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1 Table of Contents “She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and because what difference does it make?” As interpreted by: Tatiana Servin……………………………………………………….. “In Clicks A Photo” p.2 Sondria Bailey………………………………………………….. “My Favorite Client” p.3-5 Cait Florez…………………………………………………………. “One for the Butcher” p.6 Kyle Oddis……………………………………………………………………...“Espérance” p.7 Adam Martinez………………………………………….… “Lather. Rinse. Repeat.” p.8 Danny De Maio…………………………………………………“A Gorge for Sofia” p.9-10 Anna Escher………………………………………………………………. Photograph #1 p.10 For any inquiries or if you wish to contribute to Pour Vida, feel free to contact us at: pourvidazine@gmail.com
2 “In Clicks, A Photo” my photo, a photo of you, so your photo, the photo I took of you of her that night in the tide pools, my feet slipping in the tide pools, your hands cupping water below the surface, my thoughts are surface like these pools that hold more than I can see, but you see, and the sea rocks, the wind blows strands, and I wish for us to be stranded here because of my desire to protect what is so susceptible to erosion, and there is nothing natural about it, not the movement, not the catalysts for the chip, chip, chipping away at us, at you, at this photo, the photo of you, I hold in my hands, the memory in my mind, and it all fades, just as I fade, as the blue paint fades or chips and blows into the wind onto the streets, sailing down the gutter in surface water, stagnant just as I have been thinking of you of her, all while I surface.
3 “My Favorite Client” The watered down drinks were a distinctly disgusting follow-up to the dimly-lit and yellowing marquee outside. A talent like Lumina Beverly deserved better than this shabby establishment, and Walter knew it. She crossed the stage in the dark and dragged her own stool and mic stand to its center. A wet cough escaped before she gulped her drink and started singing a cappella in a sultry alto. The butterflies in Walter’s belly multiplied and swarmed as the spotlight began at her dainty feet and rose to slowly reveal her full hips and berry-deep skin. She had lost nothing. Years of both his personal and professional neglect hadn’t effected her negatively in the least. He was glad Margaret had insisted he bring roses. At the end of the set he clapped profusely, with everyone else, and waited around for the bar to empty out. While Lumina was having a smoke and a joke with her band and a few, lingering members of the audience, Walter approached her from behind. “Hey old woman.” He spoke close to her head then backed up and held out a dozen roses. “Ohhh shit! If it ain’t Fish Fishman, the fishiest nigga I know!” She took a shot, before taking the roses from Walter--eyeing him the whole time. “Are these for ME Walter?” She spun around with the flowers, then handed them off to the drummer and lit up a stogie. “All these years and you still don’t know that roses are for a bad lay,” she took a pull, “LILIES are for being a shitty manager.” The guys in the band lead their admirers to the bar and Fish took the seat across from Lumina. “OK, Lumi. I deserved that.” “Well honey! I guess I finally got it right after all of these years giving you everything you DIDN’T deserve. And to what do I owe this pleasure? Your little Rodeo Clown not sellin’, or did you come to collect your fifteen percent? ‘Cause I think you have to actually do some work for that.” Walter motioned to the bartender and was relieved to see that Lumina still drank like a— “FISH!” She laughed later, with her head back and her eyes closed. Walter smiled. “I’m the fish...” she tried. “I’M the Fish,” he assisted, “but you drink like one.” The next morning Walter got to his office much later and much more excited than he had in years. He’d gotten Lumina to agree to give him a second chance...sort of...and this opportunity at a last hurrah had the potential to cushion his current, incredibly tedious situation--the one he was tardy for. “Walter! So glad you could join us. And look, you only wasted...twenty-seven minutes of Rodeo’s time.” Walter’s newest assignment, Rodeo Prima, sat at the opposite end of the long conference table texting or Tweeting or something with headphones on.
4 “OH HEY FISH”, she squawked, waved, and went back to her device. Walter half-smiled/half-shrugged at the lawyer grilling him, and took a seat. “I have some amazing news for you, Moe, trust me. But you called this meeting...so what’s up?” Walter gazed down the table at his client and disguised his irritation with two raised eyebrows as he met her lawyer’s gaze again. Maury, nearly twenty years Walter’s senior, and much less polite, slapped the table hard and scared the young woman to attention. She removed her headphones. “Rodeo’s concerned with becoming too...exposed. She feels like the shows we’ve been lining up lately diminish her image and cheapen who she is as an artist.” Rodeo popped her gum, Maury shot her a look. Walter wondered if they were related. “Go ahead and tell him what you were thinking, hun.” Rodeo put her phone down for the first time since the meeting began. “Ok! So! I know you’re sick of hearing about this, Fish, but I think that today’s artists are over saturating the market with, like, their images, and the sound of their voices, and, like, their ideals are all sprawled across the internet. Or they do these lame collaborations with old artists to somehow associate themselves with real talent...and I’m just NOT about that life, you know?” Walter was staring at his client--eyebrows raised-waiting to tell her about the conversation he’d had with the great Lumina Beverly last night on her behalf. About how much money she stood to make selling the limited number of tickets to the tiny venue, and of course about what a “good look” it would be to associate with the legacy of one of the most talented artists of all time. “...you know what I mean, Fish? Exclusivity. That’s why I want to limit my number of shows per year. I want to do one major, festival-style show per season--only it won’t cost the fans an arm and leg. I already have some major promoters and investors interested. This could be huge.” Rodeo smiled her silly smile and checked her phone, Walter opened his eyes, wide, and nodded. Maury returned from the restroom. “Yes, Rodeo, exclusivity, exactly! I’m happy you brought that up because I have an amazing opportunity, offered exclusively to you, that just came in last night via Lumina Beverly.” Rodeo slid to the edge of her seat. Maury stopped picking his teeth and quickly sat down. And Fish finally lowered his eyebrows. The deal was already done, but he went through the motions anyway. “I stopped in on Lumi last night--I’m sorry, Lumina--we had a few drinks, started talking about the older, better times in music. It’s so funny, Rodeo, she said the same thing that you said about the internet and the over-saturation...anyway. We eventually got to talking about new artists that are, you know, really keeping the legacy of real music alive. And well, long story short, she brought you up.”
5 “Me? Lumina Beverly...knows who I am?” Walter continued without acknowledging the inquiry. “Really, this is her idea and I told her that I didn’t think you’d go for it. But basically, she really respects you as an artist and well, she wants you to come down to her club and open up for her for a week. I wouldn’t even be bringing this up, but she usually only has legends down there-Maury, you know that—and well...it’s not a festival, but--” “YES!” Rodeo picked up her phone and typed: Rodeo Prima x Beverly Lumina? Walter slid some papers to Maury and the men shook hands.
6 “One for the Butcher” Cool face of midnight, you waxed and waned and tried To teach me how to keep domesticated Orchids alive for as long as possible Instead I spent my summer killing All of the vodka in the greater Austin area and feeling sorry For myself and crying at the worst possible times I hate That you saw me Like that, those explosive nights My piñata problems, colorful rainbow outbursts That could have been beautiful If they didn't make the messes that they did My love for you was a blind spot I was always frantically checking to see If there was anything there I wanted you to tramp up my downward spiral staircase but your blood Splattered steel-toe boots were always already Anchored somewhere deep Down in your inexplicable internal frozen ocean of the things You wouldn’t share I kept crossing myself My legs a Venn diagram I wanted you, and always took you Somewhere in the middle Pencil you in to my schedule Into my pencil skirt, into a box where I kept my secrets Now we are postcards, we are paper cuts Your body is a vacation that I wish I were on The phone late at night you breathe, “I love you” To be on the receiving end of that, it’s a jigsaw I can’t Wrap my head or my arms around You used to be a black cat, stoic, so Sagittarian I don’t know what to do other than love you back Because I love Your rough hands that butchered lungs that used to breathe That had split weepy and slumberous trees clean in half Wide open I would put them all over my body I used to kiss your callouses as if they were Braille Something I could somehow get a story out of
7 “Espérance” She would have let a man use her until she was all used up— reduced to the silhouette of her thighs in the flow of window-refracted street lights the shade of lipstick she wore would leave an invitation on his pillow to love her in the morning or even just to call— but he wouldn’t --and he wouldn’t because he saw her. He couldn’t love her, but he saw her. She didn’t know how to be loved. So she crawled into his bed like it would make a difference. She knew how to want— how to dream like Disney dared her to but she didn’t know how to actually
Lv
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Yet she expected it. as if she were owed it.
She expected love--
And he didn’t owe her one. damn. thing. So he would take the smudge she left on his pillow and bleach it clean in the morning. She could not ask For what she could not give.
8 “Lather. Rinse. Repeat.” Underneath your skin I touch your rigid ribs I watch them when You breathe me in I touch your skin and you breathe heavily— Heavenly Pleasure sighs I kiss you by degrees The skin between Your breastbone and knees Your skin sinks Into your rib cage Rippled waves And today I am drowning in you We sleep all day Opened blinds In the light of a waning moon You strike poses and remind me We whisper sweet nothings With windows wide As the world outside Or the spread of our thighs And I binge I watch your ribs Underneath your skin: A bed sheet in the wind
9 “A Gorge for Sofia” The quiet that the church held was delicate, and the saints painted on the windowpanes refracted the last of the afternoon sun, while the Christ that hung at the front looked over the world he’d save. Sergio knelt at one of the pews at the front and clasped his hands together. They had been damp since the shooting had begun in the late morning at the bottom of the hill. Now the firing was moving up the hillside and the blast of rifles and the pop of pistols were not some distant abstraction of war. The war had come, and when Sofia walked through the church doors they would leave it. But Sergio waited to leave the war behind. He closed his eyes and began to pray, but it was not easy. His mind treaded through obscenities. Goddam, it would be the week I was to marry Sofia that the goddamned POUM would come and drag Franco behind them, he thought. The fronts had been quiet for weeks, and now...Now. Sergio stopped himself of these thoughts. He clasped his hands and eyes tighter, trying to pray through the obscenities in his head. Tried to pray through the obscenities of gunfire and bombardment in the distance that moved up the hill like a lumbering giant. It moved inaccurately and pressed people’s face-first in the mud. Dear Jesus, our Lord in Heaven, I have lost my father to this, please do not let me lose -” He could not think Sofia’s name because there was superstition in the air. There would have to be superstition because there was no rationale in the obscenities of this whole goddam thing. He was not a loyal Nationalist, he did not have politics. He did not think the rebels would or should win. There was no God in the raping of women or in the murder of men. No God and no humanity, and he believed in both. He tried again. Our Lord in Heaven, please get her to Your house safely and whole. I do not want this. We will leave and I will never raise my voice to any other man or woman for as long as I live, he lied. Please, keep her safe and let us leave to the farm in the north. I will live quietly and righteously for You. I have never loved someone so -” Sergio thought he heard a giant fall face-down in the village square. The reverbations pulsed beneath him at the pew. There were no screams to be heard, only the pop of a few distancing pistols. His legs quavered from his bent knees up to his thighs. Amen. The bombardment stumbled closer. Sergio crossed himself and began to pray again, this time only for Sofia. If she did not come through the doors of the church there would be nothing left to pray for. Not the once-great earth of Spain, not himself. Especially not himself.
 10 An exploding shell reported throughout the gorge below. Amen, he said.