HE AR TBRE AK E R The Impossible Issue Spring 2009
Die young
Well there are some thing sI’d like to tell them: like how it is impossible for a boy to be a girl, although it might be somewhat probable under medical circumstances but not naturally or not easily with the snap of two fingers (thumb and the index); how it is impossible for most of us to be born a Colombian and selling cocaine at the age of 17 -- an age that I left behind, unremembered, 4 years ago; how it is impossible to eat a fruit that doesn’t exist but I wish had existed (nothing but a variety of watermelon combinations, in my mind it goes best with cucumber skin); how it is impossible to go back in time and fix the little things I think I could’ve done slightly better, and to live the moments which were so fucking good over and over again, and when I’m done living them, to go back and live them again. How I will never see the dinasours, or fly, or swim to school every morning and not get wet, or be best buddies with James Dean and ride in his convertible. How Heartbreaker isn’t and won’t be obscurely boohoo, but bluntly sad, purposely waking the feelings that normal people would usually keep sealed in a chest made of mahogany, and how it wishes to break that goddamn chest in half and scatter all these emotions so they’ll know what they’re missing out on, the whole spectrum of feelings. How Heartbreaker bears the childish dream of making whoever reads it a little more. And I want to tell them that if it’s hard to place everything on a mental terrain, maybe they should try harder because everything makes sense when you try to make sense out of it and in this case it is completely worth it; how I want this to cuddle people who are reading it (think of it as a Jedi mindtrick), and not to just make them stare at it and nod, but how they should try to fantasize harder, interpret everything in many ways they wouldn’t be able to, if given some other book or magazine. Therefore how I wish that this could be cherished for long eons to come, repeatedly, at times in the course of consequent days, and mean something new everytime or help recollect old feelings that people thought they had lost along the way. And why I’m doing this should be known too: it is easier to open up to strangers.
Contributors: Paige Ackerson-Kiely: poems (“Rather”, “On Blankness”) on pages 64, 68. Emily Alexander: photos on pages 85, 94, 95, 96 (b&ws), 98-99. Stephanie Anderson: poems (“May I Intrude” and “Autumn with the Screeching of Pulleys”) on pages 7, 53. An Asterisk: Itself, on page 69. Paul Banks: poem (“Leif Erikson”) on page 47.
Nicholas Gottlund: text and photos (“Projection and the Literal, A Vignette of Spirituals”) on pages 56 - 63, S. E. Hinton: text (from “Rumble Fish”) on pages 54-55 Len Hulsbos: poems (“Untitled”, and a part of some poem) on pages 50-51. Charlie Kaufman: text (from “Adaptation” and “Synecdoche, New York”) on pages 24-25, 48-49.
Charles Baudelaire: text on page 35.
Ezgi Kocak: poems (“The Soloist”, “Kindred Spirit”, “Five Facts about Fairy Tales”) on pages 14, 88, 94.
Sarah Castronovo: photo on page 89.
Sophie Lvoff: photos on pages 6, 32,
Alana Celii: photos on pages 17,19,21, 65, 79, 81, 86, 93, 108.
Pasha Malla: short story (“Like Lithuania but with Less Hope”) on pages 70 - 76.
Yonca Cubuk: photo on page 66. Burcu Dayanikli: little blue illustrations on this page. Gerald Edwards III: photos on pages 12-13, 14, 33, 34, 90-91 Emily Kendal Frey: poems (“FLIGHT”, “JOB”, “LANGUAGE”) on pages 16,18,20.
Jill Matthieu: photos on pages 11, 92, 96 (colour photos) Acilay Meric: illustration on page 67, 100-102. Kevin O’Connor Mulligan: poems (“Untitled” and “A Last Milking”) on pages 78, 81. Erin Jane Nelson: photos on pages 9,
10
and this page.
Emir Ozsahin: photos on pages 45, 46, 52, 77, 115.
Tony Tost: poems (“from 1001 Sentences’) on pages 102 - 106.
Richard Philips: illustration on page 27. Pterosaurs in V-formation: pages 83.
Monica Uszerowicz: texts “Summertime”, “Untitled” and “Untitled (Smell Memory)” ) on pages 8, 44, 66, 98.
Gabriel Quiason: text (“Untitled”) on page 84.
Bill Vaccaro: photos pages 41, 110, 111.
Zachary Schomburg: poems (“NEW KIND OF LIGHT”, “WHEN I FIND MY ANIMAL LIGHT, MOM, I WILL CONVINCE MYSELF IT IS BEAUTIFUL” and “WE VOLUNTEERED TO FLY THE SPACESHIP”) on pages 6, 28, 32
Tim Van Dyke: poem on pages 22-23 (originally published in “Fascicle” Issue No.1) and (“Songs from Slow Song”) on 36 - 43.
Erman Torun: photographs on page 7
Lindley Warren: poems on pages 26. Burcin Yavuz: poems on page 100.
NEW KIND OF LIGHT
I move my hands in these woods to find her sex-parts. We discover our sex-parts make heat and blue light. We become outlines of ourselves— long scratches in the sky.
We have a daughter who was never born. She lives in the house we never built, but in this new light, you can almost see its tattered roof.
May i intrude I have split again. The insomniacs write / appear / tell me of a miniature entertainer. They believe this development is growth / is a growth / is development. I’m not driving, I respond. The girl has grapefruit-thick lips / vocals / hips. Like to try ‘em for size. Uniforms are pushing each other off the repository shelves. The girl applies red and steps. The music ups / the needle grates. Won’t you swing it. The prospect becomes kaleidoscopic; the insomniacs are form watchers. I want to reiterate the variables / the between brush and comb, but they are each watching the USO girl. The repository jangles / shifts. All the tiny pianos begin to tilt off the shelves. I / she performs, glad for the upshot.
summer The temperature in the house shifts - higher, higher, lower; it teeters between cold and very hot. It is indicative of its struggle to fight off the heat. Energy-inefficient jalousie windows open their paneled jaws (like a many-toothed bird or reptile sunning itself in the backyard), breathing in the warmth and choking each time. Though the heat spreads and is cooled by the tiles, some spots don’t make it. The insides of the kitchen drawers, closets, the bowels of the sink: all are sticky, dewy, warm - the inside of a feverish mouth. The forks are hot to the touch. My clothes are moist. The cat food must be melting. In these situations one must revel in the moisture; pretend the enclosed space of the home is, in actuality, a rainforest. A jungle! It is unfortunate when reality transcends imagination; mosquitos appear in multitudes and swarm my legs. They attracted to my moisturizer, I think; honey, milk, sweat. The itching turns into burning into the in-
rtime
ability to keep my eyes closed or open as the histamine sinks into what feels like my muscles. I scratch till I bleed; white spots replace the blood. They are rough to the touch and they are ugly.
The soloist Silence waiting as an eager lion Redemption crawling insidiously like a ghost Time stucks at the silvery screen Departures seem eerie at local airports Temperature is low in distant places Calm rivers slashing the city As I look outside my window scorching sun sets A hearthrob is condemned for his solemnity
Falling cat apparatus Falling cat
FLIGHT We meet down by the river. He takes off his yellow bird wings. I love you, he says, and I’m your son. I take a wing and stab him. I fly into the river.
JOB D is arranging a big event. He wants me to arrive and then leave immediately. I put needles in my back in a wing shape and flap around the room. Will this do? He hits me down like a pi単ata.
LANGUAGE K goes into the factory and doesn’t come out. We go to Europe to build a mausoleum. At the ceremony an old man asks about her. He’s a relative so he’s allowed to ask.
WHAT I PROPOSE IS AN ALCHEMY FO THE MASSES SATI I to Valhalla: animus, animus, bitch get on the boat! What will the neighbours think? “A boat of beautiful things!” Shadow be I’s blind spot not dispelled by fire. Survive the I, become the fire.
I ALMOST MET GOD ONCE Up hill the wagon red, it carries flopsy Dennis, no ram in sight, and Mr. Wilson needs a break. Should the meadow’s floor roll densely? There, the floor shakes and bobs.
I FOUND A CHILD’S BOOK
In it Dennis says: OOOOeeee! Now we w Mother’s rosy countenance, in this her bo which was, say, the secretest of all her se
OR
will find ody, ecrets!
A NIGHT OF EMPTY THREATS Giacometti, he was there! Susie’s pa et Lucipo a face minimal. And Jung, he danced! Face et fishes out of water; it plumbed a deep membrane. CSmart, he prayed for us! Let us: Let us: Let us: Let me: Eat: God. Derrida slapped me! But I will be the horse that gallops over his cadaver. MORNING SWIMS It’s Aphroditic said I. I said I am the I not I the sea. I am the I said I the sea. I sees the sea not I the sea and does not swim. I says I am I the sea. I am the sea. I am the sea rises to watch I rising. I rise out of the sea through love, the Genius beneath the sea, and learn to dress myself in waves.
SATURDAYS WITH ED MUNCH Look East at mist! Its shaped like Bluto! Look West at mist! Here comes Popeye! Look up at cloud! Cloud’s gonna try on a brand new skin. Ur-cloud’s dyin’ out at sea! Its new skin screams Eeeeeee-ooooooore eeeee-oooooore!
Ee
“Do I have an original thought in my head? My bald head. Maybe if I were happier my hair wouldn’t be falling out. Life is short. I need to make the most of it. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I’m a walking cliché. I really need to go to the doctor and have my leg checked. There’s something wrong. A bump. The dentist called again. I’m way overdue. If I stop putting things off I would be happier. All I do is sit on my fat ass. If my ass wasn’t fat I would be happier. I wouldn’t have to wear these shirts with the tails out all the time. Like that’s fooling anyone. Fat ass. I should start jogging again. Five miles a day. Really do it this time. Maybe rock climbing. I need to turn my life around. What do I need to do? I need to fall in love. I need to have a girlfriend. I need to read more and prove myself. What if I learned Russian
or something, or took up an instrument. I could speak Chinese. I’d be the screenwriter who speaks Chinese and plays the oboe. That would be cool. I should get my hair cut short. Stop trying to fool myself and everyone else into thinking I have a full head of hair. How pathetic is that. Just be real. Confident. Isn’t that what women are attracted to? Men don’t have to be attractive. But that’s not true. Especially these days. Almost as much pressure on men as there is on women these days. Why should I be made to feel I have to apologize for my existence? Maybe it’s my brain chemistry. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Bad chemistry. All my problems and anxiety can be reduced to a chemical imbalance or some kind of misfiring synapses. I need to get help for that. But I’ll still be ugly though. Nothing’s going to change that.”
YOU COULD COME HERE AT ANY SECOND OF THE DAY AND I’D FLING MYSELF FORCEFULLY INTO YOUR ARMS AND SAY: DON’T LEAVE, DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE! AND YOU WOULDN’T EVER LEAVE, BECAUSE YOU WOULDN’T BE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE. I LOOKED ACROSS THE BALCONIES I SAW A DOOR OPEN AND A LIGHT ON IN ANOTHER ROOM SHE CAME OUT AND STOOD HER GHOST ESCAPED AND FLEW TOWARDS THE SKY HER BODY FELL, OR WHAT WAS HER BODY {{NOW JUST AN EMPTY SHELL}} I RUN OUT AND OVER AND KNOCK ON ALL THE DOORS AND CLIMB THROUGH WINDOWS AND RUN UP AND BREAK DOWN THE DOOR AND RUN TO THE BALCONY AND HOLD THE SHELL AND KISS THE OPENING LIKE I WOULD KISS YOU IF YOU KISSED ME FIRST BECAUSE I CAN’T HANDLE REJECTION IT’S RAINING YOU COME OVER {{THIS IS HOW LOVE POEMS ARE SUPPOSED TO START. AT LEAST I THINK SO. BUT BOY, I SURE CAN’T REMEMBER HOW IT FEELS TO BE IN LOVE.}} 3-23: RAINDROPS IN MY EYES EYES EYES OH RAIN DROPS IN MY EYES
MAY I BORROW THIS? OH YOU’RE SO DEAR, XO.
WE VOLUNTEERED TO FLY THE SPACE SHIP We volunteered to fly the spaceship. Our job was to deliver informational pamphlets to distant and dusty planets and place them at the feet of volcanoes in the red buzzing light. There were no little creatures there, just like they said there wouldn’t be. The trip was impossibly long. We talked the whole way there and we talked the whole way back too.
D E-
I’M PREGNANT.
WHEN I FIND MY ANIMAL LIGHT, MOM, I WILL CONVINCE MYSELF THAT IT IS BEAUTIFUL I try to find my way home through the woods at night. There is no moon and no stars. My eyes never adjust. My hands are in front of me feeling for trees but I don’t feel any. I feel like I’m walking down a hill but I can’t be sure. I hear a small crowd cheering and I walk toward the cheering but the cheering never gets louder. Then the cheering turns into moths and then the moths fly away. There are no sounds at all in the world. I go back up the hill a little and then stop. I stand still in the middle of the silent world. I feel like a single celled organism, translucent and amorphous, but I know I’m not. I can feel my arms and legs on my body. Then I squat down and put my knees against my chest and put my arms around my shins and put my head between my knees.
“This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health by the window. It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and this question of removal is one which I discuss incessantly with my soul.�
songs from slow song Bomb-Extend-Take-Burn
To bomb and extend your reach again to bomb from the sky to bomb to extend from the sky to skin to take to extend in the most quiet way not to burn not to burn to bomb from the sky to bomb to burn to bomb to burn to bomb to burn the most quiet way To burn to skin the most quiet skin the darkies screaming napalm napalm burning skin the darkies’
Look-Say-Extinguish-Know To look at the ground to say to the ground in the most quiet way not to extinguish the ground and the dark not to say the ground and the dark remain finality of dark not to know not to know to look the ground and the dark remain to extinguish to say Finality Finality to look its ground the most quiet ground remains to extinguish the dark to Fire to Fire the fires in the dark remain
Revive-Shape-Weave-Rage To revive to shape the lyric again to revive the lyric in immigrant tusk to weave to shape an immigrant tusk to weave a vibrant shape to rage to rage to revive an urgent immigrant tusk to revive to shape to revive to shape to shape a vibrating immigrant tusk to shape to rage the most urgent rage shaping shaking tusks to shape the lyric as the tusk shapes rage
Wonder-Expand-Attract-Extend To wonder at the dead synaptic space to expand the dead synaptic space to attract more distant appearances to extend them along your limbs to expand through your head to extend to expand through your head to attract the rigid face not to spasm not to spasm to expand through your head the rigid face to expand to extend to expand to extend to attract the rigid face to attract to wonder the rigid face clarity Timbrel Timbrel Timbrel! attracting tremors to c larity To extend to wonder the rigid face
Grist-Bind-Secrete-Grind To bind words to the worm-book to bind skin to the hymnal to bind to grist to grist worms from the word-book to bind words to the worm-book secrete hymns not to grist worms not to grind hymns to grist worms from the word-book in a quiet way to grist worms from the word-book secrete hymns to grind to secrete the most quiet hymn of hymnals to grist secretion from the skin of hymnals
Float-Rest-Make-Flood To float and rest in sense in several senses to float all at once in several senses to float to rest in several senses all at once to penetrate what it makes to flood the senses several senses all at once to float in sense what it makes several senses to float to rest in what it makes a skeleton of flood in sense in several senses all at once resting skeleton of flood history shapes itself in sense in several senses at once
Hold-Hang-Hum-Transform To hold and hang that superstition slack and a face to hold that superstition slack to hold to hold that superstition face and a face to transform before the wounding cannons do they hum to hold that superstition slack and a face before the wounding cannons to hold to hang to hold to hang to hang to hang before the wounding cannons and a face and a face before the wounding cannons to hang to hum The Wounding Cannons in unison to sound of a face before the wounding cannons to sound the wounding cannons the hanging hum of wounding cannons the hanging hum in unison before the face of wounding cannons a face that hums in unison to the hanging hum of cannons
Transform-Wound-Torch-Beat To transform and wound those boys with torches before the wounding cannons to transform beneath my skin a beat to transform to transform those boys beneath my skin before the wounding cannons to beat a pleasing frequency before the wounding cannons torch beneath my skin to beat those boys with torches to beat a pleasing frequency into those boys with torches before the wounding cannons to transform my skin to wounding cannons to wound those boys with torches to wound those boys to boom, soon a pleasing frequency beat those boys with torches
Untitled
Houses contain lingering energies - if something awful happened in a given space, there it will linger: hauntings, uncomfortable feelings and tuggings or goosebumps. The last person to live in this house killed himself. He seemed alright when he was alive but now my neighbor’s bedroom feels cold. If the energy is to manifest itself, it will appear as an object only barely tangible - a reddish glow, an angry light that is fading so it’s sad, too. The bedroom in his house is directly across from our kitchen. Something weird is there, some shape, something aural. Is there ever anything clearly revealing of the soul? The phantasmal is so insubstantial. Sometimes what remains, physically, of the occurrence will create its own set of disturbances. It could irritate the house’s new inhabitant in ways he or she is entirely unaware of until it is removed. Its removal, then, is vital, and must be carried out hastily. This elimination of the physical disruptions will help to eliminate the spiritual. The guy who shot himself left a mirror in there. He wrote positive affirmations all over it, like, “I am a good person,” “I am efficient,” “I am beautiful,” “I should smile more.” My neighbor, my best friend, felt queasy and sleepy all the time and experienced seizures. He came to my house with the blood bruises on his tongue and lips and said he didn’t remember anything before the hospital except his arm feeling tingly. My dad found the mirror in the corner, behind the bookshelf, and put it out with the recycling. We built a fence be-
tween our houses. Even if the ghostly presence is no longer felt in the house, the mortality of the inhabitant or those affected by the experience may become evaluated. This idea will be pored over obsessively. Although both acceptance of the fact of death and the expelling of the ghost can prevent this problem, it is often parasitic, plaguing, and deeply disturbing. I thought about the glowing, haunted aftermath that would happen if my life ended, by a mysterious illness, an angry spirit, my own hand. Forever I’d be like an electric balloon floating aimlessly in my own kitchen, asking the other ball behind the fence why it, too, had died. My bedroom looked like the graveyard I would inhabit in my next life; all my possessions would be infused with new meaning for everybody else in the house. The silence would not be silence but the absence of noises I made while living. I felt that glowing ball, a lump in my throat. To lessen the upsetting effects of living with a ghost, lifestyle changes should be made by the new inhabitants and those around him: a new liveliness, a joy for living, is that to which they should aspire, whether by surrounding themselves with friends or finding new ways to ignore negative thoughts. Through holes in the fence, the sprawling backyard looks like a refuge from the horrors inside the house. My neighbor began sleeping on our couch. I felt relieved; another person breathing and loving you creates a sort of barrier between the corporal and the spectral. His seizures stopped.
Leif Erikson She says it helps with the lights out Her rabid glow is like braille to the night She swears I’m a slave to the details But if your life is such a big joke, why should I care? The clock is set for nine but you know you’re gonna make it eight So that you two can take some time, teach each other to reciprocate She feels that my sentimental side should be held with kids gloves But she doesn’t know that I left my urge in the icebox She swears I’m just prey for the female Well then hook me up and throw me babycakes cause I like to get hooked The clock is set for nine but you know you’re gonna make it eight All the people that you’ve loved, they’re all bound to leave some keepsakes I’ve been swinging all the time, think it’s time I learned your way I picture you and me together in the jungle, it will be OK I’ll bring you when my lifeboat sails through the night That is supposing that you don’t sleep tonight It’s like learning a new language Helps me catch up on my mime If you don’t bring up those lonely parts This could be a good time It’s like learning a new language You come here to me We’ll collect those lonely parts and set them down You come here to me... She says brief things, her love’s a pony My love’s subliminal
Everything is more more complicated than than Everything Everything is is more complicated complicated than you think. You You only see see a tenth tenth of what what you you think. think. You only only see a a tenth of of what is true. There There are a a million little little strings is is true. true. There are are a million million little strings strings attached to every every choice you you make; attached attached to to every choice choice you make; make; you can destroy destroy your life life every time time you you you can can destroy your your life every every time you you choose. But maybe maybe you won’t won’t know choose. choose. But But maybe you you won’t know know for twenty years. years. And you’ll you’ll never ever ever for for twenty twenty years. And And you’ll never never ever trace it to to its source. source. And you you only get get trace trace it it to its its source. And And you only only get one chance to to play it it out. Just Just try and and one one chance chance to play play it out. out. Just try try and figure out your your own divorce. divorce. And they they figure figure out out your own own divorce. And And they say there is is no fate, fate, but there there is: it’s it’s say say there there is no no fate, but but there is: is: it’s what you create. create. what what you you create. Even though the the world goes goes on for for eons Even Even though though the world world goes on on for eons eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a and and eons, eons, you you are are here here for for a a fraction fraction of of a a fraction of a second. Most of your time fraction fraction of of a a second. second. Most Most of of your your time time is spent being dead or not yet born. is is spent spent being being dead dead or or not not yet yet born. born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wastBut But while while alive, alive, you you wait wait in in vain, vain, wastwasting years, for for a phone phone call or or a letter letter ing ing years, years, for a a phone call call or a a letter or a look look from someone someone or something something or or a a look from from someone or or something to make it it all right. right. And it it never comes comes to to make make it all all right. And And it never never comes
or it seems seems to but but doesn’t really. really. And or or it it seems to to but doesn’t doesn’t really. And And so you spend your time in vague regret so so you you spend spend your your time time in in vague vague regret regret or vaguer hope hope for something something good to to or or vaguer vaguer hope for for something good good to come along. Something Something to make make you come come along. along. Something to to make you you feel connected, to to make you you feel whole, whole, feel feel connected, connected, to make make you feel feel whole, to make you you feel loved. loved. to to make make you feel feel loved. And the truth truth is I’m I’m so angry angry and the the And And the the truth is is I’m so so angry and and the truth is I’m I’m so fucking fucking sad, and and the truth truth truth truth is is I’m so so fucking sad, sad, and the the truth is I’ve been been so fucking fucking hurt for for so fuckfuckis is I’ve I’ve been so so fucking hurt hurt for so so fucking long and and for just just as long long have been been ing ing long long and for for just as as long have have been pretending I’m ok, ok, just to to get along, along, just pretending pretending I’m I’m ok, just just to get get along, just just for, I don’t know why, maybe because for, for, II don’t don’t know know why, why, maybe maybe because because no one wants to hear about my misery, no no one one wants wants to to hear hear about about my my misery, misery, because they have have their own, own, and their their because because they they have their their own, and and their own is too too overwhelming to to allow them them own own is is too overwhelming overwhelming to allow allow them to listen to to or care care about mine. mine. to to listen listen to or or care about about mine. Well, fuck everybody. everybody. Well, Well, fuck fuck everybody. Amen. Amen. Amen.
You see? / Well I don’t / Open your eyes / Shut up / Don’t tell me what to think / Nor what to say / I’m not mad / I’m just looking for a fight / In order to control the fire within / Need to go all out / Again, there’s the cloud / Looks light feels heavy / Guitars screaming in my ears / Drums bouncing on my chest / The lines going through my mind / Today, I simply don’t feel too kind / Here we go / Being conditioned to their flow / Forced into the bends
Vulcano blasting says;
boom
Autumn with the screeching of pulleys An awl to the back of the throat; pulse catapults. Ridge-hewn puppet, I took back more than I meant. Stage fabric falls to tatter in leaves; the bottle carrier clinks out furniture music. Or is it a barrel organ being quelched by a costume cart – synchopated one, I’m tossing all I owe over the choir-screen. We reel and stagger without why.
Once in a while, a person comes along with a differ mean... an acute perception doesn’t make you crazy. H mother is not crazy. And nor, contrary to popular beli was born in the wrong era, on the wrong side of the riv and findin’ nothin’ that he wants to do. I mean nothing
rent view of the world. It doesn’t make them crazy. I However sometimes, it can drive you crazy. No, your ief, is your brother. He’s merely miscast in a play. He ver, with the ability to be able to do anything he wants g.
Projection and the Literal
A Vignette of Spirituals ...this is what it sounds like. A little place to hide. The approach tenderly cut. The fringe dissolves at their feet. Swaying grasses in the pasture. Daybreak. They cough and stare into the distance toward the opposite hillside, wishing they had never been there before and that it was all new, but that the light beckons. It continues inward from the periphery until a soft whiteness persists. Towards the center in every direction it is faintly more luminous creating a sense of vastness and ambiguous depth. In this way it is the same in all directions. Overlooking a new home site cut out of ice plant and scrub juniper at the edge of the canyon, they kicked at the dust. Finding none, they followed the rocky path back down, squinting with the sun in their eyes. They notice a glittering speeder on the horizon. Look out into the darkness and do you see that wavering? Flat and expanding. The three shines wane in the air. Smoke from the first fires hangs low across the plain. They gather and sip from steaming cups. Waiting. A chill runs through it all, squinting to adjust they file onto the bus packed in with gear. The ground skimming past, they bounce inland. Each morning at the same time, under the sky the same thing in two places. This is what it looks like and...
Rather Under the sateen hem the ankles swivel drearily— the ankles would rather be as two notches in an ice wall, clung to, hoisted from. Suffused in eerie phone light, the chin would rather be slack, impoverished of jut and the cool angle yessssss makes when it is spoken as custom. A man bowled over the marigolds. A woman who wants someone to do something to her. The forest for the trees: The bush is burning. The bird in the hand: That it could not see the bedside of everything. The bedside of everything: Tonight a small boy praying that his sheets ghost up and tell him what it is he is supposed to do. He would kill the neighbor’s dog or figure out times tables or learn to monogram handkerchiefs as the fingers of a clerk drumming on a counter have no formal music. He would do the natural thing. If no one ever emigrated from Egypt. If a man never put down his golf club and looked out over the manicured green rolling numbly toward the freeway, and said to his buddy: What do you think this looked like, you know, before? If his friend, pulling seed from his pocket and scattering it toward a lone sparrow hopping lamely on the outskirts of hole 4, said: I’d rather not think about it.
When men say to me, “But your boyfriend might mind” or “What does your boyfriend think?” – leading statements that they hope will lead to the embittered confession, “I’ve no boyfriend” – for a split second, I imagine having a boyfriend who does indeed mind. Usually he has soft hair and wears an outfit that would designate him a messy dude. Like me, he is troubled by aloe plants – breaking them would offer much relief but why would you want to break
something so lush and perfect? (I think of this because Imaginary Boyfriend has a sunburn. In great big gray New York City I am at best ugly and at worst invisible. When men speak to me this way, it is almost always in Florida.) Also like me, he has little tolerance for liquor-breathed warm bodies touching his own in a way that recalls an octopus. Octopi attract octopi or make octopi: either you grope in return or start squirming.
And if there was light: And if there was a pitcher by the bedside: And if there was a shudder in the flank of a racehorse who must sit this round out, who has but one single job to do in this world and cannot do unto this job: If there was a horse called in to the barracks, brushed out and tied to a post. And if there was light: She says I love you. Then she says his name. And if there was a pitcher by the bedside: She will ration the water. A horse has no gall bladder but breeds as though trying on a dress at the mall. The struggle to fit. To be rained upon— if there was a shudder in the flank that gave away nothing. Then she says his name. And if there was light: His scarboroughed muzzle. The bit. Each night a little more action at the local bar. The neon signs less abrupt under the cool haze that shows the flaw to be immaterial. Drunk and recollected drunkenly a horse out to pasture—all hours of the night are foundered, all poems contain the words Terminal Daybreak—the horse knows what the horse is spooked by. And if there was a pitcher by the bedside: That she might raise the thing up. Floodlights in the basement of her chest. Silence like the potato of her sternum, de-eyed. Running in a broad daylight. Running and running until she is asked to stop.
*
Like Lithuania, but with Less Hope O bviously, the cartographer liked drawing maps. He drew maps of his house, his neigh-
borhood, his own body — inside and out. It began one Christmas Eve when he strode up to his best friend, Jerzy, and handed him a piece of paper. On it was written the word ME and the word YOU, with an arrow in between. “It’s a map,” whispered the cartographer, “so we don’t ever lose one another.”
Two days later, during Total Boxing Day Madness at the local shopping centre, despite the map the cartographer would indeed lose his best friend. He stood there amongst the holiday shoppers, baffled, map in hand. “Jerzy!” screamed the cartographer, festively, while all around jingled the dregs of Xmas bells. To no avail. No one could help him, not even the woman at the Help Desk who had been trained to call thrice for missing persons over the public address system. Of course, this was because Jerzy was not a person at all,
but a magical unicorn made of invisible pixie dust. The cartographer was an imaginative and terrifically lonely little boy. ~ Another of the cartographer’s maps detailed a road, long and winding. He showed it to his therapist, Dr. Smile, and the therapist saw a snake and noted something about original sin in his notebook, or Freud. “How does this make you feel?” asked Dr. Smile. The cartographer drew a map of his feelings, which looked a lot like Puerto Rico. Dr. Smile nodded and stroked his beard and later wept great heaving sobs into his pillow while his wife stood watching from the bedroom doorway. Although that had very little to do with the cartographer, as Dr. Smile had been cuckolded that afternoon. “Andrew!” he wailed, for that was his wife’s lover’s name. ~ When the cartographer was rejected from Cartography College he sat down with all his maps laid out on the driveway of his parents’ duplex and wondered, “Why?” They seemed like splendid maps to him, all in good proportion, with little upside-down V’s to denote waves where there was water, and bigger upside-down V’s to denote mountains where there were those. Sometimes there was snow on the mountains;
other times, an eagle’s nest or Sir Edmund Hilary. In the water, where appropriate, there were giant squid or whales. On land, donkeys. High up in the sky, birds! Also: clouds, satellites, nuclear weapons, Jerzy’s spirit, and the blueness of ozone. At the time, the cartographer was nine years old and failing fourth grade gym. “Drop and give me ten!” the P.E. teacher, Mr. McCracken, once commanded, and the cartographer had fallen cowering to his knees and handed over ten dollars. Oh, the life of the cartographer. This is what the cartographer often sighed to himself, usually at dinner when his mother, a famous geneticist, would slide a plateful of genetically modified cabbage at him again. “Eat your cabbage, map-boy,” his father would say. Once, feeling guilty, the cartographer’s father had then leant over to tussle his son’s hair. “Aw, shucks. When I was your age I wanted to be a cartographer, too.” This the cartographer found even more discouraging: his father was the CEO of a paper-shredding organization whose specialty was maps.
When he went to see his therapist that week, the cartographer drew a map of his relationship with his father: like Lithuania, but with less hope. By this point, Dr. Smile was really losing it. Dressed in only galoshes and a woman’s housecoat, he held the map at arm’s-length, turned it sideways, then upside down, and gazed out the window. “You know,” he began, “it’s the smell of her fucking hair I miss the most.” The cartographer didn’t know what to say.
Wait, yes he did: “I have lost someone, too.” Dr. Smile said, “Oh?” “Yes,” said the cartographer. “My best friend, Jerzy.” Dr. Smile turned. “I have news for you, my boy. Jerzy is probably not lost at all. He has most likely been relocated to the land of Philistine.” Short of acceptance into Cartography College, this was the greatest news a boy could hear. Lying on Dr. Smile’s chaise lounge, the cartographer laughed from deep in his belly, a wonderful, booming sound, and his laugh made the map of a balloon. A balloon! That was it, thought the cartographer. Being a famous geneticist, his mother kept a hat-box full of the business cards people handed her at parties under her bed. Thorold Manchester: 19th Century Balloonist, said the business card the cartographer found that evening, and then it floated away. He faxed the number on the card, and sat, waiting. When a reply came screaming through the line, the cartographer jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands. On the page curling out of the machine it said, “I thought ballooning was a dead art. Thank you, my young friend. Let’s meet — TM.”
~ They went for apples. At the apple shop, one of the best in town, they sat munching, staring at one another across the table. “So,” said Thorold Manchester. “So,” said the cartographer. Two tables over was the cartographer’s therapist, eavesdropping, his Golden Delicious conspicuously untouched before him. The cartographer waved. Sheepishly, Dr. Smile came
over and sat down with them. “These days, holy fuck am I sad,” said Dr. Smile, who was just getting the hang of swearing, and enjoying it immensely. Thorold Manchester patted his arm. “I’m sorry I laughed at your shame,” said the cartographer. “Would you like to join our entourage?” For the first time in ages, Dr. Smile smiled. ~ About the balloonist, Thorold Manchester: a dreamer, easily a hundred years old, grey-haired, goateed, bespectacled — a dead ringer for the fried chicken mogul Colonel Sanders, whom the balloonist resented as the cuckolded Dr. Smile resented his wife’s new lover, Andrew, and the cartographer resented his school for refusing to offer cartography at the fourth-grade level. Resentment brought them together, and resentment would drive them apart, potentially. They were three men — or males, anyway — but there was nothing homoerotic about their camaraderie, even when they took their shirts off and lay together in the sun.
rold Manchester. “The skies are full of church spires.” The land of Philistine was in dispute, as it had been since the beginning of time. No one wanted to live there, but always one group was driving another onto it, like cattle. The present group had been there for centuries, for they were a feeble people more apt to making delicious waffles or standing on one another’s shoulders than staging a rebellion. Philistine was referred to anachronistically in the press as “The Disputed Territories,” although there was only one territory, Philistine.
A series of faxes followed, back and forth, zipping up and down telephone wires and printed onto paper. “Zeros and ones,” explained the balloonist in a fax, although no one had asked. The plan was to leave during March Break. Would the cartographer effectively be running away? Yes, but this was only a technicality. Dr. Smile talked to his parents, making some excuse. “Good, good — show the boy the world,” said the cartographer’s father, and his mother handed Dr. Smile a particularly Between the three of them, they de- luxurious cabbage. “Please, take this,” cided on three tasks: 1) To reach the she said. “It is a special cabbage that land of Philistine by balloon; 2) To map I have engineered to continually rethe land of Philistine, which had never plenish itself.” Dr. Smile smiled at the been mapped by anyone before; and 3) possibility of limitless coleslaw, which To rescue Jerzy. “It will be a dangerous he adored. “Next stop, the mayonnaise place to take a balloon,” warned Tho- emporium!” he shrieked, trembling.
When it was time to leave, the cartographer’s parents saw them off at the launching pad on the tallest hill in town. The fires roared as the balloon filled with air. “Have fun,” said the cartographer’s mother. “Bring us back a tchotchke,” said his father, who didn’t want a tchotchke at all, but only relished the chance to say such a delightful word. Dr. Smile dumped ballast and Thorold Manchester cranked the gas; the balloon began to rise. The cartographer looked down at his parents, waving, tears welling in their eyes. They truly loved him, he realized — it was just his choice of careers they found suspect. But he would show them! He would show them all.
the wicker basket that dangled beneath the balloon. The countryside passed by below: farms, forests, a city wearing a brackish helmet of smog which they passed through, coughing, before emerging sooty and grateful out the other side. “This is living,” hollered Thorold Manchester over the roar of the engines. He cut the gas and they coasted along. “Yes,” agreed Dr. Smile, munching on a cabbage sandwich. The cartographer, who had been organizing his cartography equipment (coloring pencils, foolscap) in a corner of the basket, stood up, shaded his eyes and looked back from whence they had come. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing behind them, where a shape was emerging from the smog at the horizon. Thorold Manchester raised his telescope. “A chopper!” he exclaimed. It was indeed: everyone listened to the faraway thrum of its propellers. “Do you think it’s fucking following us?” asked Dr. Smile. No one responded to that, though — there was only the dainty buzz of the chopper, like a big, gay, mechanical bee, until Thorold Manchester ordered, “Full steam ahead!” and got the gas going again.
It would take four days to fly to Philistine: two over land, and then another two over water. Immediately, as they were lifting above the town, the three adventurers realized they had failed to come up with a team name. Dr. Smile suggested The Jung Fliers (“Doesn’t anyone get it, fuck?” he kept shrieking. “Jung? As in Carl?”), while Thorold Manchester, who thought Dr. Smile was mocking his age, turned away and sulked. Eventually they settled on the cartographer’s suggestion, Jerzy’s Best Apostles of Glory — J-BAG, for short. They christened their vessel Icarus, The Land of Philistine lay across an unnamed ominously, and smashed a bottle of Gulf, the shores of which J-BAG reached at noon of their second day. The land met the sea freshly-squeezed cabbage juice against
in a ribbon of white froth, and then they were out, above all that water. For practice, the cartographer mapped the Gulf as they sailed along through the clouds. After a time, he realized that all he was doing was coloring sheets of foolscap blue, and stopped, consumed by self-doubt. Had he ever drawn a successful map? ME You, the road, his rejected portfolio — it would seem not. And now, the Philistine project, ambitious beyond anything he had ever attempted before. “I’m a failure, Jerzy,” lamented the cartographer, gazing up into the heavens. “I’m not a cartographer at all — I’m a fartorgrapher.” Thorold Manchester and Dr. Smile exchanged looks, misunderstanding; all that cabbage had been having a similar effect on them as well. But when they saw that the cartographer was preparing to jettison his coloring pencils over the side of the basket, they stepped forward to restrain him. “Have faith in your abilities!” advised Dr. Smile. “Believe!” added Thorold Manchester. Weeping, the cartographer collapsed on the floor of the basket. After a time, Dr. Smile roused him with a steaming bowl of cabbage soup. “We’re only a day away,” he told him gently, spooning the hot liquid into the cartographer’s mouth. “And don’t forget, part of the role of the cartographer is to provide names to places that don’t have them.” The cartographer looked up, wide-eyed, swallowing soup. “It is?” “You betcha, motherfucker,” said Dr. Smile. “What would you like to name this Gulf?” Without hesitation, the cartographer knew. “The Gulf of Jerzy!” he yelled. “That’s my boy,” said Dr. Smile. “Now gather your materials. The cartography… has already begun!”
SAVE US, and a throng of Philistinians jumped up and down at the sight of the approaching balloon. In the east, the sun rose steadily; the newly-named Gulf of Jerzy glowed orange in its growing light. The cartographer was up, pencil ready, tracing a sketch of the shoreline. Thorold Manchester nudged Dr. Smile and they watched him work, Icarus hovering in the calm air. “Beautiful,” whispered Dr. Smile, so transfixed he forgot to swear. “Like poetry,” agreed Thorold Manchester. “And not mediocre poetry written by teenage Wiccans, either.” The cartographer, working resolutely, could not hear them; his pencils, now green, now brown, moved against the page in deft strokes, the lines of the land forming almost of their own volition.
Meanwhile, down on the beach, the Philistinians were restless. “Look at those assholes, up there in their flying machine,” said one Philistinian, Maktar, to another, Candice. “Balloon,” corrected Candice, who before being driven into Philistine had been a scholar and racquetball coach. Speculation on the beach began to mount: some suggested the balloonists were spies; others that they were angels sent by God to taunt them. “Whatever they are,” said Candice, “you can [untranslatable idiom] that they’re not here to take us away.” “Should we stage a Popular Uprising?” asked Maktar. There was a murmur of Their first glimpse of land came at dawn of the agreement. And so the Philistinians fourth day, which was a good thing, for their began to do what they did best, after fuel supplies were getting low. “Philistine!” making delicious waffles, and that was hollered Thorold Manchester, pointing. “Yes,” create a human tower by standing on said Dr. Smile. “It is in-fucking-deed.” Spelled one another’s shoulders — rising up, out on the beach in driftwood were the words popularly.
Up in Icarus, Dr. Smile noticed the mobilization on the beach. He pointed down. “Fuck!” he muttered. “Well said,” agreed Thorold Manchester, nodding sagely and stroking his goatee. They turned toward the cartographer, who obliviously continued sketching the shoreline, then glanced back over the side again. The Popular Uprising was now ten people tall, wobbling slightly, but making steady progress skyward. “What are they doing down there?” asked Dr. Smile. The balloonist ignored him, and turned to the cartographer. “How’s that map coming? Think we can start moving any time soon?” No response, just the scratch of pencil on paper, the creak of wicker under buttock.
tographer,” he announced, “of the highest order.” “Neat,” said Candace. They all looked up, then, at the chopper bearing down on the balloon. Candace had to act fast. “This cartographer is the chosen one,” she lied. “The great prophesy says he will be the one to map the way out of Philistine.” “Like Moses?” asked Thorold Manchester. Candace blinked. “Sort of. But more organized.” Everyone turned to the cartographer. “Well, what do you think of that?” asked Dr. Smile. “Do you want to lead these people to freedom?” The cartographer paused for a moment, but didn’t look up. The chopper was close, its propellers a steady roar. The odour of cabbage mixed with low-grade petrol filled the air. “What’s in it for me?” asked the cartographer.
And then the sound of a chopper, behind them. “What next?” moaned the therapist, who had given up swearing for rhetorical questions. The chopper hovered in the distance. Then it dipped, swooped, and came barreling toward them. Dr. Smile wrung his hands. “Where’s a deus ex machina when you What’s in it for me? Those were the words of need it?” the cartographer to Candace. Dr. Smile and
Thorold Manchester exchanged looks that said, “Are you fucking kidding?” They had brought him all this way, bolstered his sunken spirits, instilled the confidence and given him the means to pursue his dreams. And when at last the chopper opened fire on Icarus, igniting the gas tanks and puncturing the balloon, then went zooming by overhead before circling back to finish them off, a baffled Candace had joined their ranks in complete disgust at this ungrateful, selfish little boy.
So: the chopper steadily approaching, the popular uprising, the cartographer drawing his map, Dr. Smile aggravating the masturbation-induced arthritis in his wrists, Thorold Manchester paralyzed now with fear and incontinence. It was only moments before the head of the Philistinians, Candace, flipped herself over the edge of the balloon and landed spryly next to the cartogra- Also, it should probably be mentioned pher. “Drawing a map?” she asked. Dr. that the driver of the chopper was Smile stepped forward. “This is a car- Jerzy, the unicorn made of pixie dust.
For years while he had existed only in the imagination of the cartographer, a woman named Justine (a jiu-jitsu red belt and amateur flamenco guitarist also of the cartographer’s creation) had molested him relentlessly. He had since formed a militia comprising himself and two Armenian spinsters whose names have been lost to history, but are probably unimportant anyway. And now, motherfucker? Now it was fucking payback time.
Untitled
The bathroom door is closed The white wooden door is closed And the curtains translate the sun which bleeds in the space between door and floor The sun is in the bathroom A light cone splits the wall in half Everything is overripe The dog follows the heavy steps From out of his bed in the sideyard The tv is on We’re up to see mom and we bury the corpse of the morning She is not dead, she cooks in her bedclothes The state was a word, but our house is our house, The state lies outside the house. Across the street, an impromptu worksite appears Seeds and mulch, starting over with wood Primitive contracts For us it is the music of work, the clap of one plank against another the screams of dull equipment Soon we will have a new road, Black and straight, Painted with gum, A new floor, if outside it is still a floor. The work is in trees, our memories scalped The state sways outside the house Touching and travelling, a gross being outside Touching the heat above a stream, Yards from an outdoor festival, The horseplay of speeches, Slightly improvised For the pond and pebbles All in hearing, all in the sun Playing at wonder, Drunk and in cowboy boots pretending to fall down the stairs
These were the smokey years, Fourteen through eighteen Gazing across a field of many horses, The eye finds the crippled one first Dripping from the ceiling and gathered in a corner The waste of the worst water First water, then sand The rude light that doesn’t believe Form yourself, taste yourself The state waits outside the house
inside, i want to kill everyone who upsets you; burn the cities you dont like; get you whatever you want.
A Last Milking Twilight, overripe. The hour whose short peace is so difficult for me. Pink bestrides the hills, rinsing out the husky blue. Out beside the fountains stands a center for Duke.
Day has so dissolved, shapeless plans rescind laid bare in their reckoning. And when will this thought curb itself? Would it were a bridge to something else. (It’s not.) Our folk-singing sitter, master of the stairs, retains her milklike odor, her calm before the mother. Half-white, she came joyfully to the center.
yes
Dylan knew Michael. He knew Michael by the way he exhaled. Dylan would gaze when he would breathe out slowly, allowing plumes of smoke to ascend gracefully from his mouth. It was intentional—and Dylan knew it was—since Michael would stare painfully while exhaling, trying to veil the fact that it was on purpose. But it was a spectacle regardless. And while being intentional, Dylan noticed that somehow Michael was also eased in his concentration, like an artist in the process. He was pretty and loquacious, but most of what he spoke meant little or nothing. “Here,” Michael passed Dylan the cigarette. “Thanks.” he said .
Home as a romanticized concept where everyone loves you always and forever
Five facts about fairy tales 1- The Great Frog Prince Richard IV thinks princesses are ugly. So what’s the fuss about changing into a man even though he’s already a prince and a lot of charming frog ladies fancy him? 2- Beauty and The Beast are seperated due to domestic violence. 3- The Little Mermaid secretly wants to be a pin-up girl but can’t confess it to herself because deep inside she knows that her prince is just another narrow-minded spoiled young man who thinks it wouldn’t be appropriate. 4- Cindrella ends up obsessive compulsive, cleaning the palace all the time and can’t break her habit as you may “clearly” see. 5- Snow White’s favourite song is If I Could Sleep Forever by The Dandy Warhols.
tthe ccrash
Kindred spirit santa hurry, grab your pension at least have a distraction here sun is melting in a world only possible in my hopeless version a who-knows-what creature hides under every bed no twinkle ahead no order in descent hurry santa please, get away from your routines that rudolf and the reindeers here concrete is piling poets highrise covered with jelly making the pavements so sticky let’s see the islands, c’mon cause nowadays are best says the natives for a quick drowning please santa, you chucker! how you make me smoulder that playhouse once was just a country house with floating mirrors memoir repetitions hey! leave me that box full of gems it is
and as you see addiction to customs is a practical thing for a mind which wanders over the rooftops, through the chimneys so run fast, faster than your beloved pole dancing girls. ‘zat you santa claus? what a commoner
s
she’s so
UNTITLED # 2
(smell memory)
Memory is a fragmented beast, broken-limbed, mushy in some places, still retaining its shape. Friends become pieces; not the sum of their parts but the parts themselves. When I think of Stephanie, I think of her hair. It has all the properties of a rich piece of velvet: dark, soft, almost luscious. She carries with
her a faint, musky scent - shampoo and cigarettes, clean and smoky. She is, by scent alone, reminiscent of a hotel bar. (Embracing anyone, I smell his or her hair; I am reminded most of us start our days in relatively the same way.)
Roses are red, Violets are blue Some boxes are big Some turtles have no clue.
Roses are red, Violets are blue I’m sorry that my dog Peed in your left shoe.
Roses are red, Violets are violet - not blue I cut out your chest And filled my pillow with you
Roses are haughty Violets are bruised So fuck roses and violets Toss me something unused.
from 1001 sentences How uninteresting depression is (mired in accuracy). ◦ One by one the sentences turn into themselves. ◦◦ The blood enjoys its negation in the words one sheds measuring its effects. ◦◦ Difference is not genius even if you must step outside yourself, in self-difference, in order to throw your name against the world. ◦◦ Heroic behavior is conceived by heroic sentences. ◦◦ The poet in America is often happy. ◦
Not unlike the 15th century friar Savonarola— who reportedly derived the authority for his decisions from frequent conversations with the angels— the contemporary poet solemnly declares her or his authority from an extended conference with his or her process. ◦ To emphasize one’s process is to prop up a given of the world as an achievement. ◦ My contemporaries frame themselves as a series of methods, as if we are to make a claim on the world by how we wash our hands of it. ◦ We must open ourselves to ourselves, as a vision. ◦ The banal is continually inventing processes for living with itself. ◦◦
To court the opposite of distraction, to refuse each of poetry’s delights. ◦◦ Terror is survived by turning it into an image. ◦ It is not an escape from personality but rather a making poetic of the basis and materials of personality. ◦ My authority was conceived in violence and/or fiction. ◦ There is no freedom from terror (every word is free to pass through it). ◦◦ I play the piano with a knife. ◦◦
My vocabulary will never be innocent
(thank you). ◦ I grew bored looking into the wolf’s eyes. ◦◦ The term “poetic” is less a description of definite qualities than a sign under which we may gather a complex of problems. ◦ A flame leaps out of itself, as itself; it is explaining one of the difficulties of the world. ◦
Seduction is a deceit if something more is promised (it is still sexy). ◦◦ Conceived in the violent depths I now step forward to consider the violent heights. ◦ May we encounter the poetic in poetry as well. ◦ I work best when marked as a particular sign. ◦ How far must I travel along this contemporary path, the withdrawal of conscience from innovation. ◦
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and just before we say bye bye:
A million thanks: Mahinur Cenetoglu,Zachary Schomburg, Tim Van Dyke, Alana Celii, Monica Uszerowicz, Ezgi Kocak, Wijbrand Stet, Len Hulsbos, Eric Wie, Marcel de Vries, Lindley Warren, Burcin Yavuz, Charlotte, Pasha Malla, Gerald Edwards III, Nicholas Gottlund, Erin Jane Nelson, Erman Torun, Mert Ciloglugil, Emir Ozsahin, Dick Hulsbos, Ann Venstra, Maria Grisin, Miray Turker, Can Kurt, Jurriaan, Emily Kendal Frey, Saki, Charlie Kaufman, Magic Molly, Acilay Meric, Tony Tost, Anna Laurinen, Seyhan Cenetoglu, Mikolaj, and everyone else who has helped or considered helping, or likes Heartbreaker and vice versa.
Edited and put together by: Artun Arasli //with lots and lots of support from people listed in the adjacent page
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http://heartbreakermagazine.tumblr.com heartbreakermagazine@gmail.com
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