Anthologist Issue 77 by The Anthologist

Volume 77 Issue 1 â&#x20AC;˘ Spring 2013

Index Volume 77 Issue 1 Spring 2013

Editor-in-Chief / Erin Bartnett Managing Editor / Lawrence Lyman Copy Editor /Jonathan Levin Design Editor / Kevin Perez Web Masters / John P. Karayannopoulos / Nick Alfano Arts Editor / Keith Freeman Public Relations Editor / Veronica Cohen

"The Anthologist" is a literary and arts magazine that has served to preserve and inspire Rutgers University's creativity for nearly a century, p-ublishing high-quality art and writing. For copyright terms and more information contact antho.rutgers@gmail.com. RUSA Allocations Board, paid for by student fees.

Jasmeet Bawa Deniz Tanguz Eliza Desind Philip Wythe Ken Hansen

Artwork Aliza Morell Marielle Rodriguez Theresa Francisco

Interview Erin Bartnett Robert Pinsky Stories Lawrence Lyman Identity Theresa Francisco Question Philip Wythe No Foul Play Suspected Max Beckerman On The Case Poems Rob Colvil Honorable Traditions Nagma Kapoor Meaning of Life Christine Chunn Crazy Nagma Kapoor Pyre Jonathan Levin Apollo's Request Personal Jesus Crashing Into Domes Jasmeet Bawa On Falling in Love With White Men Philip Wythe Left Cup Right Cup Kaitlin Goetchius Rollcast in the Riverbed of Rainbows Christine Chunn The Tunes Jennifer Stewart Constellations

10 16 28 34 42

15 18 21 22 24

30 32 41 46 47

Dear Anthologist Reader, I know, I know. We’ve got some explaining to do. Here you are, reading The Anthologist on your fancy tablet, or on your laptop, or in the computer lab. You’re used to finding us nestled in next to The Targum in Murray Hall, or lounging outside the dining hall in bound up little paper magazines. But this issue, The Anthologist has stretched its wings and flown to the internet. This semester we offer you the new experience of The Anthologist as we fully embrace the digital era. Even though we’re soaring into cyberspace, we still wanted to anchor ourselves in the content that makes The Anthologist a tradition worth keeping. So when I started to think about how I was going to explain this new direction to you, dear reader, I realized I didn’t have to! This content speaks for itself, which reminds me that at the end of the day it’s not the magazine as that concrete object that matters, but the work itself that flies off the page anyway. So who cares if we’re on the internet or on the shelf? It’s the art that we share that matters. So here’s to you, creators and imaginers, who make this magazine possible. We couldn’t have done it without you. Wishing you all the best, -Erin, Editor-in-Chief

“In my mind’s ear” An Interview with Robert Pinsky by Erin Bartnett On one of my many quests to rediscover the roots of the tradition of The Anthologist, I stumbled upon the exciting realization that Robert Pinsky, poet laureate from 1997 to 2000, was not only a member of the 1962 class of Rutgers College, but was also the Editor-in-Chief of The Anthologist. This February, The Anthologist editors had the opportunity to meet Robert Pinsky at the Association of Writer’s and Writing Programs Conference in Boston. Though our discussion there was brief, a later email interview offered us further opportunity to discuss The Anthologist, poetry, and the fundamental experience of art. Robert Pinsky, described by many as one of the last “civic” or public poets, writes in the light of the American spirit and believes that poetry is a fundamental part of this American life. One of his many significant projects is “The Favorite Poem Project” which encouraged people to send in the names of their favorite poems; many were invited to record personal readings of the poems which have been archived in the Library of Congress. The readings embody the unique blend of age, gender, and culture that is the fundamental American beauty. EB:You have said that all of your poetry is about your youth. How has your youth at Rutgers influenced your poetry and your role as a professor? RP: I had great teachers at Rutgers: Paul Fussell, author of The Great War and Modern Memory, was my teacher in Freshman Composition. Francis Fergusson, possibly the greatest American literary critic of the 20th Century, certainly the best on theater, taught courses in dramatic texts, and I think I took all of them. His book The Idea of a Theater continues to guide my reading and writing. So too does his book on Dante. 10

I also had impressive contemporaries: Alan Cheuse, Henry Dumas, Robert Maniquis, Peter Najarian – all have done notable work in literature or the academic world or both. What was the atmosphere, culture, etc. of The Anthologist Literary Magazine when you were Editor-in-Chief? How did you come to be involved in the magazine? The eminent artist Lucas Samaras did covers for the magazine a couple of years before I became editor. Alan Cheuse preceded me, and had befriended me. Rutgers was an exciting place, partly thanks to its proximity to New York. Allen Kaprow, whose “happenings” anticipated a lot of contemporary art in performance and installation, taught at Rutgers in those days, for example. Rutgers had a Bohemian or Beatnik feeling that was absent from Princeton, at that time still a boys' school. In an interview with Jeffrey Brown on PBS News Hour while discussing the Favorite Poem project, you said that poetry does not need an advocate-- it is too fundamental. You went human need to “feel like a work of art is coming right out of you”. What do you believe is the role of the literary maghuman impulse? The art of words is at the center of learning, historically. I believe it is at the center of human intelligence. So of course the art of writing, and publication of it, is essential to college life. I think you should take the videos at www.favoritepoem.org as a model, and have a Favorite Poem Reading on the Rutgers campus. Invite readers not only from among students and faculty, but people from Buildings and Grounds, from the Board of Regents (or whatever they are called.) Invite the new president of Rutgers, and invite some kids from New Brunswick 11

High School. Have them all read their favorites by Shakespeare, Dickinson, Hopkins. Send them to the www.favoritepoem.org videos as a way for them to get the idea.

What is your job as a poet, and have you had moments when you felt like you had accomplished it? (Or is it something that can even be “accomplished”?)

Duy Doan, the Program Director of the FPP might be able to supply a little advice about that. (His email above.)

Besides practicing and art you get from your elders, you should take care of it, and try to improve it for the young.

Crafting poetry is, at least technically, an individual act. But with the Favorite Poem project and the PoemJazz projects — not to mention your appearance on the Simpsons and the Colbert show— you are challenging that notion. What is your vision for the future of the community space for poetry and the arts and is it changing?

Writers have unique methods or times of day when they feel the most productive. Do you have any unique writing methods or quirks?

The vocal aspect of the art is central, and the vocal is more or less communal. I am not talking about performance— all due respect to performance, our culture may have an overabundance of that. I'm not talking about an actor reading the poem, or the poet reading the poem-- again, the videos at the web site, I think, demonstrate something that is communal, yet not show business. When you read your poetry, you are incredible engaged with the audience. It seems memorization is innate to your experience of poetry. Do you believe this comes from your coming at poetry from a musical background? Possibly so. But the relation of poetry and memory is pretty distinct and basic. At the Association of Writer’s and Writing Programs Conference in Boston this year, a panel of your former students at

I like to write (“compose” might be a more accurate verb) when it's not expected, not even by me. In an airport departure lounge, or in my mind's ear while driving, for example. You serve as an inspiring example for students who want to make a career out of their passion for poetry and the arts. I have a book coming out in August— Singing School, from Norton— that is my answer to that question. Many members of The Anthologist staff and readership are graduating this spring. Do you have any advice to offer us? Keep two important needs separate in your mind: your need to earn a living and your need to maintain your art. The medical man W.C. Williams, the librarian Marianne Moore, the lawyer Wallace Stevens should reassure you, along with the teachers Elizabeth Bishop, John Berryman, Robert Hayden.

you spoke of the uncertainty of one’s individual success as a poets that sat on the panel that day, was for you the moment when you knew you had done your job. Could you elaborate more on your experience as a professor of poetry and writing in this frame?

Honorable Traditions by Rob Colvil

and waited for the rain to die down before joining it. She did not know what “validated parking” meant. They were all out of coffee. “The rain watered it down,” they said “It’s all in the sewers now.” She knelt down on the colored plywood; There was a giant griddle behind the Diner's coffee tank covering the children. and ran ahead of the lycanthropy troupe. The band was playing ragtime calypso. The DJ was pressing pause. She cried for geometry, or interest rates; She danced ahead of the senator's Batmobile. and exchanged screams about the weather. Everyone wanted to know what just happened. She raced the schnauzer and the shih tzus dressed up like Hannibal's elephants. She asked the Ringleader for a divorce. The parade caught back up with the rain just in time for the casket to pop open “Surprise!” with spring-loaded action. And everyone pinched their umbrellas between their shoulders and necks to clap their wet hands for Santa.

Identity

by Lawrence Lyman The girl in red. She is the girl I write about. Today it is raining and she is grey. I want to lay across the table and fuck the color back into her while the class continues talking about essentially contested concepts. Today’s topic: Identity. She lets out a noise, an ‘ah’ as sweet as vermouth, as I dip my quill into her ink. “What are three things you would identify yourself with?” The professor used his sweat to wipe down the white board as he wrote. “Men never really mention identifying with men, but females always mention identifying with females. Also, our identity is most prominent when in jeopardy.” I pursue the heat, the fire, letting it burn my fingerprints with each touch. “If you are on a sidewalk and see an accident in the middle of the street, whom do you help first? The person that is most like you?” He forgets that the hero always saves the damsel. He forgets the hero always gets laid in the end. He forgets the girl in red. “Basic human interest,” the professor repeats during someone’s explanation of identity, as if he was the first person to discover gravity. I fuck her in front of the class, slamming my hips into her pubic bone, and stare off into the windows, into the reflection, the girl rippling below me, as pale as lilacs, bouncing like rain drops.

The Meaning of Life by Nagma Kapoor

% The Meaning of Life #include <iostream> using namespace std; int main (){ cout << “Eliminate skin, unzip. Enter the musculoskeletal: tangible thread-like strings unveiled

Now myelin unsheathing resulting in unstable neuronal electrical impulses surging circuitry as (no longer showered with acetocholinergic gamma-aminobutyric discourse) stop.

reclining vertebra Probe with the proboscis, attain circulatory movement via cardiac pumping circuits

from – to – from atria, dripping into ventricular contractions: lub-dup lub-dup lub-dup It goes. Enter bloodstream: organic glycosidic linkages breaking then forming imprinting structures carried by anucleated erythrocytes fusing Fe to O (colour me rouge) slithering into arterioles now exit. Leaving blood drops dabbled onto neck-skin

until until until until

no motion clawing numbing sensation sharp pangs of momentary revelations deep linear wells on tv-monitor-screens transcribing last words into mathematical quotations until she kisses his cheek code blue code blue her eyes into his evoking screams from within chest reaching out from vibratory vocal chords charring throat transforming mechanical to electrical to auditory mangled at the tongue coaxed by lips to whisper: Don't leave.” return 0; } g++ TheMeaningofLife.cpp -o TheMeaningofLife.cpp

Crazy

by Christine Chunn You say the world is crazy because it makes no sense and you're right: I sing until I'm blind and kiss with my hands; I get drunk off water and drown when I fall into

the

sky

so I can crack my head on a

cloud I confess my good deeds and have sex because I love God; I cry because I'm happy; I blame my parents for raising me right and cut myself because it hurts and live because I'm a coward.

Pyre

by Nagma Kapoor Her arms were peeling that night as we sat row by row

to clean the desk, wash my clothes, set the bed.

twigs and woody branches lined up against her skin (the colour of my white salwar) And my shivering hands

I've forgotten the chime of your voice. If only your laugh could permeate the air (just once) to reverberate at the leather couch and dance among the furniture to settle at my chest.

back to that vision: (peaking rigor mortis dissipating hope) as the heat

I see your ghost - is that really you? - at 3am sometimes walking the hallways,

stepped in between.

Come closer, Mother. Please. Why must you be erased by the lick of a burning brush that paints streaks across your winded face? I want to see your eyes, as they stick out in anger the way your cheeks would rise with your shaking voice. Now, your eyes pierce through me as I walk into the living room around the corners of the frame. Why won't you hover behind me in the night pestering, waiting, urging me to sleep 22

Inebriated by the void you’ve created,

But that's not right. I must be dreaming. You are in the puff of a smoker’s cigarette You are the soot stuck All that I have of you, I've reached the country of your birth, And as I walk down the cement steps at the river bank - I pour you

out – (must I lose you forever?) you've mixed with the murky shit of the cattle, the detergent of the washerwomen, the bathing children that suck you in and spit you out. You are the earth, the sky, the sun, you are everything in the air and yet the air escapes my arms. 23

Apollo's Request

Personal Jesus

Tight rhythms constricting Like boas around my pulsating Neck. Shaking mercifully At the slightest press

If I could only grasp you Like one does a doll,

by Jonathan Levin

To inspire earthquakes. Lick These silent operas from my lips And the libretto of my stunted spring Will unravel lyrics beyond comprehension. Carve my cold marble into a Bernini And make me want to forever chase you, my Daphne.

by Jonathan Levin

And make you moisten the ground Below your lithe legs. You surely would die little deaths To sin further, martyring your complacence For the blow of a nail To your lip. And I will worship you as my Messiah. Bring me to the homeland And I will make fertile the deserts With your oils. I will preach On your writhing limbs. I witnessed the epic that is your lifeless body. I saw you rise up again out of the ashes of your sweat As I savored it like a relic And made churches from your moans. And I succored the milk of your release.

Crashing Into Domes by Jonathan Levin

Aldous Huxley trapped inside an aging hipster Subversion through lines that turn like gears In rusted machines that creak like an arthritic women’s knee Words twisting like the mind’s axonal projections Synapsing with terminal buds in the circuitry Neurotransmitters bursting through lipid vesicles Adrenaline ripping through its cocoon You turn to a book on North Korean architecture Forcing mass produced thoughts to sicken you Like the sight of a child beating the neighbor’s dog; One wonders if Kim Jong-il knows his ego was matched by yours. The machines begin to go into overdrive As the conveyor belts speed up Delivering packages to your frontal lobes. You sweat uncontrollably as the rage rises As fast as a thermometer placed inside the ass of a Thanksgiving turkey. When this room was used for séances. What the fuck did you just write To come and stop synthesizing your fantasies with their Liquidating laser beams.

Question

by Theresa Francisco

On Falling in Love With White Men by Jasmeet Bawa

In steaming, fresh off the press, delivered straight to your paperwhite kindle, kindling your mind, history undulates in your sculpting there are some people who choose to be blind. There are some people who choose not to see the different wavelengths of vibrant bouncing-off-your-eyelid identities, there are some people who choose meticulous white-out forgetfulness over messy and delicious red wine forgiveness.

If God or evolution gave you cones for your retinas, use them. The gradient of a shadow is the treasure chest a brother’s gap toothed smile, ice cream escaping from it’s corners, on a sunny day when the government turned off the power supply. And when you lean into kiss me, I hope you let my color swim in the depths of your eyes, and I hope you taste the faint smell of whispering memories, and I hope you pull them in closer, in full color.

“People are people,” he tells me, as if my color detracted from my humanity. Sometimes I mispronounce words, say vit-a-min instead of vi-ta-min, because after the British colonized India, they forgot to clean up their strewn out dirty language my tongue’s clumsiness is vivacious, but I want you to know the weight this mouth carries is not a quirky social ineptitude that you can tuck like a folded note in your worn out jeans back pocketit comes from centuries of political abuse. I will not bleach out my beauty natural lemon zest to apply to my body to dilute my shine and glow because someone told her growing up to be afraid of burning too bright. I do not blame her. When watch you your family doused fear is almost synonymous with breathing.

Left Cup

by Philip Wythe

Dangling fruit rests suspended in midair Caught within a cupped gaze Which fails to hide Its supple texture And brown-ed surface Twins, identical in every way Which springs forward, from the youth of life And becomes another tool Of pure desire

Right Cup

by Philip Wythe Stands tall among the naked light I mean to touch, with my gentle tip But instead you reach and mutter "Lips," Hid behind a cupped embrace Come undone, the head blooms And leaves behind A bruised fruit

No Foul Play Suspected by Philip Wythe

Heavy rain pounded against the top of the police cruiser, covering the scratched front shield with long beads of fresh tears. On the late night shift, Henry Stueville stared onto Commercial Lane as the night’s dull events flashed before his eyes. A loiterer on Main Street, a few hoodlums drinking on a sidewalk. A call from dispatch for the Betress’s again, in order to deal with their overexcited corgi running from lawn to lawn. As Henry pulled up his right blinker, he figured nothing plainer than a few rides around the jewelry store block would finish his dreary, Friday night shift. “What are your plans for the weekend, then, huh Henry?” His partner, Jeff Salone, asked as he watched the rain patter down the side window. “Oh, for the weekend?” Henry stammered. “Honestly, don’t know yet Jeff.” “Nothing good in this weather, believe me,” Jeff muttered, shifting his gaze. “Mel and the kids wanted to go out to see the Dodgers play, too.” “All the way out in Brooklyn?” he asked. “That’s quite a drive.” “It would be,” Jeff replied. “If it weren’t for this damn rain.” “Well, you can’t win ‘em all-“ Midsentence, Henry could hear the static blare of the dispatch radio beat against the heavy downpour. Jeff fingered for the dial, until the Dispatcher's monotone dribble filled the noise between them. “APDL, any patrols in the vicinity to report to a 918, citizens report,” the droll voice buried into the car. “Patrol to respond, identify.” As Henry slowed the car to a red light, Jeff reached for the caller and clicked on the receiver. “APDL, this is Patrol 13. Further information on the 918?” “Incident reported at 26 Burbank Ave. Possible ID on suspects, one witness on scene.” Jeff glanced over at Henry, nudging his head. “That’s on the way to the station,” Henry replied. 34

“Go ahead.” “APDL this is Patrol 13 to answer the 918 on Burbank. We’re en route, out.” Hoisting down the left blinker, Henry revved his engines as he mapped out the route to Burbank Avenue. A 918 was pretty common around this time at night – kids broke into houses all the time, mostly to have a smoke or explore. Very rarely was there anything malicious out of it. As he turned the wheel sharp, he figured there wasn't much to it. “Hard to think of a night gone by where we dealt with a 918 in this kind of weather, huh?” Jeff asked. “At least shift ends soon.” “I’m more curious about that positive ID,” he replied. “But a 918 is a 918. When was the last time someone on Burbank stole anything more than a Jack Daniels?” “Ahh, I remember that call.” Jeff gave a humored smile, as he turned to his partner. “That was Joey Devia, one of the Mayor’s sons, right? He was always getting into trouble when he was in school.” Henry gave a short chuckle, smiling slightly. “Yeah, he was always causing trouble. Boys will be boys though, right?” As the rain grew heavier on the windshield, Henry made a sharp left onto Burbank Avenue’s suburban lanes. Row after row of white, two-story ranches dotted the street ahead: giving a uniform feel to the neighborhood’s peaceful demeanor. Overshadowing the buildings ahead, at the end of the lane rested Mayor Devia’s house: perfectly identical to all the others, save for a third-story extension for an attic and office quarters. Gently rolling the blackand-white to a stop, Henry just barely missed 26 Burbank as he gazed ahead. “Huh,” Jeff muttered, squinting his eyes towards the nearby streetlamp. “There’s an old Jew out there in the rain.” “That’s probably our witness,” Henry replied. “No need to be out here in the storm for something so simple.” 35

“Hope you brought your galoshes,” Jeff cracked, as he placed his blue police cap on the top of his low cut. Gently shutting the door, Henry peered towards the streetlamp and found the stout man waiting amidst the light. Dressed in shabby, ragged clothes, his fat belly peered out against his greasy brown corduroys and struggled against his jet black suspenders. In his hands rested a damp, rust-colored fedora: nearly as soaked as his own, balding head. “Officers!” He cried out, shakily waving the fedora around. “Officers, thank God you’re here!” “Officer Henry Stueville and Jeff Salone,” Henry proclaimed, pulling his pristine gold “Bouge Police Department” badge out. “You’re here to report a house break-in?” Shaking out his fedora, the man turned back and forth between both men. “Yes. Well, no. Not just a break-in. There were noises. Weird noises.” Henry and Jeff gave each other a knowing glance. “Is this your home, Mr…?” “Mr. George Alberitch,” he whispered with a nod. “It’s my neighbor’s. They’re out of town for the weekend. They told me to look after it.” “What did you see, Mr. Alberitch?” Henry asked. “It’s the funniest thing,” he replied. “I-I saw the two boys, they were carrying in-between them something heavy: they were heaving it, I think. A-And, the boys, they were groaning and moaning, like they were carrying something really heavy. Well, as I was watching, they shoved whatever it was into the doorway and into the parlor.” He shook his head for a second, and flapped his hat against the streetlamp. “I was gonna follow them inside, but I thought to call the police first. By the time the two came out, whatever they were carrying was gone.” Henry’s mind lit up with excitement. Finally, an interesting story for the boys at the Department for the night shift. He pointed to Jeff and called him over. “Stay here with Mr. Alberitch. I’ll check inside.” “I’ll be here,” Jeff replied. “Now Mr. Alberitch-“ As Jeff’s voice began to trail in the distance, Henry wandered out of the light and reached into his uniform’s 36

front pockets. Pulling out a long, metal flashlight pipe, Henry walked up the rain-drenched sidewalk pathway and reached the brown front door. Twisting the golden doorknob, he could tell the door had remained unlock for the night. He slowly opened it, peering the flashlight inside as a loud creak emerged from the hinges. Scrunching up his nose, Henry gave a small gasp as he felt a heavy stench sting from inside. As the door swung open, he nervously moved his flashlight across the hallway. Fresh lilacs rested under a portrait of a blooming flower, but even this couldn’t clear out the vulgar smell. Moving slowly on the tips of his soles, he began to walk across the “Welcome” rug and flashed his meager light into the parlor ahead – the sour tingle of the house growing with every step. “Talk about a story for the office,” he muttered to himself, as he approached the parlor hallway. As the flashlight’s beam began to shake further, he flashed his light onto the plaster walls. Green sofas and chairs, bathed in darkness, flooded his vision as he began to step into the room. The blank television console, built into the side of the room, gave an eerie tingle down his spine as the disgusting smell beat against his eyes. Moving further and further into the room, his light shined onto the dining room door. “It must be in there,” he whispered. “That horrible stench-“ His work shoes scuffed against a heavy object, resting at his feet. Holding the piped flashlight with both hands, he shined the beam directly underneath him. A bloodied face, frozen in sheer agony, shined back at him. “Good Christ!” he cried out, jumping back with a creek. Sweat began to drip on his brow, as he gazed in horror at the screaming face underneath him. A purple discoloration, flowing from her temple, left the face of a young teenage girl covered in blood. He began to lean over her, shining the light in horror against her lifeless body. “T-This is much, much more than a 918,” he muttered. Shining the flashlight down the girl’s torso, he 37

looked on in agony as he realized her chest lay completely bare. Her nipples, hard and erect, flashed against her light, as he squinted his eyes in agony while staring at her nimble frame. She must’ve been only 14, maybe 15. Yet she was nude. And dead. He couldn’t muster himself to look any further, but he knew he had to look on. Stumbling across the wooden floorboards, he maneuvered around the green sofa chairs and shined the light against her lower half. Drenched in dry blood, her skirt and underwear laid rumpled across her ankles. Moving closer with every heavy step, an awful, fishy smell reeked across his mind – flooding his nostrils. His mind reeled as he felt an apple sit in the middle of his throat, realizing the source of the stench. Just a girl. Nothing more. And lost to the world completely. Struggling to catch his trembling feet, Henry bolted out of the room and walked back into the drenching rain. He could see Jeff talking nonchalantly with the witness, and he nearly fell face-first onto the pathway as he jogged down to the streetlight. “Hey, hey Henry. I’ve got the craziest story for you,” Jeff began. “You need to get on Dispatch. Now!” Henry replied, his voice trembling. “Hold up there partner,” Jeff returned. “Mr. Alberitch, will you excuse us for a second?” Without a moment’s notice, Jeff rested an arm around his trembling partner’s shoulders, and the two men walked away from the light. Looking dead into his partner’s eyes, Henry could feel his knees buckling under his weight. “Henry, you need to listen to me,” Jeff whispered, staring into Henry’s eyes. “The two boys Alberitch saw? He thinks-.” The rain dripped across Henry’s anxious face, blurring his vision. “No, Jeff, you have to call Dispatch. Now. There’s a-“ Jeff leaned forward. “Listen Henry. I don’t care what you saw in there.” “You don’t understand,” Henry gasped, his voice 38

trembling. “This isn’t just a 918-“ “I don’t care!” Jeff cried. “Do you know who the Jew saw break into the house?” “They were carrying-“ “It was the Mayors’ sons, Henry! The Mayors’ fucking sons. Now I don’t give a shit what they did, we are NOT getting thrown into this fucking mess.” “S-She was just a kid, Jeff. She was only a kid…” The rain hammered down Jeff’s face, as his eyes lit with fear. “I don’t fucking care!” he cried. “If we report this for anything more than a break-in, it’s your ass on the line, and mine too. Don’t you dare ruin this for us, Henry.” “Then what am I suppose to fucking do?” Henry cried out, spittle flashing against the streetlight. “What am I suppose to do, when there’s a dead child in there?” “Get on dispatch, call it negative, and let the robbery detectives look into it,” Jeff threw back. “And don’t you dare do anything otherwise.” As the rain pillowed down Henry’s face, his eyes bore into Jeff’s pupils. His partner’s hands fell to his side against the heavy storm, glaring back at the trembling officer as he wandered back towards Mr. Alberitch. With a trembling weight in the center of his chest, Henry guided his legs to the police cruiser, and ran his hand next to the receiver. “APDL this is Patrol 13,” Henry muttered, mustering his bravest voice. “There’s a body found on 26 Burbank. No signs of foul play suspected, appears to be an accident.” “Patrol 13 this is APDL. Confirmed that no signs of foul play are suspected.” “Thanks APDL,” Henry said, his voice lingering in the rain above. “No other reports.”

Rollcast in the Riverbed of Rainbows by Kaitlin Goetchius

Swarming zug bugs found in our brackish hair, Cast our treble hooks into the weedless tributary. Shake it out, each shiner triggering the touch of air, In hopes of pegging some scale of sanctuary. Peacock ladies snagging all your attention and lies. Your stained stinger-hook of your shoddy and wreckless soul, A nymph in the night lipping her gray line into our moon times. At the drop off I’ll drag each dough ball of reason, Ignore the bumping and buzzing in my brain as it tries to warn. In clear water I’ll catch-and-release the shifting seasons, And blind cast my barbless spine into your bedding’s scorn. I’ll lay myself out with my leg up and stocking to the blue bird sky, An over cast, I know, but it was worth any night crawler’s try.

On The Case

by Max Beckerman I’m sitting in logic class, bored out of my mind. The teacher is going on about whether you can assume it’s going to rain on a certain day in Mississippi or something. I can’t focus; my laptop is dead and I just want to get the hell out before I lose my cool. I’m starting to think that the second cup of coffee was a bad idea because I’m jittery and tense. I don’t know how much more I can take of this guy’s droning. Out of nowhere, something catches my eye. The kid directly in front of me is buying something on Amazon. He’s looking at-- is that…? Yes it is definitely my Iphone case. The weird psychedelic shell with manatees on it. The one I bought in a small store in North Carolina. The only one I’ve ever seen like it. This punk somehow thinks it’s okay to have the same phone as me. I want to yell out “Stay the fuck away from those manatees.” But I don’t; I just watch impatiently, hoping that he backs off. After a tense minute, he clicks the back button and is already back to shopping. I start to follow along. He scrolls down the page, looking carefully at each case. I wonder what he’s looking for. This is clearly an important decision and I’m ready to be there when he makes the final call. I tune everything else out and focus on the task at hand. We’re scrolling together now. I’m no longer a voyeur, just a silent partner eagerly following along. Each new case is a different opportunity; each one skipped a lost chance. We go through about four pages before he clicks on his first case. A five dollar “Blue Deluxe Chrome Iphone Case for Iphone 4S.” Nothing special, it’s a pretty average choice. It’s the kind of case you see all over the place, but it does it’s job. He spends a few minutes carefully pondering whether it’s the right one for him. He reads the reviews, the product description, he even looks at it from all the pictured angles. I have mixed feelings about this one. On one hand, I want to be there when he makes this life-changing decision, but on the other, this case is just so… bland. It’s only the second one he’s looked at, and he could do a lot better. I mean, sure, this case would protect 42

his phone, but so would any of the others we have already scrolled by. In my opinion, he’s settling way too easy. Another couple of minutes go by and I’m pretty sure he’s ready to order it when he throws me a curveball. He copies the web address, opens a new window, and pastes the address in. Voila, he’s got that case open and he can go back to shopping without having to go find it again. It’s genius; now he has a fallback if there’s nothing better. I’m impressed, this kid is way more clever than I gave him credit for. We redouble our efforts at scrolling. Now we only glance for a few seconds at each case. The fallback is there, but he’s not in it to settle. I start to lose track of how long we’ve been looking. I live from case to case, hoping that the next one will be the one. We skip some that I would have clicked on. It’s okay, I am putting my faith in his decision making. There’s a cool one with a tree on the back branching out in all directions. I’m sure he’s going to click on it, but he doesn’t; he just lingers on it a few extra seconds before scrolling on to the next one. There is no time for heartbreak because we’re right back on the grind. He’s showing no mercy now. This kid is a machine. He looks at each case then shrugs it aside, paying no attention to the amount of care and detail that went into each unique creation. He’s shopped before; at least online. The pages start to fly by. One minute we’re on page eight and the next we’re all the way to twenty-six. He skips the neon green light-up one. It looks cool, but way too flashy. The kind of case that someone who really wants everyone to know he has an Iphone would get. It tries to hard but doesn’t have much to show for it but a cheap trick. It draws you in, but lacks substance. He casts it aside with the care one would show a cheap hooker. I’m glad because I don’t know if I could associate myself with the type of person who would own that case. He does click on one that makes the back look like R2D2 from Star Wars though. He’d be an idiot to pick this one. It might look cool, but its been done. I mean, there 43

was a phone that came with R2D2 right on the back. I want him to pick something new and interesting. “Don’t be a fool,” I think, and he must hear me because a few seconds later he moves on again. I breathe a sigh of relief and go back to looking. We’re on page thirty now. He’s skipped over too many cases to count, but I start to notice his pattern after he clicks on one that looks like an old Gameboy. He’s going for the retro theme. I want him to stay out of the past. I try to transfer my thoughts to his head. “It’s an Iphone, you schmuck. I don’t care if you’re trying to be cool, trendy, ironic or whatever. You don’t need the most advanced piece of technology you own to look like a fucking cassette tape.” I’m pretty sure he gets the message because he starts to lay off the nostalgic shit. I become certain when he skips the “Old School Retro Calculator Case.” He starts to ramp up the search even more. We’re only spending a couple seconds on each case. There’s one that doubles as a wallet. I like it, but it’s too gimmicky, so I don’t mind letting it go. I am disappointed when he skips the wooden “Mayan Totem Case” though. It looks cool and it’s very different; probably the one I would buy if it were up to me. But it isn’t, so I bitterly accept it and move on. We’re forty pages in now. I have no idea how long we’ve been looking, but we’re running out of options. Cases are starting to repeat and they’re getting less and less interesting. We go through around five pages before he clicks on another one. It’s a solid neon yellow back with nothing else on it. After all this time and effort, I can’t believe he’s even considering spending eight dollars (fifteen with tax andshipping) on this garbage. I’d rather buy him a white case and cover it in yellow highlighter than let him buy that piece of shit. At least, that would be different; interesting. This would be the lamest possible outcome I could think of. We spend two intense minutes staring at the monstrosity before we finally move on, but now the choices are worse than ever. We’re so far into this that the search terms “Iphone hard case” don’t yield enough results, so it separates each word. Now we’re getting all sorts of unrelated nonsense mixed in. We start to see cases of all types; from suitcases 44

to bookcases to cases of fucking Kraft Mac and Cheese, and I don’t even want to mention what we started seeing for “hard.” The Iphone cases become more and more infrequent and I’m starting to think we need to go back to earlier pages, but still he presses on. We’re forty-seven pages into the search when class finally ends. It sneaks up on me. We’re looking at a case that is supposed to look like polished steel. There are even grooves to make it look more real. It’s not an ideal solution, but I would accept this as a final decision, if not just to get some peace of mind. But suddenly he closes his laptop and puts it away in his backpack. One second we’re on our journey together and the next he cuts me off. Cold turkey. No closure. There’s a good chance I never know which one he chooses. My shock gives way to disappointment, which in turn gives way to a numb sense of defeat. As if I lost something a long time ago, but can’t bring myself to let it go. I put on my backpack and meander out of the classroom lost in my own thoughts. Now, I walk in every class and wait for him to take out his phone, hoping to catch a glimpse of a new purchase, but he lets me down every time because the back of his phone is still as bare as the day he pulled it out of the box.

The Tunes

Constellations

The needle runs along my wrist exploring its thin grooves

We learned The names of constellations And how they poked Holes through the darkness Of space Their beams of light Stitched carefully into the sky Like little strands Of golden thread Weaving in and out Of view

by Christine Chunn

but inside me are the Blues â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I am a song without a sound.

by Jennifer Stewart

The

Anthologist

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