris of the IROC she had seen on blocks in her drive-way the whole year before. I had several broken ribs and a black eye, Chester exceedingly more plastered than the rest of us, seemed to fare better. He managed to gently somersault right out of the car like a nimble little caterpillar cushioned by its furry armor and land sprightly as the metamorphosed caterpillar cum butterfly. Maybe it’s some metaphysical Cherokee shit. Earlier that same day Shanna sucked my dick in the backseat. She was drinking a 48 ounce blue raspberry and cola Slurpee from 7-11—you know, the oxidizing kind that gets half its size by the time you get to the car. When we picked her up from the 7-11 by the freeway she was sitting on a painted yellow parking block. In front of her was something like a small pond filled with glistening black oil, bubbly with suds, shining rainbows as they curtseyed. It was about the size of one of those plastic kiddy pools people like to use to whelp dogs in. She got up, skipping over the oil-bathed asphalt puddle and into the backseat with me. About ten minutes later Chester whistled through a stop sign. I had a hand on Shanna’s tit and another on her leg—she was already through bobbing her face up and down on my cock, a real prank of a suck—I hadn’t come—just stiff enough to know she needed to stop or we’d be pulling over so I could stick her with a proper kind of poking—Shanna had the Slurpee between her legs. I was just turning my head to kiss her shoulder as the stop sign sailed by. Out of nowhere, a procession of that icy blue shit flew up into my face, a blinding sludge hurled across the car in a streak. The car caromed, and hammered the front of a

massive size truck. Shanna’s torso—like a shit out-of-luck stray dart—thumped forward, missing any conceivable target. Nearly as fast, her head seized back and hit the rear window, fracturing the glass into a trillion pieces, like the pixels in a million computer screens. And I am not being hyperbolic; her ass leapt out of the seat, rebounding her head into the window shattering those horizontal defroster lines until they spilled into a symphony of M-dashes. “Do you remember a girl named Shanna Fields?” I asked. “From high school, yeah. Why?” “She was in a coma for like a week and ended up kind of retarded after that.” Kathy shrugged. We ended up walking. I was right; she was kind of broke. We sat behind the community college. Some asshole walked by; he was real pasty and square; a real slow-coach creeping his little fat legs idly by. I told him to eat shit. All he could muster was an exaggerated cough. “Guffaw, you dumb zoo animal! waddle on!” He eventually did. The doorway was perfect; it kept the breeze from waltzing around and fucking up our lines. She opened up her bag, took out a CD case, and cut two rails for each of us into pearly little slugs on top of the plastic case using an ID card. She passed a hollowed-out pen to me. My knees were curled up into my chest like a bear hug. I balanced the cd case on the knobby plateau, and steadied it. Her hands were shaking; she had a kind of tick when anything hazardous was about to happen. “So, where’s your cousin now?” She was clearing her throat, pinching her nose with her head tilted back, waiting for the drain. “He went to court over this accident he had, but nothing happened because they said he was, like, depressed or had some personality disorder. So they let him live with his dad and do some therapy thing for two years. There is nothing really wrong with him; he just had a long history with psychologists so they put him on SSI and gave him meds.” She seemed interested; she seemed high, too, so I didn’t care either way, since it was all the bankrupt and inflated charm of drugs talking. “I am going to rob that church,” I said, slouched against the cement wall of the doorway. “What church?” The Assemblies of God was on Mission St. I wasn’t going to rob them rob them; just steal something. It made sense, since the Christians liked to post when they congregated, I mean the marquee was nothing but a placard of God’s office hours and other theocratic aphorisms about shit like burning in hell and how abortion is really mean-spirited. She was doing her little wriggling dance again, and lit a cigarette, “Want one?” I did, so she synchronously lit two. We were right off Mission on 4th Street, there was this liquor store on the corner, that had a real shit of a back alley, pissed-up garbage cans overflowed with trash, not the recyclable kind that the bums like, but old ratty cum stained newspapers and empty 12 packs of Natty Ice, mattresses leaned on the rear of the building, both peach and floral fading and obscured by a menagerie of decadent color; rain stained and sun washed, condoms littered the loose gravel ancient and sun bleached, mustard in color with crusty sour brown tips. “Fuck, it always smells like piss around here.” She keeps checking the tight,

unrelenting parts of her pants, every pocket, stitch, and hem; she is starting to get annoying, “Man, I hate this part of town.” It did smell like piss. The homeless guys all had shopping carts teeming to the brim with a full load of shit, and they’d never leave. They were urban sprawl; they were sidewalk nomads, lifting their legs and taking a whiz on every-other light post, reaching into the crevasse of every dark dry place in town. The humbums around here don’t ride trains, they’re immobilized and burdened by the weight of their thick-skinned wine jugs. They ramble around dusty and creaking. • I ditched Kathy. She wasn’t all mad that I left, but I had a feeling she’d find me eventually, ‘cause when I walked off kicking up a few rocks in her direction as I left, she had her hands firm on her hips and a cigarette seized between her lips as she gurgled little sighs at me, playing goalie, she pinched those pebbles beneath her feet. I was chain smoking rollies that tasted like shit; I usually like ‘em and don’t mind picking the pieces of tobacco off my lips, but the heat wasn’t subsiding and it was too sticky to manage a cigarette that needed so much attention. I was walking over to the Crystal Palace—this real dive of a motel where a lot of crack-heads with pit bulls live—when I passed the church, its lawn cropped and green. The sprinklers were shooting their aqua ammunitions, the overspray that settled on the pavement in intervals brushed my face—and cooled me for a second—as I walked through. I thought the whole day was bullshit. I was coming down, but what did I expect? Blow is so short lived; it saunters off in a slow hollow drawl cackling, empty like a school bus at midnight. Dogs were barking, and the sound was bouncing of the walls of near-by houses. You could tell they were in heat because there was an incessant whine that chirped as the yipping cascaded, the kind that gets the cops called. A van was pulled up to the side of the church, the dual back doors opened wide. The side door of the church was held open using a marble lawn ornament of the crucifix. A banner outside hung taut except for the small valley that wilted in the middle like the cleavage of a new mom. The banner said something about “youth night.” There were neon colored exclamations mark and other queer advertisements for Jesus. I walked up to the front of the van and ran my fingers along the side as I walked by. I didn’t hear chatter or anything, so I peered into the door of the church. I could feel the air conditioning blowing out the open door; it was that or the cold mirth of our good dead lord. It felt alright, but it didn’t matter ‘cause the sun was receding. I took off my sunglasses, and squinted—nope, no fucking body. I yelled out, followed by a whistle. “Hey, assholes!” Still nothing. I went around to the back of the van. The back doors were still open, and there was some band equipment, a few guitar cases and some drum hardware. I propped my foot on the tail of van and tied my shoe, and then I turned around, sat down and lit another cigarette, my hand huddling the stem of the cigarette; I flicked my lighter and inhaled. I grabbed a brown guitar case. Stenciled on the side was the name of the church. I was turning around when I heard somebody yelling. I was like, “What-thefuck,” when I saw Kathy with a cat in her arms, walking up the sidewalk. She

had on a bright yellow headband, she’d changed her hair or clothes or something since I last saw her, and she was carrying an orange tabby. He was cradled against her tits. While talking really fucking loud, she flailed her arm around, her bracelets jingled and flopped like they were stuck on a rototiller blade. “Oh my God, Kathy, shut the fuck up!” I started to walk off when a black guy came out of the church. He was on his phone; maybe he wouldn’t see me. I tried not to drag my feet or sneeze or anything to draw attention to myself. Kathy was walking up the gravel parking lot. “Hey, you, where did you go!?” “Turn around, Kathy,” I gave her a look and waved her off, flapping my hand like a swimmer’s legs. I put my cigarette between my lips, grabbed her arm with my hand and started towards the street, before I got even halfway there the black guy let out a guttural howl; “Hey, you two, get back here!” He slapped his cell phone closed, shoved it into his back pocket and took off towards us. “Holy shit!” I yelped. He had picked up a rock and fucking threw it at my head. “Goddamn, I can’t believe that guy,” Kathy said. “Yeah,” I said. “He hit me.” The black guy ran up, grabbed the bulbous end of the guitar case and started pulling. I tugged back. Kathy freaked out and started screaming, and the orange tabby lost its shit, leaping off of Kathy’s tits screeching, and thudded to the ground. I decided I’d fuck it, so I let go of the guitar case. When I did, the black guy jerked backward, stumbled, lost his footing, and fell to the ground. I took off, leaving Kathy hurdling towards the bushes looking for the tabby, but the black guy got up and grabbed her. Kathy screamed and hit him in the face, snatched the guitar and swung it at his head. I turned back around towards the street and kept running. I got down the street to a gas station, and sat on a bench outside. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead and lit a cigarette. Ten minutes later Kathy came back with the fat orange tabby and the guitar. She plopped down, pulled out a cigarette and asked me for a light. She told me the cat’s name was Tubbles, that he had tumors and that sometimes his nose bled. “It’s fucked up,” she said, wiping her face and sniffling.

The story of the seeing a guy fall on Polk St.

Manuelito de la Gente

I watched a guy split his head open the other night. It was the second time I have called 911 for a stranger. I was waiting on the 19 bus at Polk and Sacramento, and I saw this guy slumped against the glass doorway at that awesome donut shop they have up there. I’m a big fan of the woman that runs that store, they make great donuts and the whole block smells nice, plus they let me wait for the bus inside when it is really cold out and they used to sell me apple fritters that I would give to Janie to remind her that I loved her, back when she talked to me. So I’m usually at this stop at 11:03pm. It would usually be me and this older guy with a big white beard who would always say “good morning!” even though it was night time (I would always retort “good afternoon good sir”), and he would tell me the world is going to end for a 1000 years. He would ride the bus 2 stops to the same liquor store every night. And sometimes this pretty salvadorean chick who I guess is a chef and she lived in the Tenderloin. Anyway, a few nights before, someone had kicked in a window at the donut shop because he was all agitated and probably high or whatever, and it made me mad because they are cool people and I just missed it and I bet I could of done something if was only there! say my delusions of granduer. So when I saw this guy slumped against the window, I figured its another someone fucked up making the dont peoples live’s difficult. So I went over, woke the guy up, and told him to come outside with me. I’m pretty good with strangers when they are drunk (friends and family and myself are another story). So I told this guy in the nicest, friendly way, “hey c’mon buddy, we’re gonna go outside! You can sleep, but on that bench over there! It’s gonna be great!” And the guy woke right up, I mean he was alert instantly. And he’s like “Fuck that, I don’t wanna go sleep on the bench, I’ma go up the block and see my friends.” I was like hell yeah, good for you. But maybe five strides into this venture, he suddenly falls forward, straight to the ground. He actually broke his fall with his arms somehow, his fore-arms were all lacerated and bloody. He fell really hard. So it occurs to me that this guy isn’t drunk, he has some sort of neurological disorder, or he’s drunk and he has a neurological disorder. So this time, when I wake him up, he’s gonna sit on the bench and we will have a talk to figure out what the deal is. And I’m watching for that 11:17, 19 bus, sometimes, its early (actually it was always late, it was supposed to be a 11:11 but always came at 11:17). So again, the guy wakes right up and is alert. I tell him “Hey buddy! This is gonna be great! You gotta have a seat on this bench right here, OK!?” and he does.

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And when he sits down, he starts becoming drowsy. I try talking to him: “Do you have a nuerological disorder or something?” And he’s mumbly and vague and he keeps saying that he wants to go see his friends up the block. I’m encouraging him to take it easy and does he have any meds he was supposed to be taking, but the guy wants to go up the block. I can’t really justify stopping him. So he gets up, and starts walking and I watch. And he gets a third up the block and then just collapses, but this time he fell straight backward. His head hit the concrete so hard. The clunk sound was terrible. I rushed over there, and called 911 on my cell phone, and I wouldn’t let him get up or anything. I made him stay till the ambulance got there. When I saw the back of his head, it was all fucked up and bloody. The EMS guys were really funny when they got there. Good natured guys. And they blocked the whole street with a big shiny fire truck, so when the 19 got there, I had to stand outside and give the driver hand signal directions on how to get by. THE ENDING [I always recommend checking to see if that person down is alive. I usually get yelled at by an angry homeless person trying to get some sleep but I still think its the right thing to do.]

G-Shit, Part Two



Jesse Hall

5:56 PM Saturday

Drove the Lex over to my homeboy Cheese’s house. Cut the ignition, and hit the ‘bags again. Can’t be parkin all on stilts n shit. Jumped out, looked at the new wheels I just got. Dull gold, 5-star 20s. They fit just about right on the metal widebody. Walked up to the door and banged on that shit. Cheese answered and he looked high as fuck. Talked to him for a minute about some new mixtapes, and informed him about needing some shit. “Your new vest and some hollowtips? What the fuck? Youre makin me nervous” But I think he was already nervous. His fuckin pupils were bigger than his eyes! “Dont worry. I got these hoes. I dont fuck aroud, you know that! Fo sho tho, i need a couple extended clips’ worth. I got both my heaters” “Allrighty, lemme see what I can do. Would you rather just look? Im fuckin loaded. I might not be so efficent, ya?” Probably a good idea. “Gimme the keys and I’ll go to the safe. Want anything?” He knew I was just fucking with him.

“Ha, Ha” he joked, patronizingly. He sounded uneasy.

“Nah, just another hit,” as he took a big slapper of what looked like MDMA. I could only guess. You don’t usually eat cocaine. Got my shit and locked up the safe. Looked in the caibnet for my Secpro kevlar vest, bingo. My new shit. Unused, hopefully for another night. “Hey, you want some big league chew? This shit is FIRE,” he blurted from behind a fat wall of that shit. “Yah, fuck it. Probably wont hurt” As i put my face to the plate and licked all I could handle. Probably like almost half a gram. Cool, that’ll come in handy later. “Cool. Hit me up later and tell me how well it went! I’m sure you’ll be fine, especially now,” he reeled. He was getting higher and fucking couldnt stop vibrating. I mean this fuckers teeth were chattering. I said ‘later’ and told him I’d be straight. Fo real. He made me assure him several times. Now I was really getting a bad feeling about this shit. Fuck it, paper’s paper. Get that shit son. Gave my regards to Cheese, and walked back out to my car and put the suitcases in the trunk next to the JL audio subs. After sitting back in the LS and getting comfortable, I noticed my jaw starting to lock. Cool. Turned on the MP3 player and started slappin’ some

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Cougnut. This shit is fucking San Franpsycho at its most G, during the mid 90’s. I looked out the window towards the end of the street, and for some fucking reason the shit looked kinda trippy. Kinda psychadelic. Was that the shit coming on? This shit is strong, I thought. Cool. Put the shit in D and took off, slowly. Man, I was getting to feel how Cheese LOOKED. Saw some kids that sell shit for me and stopped to see if they needed to re-up. They showed me a wad and I took and counted it. Close to $1800. Good work, but they needed a couple days off to go some-fucking-where, I wasnt really listening. They just couldn’t move shit for a couple days. Whatever, they know who I am. Or do they? I felt my waist where I ususally keep my Sigsauer 9mm and it was, of course, there. Wait, what the fuck? Was I really thinking of showing these kids what time it was? Oh fuck, what the hell? No, they were good...They were allright...but a couple days with no sales??? FUCK FUCK FUCK.... Was the block getting hot? Cool it, hotrod. I started realizing that it was the fucking shit I took. It don’t feel like the MDMA that I usually take. Better call Cheese when I get settled. Took off down the block and was starting to feel antsy. I better go get a 40. Pulled up to 7-11 and hopped out, left the Lex running, which I never do. I wish a mutherfucker would try to fuck with it. Got back to the car, and for some reason looked over my shoulder. Saw a black, late model BMW with the passenger staring at me as they drove by. Hmmmm. Whatever. Punks. Got settled and drove to the park, and sat on a bench and pounded my 40. Now I was more relaxed, but still fucking high as a mutherfuckin’ antenna. Oh ya, better hit up Cheese and validate my thoughts.

“Cheese! What the fuck?”

“What do you mean? That shit didn’t get you up?” He was pretty geeky sounding.

“Ya, it got me REAL up. Was that the regular or what???”

“Naw son it was just MDA. Basically the same but a lot different. You like?” “Wow. What’s up? Is it better or just different? I feel really FAST...” I rapped, barely able to think about anything for longer than a second. “Ya its super faster. WAAAY faster. I been up for 5 days on that shit, can’t sleep for some odd reason. Just chill, you’ll be cool” “Okay, fo sho. Just had a Red Dog 40 and I’m feeling better. Thanks for the heads up, ya son of a bitch. Let a mutherfucker know next time!” “Like you need to be warned. I thought you could handle it.”

“Hey hey hey....I’m cool, just fucking a little rattly. I’ll hit you up later” I hung up before he could say anything. I usually don’t do that. Oh well, Cheese knows that I’m just high.

7:22 PM Saturday

FUCK THIS SHIT, I’VE HAD IT. WHO THE FUCK DO THESE QUEERS THINK THEY ARE? Just then I saw some suburban or what-the fuckever pull up and decided that I’ve fucking had it. FUCKING HAD IT. Whatever ‘Baal said, I didn’t like the sound of it. I mean, he sounded like he wasnt sure if these motherfuckers were gonna be grown up about this or try to do something strange. I don’t know exactly what this was all about, but from the beginning it sounded WAY fucking fishy, and I can’t even smell. Fuck that. I’ve fucking had it with this bullshit, and just then I decided to pull out my fucking Sigsauer 9mm and light these faggots up. Wait, not yet. Better go pop the trunk first and get the real heat. You remember? My silenced AK. Lay these motherfuckers to waste. Got out of the Lex real smoothly and clicked the remote trunk, real clean like so these marks couldn’t tell what was going on, like I was getting the.....money..... hehehe..walked around my car backwards, whipped around, and started lighting these motherfuckers up. I mean, ALL THE FUCKING WAY UP. Just then, I was thinking to myself that I’m glad I had this piece of shit firing pin modified to act like a machine gun, I mean fully fucking auto-fucking-matic. Nighty night, bitches. BUCK BUCK BUCK BUCK BUCK......bullet holes everywhere, and I noticed that there were more holes than there should have been, like someone else might have been cappin, too? What??? Anyway.... I count 2, no 3....4 dead bitches in a SUV, still cant pay attention to what make/model it was/is. FUCK THESE FAGGOTS. Was it just me, or was I becoming increasingly violent without concern? FUCK IT, THIS IS FUN. Besides, from what ‘Baal said earlier, might as well pinch these busters for whatever I was gonna cop from ‘em. Still firing into this bitch-made vehicle, I was just having fun at this point. God, this is cool. I bet I come back with the money and the fucking product. I fucking bet. Run over to the bitch-ass bitches, open the fucking door and start firing AGAIN!!! FUCK YES!!! I love kicking a dead horse. YOU DIE MOTHERFUCKER!!!! I’ve never seen such a fucking bloodbath. There was shit on the fucking ceiling at this point. FUCK YES.... Anyway, pilfered the keys from the ignition and went to the rear of the vehicle, where I guessed the shit would be. Good fucking guess, there was some fucking Gucci breifcase that was heavier than shit. Grabbed it, looked to the south and noticed my boy Cheese on top of the building corner, waving his arms like a bandit. Was he there the whole time??? At this point, I realize that I’m higher that a Sherpa on meth on a ladder in a spaceship. Just then I locked eyes with him, raised my arm with the breifcase and pulled the trigger of my AK, just into the air or wherever, as a sign that things went better than expected.

In the Past

The Dervish

theres nothing for food there are endless funds for packaging liqour store bottles and compact discs and kitchen appliance t-shirt they are butcher diamonds gleaming set in blood plated golden LCD displays with beckoning primate forms flashing lights that form letters that form words “only and “now! and “your family transparent vessels with iridescent liquids holograms of celebrity shenanigans colorful plastic array of motors, blades, burners molded cloth and humans epileptic jingles plastic catch phrase and sonnet displays stand stoic while spine sprawls supine

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on rusted handrails of escalators hungry and tired and enticed by bright purple the boxes metal and heavy born of stretching smoke stack the contents unsatiate and mock the distendeds this is the future and theres nothing for food there are endless funds for packaging

Alarms Ring for a Reason, Part Two

Kevin Belew

“When Sam and I were walking over here we saw cops questioning some kids. There was a pretty big puddle of blood too. Anyways, I asked some kids that were hanging around, what happened? They told me that two kids were fighting and one kid got stabbed in the neck.” Tracy looked directly at Gino. Gino questioned her, “Did any of the kids go into detail about the fight?” Tracy responded, “Yeah, I guess one of the kids got his ass kicked, and then when the other kid turned his back he stabbed him in the neck.” Gino asked, “How old were they?” Tracy replied, “I think they were like, thirteen, I’m not to sure but they were young.” Justin said, “Damn, that’s young.” “Ya I think the kid died as well,” added Tracy. Justin’s clairvoyant description, of the murder scene, before he had even got to the store to purchase his beverages did not surprise him. What did surprise him was the engagement of Samantha’s stare. It was after the stare that he noticed Samantha entirely. Although she was sitting on the couch he could tell that she was about five and a half feet tall. She was wearing short pants cut off at the thigh. Her slender legs allowed her to show them off with such clothing. Her upper body followed suit, thin arms and a tight stomach, not so defined that she had to work out to maintain herself. Her chest was not bursting, but she definitely had a chest. Her neck had room but was not that of a prima ballerina. Her face was without makeup, naturally beautiful. It was her eyes, large blue sparkling eyes, which attracted him mostly. For some reason, the eyes did something for Justin that the body could not. He thought he could see, in the eyes, the truth. The true nature of the personality behind the eyes. He could tell, if he stared long enough, if they were genuinely evil or good natured. Tracy continued to talk as the joint was passed around. Justin was no longer intrigued, noticing she was talking directly to Gino, by her conversation but by Samantha’s occasional peripheral glance. He had taken to ignoring Tracy for the moment. Justin looked at Samantha and said, “So, Samantha how’s your beverage.” She responded, to Justin’s surprise that it was, “delicious.” She added, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a King Cobra.” Justin laughed, “Well I assumed that you had probably never had one. I was a bit surprised when you called it ‘delicious’.” She gave him a funny look, “Well I do admit that I have a fondness for high end spirits but it was free.” Justin laughed, “High end spirits.” Samantha said, “Well I just mean, you know, micro brews, wine, some nice liquors. Malt liquors not bad though.” Justin said, “Well maybe next time I will come by with a nice bottle of wine. Or maybe we could have a bottle later tonight?” Tracy, who had the most to say, was directing her conversation at Gino. She had barely picked up Justin’s last comment and interrupted, “Are you trying to fuck my friend.” Justin had not been paying attention to Tracy since he had

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started in on Samantha. It surprised him to hear Tracy’s bluntness. He looked coolly over at Tracy and said, “I believe that the fucking would be up to Samantha. I was asking her if she would like to split a bottle of wine with me later.” Tracy looked over at Samantha who said, “You know Justin, that sounds fine. But why don’t we all go and have a bottle. I think I’d feel a little more comfortable.” Justin looked at Gino, then Tracy. He saw no disapproving looks so he said, “Well I’m fine with that, what’s up Gino, you wanna come with?” Gino looked over at Tracy, “Only if Tracy’s going.” Tracy liked having some control. “So Justin it looks like its up to me huh?” Justin smiled. He liked this little game, “Most definitely. I understand fully. Gino will vouch for me.” Tracy looked over at Gino who said, “Justin, he’s a stand up guy. Well have fun don’t worry.” Tracy looked back at Justin, “Well Justin you pick the place.” They shared a look “Bye. Were meeting at Justin’s place right.” Samantha said. “Right, I’ll see you at nine. My place.” Justin gave her a small wave. Tracy said goodbye to Justin and Gino. The girls walked out the door and were gone till nine when they would meet at Justin’s place. Gino looked at Justin, “What the fuck was with that wave? What are you in love with the chick already?” Justin laughed a little, “I don’t know man, maybe.” Gino gave Justin a patronizing glance. “I’m just kiddin’ Gino. Although she is fine. If I know myself at all, that’s definitely something I could fall in love with.” Gino nodded his head, “yes she is fine. What do you think about Tracy?” Justin looked at Gino, “She seems into you. When she was telling that story, about those kids, she was looking right at you.” Gino was quick to agree, “I know, right. Damn there’s something about her face.” Justin put his hands to his chest and pushed up imaginary tits, “Oh ya, something about her face huh.” Gino laughed and said, “Ya man, she does have a huge rack, I couldn’t help staring at them a little.” Justin laughed to and said, “Hey man the pope wants to tittie fuck her, c’mon. She was giving you the okay to look at those things.” Gino let out a sigh as all men do, when they realize that they’re, willing to surrender to a woman once again. Justin put his hand on Gino’s shoulder, “C,mon, Gino, you don’t have to marry her. For all you know she just wants to fuck you. She’ll probably want you to kick rocks in a week.” Gino laughed and Justin said, “Anyway, I gotta go get ready, I’ll see you at my place later.” Justin got up to leave, slapped Gino’s hand five and walked back to his house. Justin got out of the shower, wrapped the towel around him and went to his room. He heard the beep from the answering machine, got dressed, and went to the kitchen to go check it. “Hey Justin, what’s up? Where you at man? Look, were having a party tonight- oh this is arch- ya so anyway were havin’ a party over at Oscars. You should come by there’ll be plenty of shit to drink and smoke. Later.”

The doorbell rang. Justin opened the door to see Gino, Tracy and

Samantha. “Come on in.” said Justin. He directed them to the couch in the living room. They all sat except for Justin who went in the kitchen to grab his bottle. Justin yelled from the kitchen, “So, I’ve got a bottle of whiskey if anyone would like?” They all said yes so Justin grabbed the bottle four glasses and walked in to the living room. He poured all four drinks, straight up, said, “Wait a second.” Bounced into the kitchen and came calmly with the ice tray, “Anyone?” Samantha said, “I’ll have mine on the rocks please.” Gino and Tracy both nodded their heads. He put three ice cubes in each glass. Then he started it off, “So I was thinking that we could go out to Marty’s tonight.” Samantha said, “Where’s that?” Justin responded, “It’s uh over on ninth and Wilson.” Tracy butted in, “What that dive?” Gino looked at Tracy, “Ah, c’mon it’s all good, we know the bartender tonight. C’mon.” Samantha looked at Justin casually and said, “Whatever Tracy, what’s the big deal. It’s a bar. At least we’ll be with guys that know the bartender.” Tracy eased up, “Allright let’s go.” Justin looked over at Samantha and winked thank you. He added, “Maybe we should have another drink huh?” Samantha said, “Sure I’d love another.” “I bet that Bush had to shove a hamster up his ass, then shotgun a beer, to get into the skull and crossbones.” Gino started to talk a little louder; the words came out a little faster, while Tracy laughed. Gino half shouted, “I wonder what Obama had to do to be president.” Samantha quickly said, “Let’s go to Marty’s.” Justin chimed in, “Ya enough with this bullshit. Let’s go out.” Gino and Tracy laughed and said in unison, “Ya fuck it, let’s go.” They walked out of Justin’s and down the pathway separating his front lawn. Justin led them to the front gate, which was about Three feet tall, to a 1963 luxury Cadillac; four doors, wheel covers, fins. “Whoa, this is your car,” was the surprised response from Tracy. Justin coolly replied, “Ya, I built it from scratch.” He chuckled a little after and Tracy caught on, “Shut up lets get in.” Justin went up to the rear passenger door and opened it for Tracy and Gino. Then went to the passenger door and opened it for Samantha saying, “Ma lady.” Samantha curtsied and said, “Thank you sir.” Justin walked around to the drivers side got in and put the keys in the ignition. He looked over at Samantha and said, “You know were getting’ a little loose when I’m opening doors for everybody and your curtseying at me.” Samantha looked back at Justin and said, “I think it’s somewhat romantic, don’t you think Tracy.” Both Justin and Samantha looked back at the rear passengers. Samantha looked at Justin, with her hands covering her mouth, laughing. Justin looked back at Samantha, “Holy shit their making out. How long have they known each other?” Samantha laughed again, “We just met Gino earlier today.” Justin twisted the keys clockwise, started the car and sped off. Justin pulled into Marty’s and parked, “Well here we are!” he yelled. He looked back and they were still making out. “Hey, how old are you guys.” Tracy yelled back, “Old enough to make out in the back seat of a car while you guys are getting’ drinks.” Justin chuckled, “Alright I’ll see you guys when

you’re done. Come on Samantha lets go get a drink.” Samantha gave Justin a smile, “Alright.” Justin put his arm out, Samantha put her arm around his and they walked in the bar. Justin opened the door for Samantha into the bar. He guided her to the elbow of the bar and they took their stools. The bartender came up to the two of them. Justin shook hands with the bartender and said, “Hey what’s goin’ on Louie?” The bartender looked at Samantha for a second smiled and said, “Eh not bad, what’s happening Justin?” Justin looked at Samantha and said, “Not much just having a drink.” Louie the bartender asked, “The regular?” Justin looked at Samantha again and asked, “What are you having Samantha?” Samantha looked at the bartender and asked for a, “Cranberry vodka please.” Justin threw his arm out, “Wait, wait, wait Louie get her what I regularly drink.” The bartender nodded and turned around to get the liquor. Samantha gave Justin a curious look, “So what do you regularly drink?” Justin slyly smiled, “Don’t worry you like vodka you’ll like this.” She looked cynical, “Alright but it better be good. You’re lucky I like surprises.” The bartender brought them their drinks, “That’ll be six-fifty.” Justin handed him a ten, “Thanks Louie,” he turned to Samantha, “Alright try it.” Samantha took a drink and smiled, “Woah, what is this, no, no wait let me guess.” She paused for a second, then her face lit up, “Oh it’s a vodka pineapple.” Justin smiled, “Yep you got it.” They stared at each other for a second. Justin broke the stare with a lift of his glass. Samantha lifted hers, they clanked glassed and cheered. “Hey Justin!” Justin could tell from the voice who it was. He grabbed Samantha by the hand and whispered to her, “The interaction that is about to take place should not reflect upon me.” Samantha looked at him seriously and nodded. “Hey Jushin, wha are you doin’. I look like you brought a date.” The girl was now directly behind Justin. Samantha looked at her eyes and face, noticing how graciously drunk she was, she said, “Hello I’m Samantha.” The girl responded with an, “Ugh, anyways, Jushin wha are ya doin’ tonight.” Justin turned around, “Uh I was just coming out to have a drink with Samantha.” The girl rudely said, “So wha, I don cur, iz thiz li’, your new fuk buddzy.” Samantha giggled. The girl looked at her, offended that she took her insult humorously, “Escuze meh, Escuze meh, I wuz tryn ta talk ta meh bwoyfend.” Justin blushed for a second and mouthed to Samantha, ‘She’s everyone’s girlfriend.’ Samantha mouthed back, ‘I hope not yours.’ The girl grabbed Justin by the arm and said, “Jushin, Jushin, come home wiv meh tanight.” Justin winked at Samantha, “Uh I’ve got to drop Samantha off at home, actually, right about now so we’ve got to go. See ya.” He tugged on Samantha’s sweater a little, got up toward the door, she followed. The girl looked disgusted did a one-eighty and said, “Whaeva yous a lousy fuck enyway.” Justin reached the door, turned his head and shouted, “Later Louie thanks.” As Justin reached to push the door open, Gino had already pulled it open for Tracy. Justin looking back to say goodbye pushed the thin air and Tracy.

Pretty, Petty, Pity

Kyle Enright

I am not okay. I am not alive. I am dead inside. Every. single. Word. Punctuated. With. Periods. Awkward pauses. AWKWARD MOMENTS. Nights pass. Days pass. We pass. It’s midnight, you smell like alcohol and cigarettes. It’s a perfume of sex. Desire fills my nostrils. You look good in that dress. Now you are past, I am present, we are future. We have passed. I wonder what it’s like when you stop walking by and turn in my direction. Your hand, my hand, ours. HOLDING. Would you love me if I was someone else? I am incoherent, but you still understand. Drunkenly stumbling into your arms. I F E L L D O W N My dead weight was more than you could bare. I have hit the ground. It’s my fault for climbing so high. But you are on the moon. I was simply trying to reach you.

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Bartender, i’ll have another. One more Two more Three More The girl will take a few. When I mumble into your ears, damp spot on your shoulder from tears. When I sway in your direction, our swagger is like dancing. Your voice is beautiful music. I just wish I could remember the words. Ranting Raving. Crazy. I am talking about you. I am talking to you. You are looking through me. You know me so well. This time when you walk by me, stop and recognize that I am smiling in your direction. It’s genuine. This time when you walk by me, stop and recognize that I am talking to you. The words have meaning. This time when you walk by me, stop and recognize that I am hurting. The child has feelings. Neglected for years. How loud do I have to shout for you to hear me? How loud do I have to shout for you to be near me... When I play it in my head, a movie with no subtitles. Only two silhouettes. Embracing in each others arms. It’s the you and me I hope is real. It’s the you and me, I hope there’s a second reel. Next time you see me, stop walking, stop talking, just listen. I love you.

The Exorcism of an Atheist

John Costa

“Have you taken your anti-hyperdiskinetics today?” They were in one of the offices in the hospital. Peter looked at the Dr. through wide bewildered eyes. What the fuck did he just say? In Movias eyes the Cyclopean visions began to form in his dilated vision, the deep abyss, an isle of nothing in an ocean of empty space ebony blue and green. The Dr. stood with his arms cross in stilted and desperate expectation. “Saul!” Saul was lost in the thought again, people’s urgency with time, and the atomic uniformification of time. It was day light savings last week, and all this unnatural metamorphoses of people lives, based on some theory. Science knows better, look at the basics of quantum; to observe is to alter. His voice spired to an echo in Saul’s ear drums. The Cyclops spoke to Ulysses, high and mighty on his ivy throne of stained marble. Icy cold blues and reds, like frozen lakes. Ulysses thought that he might get away without so much as this, but yet again, his fate got the better of him. “Who are you?” “Saul…” Later in the cafeteria of the sanitarium. “People used to worship electricity, yaknow.” He poured his bowl of lime jello down his throat. “Ya know, at least we get jell-o.” “I don’t get your point, bro who cares about the jell-o?” “Then I can have yours right?” C’mon, play one fucking game of cards with me.” Saul ate the second bowl of jell-o, watermelon, bomb.

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The Doctor jotted a few notes onto his clipboard with his gold pen. He always kept it in his white coat pocket. He carried it like an award or trophy. “Well, Saul… if this is how you are going to behave, we will just have to see to it that you lose your reading privileges.” “I don’t read.” The patient replied. “Look, you’ve been here three weeks now and you’ve barely said a word, now have you or haven’t you been taking your meds? And we have monitor you here, and no, yes, in fact you do read… quite a bit…” the doctor looked down at the patient in condescending pleasure in a matter of fact tone said “to the contrary besides the time spend sleeping you continually have a book on your person. And in those blue pajamas, it is very apparent. See, you have a book on you now, it is just closed at your side.” Dr. Movias leaned in a little, Saul tucked away. Movias eyes stared deep into the glasses or the bearded bipedal hominid before him, and smiled. “Of course not.” “What do you mean by that?” “Who wants to know, Movias. I’ll be real with you, this is not really where I belong, all those heavy tranq meds make people crazy, not the other way around, and you have to understand that, OKAY. You can’t go around forcing people to take things they don’t want or need to take. In my opinion your degree to do that means nothing to me. I choose not to take them.” He shrugged. “Ha. Well, Uhm, that’s the thing, here, where you are you, well…you don’t have that choice. The fact is you we’re brought here.” “FUCK YOU MAN!” Saul stood up and slugged the Dr. in his crooked face two times. Movias recovered quite quickly, as if this had happened before or he’d seen it coming, almost instantly he pulled a transmitter from his coat and called: “Security.” … Sometime down the line, Movias is his superiors office reviewing Saul’s report subject for review for moving onto phase two of his treatment, reintegration into society.

“Besides his stubborn attitude about cooperating with our requirements about the medications, he has actually been very polite and civil. I personally am not even sure he’s actually crazy.” Frank Bellingham spoke with a calm collectedness and had an auro of peace in this sanctity of his office. “With all due respect Frank, he punched me in the face.” Movias held his bruised mug with his left hand as if adjusting it into place. “Well, that’s true, and I have taken that into consideration.” “Crazy is a broad term Frank.” Frank, the head of the department stroked his chin, Dr. Movias, stiff in the wooden chair sat before the desk. His face twitched a little as he watched frank considering Saul, the fucking prick punk kid who’d punched him in the face, and his possibly early release. His lip rose a little in cynicism and spite. … Months later, reintegrated into the world Saul is with a buddy who also did some time in the sanitarium: “Movias is the crazy one, I know there’s something wrong with this dude, you could see it in his face, and he’d do this thing with his eye like he was tweaking out.” “Hahaha oh yeah, I remember that shit, it’d be all moving around on its own when he’d be asking all those absurd questions and junk. I bet he was all jacked on Meds he prescribed himself or something, he was too creepy and weird not to be all fucked up on something. Dude, the only good thing about that place was they had Jello and you could play cards.” “Hahaha, the jello.” They walked on for a minute in silence. Peter hit the joint and exhaled the smoke into the dawn air, walking down the rails of the track while the first meager rays of the morning sun peaked through the ebbing overcast, the metal of the train tracks with puddles of dew on the rust from the winter cold over night. They’d been spending time together again. “Good, I thought I was the only one who noticed that. Pass that yonder.” They reached out their hands as the walked and Saul hit the herb, a look of hope in his eyes as the sun reflected off their hooded sweatshirts yawning in the dissolving winter’s twilight.

Smooth Landings

Sarah Krebs

The haze of another day Lost The new moon promises nothing But new sorrow You still bang on the cellar door I will not open it for you All the apples are gone You would want a watermelon anyway I drag us to the riverbed You complain about the length Of the journey Until you are immersed in The rivers skin Like yours and unlike yours You place a crown of river flowers On my head You smile for the first time today We do not comment on the bare facts(I am beautiful what is this thing between us?) That would stir up the sediment Which in turn would cloud the river Leaving us stranded Surrounded by crocodiles

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The Suntan Poem

Sarah Krebs

When I had a suntan it was better I thought I looked thinner I thought I looked clever One month in Paris changed that for sure I carried my guitar great distances I sat in the doctors office Begged for forgiveness Thought about french boyfriends 1, 2, 3 Thought about you Rubbing suntan oil On my back On my thighs Naked as j birds On a beach in Spain The cost of a plane ticket home You don’t want to know Playing songs for euros In the rain On the steps of the museum While friends of mine drink away carelessly Staying dry staying oh so cool They do not play for money They are not insane and besides, they do not have to.

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Ninja Star Hurricane

Jesse Hall

You wont even be able to breath without tasting razor-sharp serrated ninja star death. A fucking cyclone of miniature heat-seeking infra-red poison-tipped fucking shinobi stars from HELL. Look out, fucker! They’re rotating so FUCKING fast they literally become a blur of your death, visible. You die of ninja star storm. BYE BYE !!!! XXXXXXXX XXXXXX <-------------- Ninja Star Cylcone-Hurricane-Tornado = XXXXX Your death XXX X

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The Silent Type

Sarah Krebs

We do wicked wicked wicked things We do them again again and again I wake up Wake up in another persons bed The continents are shifting I feel it in my spine I cannot tell a stranger this I quietly dress You are too expensive to call Besides you don’t love me anyway You are what makes me feel so good And for you I don’t exist In a tiny flat Across the ocean No one knows I have a love like you Still you do not answer me You must be the silent type

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