'analogpress.net - a literary journal' | volume 3 spring 2012 by Jesse De Clercq

analogpress.net a literary journal

spring v3 2012

analogpress.net a literary journal spring v3 2012 art haydee yordan | what walls tell us… 12 … “red on the wall” 13 … “color scratches” 16 … “sick breasts” 15 ... "struggle for fair norms" 17 … “weathered breasts” 18 … “heartbreak” 19 … “intimate and irreverent future futility” 20 … “exposed heart” 21 … “nature paint on wall” 22 … “dressed in clouds” 23 … “showing the way” 24 … “go green”

nemo gould | nemomatic 4 … “troglodyte 2009” 63 … “minotaur 2011” 65 … “homunculus 2010” 66 … “media giant 2009” 67 … “eureka! 2007” 68 … “tightly wound 2010” 69 … “headcase 2009” 70 … “ocean scene 2004” 71 … “pobot 2010” 72 … “venus flytrap 2007”

meg eden | from “ Recollection: After the Tsunami” 67 ... "udon" | meg eden

fiction 32 … sensitive boys—joseph clifford

poetry 5 … angels in a tree—mark goad 6 … fool—mark goad 7 … whisper—mark goad 8 … who killed ram – an untold story?—vikas chadha 14 … what walls tell us…—haydee yordan 25 … speaking american—joe clifford 26 … minneapolis love song—joe clifford 28 … craving—kyrsten bean 29 … over the pacific: a chan poem—changming yuan 30 … snow beginning to fall outside—changming yuan 31 … teh—changming yuan 37 … margin life—kyrsten bean 38 … where did it take place, mr. haaning?—laurits haaning xvii 52 … twelve sunflowers—william wright harris 55 … pollock’s cathedral—william wright harris 56 … a christmas story (the angel who had enough)—laurits haaning xvii 58 … piss and vinegar—kyrsten bean 59 … apple wine—santiago dominique 60 … groveling—kyrsten bean 61 … webbed—kyrsten bean 73 … staid life—kyrsten bean

about editor+publisher: Jesse De Clercq associate editor: Laurits Haaning all work copyright © 2012 the noted contributed unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved. all work published with first worldwide rights by permission of the contributors. http://analogpress.net e: editors@analogpress.net front & back cover photograph: Laurits Haaning layout: Jesse De Clercq

"Troglodyte" Nemo Gould | 2009

Angels in a Tree Mark Goad

I looked, a la Wm. Blake, for angels in a tree, hanging like ripe cherries ready for plucking or perched like a pride of fat cats complacently lounging or caught like a kite all-March-a-flutter or blazing like leaves of a bush fired by God’s stare. These or anything else at all. I looked for a long time. All my life maybe. One long afternoon. I noticed only this, that trees breathe – hardly distinguishable from a ruffling breeze – but nonetheless real, a slow and deep susurration commensurate with a tree’s long, unhurried life. And the tree’s broad-plumed fanning outstretched limbs appeared ready to take flight and that reminded me of something, too, but of what, I have forgotten. If there were a child ready-to-hand, I’d ask for reminding.

Mark Goad - Angels in a Tree | 5

Fool Mark Goad

The young fool is now an old fool and bemused by the fact. He thinks he should know more by now and fears he will never know much of anything. He watches the fusillade of wind-driven pellets striking the window, hears the icy retort repeated infinite times, and remembers the child loving moments just such as this. And he considers that if he has possessed the fineness for such, he cannot be such a fool after all.

Mark Goad - Fool | 6

Whisper Mark Goad

I had no patience for teachers or details or rules that kept me from leaping to conclusions. I did not want to be here but there, and at the speed of light, faster â&#x20AC;&#x201C; if that were possible. It was not God I wanted to be â&#x20AC;&#x201C; just the one into whose ear God might whisper from time to time. Words of love, bon mots, wise counsel, anything, everything.

Mark Goad - Whispert | 7

Who Killed Ram - An untold story? Vikas Chadha

Experimentation with truth was innate to him, an avid reader of folk lore, His hearth burnt bright due to his acquaintance of yore A columnist for a leading newsprint daily, an intellectual and an artisan, His profession, his quest for knowledge, He confessed and pronounced to the world as his flaming passion. Rip Van Winkle found an able adversary in his spirit; As cataleptic time flew by as he bent over dusty manuscripts; Dwelling in the musty scented labyrinthine decrepit libraries, He reveled in the unearthing of the mystical elixir of awareness; Akin to an elated child graced by tooth fairies. On the eve of the day, celebrated as the festival of lights by the sundry, He purported to inscribe an article on the conquest of “Good over Evil”; In reverence of a king whose deeds and name was universally legendary. He voraciously poured over a rare oilskin he’d stumbled upon in a mission In a temple, as a team member of a discovery expedition, To an onlooker he presented the dual sight of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; Donning the silent mantle of a stoic mountain; portrayal of meditation; Interspersed by paroxysmal countenance of buffeted emotion. He read with unequivocal fascination, the fantastic revelation, That Lord Ram’s demise was not an accidental act by an ignorant archer, But unerring death meted out by the hand of a wily assassinator. A karmic turn of the wheel, as death kissed His Achilles heel. What he studied were the narrations of a peripatetic bard, Capturing the horrors of a nation scarred; Burnt in the wake of marauding legions; The necessary repression of humanity by the victorious factions; The ‘triumph of good over evil’ came at a cost; With advent of an age where the innocence of mankind was lost;

Vikas Chadha - Who Killed Ram - An untold story? | 8

Lost in the mass genocide meted out by the fire on Hanuman’s tail And the killing fields drowned in tears of blood and wails; A golden nation that became an unconsummated vortex of anger, as the triumphant hied home to a city of illumination. A rage appeased by the sacrifice of a Lord on the altar of retribution. Stunned by the ramification of his find, he walked out of the temple into the star lit night, In contrast to his contemplative demeanor, his face pale and white The boundless sky became a virtual canvas painted by a divine Vincent, Replaying the dealings and follies of mankind in microcosmic time; effervescent and transient He ruminated on the futility of war; a naked dance of might, Guised in the benevolent garb of right; The Last Crusade of Christianity and innumerable wars, which a crucified Christ forbade A war nurtured to culmination in the Aryan carnage of the Jews; Blossoming into an atomic flower that ensued A proliferation of uranium, which caused Saddam to lose his cranium The righteous war waged in the fields of petroleum and civilian courtyards; A conflagration that burned the towers in Uncle Sam’s backyard; The acrimonious wheels of cause and effect ceaselessly churn; The souls of the dogs of war endlessly burn. Likening the turn of events to those in Troy of Homer’s Illiad, He marveled upon the virtuous aggrandizement of the Indian ballad, The alchemic ploys of old bureaucratic propaganda; That effectively altered a vital historical fact into an esoteric and mythological extravaganza He contemplated theories akin to ‘the Da Vinci code’, an imaginative insight; Conjuring unconventional rationale for the festival of lights Could the ignominy, blurred by the sands of time, Have inspired a vigil by candlelight by the citizens, Lit by the populace in remonstration to the death of fellow brethrens; An unrequited supplication by a nation for their Lord’s absolution Could the lack of media, chronicling perpetuity, Have converted an anguished meet to one of festivity? Was the ‘deepavali’ of light a collective protest by mankind over futile desire? Or was the oilskin, the perceptive clairvoyance of a soothsayer? Was the assassination of Lord Ram a singular act of vengeful aggression?

Vikas Chadha - Who Killed Ram - An untold story? | 9

Or was it in compliance to the theory of Nietzsche, definitive in its persistent recursion? Was the assassination of Ram a unique act of depravity? Or in a world of underlying oneness, are we acting in insanity And are the killers of current manifestations of the Lord and Divinity? He plodded into the dark night, illuminated by the lights of celebration For the triumphant homecoming of an eventually murdered Lordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incarnation, He celebrated his own triumph over obscurity and advent into the white light of realization, He resolved to conceal the manuscript, away from the fanatical eyes of a blind world. However, a disconcerting thought, within his conscience, eddied and twirled; Could it be that the puritanical perpetrators of todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strife and resource depletion, With efflux of time, are the applauded fairy-tale champions to a misguided future generation.

Vikas Chadha - Who Killed Ram - An untold story? | 10

haydee yordan what walls tell us . . .

1 + 12 (1 poem and twelve graphic poems)

"Red on the Wall" Haydee Yordan

"Color Scratches" Haydee Yordan

What Walls Tell Us…

I am the walls of urban life everywhere found; ignored by many and missed by all. I show the grace of rain and sun, painted on me with nature’s brush; Yearning for “paintings” to be hung on museums of outdoor walls. Seek deep into my intimacy, to find and discover my unfinished essence. For I am present and alive … hoping to be noticed, … craving for desire. Try not to capture my forms, my change, in static style for this enslaves our growth. Instead express my offer, my essence, to whomever wants to become, like I am becoming. I offer form and color, life, lichens, and space. I offer growth and change, for who I am today will not be there tomorrow.

Haydee Yordan - What Walls Tell Us... | 14

On my canvas nature “paints” Unending traces of time and joy, resembling dreams of daring days and forms of scary hidden thorns. Feel the presence of sick breasts, irreverent suggestive forms, … archaic virgins, … hearts exposed, … love expressed. Humans struggling for fair norms. Seek deep into my intimacy, for I am present and alive, … hoping to be noticed, … craving for desire.

"Struggle for Fair Norms" Haydee Yordan

Haydee Yordan - What Walls Tell Us... | 15

"Sick Breasts" Haydee Yordan

"Weathered Breast" Haydee Yordan

"Heartbreak" Haydee Yordan

"Intimate and Irreverant Future Futility" Haydee Yordan

"Exposed Heart" Haydee Yordan

"Nature paint on wall" Haydee Yordan

"Dressed in Clouds" Haydee Yordan

"Showing the Way" Haydee Yordan

Haydee Yordan was born in Puerto Rico, studied Art, has a Masters degree, lived and studied in Italy, and has taken up photography as a means of personal and artistic expression. Her work consists mainly of abstract images of nature and still life. Has exhibited at VII International Biennale of Photography in Puerto Rico, Vermont Photo Space Gallery, Pamil Fine Art and Brio Galleries. Her work has been published in National Geographic Traveler and COLOR magazines. Concerned by the passing of time, Yordan has explored its effects in everyday experiences. Mud, stagnant water, and weathered walls have been present in her focus. She is convinced that “if you let it be, the passing of time seems to embellish everything”. Walls are no exception; she seeks and rummages in old walls for designs painted by the rain and sun, as if exploring an intimate communication between time and walls. “What Walls tell us” consists of ten digital, straight from camera, macro urban abstract images. The artist invites the audience to reformulate their ideas about the effects of the passing of time; this artwork represent an excellent example of “abstract conceptual” photography.

Haydee Yordan haydeeyordan.artspan.com haydeeyordan@gmail.com Tel 787-397-4812

"Go Green" Haydee Yordan

Speaking American Joseph Clifford

While my brother is in a back room getting blown for $120, I’ve fallen hard for the massage girl. A red-haired, eastern European type with mucklemouth grin, she’s been flirting with me since I walked in twenty minutes ago, playing coy, trying to make me jealous with these other boys. I know strip clubs are a worldwide phenomenon, and that sex for sale isn’t solely an American proposition. There’s Singapore sailors and Russian mail order brides, but don’t tell me Pakistan has strip clubs like we do. For all my bitching over our capitalist religion, that same marketplace economy I loathe is responsible for the low-life I love, so perhaps I should thank the bastards instead. Maybe it’s the omission of the middleman I find so refreshing. Here a girl’s company is for sale, straight up, no pretense of an overpriced dinner and movie, no holiday flowers or saving two months’ salary for a wedding ring. You don’t need to create any clever sketches of a well-meaning, sensitive guy. The redheaded massage girl looks my way, and while I know it’s her job, I can’t help but feel something special is budding between us. Sure, she’s giving hand jobs to other guys, but one look in her eyes tells me her heart isn’t really in it. This is a classy joint, big screen TVs showcasing all those hidden spots that sometimes get missed live, where a man can get lost forever. And the names. Angel. Peaches. Zoey and Ginger. It’s like you’ve walked into a black and white flick from the 1940s. My friend Jimmy told me over the summer (after his fiancée left him for a wide-hipped chef ) that he wants to have the color removed from his vision because he’d like to live in a world where fedoras rule the landscape and you never know when Martha Vickers just might call you Doghouse Reilly and invite you upstairs for a throw in her Chinese silk pajamas. I think I’d like to live there, too. My brother is back and he seems pretty relaxed. He flags down two more drinks from the waitress, winks. When the redheaded massage girl finally yields to temptation and comes my way, her black halter tight and hot pants riding high, I ask her her name. She wants to know why. I tell her I’m gonna get it tattooed on my thigh. But she doesn’t answer right away, just bites her lip and smiles. Then she leans in and whispers, If only I were the marrying type. Joseph Clifford - Speaking American | 25

Minneapolis Love Song Joseph Clifford

On a lazy truck stop strip, outside of Laramie, we pulled into a roadside to bed down for the night, 3 a.m., the long stretch of cold desert and absence of any crickets, lulling me to sleep. I picked her up in my truck outside a Gas ’n’ Go on the skids of Minneapolis, as I was heading out of town. Actually, she approached me. Freeing herself from a tangle at the bottom of a phone booth, she approached through pale strawberry light. There was no mystery what kind of girl she was. Young, pink slip all twisted up, bleary and black-eyed, she said needed a ride. I told her she didn’t even know where I was going. She said it didn’t matter. She said she’d pay for my time. But I wasn’t looking for that. On the corner of Lion and Hyde, I knew she’d be holding, and I wouldn’t make it to California any other way. My stash had been running low since Ohio. So, filthy handbag in tow, she hopped in. The ride was a disaster from the start. As soon as she’d hit the pipe, she’d insist the cops were behind us or that she was on fire. And then she’d start taking her clothes off. I threw her in the back of the cab when we hit South Dakota. Which is where she stayed, until we stopped at the road side. She made good like I knew she would, then she grew contemplative: the kid she was going to find (they always have a kid); the virus she contracted that she never expected; and, of course, the money. I told her not to worry about the gas or the room; I was headed out west anyway. We talked until the skies turned light.

Joseph Clifford - Minneapolis Love Song | 26

I wished I could render this something more than it was, maybe talk about that fused dawn, how it was the texture of tenderized meat, the color of cunt, but she was just another hooker, in another dumpy hotel room, the same scene I’d been playing out to get high for a very long time. When the sun was up, I told her I was jumping into the shower, and that we’d hit the road in half an hour. She said she was going to hit the strip, see if any truckers needed to unwind, I told her, Fine, but I was leaving with or without her. When I dried off twenty minutes later I didn’t see her. So I left. Climbing through the heat of the Nevada foothills, I didn’t get down. It’s not like she was going to find her way home anyway.

Joseph Clifford - Minneapolis Love Song | 27

Craving Kyrsten Bean

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a long time since I indulged, years then in it flits, hitting me smack in the middle of the solar plexus, like a tiny rat, sharp yellow teeth gleaming as it gnaws its way through my heart valve, a virus, possessed, I flee, normalcy has dashed away, and Jack the Ripper comes in, searching for copper to place over my eyes, shreds me up the middle until I bleed out, like Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m supposed to bleed out, like I deserved to bleed out long ago when I was taking everything I wanted from everyone I could, these tiny juggernauts, who tumble down the ravine of my heart to my stomach sinking into the acid bile, raising their little helmet heads and grinning, a toast, to my imminent demise, to the thought that I could ever escape these slums, get out and live a straight life. They laugh, somersault, sink into my toes, send me in the direction of more, always more.

Kyrsten Bean - Craving | 28

Over the Pacific: A Chan Poem Changming Yuan

Flying high enough means to Traveling far enough To a new realm, where There is neither borderline Between sea and sky Between day and night Nor distinction Between yesterday and tomorrow Where every shape is softly roundish Every line is tenderly curvy While all colors become fluffily white Like dehydrated snow You would find yourself sailing alone To an outer Hyperborea On a heavenly boat With no more attachments to the earth There and then, your entire selfhood Shrinks into a tiny dot of light One and the same with your soul, your spirit Gliding, cruising In perfect pacificity

Changming Yuan - Over the Pacific: A Chan Poem | 29

Snow Beginning to Fall Outside Changming Yuan

While he tries to draw a mountain With an ink-dripping brush On a wide sheet of rice paper It begins to snow outside Paints the whole city with winter white Dotting his work like a leopard, roaming Looming along the borderline Between the city and the season His strokes getting blurry among falling flakes All the trees become frozen, retreating to the horizon Except a black bird still beating its wings Against the mountain range in front of his eyes Against the snowfall outside of his home

Changming Yuan - Snow Beginning to Fall Outside | 30

Teh Changming Yuan

Neither a fat nor a deformed finger But it happened to hit the wrong key At the right moment, or the right key At the wrong moment, you are A handsome typo That stands out Among all normal words On a different keyboard You would be a pleasant improvisation A fresh note rather than a strange noise Like a comet in the summer sky You might strike the whole night bright You are never meant to be, but you always are A nonsense making perfect sense in the context

Changming Yuan - Teh | 31

Sensitive Boys Joseph Clifford

Flinging the laptop over his shoulder, Matt pushed his glasses back and hurried out of the bar and up Guerrero Street. The night was cold but he was sweating badly. Trip sat at the far end of the bar. Matt could see him from halfway up the block framed in the doorway of Jack’s Elixir, drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. For just one night, Matt wished he could be like Trip. Jack’s was small but crowed, typical even for a weekday night. Mostly hipster guys like Trip dressed in thrift store clothes, rolled jeans and wingtips. “They finally let you out,” Trip said, looking down at his wrist like it was a watch. Matt flipped his case on the bar, and peeled off his windbreaker. He caught his pink and puffy reflection in the mirror. He didn’t like that his hair was so short. It made his head look fuzzy, like a Chia Pet. “Got you working like a dog,” Trip said. “And on a school night, too.” “Some of us don’t have trust funds,” said Matt. “Ouch.” Trip shook his hand like he had just touched something hot. “Seriously, what they got you doing till eight o’clock on a mutherfucking Tuesday night? You look like shit.” Two girls stumbled in, and Trip immediately perked up, clearly recognizing one. Like most girls who came into Jack’s, they were twenty-something, stylish and already buzzed. They sat at the opposite end and pretended not to notice him. “I got off work a while ago,” Matt said. Twisting around, Trip raised his pint glass to the two girls. “Hey, Kells,” he shouted across the bar. “Hey, you,” Kelly hollered back, then whispered something in her friend’s ear, and both girls started giggling. Trip turned to Matt. “What the hell’ve you been doing? Thought you said Angie didn’t get out of class till nine?” “I wasn’t at home.” “Boy, she’s got you on string.” Trip peered over the railing like he was making for Matt’s buckle. “Let me see,” he said. “She let you take them out anymore or you have to leave them home?” Matt pulled away. “I thought you said the 500 Club. I’ve been sitting Joseph Clifford - Sensitive Boys | 32

down there for the past hour.” Trip whooped. “You hear that?” he said loudly and to no one in particular. “Now why would I drink at a shithole like the 500?” “I thought that’s what you said.” Trip shook his head dramatically. Then he lowered his voice. “That prick Sydney there?” “No. No one was. But something awful happened when I was there.” “What? Someone smoked a cigarette indoors?” “While I was waiting for you—” “I didn’t say the 500. I hate the 500.” “Listen to me. This couple comes in and sits in the booth right behind me. They’re not talking, but you can tell they’d been fighting.” “What kind of a guy’s name is ‘Sydney’ anyway?” “There isn’t anybody in there, Trip, not even the bartender, just me. He’s around back, by the pool table. I’m staring down at my napkin, feeling anxious as hell because you could tell something was about to happen, and then you hear it. Thwack!” Matt lowered his voice to a whisper. “This guy hit the girl. And he starts screaming at her, ‘I know you sucked his dick!’ I don’t want to turn around, but Jesus, I feel like I should, y’know?” “That’s why I hate the 500. Fucking drama.” “My heart’s going a million miles a minute.” “What you do?” “Nothing. He didn’t hit her again or anything. I just left.” “Good.” “What if he, y’know, did something to her?” “Christ, you’re such a sensitive boy. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you don’t get mixed up with a man and his girl is all.” He slid closer to Matt. “You remember Indian Paul?” “Sure.” Trip scratched the back of his neck, frantically, like a dog with fleas. “Indian Paul was telling me this story—how the same thing just happened to you down at the 500 happened to him.” Trip took a swig of Matt’s beer, sloshed it around in his mouth. He began getting more animated, hands moving faster. “So Indian Paul’s pumping gas down on 2nd, and it’s two in the morning, right, and this car comes screeching in, skids up the island—” Trip skipped one hand off the other. “This guy and his old lady get out, and I mean they’re going at it. The dude’s going off, calling her a whore, saying I know you fucked this guy,’ ‘I know you sucked so and so’s cock.’ Indian Paul said it looked like the guy was about to slug her. “What Indian Paul do?” “Well, you know how big Indian Paul is. He just walks over, stands in between them and tells the guy to calm the fuck down. And you know how he talks, never raising his voice or anything. And the dude is calming down. Joseph Clifford - Sensitive Boys | 33

I mean, Indian Paul is handling business. Then the woman sneaks up and breaks a fucking bottle over Indian Paul’s head. That’s how he got that scar.” “I wondered how he got that scar.” “That’s how he got it. And as Indian Paul is gushing blood from his head, practically dying in the middle of this gas station, this girl he was trying to protect calls him a cocksucker. How do you like that shit? She calls Indian Paul a cocksucker. Two of them hop back in the car and speed off.” “No shit?” “No shit.” Trip chugged the remains of the pint and clinked the empty glass off the counter. “That’s my point: You don’t mess with a man and his girl.” Matt smoothed his hair, looked across the counter, back into the mirror. He narrowed his eyes and tried to look mean. Trip put his hand on Matt’s shoulder, waggled a finger. “Now, I know how touchy you get, but I don’t want you feeling bad because you didn’t do anything back there. Doesn’t make you chickenshit.” Trip tapped his head thoughtfully. “Makes you smart.” Trip caught the attention of the girl at the end of the bar, Kelly, and waved her over. Then he tried to get the attention of the bartender for another beer. “Hey, Trip,” Kelly said, leaning against the railing, shirt rising so that Matt could see her belly ring. “Got a question for you,” Trip said. “What do you think of sensitive boys?” Matt’s face flushed red. “See, I got a theory,” Trip continued. “I say this city is ruining men. No one can be a real man around here anymore. It’s all this goddamn pc training.” “This is interesting,” Kelly said. “Trip Cartwell’s advice on what ails modern day America. This I gotta hear.” Trip held up a finger for the bartender to bring him another. “You’re always hearing how women want a sensitive man, guy in touch with his feelings, poetry, Bridges of Madison County, that kind of crap. But it’s all bullshit.” “Is it?” said Kelly. “Goddamn right.” Trip slapped an open palm against Matt’s back. “Take my boy Matt here. Now, he’s a tender little guy. Don’t get me wrong, I love him.” Trip leaned over, cradled Matt’s fuzzy head in his hands, and smacked a wet kiss against his cheek, as Matt flinched. “But he’s a pussy. I’ve known this guy since forever, and you know, every girlfriend he’s ever had has cheated on him.” “Jesus, Trip!” Kelly lolled her head, looking at Matt as though he were a wet, frightened puppy. “Poor baby,” she said with a pout.

Joseph Clifford - Sensitive Boys | 34

“My point is,” Trip continued, “is that kindness is mistaken for weakness in this world. You take a sensitive boy like my good friend Matt here, mix him up with women who can be—no offense, Kelly—cunts, and you’re asking to be abused.” “And what is it you think women want?” Kelly asked, putting her hand on his arm. “They want a man,” Trip said. “Someone with a backbone, someone not afraid to get his hands dirty with a little motor grease. Y’know, a cowboy, John Wayne, Matt Dillon—Steve-fucking-McQueen.” Finished and proud, he took a long slug from his refilled pint. “What I think, Trip,” Kelly said, “is that I’d take a sweetie like Matt here over a slickster like you any day.” She playfully pushed Trip’s shoulder and strutted off. Trip licked his lips and pushed his long bangs out of his eyes. Matt grabbed his case and jacket off the bar. “Angie’s gonna be home from class.” “Boy, she’s got you whipped.” Trip looked down at his make believe watch again. “What kind of class gets out at nine o’clock anyway? You sure that’s where she really goes?” “Y’know, Trip, you can be a real asshole sometimes.” “Jesus, just kidding, lighten up.” He called after Matt. “Hey, tomorrow, the Albion, all right? Or maybe the 500. If you talk to Sydney, tell him he’s a prick and I want my money.” As Matt passed Kelly, he sheepishly lifted his hand in a half-wave. She politely smiled back. ... It was close to midnight, and Angie still wasn’t home. Matt hadn’t turned any lights on, the only light coming from the streetlight outside. He sat in a kitchen chair and watched sets of headlights drive by, which became fewer by the hour. He got up and opened the cupboard, fishing around, casting aside cans of chili and tuna fish, Pop Tarts and granola bars. He closed the doors without taking anything. He hated this apartment. It represented a lack of any forward movement. He’d lived in this same Richmond District one bedroom off Geary since moving out of the dorms, which was a long time ago. He’d acquired nothing that he truly liked, nothing that he could really call his own. Every decoration, however big or insignificant, he realized, had come from someone else: The framed rock posters of outdated angry women punk bands from Sonji, who dropped him to sail for Greenpeace; the art deco coffee tables, from Sylvia Wilhelm, who only left them out of guilt after she slept with the lead singer Joseph Clifford - Sensitive Boys | 35

from Unthinkable Things after a New Year’s Eve party; even the couch, an inexpensive paisley-print pullout and the lone item he’d fought to hold onto when T.J. broke up with him, he now realized had been her idea. He loathed all these pretty things for their reminders. A key fumbled in the lock, and Angie stumbled in, bumping into the door. She looked up, surprised. “Where the fuck have you been?” “Pardon me?” “You heard me,” he said. “Where have you been?” “I had class.” Angie tossed her keys onto the end table and screwed up her face as she pushed past Matt into the kitchen. “Your class gets out at nine.” Matt’s arms were folded tightly against his chest. Angie pulled out a carton of milk and roast beef cold cuts from the fridge and slapped them on the counter, leaving the refrigerator door open. Yellow light crept across the black and white tiled floor. “I’m talking to you.” He was breathing hard through his nose. “You mind answering me?” Angie turned calmly. “If you stop shouting, maybe I’ll answer you.” “Where have you been?” “I went out with some of the girls from my pottery class. We had a couple drinks.” “And how come I never see you with any of this pottery?” “Because we don’t have a fucking kiln. Christ, what’s your damage?” They locked stares, and he began to sweat, throat constricting, the way it always did during any type of confrontation. “Forget it,” Matt said, dropping his arms. Angie walked over and slung her arms around his neck. “My big bear,” she cooed, nuzzling into his neck. “What’s gotten into you tonight?” He could taste the sour alcohol on her breath, the cigarette smoke in her hair. Mixed with the smells of old meat coming from the open refrigerator, it was enough to make him sick.

Joseph Clifford - Sensitive Boys | 36

Margin Life Kyrsten Bean

My life is lived in the stolen interstices in the margins frenetic energy coagulates in my veins every work frantically scribbled scrabbled and tossed into the spaces I have left I give it all away for too little in return for the meaning as it loses its meaning I capitulate in spite of the strongest desire to throw up my middle finger figuring nobody understands this need this cacophony of voices the hole of duplicity gaping open inside my constantly churning brain

Kyrsten Bean - Margin Life | 37

Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? Laurits Haaning XVII

inside

inside the moment where nothing is concealed and everything stands bare not a speck covering the multitude swaying like some old poplar upright stretching tall above all tall moving back and forth in a breeze just in from the harbor gliding over circus winter camp tarred ropes chains and wires heavy canvass snapping torn and stitched all on mysterious gypsy breath Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 38

blowing above bungalow dreams let loose

inside memorized lines and their encompassing darkness memorized terror should one forget a slap on the head a slap in the head

inside the movie theater plush and smelly where I join some director in fantasy and vision and in silence clutching for my own short someone is smacking on their popcorn one row behind two seats to the right

inside the history of time the greatest illusion Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 39

an ever told story erect on broken crutches close to where King Matt the First strolled a yellow brick road with his ugly ducklings (turned swans in another chapter) fanned out on imaginary leashes sparkling carmine in fading dusk

inside the crazy stare of a catatonic wetting her pants not yet dry blue eyes and a frozen smile refusing contact with a void forced into like digging your own grave on the outskirts of Bergen-Belsen

inside a wild horses nostrils black and moist Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 40

as they vibrate with immense displeasure and fear at the point of capture

inside the cow on 101 northbound almost dead one eye staring into blank blue-black night waiting for the sheriff for the bullet an angel in waiting faintly crying on asphalt

inside a sleeping childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath warm and sweet the saddest lament of all

inside the painters poets prophets and bus drivers who all cried in lonesome alleys kneeling trying to give thanks and all they could muster was a bit of puke Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 41

inside starved wolves with their torn limbs ripped and left behind in silver traps wolves limping and spilling Christâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood as they scatter among the seasons

inside Mose Allison as his fingers run through keyboard emotions and stir unknown desires drifting Mississippi blues

inside those mornings when I cried for another day

inside a dirty pink arm forgotten on some desolate night road torn from a dollâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pseudo realistic all plastic body except real Madonna-like hair

Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 42

inside the flowers of too much beauty and too much evil

inside the legends of old men drooling with deformed memories rocking in regrets old men who all conquered something anything anywhere

inside Vincentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flaming sunflower burning so insane and yellow inside anguished Hamlet a scarlet grimace hiding a tear frantically flapping his wings crowing like a contralto cock in anger and frustration fenced in a court of too much rot Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 43

inside Christ when he as a child lost his halo spanked in front of three witnesses Inside the mosquito who first sang a hymn descending to my body then carrying my blood in some long summer night

inside lonely guitar player bent or broken hailed in his cobalt and oxide greens cool final blues his ultramarine tune became the massive cry of the soul screeching at you from far beyond memory

inside dreams of something yet to come

Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 44

inside the blind who one gray-blue morning never saw the lamppost I still see him the morning he never saw I can almost feel scabs on my forehead

inside the reality I surrender to in sleep where Artaud rides up on a dark blue Triumph handing me his finished essay Van Gogh Suicided by Society he winks and heads back north to an asylum inside his spirit grazing on the walls green weeping walls in a desolate charcoal colored bughouse with iron doors inside the noise of another day starting tram #10 turning the corner Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 45

dripping faucets horny cats crying out or is it children beat awake for the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lesson inside Michael as he fought for his life in some crazy novel where all he had to do was to jump out of the plot vanish from the book perhaps go hide behind an easy chair for awhile

inside shell shocked homemakers who have nothing to live for except another day one pm sponsored by Colgate inside voices of preachers voices slightly trembling as to tell us they really wished they could believe too perhaps Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 46

bleed spontaneously at morning mass they might weep with authentic delusions before dragging you to the cross inside the vacuum of too many words uttered at some get-together-for-old-times-sake

inside the play of children where death finds no rest and laughter prevails inside the frantic crowd making their way in the violet-blue hour crossing bridges as they must when darker all facing a stripped room filled with enough solitary nights and lasting coughs inside memories of seagulls visiting the moor and the sunny days when they played Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 47

so wild and so free inside Sebeliusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; 2nd bringing tears from a reservoir of almost too many just enough Finish blues to last a forever sky

inside the grass whispering gently if you care to listen

inside a Union 76 moon glowing brightly one long freeway night Albion witches calling from the coast

inside the Mongolian horseman substituting as a night watch personnel at Macyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s come hell and high water

inside nights where screaming police cars

Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 48

wakes everyone in jerks ready to be killed or kill spasms it makes no difference they both are too much night night with nothing else to wake to short of a piss and a dirty jigger drained of wants

inside the clownâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dressing room where things in general are not too funny where tears often succeed laughter a sigh and some moonshine on an old powdered face white with white faded lips and deep cracks

inside the rapist his eyes burned and clawed in some inferno far away now

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long ago his tears left everywhere frozen like arctic shrapnel his baby screams could first be heard in long too dark scary nights

inside faded boarding houses creaking loose peeled plaster palaces with scratched dreams and dejected phantoms glued to the ceilings of one too many nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blind stare inside the whorehouses where little girls and boys trashed cry for just one dream they could believe in inside the hobo who kept his sanity until his very last bottle his very last train running backwards in Kansas sky

Laurits Haaning XVII - Where Did It Take Place, Mr. Haaning? | 50

turbulent and indigo until his last breath had absorbed the daffodils by the overpass

inside all the answers cramped in junkyards lost in their insistent pursuit for a question

inside Edvard Munchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Scream or The Sick Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scrapped life

inside the temptation to sway on the abyss

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twelve sunflowers William Wright Harris

in a vase twelve faces of van gogh one hangs over the lip a comet stretching across the sky one too ripe to produce seeds its stem plucked too soon by a world that would not allow it to simply exist one hides it self amongst the others a social shadow one bent to the side almost weeping oil on to canvas William Wright Harris - twelve sunflowers | 52

one a lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mane shaking desert dust in to the arid air and sun light one sitting in a corner like helios a glowing eye naked and burning a lone in the sky one stares up at the heavens from the bottom of the earth vincentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s visage questioning an indifferent god one with its crown bent to wards an earth kind enough to be tread up on one tuned to an other the smiling face van gogh pointed in love to his friend gauguin one staring out of the canvas some William Wright Harris - twelve sunflowers | 53

how an eye questioning the audience and left unblinking one a little too red the crimson wound in the stomach of the painter in those last days one nearly unpainted the green of its stem the shell of the soul only visible form and perhaps van goghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true face

William Wright Harris - twelve sunflowers | 54

pollockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cathedral William Wright Harris

domes in arching black splashes and whips of paint at the end of a stick tiles in bleeding mosaics dots and splotches are wounds in red sitting on the canvas as scabs high arches running sweeps and lunges dancing in the air from the tip of a brush for a beautiful moment be fore sagging to the ground in the embrace of gravity flying buttresses prop up enamel and aluminum paint windows stained in dreams by a man who knew him self to be nature

William Wright Harris - pollack's cathedral | 55

A Christmas Story (The angel who had enough) Laurits Haaning XVII

She went up the mud road, as so many times before. Now, a bent line of hard embedded tire tracks. She had a basket on her arm, as so many times before, lunch for the boys as she called them. A chipped plate with pieces of old cheese, some cheese rinds, an old apple starting to rot cut in eights, and day old bread chunks. On this day she turned right at the path to the foremanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shed. A sign said M.M.My.Mining.Company. She pushed the door without knocking, entered and put down the basket close to the table where they sat. They sat flabbergasted, now staring at the plate she placed between them. Before they gained their composure, the first one had fallen back over in his chair hitting the floorboards with a bullet hole through his skull starting just above between his eyes. The second one came down the same way only a split second later and with a pickle end sticking out between his teeth like he was chewing on a stump of cigar. The third one, safety inspector Joe Boom, was too busy studying the fluids gushing from his crotch. He got it top down; his head dropped to the table and made a sound. The last one, Big Boss Man, staring blank and shivering, seemingly, without control. She gave him a minute and a half to weep, and he did, actually, he sobbed. She came to his side, bent down and whispered something into his ear. He went down sideways with his chair and a big dark tunnel of hot emptiness oozing red between his ears. She gathered their ham sandwiches, pickles, a bowl of potato salad, a couple of unopened bottles of beer and sticks of venison jerky. She left the shed stepping on the path turning right to the mud road and up to the men. When she arrived they were waiting and hungry as so many times before. The elder amongst them said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;you are a smidge on the late side, Missy.â&#x20AC;? She bowed her head, handed out the ham sandwiches, potato salad, pickles, jerky and placed the bottles of beer between them. Laurits Haaning XVII - A Christmas Story (The angel who had enough) | 56

They sat staring in disbelief though not missing her turning around and walking down the mud road as so many times before. However, this time she didn’t become smaller as she walked; she simply vanished. One of the young men cried out, “she bloody well forgot the apple.”

Laurits Haaning XVII - A Christmas Story (The angel who had enough) | 57

Piss and Vinegar Kyrsten Bean

Oh to coat my frazzled synapses with liquid molten ice cream a little white pill to smooth all these raw edges down but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been there before I know what happens at the end and so I pause, sit, wait it out But like a frothing mutt, crashing through the tiny cat door entrance to my mind, want, need, capitulation tears itself into the alcove, finds me sitting, useless on the couch, drinking flat piss and vinegar.

Kyrsten Bean - Piss and Vinegar | 58

Apple Wine Santiago Dominique

Dispelling the ghosts of the past is a useless venture. The maids come through the shelves And note to each other the multiple volumes of Dante’s trilogy. Donna and I decided to head back to the chapel. So, we knew there was no one there: We have no explanation for this. In old German language, I heard a rather good idea: Greyhounds ran panting through a dream you had And the sun’s harmful rays Gave us all sunburns That later blistered. We administered medications And let time take its natural course. Introducing Nature Valley plus ten grams of acetaminophen mobile to mobile minutes. And, if you think that’s crazy, I have to admit that you are. I don’t understand your commitment to conflict, A revolving door I keep walking through. ... On the other side is nothing, finally. A frame of a doorway atop a sand dune Overlooking the ocean. And I am left speechless. Stricken. Sober. Street magic and gimmicks we called our best friend. We put it back quickly without hesitation. The seasons rolled out a Jack card we’d though we’d discarded Before the game began. Stay. Stop. And then we’ll begin. Memory jumps up, startled. Santiago Dominique - Apple Wine | 59

Groveling Kyrsten Bean

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m tired working hard for money I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever seem to get Working and living in boxes selling commodities we are the commodities We are robots and ciphers our empty-hole heads used to fill the space in our mouths Tilling the cash and the register grovel, grovel, groveling forward on scraped knees The gravel is our hallowed sustenance drama our lucidity, we are tossed amongst the debris privy to the secrets of youth wasted on the insouciant insatiable wise in their eyes but not their years We are another bistro selling hamburgers for a dollar late at night when You have nowhere else to turn

Kyrsten Bean - Groveling | 60

Webbed Kyrsten Bean

There is a consciousness that pulls us in ties us together but this machine weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve built has a life of its own it desires to consume us whole using our thoughts to fuel its devices it has fashioned a smokescreen to keep us from our own sense of gravity plugged deep enough into this fabricated slipstream we think we can fly, though we are still pinned by our asses to our chairs by our eyes to flashing screens we are too fragmented to repudiate what is, and so we gyrate against the leather of our stationary thrones

Kyrsten Bean - Webbed | 61

"Udon" Meg Eden

"Minotaur" Nemo Gould | 2011

Nemo Gould

Antidote to “The Dull Complexity of the Adult Experience” The Art of Nemo Gould “My work appeals to the 7-year-old boy mind, because I still have one… I take silly very seriously.” In the ensuing years he has produced a prolific body of work that attempts to reconcile the innocent wonder of youth with the dull complexity of the adult experience. “Most adults are dangerously lacking in wonder. As we age and learn more of the answers to life’s mysteries, I think we lose part of what keeps us alive. When I am working, I am always trying to make things that can produce a child like response from a jaded adult—it’s a matter of life and death!” --From Nemo Gould’s Introduction to his Artist Statement I was introduced to Nemo’s art through my good friend and artist Jeremy Mayer (who was a featured artist in the fall 2011 v2 issue), having formed a collaborative group in the East Bay, known currently as Applied Kinetic Arts (http://www.appliedkineticarts. com/). I can’t claim to know Nemo well, having only had the opportunity to speak with him briefly during my last visit to Jeremy and Nemo’s shared studio/warehouse where they were hosting an exhibit of the group’s work. He seemed to me amiable and humble...

nemomatic

"Homonculus" Nemo Gould | 2010

"Media Giant" Nemo Gould | 2009

"Eureka!" Nemo Gould | 2007

"Tightly Wound" Nemo Gould | 2010

So, that is enough of the artist—aside from his experience as an artist, his expressed sentiment in regard to his work and what Nemo expresses in his artist statement. As always, the artist is merely the medium, and—more or less—a side note when considering their art. Too often, the cult of personality seeks to incorporate the ins and outs of the artist and their life (pros and cons) into any consideration of their art. A serious mistake in any regard when seeking to appreciate and/or understand the work (in total or in particular): In doing so, the actual purpose of the piece in provoking thought is diluted, corrupted and is (the capacity of art to release the mind and produce strings of personal insight, ideas, aesthetic pleasure, etc.) then largely lost. This is, however, inescapable—largely due to the conditioning that is incubated in all individuals from a very early age. On occasion, however, one can come across artwork that is so truly original and striking that we are instantly separated from even remotely thinking about the artist at all: this, at least from my own experience, is true of Nemo’s work.

"Headcase" Nemo Gould | 2009

"Ocean Scene" Nemo Gould | 2004

To merely only appreciate the images displayed in this issue is not recommended: Nemo’s work is not static sculpture. His works are involved pieces that move, make noises—creating a uniquely interactive experience. Nemo’s website (http://nemomatic. com) generously provides a huge collection of his works over the years with static images and videos. However, experiencing one of his sculptures in the flesh is even more so a wondrous experience, evoking instant amusement and joy—the kind that one might have experienced as a 7-year old. Not only, as I thought about writing this minor essay, as a child receiving and playing with their first toys (Shogun Warriors, a pseudo precursor to Transformers, which were produced in the late 1970s when I was 7-years old)—but also in the world around. Nemo’s work evokes that with its presence. Combining, as he does, vintage materials Nemo not only creates works that produce wonder in their “silliness”—he also captures and creates emotions, satirical topics, understated menacing mysteries and direct social commentary. In large, his work is able to transcend the mere subjective experience and move into a universal tradition, combining past and present in a startling and amusing moment. Jesse De Clercq North Lake Tahoe, April 2012

"PoBot" Nemo Gould | 2010

"Venus Flytrap" Nemo Gould | 2007

Artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Statement What makes a thing fascinating is to not completely know it. It is this gap in our understanding that the imagination uses as its canvas. Salvaged material is an ideal medium to make use of this principle. A "found objectâ&#x20AC;? is just a familiar thing seen as though for the first time. By maintaining this unbiased view of the objects I collect, I am able to create forms and figures that fascinate and surprise. These sculptures are both familiar and new. Incorporating consumer detritus with my own symbology, they are the synthesis of our manufactured landscape and our tentative place within it-- strong and frail at the same time.

http://nemomatic.com

Staid Life Kyrsten Bean

I’m hungry for more than a without life can prescribe me I’ve lost hope of finding any relief in copacetic substances years I’ve spent, slowly stacking the Lego pieces of my pillaged nervous system back together, I’m left to wander these slum flats, little box houses slung below the hilltops, pieces of paradise sorted only amongst those who live on the very tip-top--they drink, clink, clinking their little crystal glasses, I fancy they have nary a care, drink as they wish, snort lines of white rails, grow wings and flit up banisters to tuck in their angel-faced kids whose colleges are already paid for. But what do I know I’m a former pill junkie, bereft of pills, left with the pick-pocked face of age, whittled-down rage, a spent carcass lost in a staid life, pointing my finger up, up, up, shaking it ineffectually, still begging for change.

Kyrsten Bean - Staid Life | 73

the contributors Kyrsten Bean Kyrsten Bean is a writer and musician. She spends most of her time in creative pursuits, and writes a daily blog encouraging others to do the same at thestifledartist.com. She was featured as Poet of the Month on The Railroad Poetry Project, and her work has been published in PoV Magazine, Gutter Eloquence, Amphibi.us, Breadcrumb Scabs, The Camel Saloon and many other fine publications. You can find links to her work at kyrstenbean.com.

Mark Goad is now living and working in the Boston area. Recent publications include Assisi, BAP, Bird’s Eye Review. "My work is reflective, vivid and typically, concise. What can be said in one hundred words I’d prefer to say in ten. I am struck – as are, I think, most poets – by the mystery of the moment, the perception thereof, its possibilities, the memories raised and the emotions evoked. Favorite poets include Milosz, Franz Wright, Levertov, Kenyon." Nemo Gould was born to artist parents in 1975, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Named after the protagonist in Windsor McKay's comic strip "Little Nemo in Slumberland," Gould's work has fittingly evolved to reflect the images and mythology of comic books and Science Fiction. Parallel to these influences was an irrepressible tendency towards collecting and dismantling anything with moving parts. After earning his BFA at the Kansas City Art Institute in 1998, and his MFA at U.C. Berkeley in 2000, Gould was finally released into the realm of free will. Free of the constraints of contemporary art education he quickly threw himself into the pursuit of his childhood dreams. “My work appeals to the 7-year-old boy mind, because I still have one… I take silly very seriously.” In the ensuing years he has produced a prolific body of work that attempts to reconcile the innocent wonder of youth with the dull complexity of the adult experience. “Most adults are dangerously lacking in wonder. As we age and learn more of the answers to life’s mysteries, I think we lose part of what keeps us alive. When I am working, I am always trying to make things that can produce a child like response from a jaded adult—it’s a matter of life and death!” Gould's work has been featured frequently in national media and is shown in Galleries and Museums throughout the U.S. and abroad.

Vikas Chadha A professional with over 11 years of experience in the areas of Strategic Planning, Commercial and Controls, Financial Planning, Supply Chain Management and Logistics. I am currently working as Business Controller at Ernst & Young. Possess excellent analytical, interpersonal and negotiation skills. This is the author's first publication. Santiago Dominique is a photographer, writer and artist who calls no particular place home. He reportedly is currently staying in Sicklerville in a hostel, writing a travel article on the American hostel experience. He states that his next venture will be to write a similar article on the Luxembourg Hostel experience. Santiago refuses to generally engage in having a web presence, stating outright disdain for social networks, blogging and so on. The artist states that his work has appeared in a number of print and online literary journals since the 1990s--but that each publication mysteriously went out of print immediately after publication of his work. He has graciously contributed to this journal (as a pseudo-exception), having appeared in the inaugural issue. William Wright Harris My poetry has appeared in nine countries in such literary journals as The Cannon’s Mouth, Ascent Aspirations, generations and Write On!!! A student at the University of Tennessee- Knoxville, I have studied poetry in workshop settings with such poets as Jesse Janeshek, Marilyn Kallet, Arthur Smith, and Marcel Brouwers. In my work I juxtapose concrete images with abstract notions, often write in structures such as unrhyming couplets and triadic verse, stress economy, and utilize such literary conceits as the ekphrasis poem, parallel structure and the incorporation of mythology within my work.

Meg Eden has been published in various magazines and anthologies, including Rock & Sling, The Science Creative Quarterly, anderbo, Gloom Cupboard, and Crucible. Her chapbook "The Girl who Came Back" was given first honorable mention of NFSPS’s University level Poetry award. Her chapbook "Rotary Phones and Facebook" is to be released by Dancing Girl Press in June 2012. http://artemisagain. wordpress.com/ Laurits Haaning XVII is an award winning photographer, having had his photography featured in 'B&W/Color' magazine and recently had a solo exhibit. He was first published in the first issue of this journal and now acts as the Associate Editor. He lives in North Lake Tahoe with his lovely wife and their two dogs "This" and "That".

in this issue: kyrsten bean, nemo gould, mark goad, joseph clifford, haydee yordan, william wright harris