The Bicycle Review

Issue # 26, 15 February, 2014

Poetry and Prose: A.D. Beller, Carly Berg, Brian Cooney, S.j. Cruz, J de Salvo,

Bill Gainer, Jan Halvorson, Justin Hyde, Josef Krebs, Joel Landmine,

Suchoon Mo, Rob Pierce, Michael Powell, Steve Vermillion, Travis Vick,

Edward C. Wells II, Riff Wilder. Original Artworks: Jeff McMillan.

Photography: Jeff Kappel.

All selections published in the Bicycle Review are the property of their

creators, and may not be reproduced without the express permission of

the authors and artists.

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The Bicycle Review # 26

Welcome, cyclists, to issue #26. As you may or may not have heard, the limited

edition cover of a book of short stories (In The Pink) by A.D. Winans that we just

put out has been suppressed (their wording, not mine) by Amazon. The reason

for this we're guessing, as they haven't provided one probably has

something to do with the fact that the cover features a drawing of the female

anatomy. Well, if they couldn't handle that, they are just going to love this one.

...A few words about this... not because it's necessary to justify such things in

this day and age, or shouldn't be... last time I checked, we are not

pornographers. That is, we don't do what we do to provide people with material

to wank off to. Of course, if you decide you want to masturbate to anything in

these pages, there's very little we can do about that. Maybe dashes, ellipsis, and

semi-colons just turn you on? Perhaps the tarty little slide of a question mark

reminds you of the shape of some wench or stud you trysted with anon, and you

just can't help yourself from asking: What was the question again?... sigh.

Joking aside, what I'm getting at here is that, though we have absolutely no

control over people's sexual tastes, we aren't putting out this magazine in any

kind of attempt to cater to them.

Amazon sells fleshlights. (If you don't know what a fleshlight is, you can look it

up...on Amazon.) You'd think that would end the argument, but something tells

me that if they had a problem with the cover of A.D.'s book, which was after all

only a drawing, we've all just got to cross our fingers and hope they don't look

too far inside the covers of this issue.

...In which we're happy to feature the photography of our long time

editor/curator/contributor, Jeff Kappel. In this series of photos, Jeff explores

violent death, sicko style, such as might be perpetrated by your run-of-the-mill

serial killer/pervert. These photos are more than a little scary, and if you have a

weak stomach, this might not be your favorite issue ever. I'll say it again, though:

this is art, not porn. I'll add the following: no, we are not just publishing these

photos to fuck with Amazon or raise some kind of free speech protest. (Though

the timing doesn't bother me at all, I must say.)

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The photos are excellently staged, shot, lit, and modeled. They're also pretty

brave, wethinks, to delve into this kind of subject matter. Some would question

whether anything is taboo anymore. My only answer to that would be something

like: Wow. You've somehow managed to be both cynical and naive in the space

of a sentence. Linguistically anomalous, and somewhat fascinating if you're into

that kind of thing...but, again...beside the point.

It's natural that as this magazine lands on the radar of more and more

readers/viewers, there will be more and more criticism of its content. No matter

what we feature there is always someone who feels the need to express their

unsolicited opinion about it in a Facebook comment, a hate email, or one of

many scads of new forums for opining that exist in the internet age. All of which

is fine with us. As writers and artists ourselves, we're more than a little used to

scathing rejection; it's part of the job to be able to handle such things, and even

to listen to them, and even to wonder if maybe they don't have a point, after all.

So... by all means, go ahead: if the contents of this issue make you outraged

and offended, send your bile our way. We'll probably delete it and block you if

you come from a place of hate, but if you have the self-control to be critical

without resorting to cheap, tacky, expletive for expletive's sake style

demonization, we'll certainly leave it up there for the world to see.

Great, now that that's out of the way, we're also very pleased to be featuring the

work of Jeff McMillan in this issue. McMillan's paintings, we hope, are just as

thought-provoking, artful, and worthy of controversy, etc., as Kappel's

nightmarish death scenes. In this Attack of the Jeffs issue, we're 100% behind

the visual side of things. McMillan has been making quite a name for himself in

the world of Art here in the Bay Area and beyond lately, and it's an honor to us

that he would share his work with our little magazine. Whether you're familiar

with his painting, or seeing it for the first time here, we hope you'll be as

impressed as we are with his technical prowess and the wide vocabulary of

images and symbols that he employs so masterfully. In McMillan's own work, as

well as in his collaborations with artists like Alex Pardee, he finds new-niches in

the post-surrealist/post-modernist clusterfuck that are impressively unique; this

at a time when many artists of equal (and, dog knows, lesser...) ability are busy

recycling the same old Dali / Warhol / Japanimation tropes without adding

anything new or vital to the mix.

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...Which brings me to the next item on my (unfortunately) long-ish agenda, here.

The Bicycle Review is now going to cost a little more. The $15 cover price that

we've been going with just isn't covering our bases. The magazine costs around

ten dollars to print, which leaves very little to pay the artists with... not to mention

the writers, whom we'd like to be able to at least get free contributor's copies to,

one of these days. In the past several issues we've been lucky enough to have

some very well-known artists like McMillan, Robert Bowen, Dana Ellyn, JoKa,

Marwane Pallas, and Marco Mazzoni. These are all working artists, and we're

glad that they like what we're doing enough to work with us for so little;

particularly as many have been featured in art magazines that are much more

well-known and widely circulated than ours.

Still, we feel they deserve more, and because of this, we're raising the cover

price to $20 US. We want to keep this magazine ad-free. The list of would-be

advertisers and, no joke, folks who'd like to buy the whole thing out from under

me is growing; and it's getting harder and harder to turn them down

considering we make almost nothing off this project. The answer? Raise the

price. A bit more of a silly little pittance for our staff and the artists. It gets

embarrassing sending people $20 royalty checks, believe you me. Let's all pitch

in and get that up to $25, 'kay? Thanks. (If you're a subscriber, this won't affect

you.)

Alright, I'm going to try to wrap this one up, here, as quickly as possible, but

before I get into the rest of the standard spiel, I want to mention again that

Michael McCormick is helping us with the magazine now in a big way. The

amount of subs we receive has increased exponentially over the last five years,

and it looks like we've finally found someone who's actually willing to do some

work as an editor; rather than simply make much of their masthead credit and

ignore everything I forward them. In fact, Michael will be guest editing the next

issue all by himself, at least on the poetry and prose side of things, as I need a

break to finish my second-ish novel. (Not counting the ones I've burned,

dumpstered, deleted, etc.)

Alright, so, then...

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Returning writers include S.j. Cruz, (Whose novel, The Flowers Won't Die, we'll

be releasing through the Pedestrian Press next month.) J de Salvo, (I've heard

of that guy somewhere, though he hardly ever submits, for some reason...) Bill

Gainer and Suchoon Mo, (Former BR Poets of the Week, both making their

debut in the magazine.) Steve Vermillion, (Who has a wonderful piece of satire

for your enjoyment, this time around.) and Edward C. Wells II (Whose collection

CO has just been re-issued by Pedestrian in an expanded edition, including the

story we'll be serializing here, over the next few issues.). And let's not forget

Rob Pierce and Justin Hyde, both of whom we're happy to welcome back for a

second time. And special thanks to Joel Landmine for filling in for us at the last

minute.

As always, most of the prose and poetry in these pages is by writers who have

never been published in this magazine before. Please enjoy, if you can, and

again, as always...

Share the Road,

J de Salvo

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6

commandante raB RaB

Foul and acidic, yet sweet as raw sugar. Air thick with refuse. Ground buried

beneath rubbish.

We are in the nation of throw away --a nation that thrives on the waste of every

other nation above.

The sky is a dull brilliant green-ish blue. Oxygen booths offer comfort to

transplants such as Franz and I. We stop for a bit. I cough blood. Franz seems

in a daze. We wait on line for air, 100 hectares and rising, 4 won coins for 1

minute of salvation. We only have seven coins. We will share, 40 / 20. Franz is

older, he needs more air. I will take a third of a minute for 4 won.

A woman behinds us. She isn't quite fat. I will let her pass before. Chivalry

seems to demand it. The woman, a midget of sorts, seems off-put by my

kindness. She accepts on the condition that her mother go before her. I accept.

Franz mumbles something about monks raping turks.

Where is your mother [ cough cough ] my dear? I hope she's nearby for my

comrade is either hallucinating or just being himself, cannot tell. [ cough cough ]

Really, he does go into these strange faraway states at times.

The girl, who would have been beautiful if God allowed her an extra meter, just

stared blankly.

My mum? She is close, you wait. Franz looked bemused. He said something

about kings in exile living vicariously through successful garbage collectors, then

he stated that barons of rubbish owe him thousands for all the rot-gut beverages

he swilled. He explained patiently that all those bottles must be worth a piano

players ransom in returns.

I thought about this for a moment and said, a jazz pianist or a classical pianist?

Franz looked above me and said, Neither. It is the coveted ransom of a saloon

pianist in a one of those old-fashioned western pictures I seek.

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The midget interjected, My mum is here now, you two stop this highfalutin funny

talk, so she concentrate good, okay?

Ignoring her interruption, I told her, No worries my dear, you won't even know

we're here, right Franz? Franz toke out his flask, toasted the honor of the king

of good thieves, drank heavily, then whispered we are invisible as he.

The girl seemed satisfied with this. She ushered her mother through. Her mother

was the opposite of her, a veritable giantess, the kind of woman that could

drown lesser men in her vaginal fluids. The kind of woman that could conceal

small children in her bosom. She was some kind of monster, homely to say the

least. To my dismay she had a wheel barrel filled with change.

Puta que pario, [ the bitch that gave birth ] I am dying here, Stefano. In fact, I

died two minutes ago and went to Valhalla. I saw these wonderful Valkyrie

women. I though for a moment I saw Valerie, but it was just a candle stick.

These Valkyrie women wanted me to fight a pack of wild dogs in the

underground to prove my valor. To make matters worse, all I had in the way of

armor was a fish fur hat and a nice but shabby trench coat with a red star. My

only weapon was a broom stick. Am I boring you Stefano?

I glanced at the mother. She was on her fifth minute, and she was counting out

either five or fifty more minutes in neat little pillars of change on the counter of

the oxygen booth.

Not at all comrade, do continue.

Franz coughed coughed a bit of red matter, then began his narrative anew.

A dog walks in, pisses on a bin; a feral dog mind you. A vicious beast with

barely more then a glimmer of intelligence in his piercing red eyes. This dog,

whom I shall refer to as comandante raB raB, was flanked by five other dogs on

each side. Pure menace was in their eyes. These beasts were ready to devour

me. The Valkyries began to place wagers against me. I followed suit, bet against

myself as well. The odds of me winning were fifty to one. I grabbed my stick. I

am no stranger to the art of royal Manchurian stick fighting, after all. The dogs

circled about. I twirled the stick over my head. I shouted some attack phrases in

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Japanese. The dogs still circled. After this elaborate dance, I rested the broom

on my forearms and tried to summon up some more ch'i. The dogs still circled. I

chanted to the God of mercy, Tara, let my end be quick. I chanted, I chanted. I

chanted to whomever would listen and had a rudimentary knowledge of broken

sailor's Japanese. Just then the head dog took to the air, going for my throat. I

struck out with the broomstick. The dog flew and hit the same bin it had peed on.

The other dogs looked at their fearless leader comandante raB raB, then glared

at me with pure hatred. I overheard the Valkyries announce that only beer and

wine were being served, no cocktails. This was, after all, working class family

entertainment. While comandante raB raB licked his wounds, another dog

began to inch closer to me, circling me, waiting for a moment of weakness. Two

others followed suit. Three of them were stalking me while the others watched,

full of menace yet clearly losing interest. One by one I dispatched the three

animals, while the rest of the pack glared at me. Comandante raB raB, gave me

one last look, a long maleficent one. A train arrived just then. Comandante raB

raB assembled his followers with several sharp yelps. He gave me one last

hateful look, then without much fanfare they all got on the train. I won by default.

Unfortunately I had bet all our money against myself.

I gave Franz a little slap. Okay, I said. Jog yourself out of it. It's our turn to

breathe.

Copyright 2014 by S.j. Cruz

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10

Nice Eyebrow

The one on the right.

My right,

her left.

She didnt take it

that way,

as a compliment.

it was an awkward

moment.

Copyright 2014 by Bill Gainer

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12

Steamed Stars and the Wooden, Wooden World

I said I cant save you, and climbed the dollar tree.

A star streaked by in neon blue. He caught it slow motion, buried it live.

Steam rose from the hole, a starbomb.

I climbed higher, an ungroomed bride on a cake mountain. In the valley

below, river

people trudged through the wooden, wooden world.

They sleepwalked in pairs for the monster-go-round. The wooden wheel

turned.

Way up he went, through the years, then down and under, smashed flat.

The next flood cooled the star to rock

Copyright 2014 by Carly Berg

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The Paradise

(in honor of Blaise Pascal)

1

in the middle of the desert

there is a kingdom

in the middle of the kingdom

there is a casino

in the middle of the casino

there is a chapel

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you are in the desert

fuck your way into the kingdom

you are in the kingdom

fuck your way into the casino

you are in the casino

fuck your way into the chapel

you are in the chapel

fuck yourself

3

you are in the paradise

nowhere else to go

burn in the hell

Copyright 2014 by Suchoon Mo

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Fury, and Its Negative Correlation With Eloquence

Minding my own business, waiting

for the bus to my classes at the University,

an old man with long gray hair and

an expensive road bike

resplendent in his neon lycra

biking togs,

took it upon himself to

aggressively bust my balls

for smoking at the bus stop.

He spoke with righteous indignation,

as though he were speaking as a spokesman of the community,

at least I think that was his intention.

But from where I stood, he came at me

as though I were drinking from the wrong water fountain.

My hand moved

instinctively to the folding

knife in my pocket,

and I wanted to say

If it means one less entitled fucking gabacho that thinks its the worlds

responsibility to ensure his personal comfort at all times, then I hope this is the

cigarette that gives you fucking cancer.

Myself, I find saggin-ass old white men in spandex objectionable. But I took my

fucking chances when I left the fucking house this morning.

Youre in fucking Oakland, punk! Go back to Berkeley with that shit.

But I didnt say that.

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Not because I thought the better of it,

and held my tongue.

Im no spiritual giant,

and believe we had words, him and me,

but rather

because I didnt think of it until five minutes later,

sitting on the bus

seething with impotent rage.

Copyright 2014 by Joel Landmine

(Photo by Liam O' Donnell)

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19

Appropriated Demeanour

i live in this single-windowed vacuum sealed box which is about to run out of electricity and im running low on food and there is a magpie in a tree outside and it has been in that tree for the longest i have ever seen a magpie be in a tree and it has not flown away because i am fucking pure. because if i were some well fed gregarious asshole it would have flown away long ago having nothing in common with me but no it can see that i am starving and humble and maybe it is a little worried about me or confused giving a heads up to its friends saying heres a weird one come check this shit out! and the magpie is joined by another and another and another in this half naked tree outside my window and now there must be 30 fucking magpies in that tree and all of them are staring at me like theyre at the zoo and im just staring back calm unperturbed waiting for the lights to go out.

Copyright 2014 by A.D. Beller

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21

What Have I to Say to the Darkness?

Many, many things. Lost dimes in the road. Blood is spilt into a bowl, and you may have a sip. Anyone can for the price theyve paid. Goddamn, I can't remember the daytime, with its gleaming smile, with its walk-a-mile. It happened in the mountains, the rumors on the air. We traveled in no language, negating what we said to each other. Each of us in our post-coital beds, with our cigarettes setting fire to the sheets around us, so the world could finally go to sleep. I saw the machines on the high road again today, walking slowly to the place of destiny. I dont think I will go there. The king has been killed, so the earth will quake. I didnt know that man, only his sorrow, only his tarot. Theres a place of drugs, of jars and pills. Many know of it. To pile your coins is a blessing, but you must first learn to speak. Few know how to read the old books. Theyve settled for the new gods, new goodnesses, and I guess thats okay. My body has grown fat. It ages and sloughs off cells. I fester here like a banana peel as smell coils around me. The leviathan is on the land, they say. He will regulate the ticking of my watch. I have only to wait until there are footsteps in the riverbed run dry. There will come a time of sharper change, and Im afraid it will cut me upside down.

Copyright 2014 by Michael Powell

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Nuts

I heard the squirrel scream when the tire first hit.

The shaded Lincoln wasnt slowed by the miniature bump

but I, in the car behind, felt a magnified jolt,

as if this tiny soul flew straight from its fur and through my front window

before sailing off to its leafy heaven.

Though this happened years ago,

Ive kept that particular experience to myself---

my idea being that certain institutions are lined with people

who hear squirrels scream

and that I would be no better off for having mentioned it.

But today, watching another reckless squirrel carom into the four paved lanes,

first evading the deep black treads to its right, second, retreating to the curb,

and third, maddeningly, darting back yet again,

this time straight into the far left lane

and the path of more rolling indifferent death, I was compelled to yell,

You are not significant!

Michelin, Firestone, Goodyearall are equally malignant.

And what was so wrong with the west side of that four-lane road?

Were the trees that much nuttier, more prestigious, better lit?

The chatter of your fellows so much snappier, to lead you out

into this ridiculous and unessential risk?

So. So I see.

You made it. This time. A cocky flash of tail, and youre gone.

Still I will not be surprised to see you again tomorrow, or two minutes from now,

making the same journey, reversed, when the west side

calls you back, just as unnecessarily, just as urgently,

and you will make it or not

with or without me

as disenchanted witness.

Copyright 2014 by Jan Halvorson

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Welcome to the Zoo A Bicycle Review Serial, pt. 1 of 3

I'm in a... a particular place is all. He pauses breathing deeply. I mean it's like my roommate told me, I gotta find a new highthat is I can't have any more of her pain pills. Another pause as he lifts his hand, turning it to look at the palm, then examining the back and finally returning it to his side. Then there's this other thing. He looks around at the nothing the cityscape has become in his riddled mind.

I approach things with a veracity... well, it's really that I choose to do things to the most extreme end that I can conceive-- or condone, at least. If anything, it's probably a desire for certaintywell, that and a lack of any sort of reservation... any reservation. He crimps the corners of his lips down and looks vacantly to the right before returning his gaze to the face of the person he has been speaking to.

When I was a child I saw a film about Elliot Ness. I have no idea what the actual man was like, but in the film Kevin Costner simply decides that he will do whatever it takes to stop Al Capone. It's simple reasoning. Sean Connery's character instructs him that if there is a knife fight, bring a gun; if they put one of your men in the hospital, you put one of their men in the morgue. Such a devotion to certainty does not make for a typical life. It also does not lend itself to normal social interaction...

---

She holds the phone to the side of her face with her shoulder. I'm simply trying to tell you that I don't get much done on overcast days; and well you know it's been raining for the past three days. She waits while the person on the other end speaks. No. I wouldn't say I've been drinking a lot. It's simply that I want to be honest with you. She listens again as she gets out of bed and walks across the room to the glass wall. Yes. Of course I understand that it's your job to ensure that I have been doing my work. That's really part of the reason that I wanted to tell you... Well, I haven't really. But, I'm quite certain that the rain will stop soon. She releases the blinds and they slide into place blocking the grey light from outside. I see. Yes, I will ensure that I stay out of your end of the building. And of course, I understand that should I not hear from you again until

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the rain stops, that doesn't mean you're neglecting me. The other voice rattles something quickly through the phone. I understand, it's simply that my lack of productivity is making your job quite difficult, she replies.

---

In the city the rain stopped two days ago. The heat has returned and despite the non-porous surfaces of the city and the measure of the three-day downpour, there are few traces of moisture out in the streets. Sun umbrellas have replaced the ones designed for rain. People hustle from buildings to cab or down into the subways.

There are a few people who linger in the shades of buildings, out of the flow of traffic, intentionally attracting attention.

Come on. You know why you're in this district. Come and get some! She spits to the right of her tan leg. The spit strikes the stone building she is leaning against. The moisture runs smoothly down the length of the building and settles at the near seamless meeting of the building and the alley floor.

These people make me sick. She says turning deeper into the alley toward someone sitting against the wall. They walk around like they dont want it. They come here where sex and drugs are the only things being offered, and then they act like their too good for the pleasure. The figure stands, still resting against the wall.

Maybe theyre afraid of somethinglike the law. The man looks down into a dim glowing screen.

Come on. You know the closest thing to the law around here are the cops that come for the same thing these people are coming for. Her words are clipped.

But those people dont know that. He chuckles. Hey. We gotta go. Theres a party happening over on the east-side of town, and theyre gonna love you!

Good. She looks down at the red heel of her shoe, shifting it around on her foot. Can we at least take a cab? My feet are hurting, and everybody wants me happy when I get there. She smiles as the man puts his arm around the waist of her mini-skirt. He smiles as they step out onto the street.

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You can have anything you want. This is a big one. This one is forever.

Leaning away to see all of his face, she asks, You aint gonna sell me; are you?

---

Hello, Carl? This is your Coordinator. Ive found something that could give you the opportunity to really be you and have everything that you expressed an interest in Well, it isnt possible to talk about this through a message. But, look; we have to be ready to move on this right now! So, as soon as you get this message pack everything that you want to take with you and call me. Your new life is waiting for you, if you want it... And if you arent interested then call me as soon as possible anyway, so I can coordinate something else.

---

The recording finishes playing with a beep. Carl looks around the room: an empty dresser, an empty closet, and two boxes on the floor against the wall. He gets up off the bed and makes his way to the living room where his roommate is watching a video.

Hey, my Coordinator thinks he found me a better life. Carl sinks into the sofa beside the woman.

She rewinds the video a moment and pauses it. Then you should probably take it. She starts the video again.

But, I dont know where it is. He looks over at her and pushes gently against her shoulder.

Doesnt matter. That program is awesome. Ive known three people that have participated. And the one that I have talked to post-coordination, has nothing but good things to say. You literally get more of what you want and less of what you dont. Simple.

Simple, Carl echoes.

Yeah, now leave me alone. Im trying to watch this video.

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Yeah. Carl walks to the door. Before he steps out, he turns and says, Fuck you.

It isnt loud, but the woman on the couch hears. She throws the remote control, and it bounces off the closing door.

---

Its good that you came Carl. The man is smiling broadly and motions Carl into a seat.

Yeah. That roommate of mine Who knows what might have happened. Carl exhales as he sits down.

Well, Carl if we know you, and you had ever relaxed into being yourself well Carl, it wouldnt be wonderful things for me to listen to when you came to see me.

Carl laughed. Not wonderful, huh? He looks at the wide desk pushed against the wall.

I never sit at that thing, Carl. The coordinator says taking a seat beside Carl. Would you like a pill?

Sure.

The man fishes a small pill packet out of his pocket and hands one pill to Carl. This is all I can give you. To keep the arrangement legal, you have to be of sound mind when you sign the papers for your new life.

Thats fine. This will take the edge of a dry day off. Carl throws the pill to the back of his throat, and looks at the man sitting beside him. So, you really found me a life where I can have pills and hang around?

Sure. The Coordinator pauses picking up a folder from the desk in front of them. You might be surprised how many people would welcome someone just like you into their lives and offer you just what you are looking for We know about a lot of people; so, we arent surprised by the number at all. Instead we face just the opposite problem. We have to continue to refine the match by more and more minute criteria to reduce the number to a manageable pool. He laughs a little thumbing through some of the pages.

So, man--

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The man interrupts Carl. You can call me Earl.

So Earl where am I gonna be?

Youll be right here in the city, but on the other side of town from where you were living.

The other side?

Yeah, the east side, Earl assures.

Buildings get big over there.

Yes, they do. Earl pulls a piece of paper out of the folder and hands it to Carl.

Carl skims the text and looks at the picture to the right of the page. In that building, huh? Which floor?

Youll be on the 26th floor. He hands another page over to Carl. And this is who youll be living with.

Hmm What should I tell her? I mean what kind of story should I tell her about my past?

Well Carl, I always recommend that everyone tell the people in their new lives the complete and absolute truth. But thats measured by my other intention toward you. Be yourself, and tell her whatever you want to.

Yeah. I guess its that simple. Im getting what I want by telling you the truth. But then I can tell this lady whatever I want, because its about getting a life where I can do what I want.

Yes. Thats the gist of it. Earl walks over to a filing cabinet and brings back another folder. This is your contract Carl.

Whats it say?

It says that you want to be placed in the life that weve found you. He smiles and hands Carl a pen. You should know that you retain all freedom and all rights to hold us liable for any damages, etcetera.

Sounds good enough to be true. Carl finishes his signature and hands the folder back to Earl.

Thats the attitude we are attempting to promote in the participants of our program. Earl finishes filing the contract folder away and returns to where Carl

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is leafing through the other folder. He looks down at the single bag on the floor beside Carl's chair. So you dont seem to have much with you.

No. I just left everything at the place with the old roommate.

It didnt go well; did it?.. I know, by the way you talked, that you had a real interest in her. It can be troubling when someone doesnt appreciate you in the same way.

But thats all over. Carl looks at the photo of the woman he's to live with. So she is a voluntary participant?

Well shes actually part of a preliminary sort of attempt. This one is something more borderline compared to our other explicit participants.

What are you saying?

It's nothing to do with your coordination. Shell be more than willing to have you become a part of her life Now we need to get you to your insertion point. Weve only got twenty minutes and you know how traffic in the main circle can be.

---

The music encapsulates everyone in the loft. The two could see bright flashes of neon colors from the street before entering the building. They had both felt assured that it had to be the right place. Twenty-five floors up, they had left the elevator and walked to an open door centered in the hallway. The same light flashes were shining intermittently through the doorway. This loft filled half of the floor. If someone exited from the other side of the elevator they would find a door to another loft, which filled the other half of the buildings floor. But each side of the elevator required expressed admittance or a pass-key. So there was no chance of walking up to the wrong door.

There werent many people in the loft yet, but the music was already loud enough to envelope a body. From time to time, between the songs, there would be long periods of monotone. Some of them were extreme lows while others were swift oscillation. There was an intentional omission of the frequencies known to cause pain in people, and a favoring toward those known to cause pleasure. As a result the people that were there had rather amiable looks on their face. Some were rubbing themselves and moaning seemingly further heightened by some drug.

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The two smiled at each other and then she began to move away from him.

Hey, check in with me from time to time. Theres someone in particular were supposed to meet.

She smiled broadly, thought for a moment that he must really be planning on getting rid of her permanently, then said, Sure. Im just gonna see whos here. Ill be back.

Good. And keep smiling. Its your big night.

---

Well I dont know everything about the Coordination Collective. I can say that Im surprised that it didnt start sooner Well Ill try to clarify. Thereve always been small groups that have attempted to manage people. Think about employment agencies or talent agencies. Those groups have been around for what; over a century? They made it their business to connect individuals with jobs. The result was work for the individual and a matching worker for the employer. The agency took a cut of the money, and everybody seemingly walked away happy.

Then there were dating services. These were more personal, but really a similar idea. Each individual was connected with another individual that seemed to be offering and wanting just what the other had in mind. The result was a more precise and quicker route to personal happiness. And again the site would take a little money.

Along comes technology out of the wazoo. I mean terabytes of storage and processing power. The Coordination Collective put it all to use and the result a complete match-making program that collects data from all over the place, and I dont just mean the standard stuff: height, weight, favorite sexual position. I mean the Collective started collecting genetic code, recording dream activity. They decided that to achieve the best match they needed to have info about every bit of a person.

That still didnt prove to be the end of their goal though. They began to encourage the people that they helped to indulge in a culture of complete disclosure. This has resulted in people that are more capable of being honest with themselves about what they want and more willing to admit it to others. Did you know that among populations of successful participants some studies have found a reduction of all forms of conflict; I mean arguments, fist fights, violent

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crime. Those studies have also found that productivity increases. People doing what they want, do it more consistently; they are also more willing to put in additional effort.

So how does such a positive and well-meaning group attract such vengeful opponents? Earl stared at the interviewer for a moment. Im not the best source for the history. Im just one of the press contacts, okay?

Okay... But?

But I think a lot of it began with the Ripple Contingency protocol. It was maybe a decade into the Collectives mainstream life. The thing was despite the positive impact on the live of the two parties: participant and party the participant was placed with, there were ripples in many of the cases.

What do you mean?

Im getting to it. Do you want a drink or something?

No, just continue please.

Well, the Collective was getting information that a considerable percentage of participants were encountering waves, turbulence in the form of individuals in proximity to their new life.

You wanted information on everyone not just your two parties.

More data simply helps to ensure a higher success rate. Not everyone has chosen to participate in Coordination. So, some people have become paranoid about their privacy.

Do you collect data on everyone?

Well, the technicality is quite ingenious. Do you realize that you can collect data on everyone around me by observing only me?

So you dont directly monitor people not participating?

Unfortunately some people arent proud of the impact they have on others.

So Coord is saying that it is only looking out for the interest of participants, and that opponents are protesting because they arent treating people well?

Im just commenting on the data that has been collected and trends and averages. Im not commenting on any specific cases.

Okay. The interviewer paused and looked earnestly at Earl. What about

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reports that the Coord Collective is facilitating illegal activity among its participants?

I can tell you that the official policy of the Coord is to obey all the laws of the many areas where we operate. Other than that, I know that our Coordinators go above and beyond to ensure fulfillment in our participants and to encourage a culture of complete disclosure.

Are you a Coordinator?

Yes. I just placed someone in the party upstairs. Theyre beginning a new life. Earl's smile widened, and his white teeth peaked out between his lips. Why? You want something? A gentle laugh rolled out of Earls mouth.

---

Carl is somewhat high. The pleasure is spreading under his skin turning all the nerve activity into pleasure that seems to stretch from his brain as much as emanate from where the high-back chair bumps into his shoulder or where the womans hand comes to rest on his shoulder. His smile is a fixture.

Hey, sorry, he says looking down at the wood of the chair noticing the shine of the womans skirt.

Its okay, she says smiling back at him. You look like youre having a great time.

Oh yeah. Carls restrained joy begins to crack through. This is great!.. Im just so glad I found this place.

Im so glad someone who appreciates it found it too. She is chuckling as she motions to a seat.

Thanks, he says as he sits down. Whats your name?

My name is Marlene. Marlene extends her smooth hand to Carl.

Im Carl. They shake gently and then their hands rest on the bar in front of them, still touching. So, how did you find out about this place?

Marlenes laugh bursts out quickly and loudly over even the music that is still thumping. Im sorry. Its just that I own the place. So, its funny that you asked how I found the place.

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Carl laughs lightly. Then adds, So, howd you find the place?

They laugh even louder, and finally Marlene manages, The Coordination Collective.

Copyright 2014 by Edward C. Wells II

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36

Now We Are Home

It has been my dream to form an elite squadron of Homeland Border

Security agents. A crack team of dedicated, patriotic men to serve under me; men who share my vision. After months of preparation and many nights sitting around the kitchen table with my wife, meticulously going over our budget, putting our paychecks together and starting a savings plan, we are ready for that dream to come true.

Phase one: The acquisition of a late model black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows from Hank Curtis Chevrolet, right here in town.

Phase two: Find four guys to hang off the running boards of the Suburban, two on each side. Like I said, we don't have a lot of money, so the next day I pull up to the Quickie-Mart, get out of the Suburban, and announce to a small group of day laborers that the government needs their help. Right away it's clear that they don't speak English, but even so, they appear to be enthusiastic. Standing on the driver's side running board, I read them the speech I'd prepared.

America needs you. America needs brave men who are patriots, men who will not hesitate when it comes time for battle, men who have danger in their blood, men who can look death in the face without blinking, and above all, men who are committed this homeland, and protecting our borders!

The men seem confused, still, four men step forward. Smiling, they climb into the back seats, and we're off. When we get back to my house its clear that the men, even with their spontaneous commitment and enthusiasm, dont look quite right once I get them up on the running boards. It becomes obvious to me that in addition to their ever present smiles and clutching lunch boxes, these men don't look professional in their worn jeans, pointy boots, tattered cowboy hats and flannel shirts. What they need are dark suits, ties and, most importantly, sunglasses.

I ask them to stay put for a second while I run into the house and requisition (put in a call to my wife at work) asking for authorization for the clothes and four pairs of Ray-Bans. I catch her on her break and she OK's it.

Day two, 0600 hours, I pick them up and call a meeting. I acknowledge to the men that I am aware of the language barrier that exists between us. None of you speaks a word of English and I do not speak your language, I say, enunciating each syllable and using my hands. I tell them that in spite of this fact it is imperative that we carry on with our training. Language barriers, I tell them, are for quitters and losers. They continue to smile.

Despite this challenge, I am beginning to love these guys. No one interrupts, no one raises a hand, none requests a bathroom break, and always, always smiling. I have set up chairs in my garage which acts as both a base of

37

operations and strategic planning as well as a classroom. The seats are uncomfortable but the men continue smiling throughout the hours of intense lectures on everything from hand to hand, homeland self defense, subversive counter security measures, speed to weight ratios in quick getaways, and finally, 'Beginning your own Homeland Security Business On a Shoestring'. They take it all in and no one ever interrupts or asks needless questions.

0900 hours, day three, and we gather to assess just where we stand with respect to preparedness. Right off the bat though, my analysis shows that that I need to make another requisition: The Suburban needs flags, two American flags, one each, flying from the left and right front fenders, if were going to look official. I make a quick dash into the house, leave a message for my wife and quickly fill out the paperwork while I wait for her to call.

We spend half the morning waiting for word from my wife, but we dont waste time. We start with the basics - stretches, warm ups, jumping jacks and running. I try to teach them an old ditty from my Marine Corp days (I gotta girl, and shes back home. We cant wait to be alone! When I get there, I wont dance. Ill pull down her under pants! Sound off, one two; sound off, three four!)

The men clearly dont understand a word they are singing but I give them an A for effort. For three miles they keep running, always smiling, each one attempting to his own endearing version of the song. The three mile run, which for security reasons is restricted to our strategic planning area, or SPA, or garage...comes to precisely 311 laps around the Suburban. Exhausted, the men finally climb on to the running boards, while I take their pictures.

At 01200 hours we break for lunch. The men sit right on the floor and begin to eat. Looking at them enjoying the simple pleasures of the simple meals they have brought with them, I suddenly feel tears welling up in my eyes. The success we are having thus far, combined with our growing camaraderie, is just too much. Its just too damned much, and Im not afraid to admit it.

01500 hundred hour. I receive word that the flags are a go, and I cant help saying Dont you just love this country? I mean Jesus Christ, don't you just love it?

Next day, day four, we all hop into the Suburban and drive it to a body and fender guy whos a cousin of one of the men, and he goes to work drilling the holes in the fenders for our new flags. An unforeseen problem though is that the men have begun asking for their pay. I think that five bucks an hour for standing around watching the drilling, the inserts and attaching the flags to the fenders cant be that bad. Thats eight hours at five per each, not counting paying for the flags and the flag guy. This all adds up to forty bucks per guy, or one sixty for the four of them. I give them a frown to let them know that I am disappointed in them, but I agree to their demand. They are, after all, patriotically dedicated to the mission.

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Day six, zero hundred, the men are dressed in their nice suits and wearing their dark sunglasses while I practice driving them up and down my block when I get an urgent call from my wife. She's have decided that we have to Red Light our project. We have no choice. Her hours at work have been cut back, so no more funding, no more support, putting the kibosh on the whole entire enterprise.

This is, if anything, a major set back in terms of time and expenditures, and I am, as you can imagine, whole heartedly reluctant to be a quitter. I am inclined, of course, to view this as yet another boondoggle, another waste of a taxpayers money, but my professionalism leaves no room that kind of talk.

As a patriotic, at-the-ready fighting force, we are being asked to stand down, I tell the men. They continue to smile though as I give them one last inspiring speech. What do we love if we do not love this country? And what beliefs must we have if we do not believe fervently in this government and a secure homeland? If doing nothing is what this great country expects of us, then we are prepared and will continue training to do nothing for as long as nothing of us is requires! The men begin to cheer, Viva la U.S.A.!, pumping their fists in the air in yet one final show of enthusiasm.

As a fitting gesture of thanks to these brave, dedicated and patriotic men, I tell them to hop on the running boards one last time and I take them south to the 405 and on down Interstate 5. The traffic, as usual, is gridlocked, but we are greeted by the people who are stuck on the freeway themselves. People saluting and shouting words of encouragement as we make our way to the border, and what might have been.

Copyright 2014 by Steve Vermillion

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40

Guru Virus

There's a PDF in your email. You don't usually do things like this, but you open it.

A head appears, and it has a voice. The voice says: What is your dream? You

don't say anything at first, of course, but as you sit there wondering what this

thing could be, it asks you again:

What is your dream?

I don't know, you say. The last one I can remember having involved a banquet

that I was attending. I kept going outside to smoke. There was a courtyard

outside, and tenements. The banquet, which was pretty high toned, was

happening inside a housing project, I guess. The last time that I went out to

smoke, some friends of mine that I hadn't seen for awhile suddenly showed up.

You're at the wrong banquet, they said.

That isn't what I meant, says the head.

Well it's just confusing, you say. Just what kind of a dream do you mean, then?

Think of this, the head replies, as a sort of check-up. We're not going to fix or

solve anything right now. We just want to make sure that everything is OK. That

everything's working right. It's the new service. Of course, your card will be

charged.

Don't try it, you say. I know how to get around your kind.

But really? Do you? It seems to me, says the head, that you're not paying

enough attention to your casual choices. At the very least, you're avoiding the

question. I have a really strong feeling that we could help you.

Help me? you say, seemingly incredulously, though inside you're thinking: really?

I'm going to hang up now. Or...delete this. Make you go away.

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You can't hang up. This is not that kind of situation like that. You can't erase this. This interaction will always exist. Somewhere.

Copyright 2014 by J de Salvo

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43

The Emperor Rages

All great events. Twas I there: Lepanto Vienna Schillings bloody sock N Sync. Apollos I-XIII Aristotle explains the Golden mean. God (eer pissed) is not mocked. Its not fair.

For all my body of work, all, The Oscar still goes to prokaryotes, Dribbled snot From humid heavens nose. Earth, a billion years a lifeless ball Then: not.

And ontogeny repeats phylogeny: Each man from the same Black Lagoon Be-gilled, be-winged, be-tailed. O average me. Our Descent not from baboons But from life, as we forward flail.

Copyright 2014 by Brian Cooney

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45

Selecting an Author

First, Id go into a bookstore. The place would be old, wooden, and sell used books only. Being in the very beginning of a long loneliness, my face would still be neatly shaved, my hair combed and parted. Not knowing of the deep nights ahead of me, Id still admire my own body beneath the second-hand clothes I wore, and see the life I wanted for myself in the smiles of strange womena phantasmagoric shuffle of them next to me, their bodies against mine: naked, or in sun dresses, or tucked beneath colorful scarves and coats; Id see quick sights of us traveling in a winter light, laughing, pushing our beds together in cheap motels, seeing the country and agreeing one day, Of course its pretty, no doubting that. Still, it really does seem to be the same everywhere, doesnt it? I mean, every place is just as good as another, dont you think? And none of its going anywhere; before returning home to our cheap apartment, our one bed pressed against a tall window; always traveling with that knowledge, purposely unmoving, laughing, every door wide open; Id still see it in them all then.

Inside the store, the books would be in piles, unorganized, huddled atop each other on the ground as if they feared some oncoming storm. Whenever picking up a particularly beaten book, a person would be able to feel that itd already experienced what was understood to be the breaks in this life: its birth and brief family, long hallways of bereavement, the quiet company of perdition resting just then around it.

Itd take days to find a good book. Weeks to locate a title you actually wanted. Behind the counter there would be a cycle of women cashiers, whod wear glasses, have thick legs, and know more than me about such things as high art, current events, and giving women orgasms. Each one of them would be shabby, irrelevantly beautiful, and have foreign tattoos running up and down their arms. Their bangs would break my heart. The left arm of the manager, Rebecca, would be covered entirely by Japanese fish scales. Shed sit on the countertop and flip through clothing catalogues, say hello to me as I came in without looking up, and Id imagine that voice coming across a motel room where she lay on the bed in Wisconsin, or Delaware, or Home.

And Id have been there before, would have spent whole days walking amongst the books like a flickering light. The shabby women would think of me as a regular. My friends, whenever someone might ask them where I could be found, would say, Have you checked the bookstore yet? The one off S Main

46

and Beetly? Hes been haunting that place like a regular ghost for the past few months now. Employees would have often walked around corners to find me sitting on the ground, books about my feet, holding my face in my hands.

A loyal customer, I wouldve bought over 200 books before I found this one: the slim paperback of poetry at the bottom of a pile of romance novels in the psychology section. And, taking it into my hands, nothing about it would interest me right away. Its cover art would look embarrassing to me. Dull and Cheap. Its spine would be cracked from shelving and yet the pages still crisp from having never been read. The book would be obviously self-published, and Id never remember its title whenever I thought of it. Thered be no author photo, and only a small bio on the back: Brett V lives in So & So. This is his first book.

Id open it up, flip to the title poem: unremarkable. Id flip again, to a short poem: unremarkable. Then again, to any page this time: unremarkable. Id decide it was junk, yet before putting it down, and for a reason I wouldnt know, Id flip once more, randomly, to this certain page and poem: the first three lines would stun me. Everything about themtheir voice, rhythm, and imagerywould be exactly what Id been looking for. Exactly what itd taken me years to find. The moment would make me feel weak, but I wouldnt sit down. Immediately, Id know I couldnt read the rest of the poem there, that I had to get away, so Id check the price written with a pen on the title page: $1.50. And thered be two crumpled ones in my front pocket to cover the charge. Bringing it to the counter, Rebecca would ring it up with her left arm, making the scales on her skin move in the air like water, put it in a paper bag, and say goodbye without looking up at me. Id suddenly think then that I loved her. Her despondency would seem romantic to me. But after some time, I wouldnt remember her at all anymore.

Then Id get in my car and take the book somewhere quiet. And because such a thing shouldnt come quickly, itd take a while for me to find a spot where I felt comfortable enough to read. Id drive through five neighborhoods and circle around in countless cul-de-sacs, before parking my car at the end of a dead-end street, where the houses on both sides would seem abandoned, completely quiet, with dark blinds drawn across their windows. Once there, with the red glow of an evening pushing through my windshield, Id finish the poem. And itd be perfect. Reading it would fill me with a faith for something I wouldnt understand. Id feel a strong devotion towards some god or church I couldnt find, and itd seem as if there must be a mysterious congregation somewhere near to me, sitting silently in black pews, praying to an all new heaven through the words of this poem. Id step out of the car, whimper, shake my arms, and then get back inside. A notepad would be in the backseat, which Id grab and use to write poems of my own on until dark. Id finish more than a dozen before the sun

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managed to set. Each one without need for revision. Each one going on to be published in literary magazines devoted to avant-garde poetry. Each one going on to be rejected by literary magazines devoted to formal poetry.

Yet, before all that, Id take the book back home. Bring it to bed with me. Id turn off all the lights except the bedside lamp, get beneath the covers, and read the rest of the book in an hour: and all of it, outside the one poem, would be unremarkable. Huh, Id say, and put the book down by the bed, where itd stay for months and slowly get buried once again by other books, before that entire pile would be put in a cardboard box then moved to the closet. There, itd then become a secret, one Id remind myself of less and less over time, until eventually Id be unable to remember what it once even meant to me. For years, Id forget the book altogether.

It wouldnt be until after Id written two of my own manuscripts, and both of them were rejected from countless publishers, that Id remember the book by Brett V again. Unable to write anymore and having worked the past six months as a security guard, it would be as I drove through a neighborhood I didnt know in order to meet a woman at her house for the first time, that Id get lost and run into a dead-end street. And there, stalled at the end of some road I would neither know nor have expected, Id remember the perfect poem from the tiny paperback book Id bought years ago. The thought of it would echo between my ears like a peal of falling teaspoons. Id cry in my car, slapping the steering wheel in the pale circle of the street-light above me. Id say, Can it come to that? Has it already? For me and my life?

Looking up to the light, Id ask, And if it has, is it really so bad? referring to a whole life mounting to only one small perfection, referring to some lonely man shelling out $5,000 of his own money to a greedy publisher in order to get his tiny perfection printed beside his name, then for the copies of it to go unread, for them to only sit either in his own attic, molding beneath a perennially collecting moisture, or to be shelved inappropriately in small bookstores.

Wiping my face, Id think of Brett V alive somewhere, out there, walking and breathing. Id imagine him in a frame house that needed a fresh coat of paint and new shingles for the roof; a house just like the one I lived in as a child with my mother and sister. Id see it as if I were standing in his yard, as if I could feel the dead lawn crunch beneath my feet; and Id wonder if he was happy, or if he knew himself in the same way that I didas a living absence carved out by a single perfectionwhile reciting lines from his poem that I could suddenly remember again. Talking to myself in the cold, surrounded by the dark, Id bring his imagined face to my mind. And hed be horse-mouthed, gaunt, with thinning brown hair and his eyes glowing in tired yellow beams within his face, like two

48

distant windows seen from across a stretch of field at night, empathically still, opening onto ordinary bedrooms.

From my car, Id see him standing in his kitchen, looking absently downward towards the dirty linoleum, half-naked and thoughtless. The window behind him would be darkened; the little ceiling light faint and exhausted; and hed have one of his hands stretched out before him, paused in the air, like hed just been begging some unknown person to stay. Seeing him there, Id hope most of allas if hoping for myselfthat he wasnt alone. Id look around where he stood in the kitchen for the signs of another life, feeling that if I could only send a thought into his head, or sound a noise from an unseen room, or bring a body into the kitchen with him; then I myself would be able to go home, get back in my bed, and then rise the next morning without effortfor the first time in months. Scared for myself, Id try to bring a noise not his own into the kitchen with him; strain to usher the smallest movement into his life.

Then, after hours of staring distantly with him in the kitchen, itd finally comethe pale feet into his view on the linoleum. The sight of ten unpainted toenails. After hours, finally, hed look up and see herhis wifeher long dark hair, her familiar smile and warm hands. And, together, wed watch her reach out, wrap her fingers around his neck, and say, Its time for bed, dont you think? Then shed take him by his waist into the bedroom, lie him down, kiss him, climb atop him, pile over him, and wed forget ithim and I bothevery line of every poem, his and mine both; perfection, effort, failure; his and mine, ours to share. Sitting behind my steering wheel like a ghost, Id watch him open his mouth in bed, his body shrouded by a circle of light through the window, and where there were no words to speakwhere for years thered been no words in him, no poetry or lifeher mouth would meet his and silence him without shame. Without poetry, thered only be the warmth of their two bodies, their twinned affections as a double shadow, piling onto itself as if fearing the stagnant absence of a storm.

Then Id put my car in reverse, keeping the dead-end in my headlights, and go back blind from where I came.

(A variation on a theme by Ted Kooser)

Copyright 2014 by Travis Vick

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50

Not everything

Is

About

And what is

About

Is unlikely

To be

About

You

Copyright 2014 by Josef Krebs

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52

#611: gulliver getting sauced

gulliver gulps a cocktail through

tattered plastic straw

staring into space

i for one dont envy him

this dreary giant so unloved

obviously oafish

in no small way disgraced

falling short / getting sauced

in little dives like this

hes largely out of place

Copyright 2014 by Riff Wilder

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54

55

56

A Rational Obsession

If you are going to hang pictures

you have a responsibility

to keep them

straight.

Got it?

Copyright 2014 by Bill Gainer

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58

after they shot his son in the back

he drove around all night with a pistol in his lap:

pulled it on five kids with similar coats

held it to his own head.

his son survived

he moved him and his wife to an apartment in houston to escape the gangs

he's got three years until a vested state retirement

so he's still here all alone in the big old house

tag on his head because his son testified at trial.

told me he keeps a gun under his pillow at the front door the back door three hidden like easter eggs out in the yard

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last night he heard voices out back

followed tracks in the snow down the alley

son-of-a-bitch had an AK, a neighbor called out from the window.

a mortgage here and a family in houston is a tough float on a prison guard's salary

bill collectors call for him steady here at work

nobody by that name works here, we've all learned to say

but it's mostly true

even before all this went down

he was a lazy fuck.

i let it

ride.

Copyright 2014 by Justin Hyde

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61

A Spider in the Mountain

It all starts with water for the poet. The mill turning faster. The words, the weights that pull along the clock, the chiming that brings us forth from bed to desk, and buries us back into our dreamtombs. Inside our sleep, a slipping back to the primordial lands. I be a baboon. You be the monkey. And the title you hold in your hand, at the door, so nervous, the house high on the hill, lightning cracking up the sky, a silhouette in the gabled window. The key is old and brassy, heavy in the hand and on the tongue. A million wizened teachers plead you to drop it, to lose it in a fob pocket, leave it behind at the cleaners, bury it deep in the sand, on a beach full-up with erosion. But you must stand tall in this horror flick, a metaphor for the critics who think it's all phallic, think it's just insecurity. Crack the glass. See what is inside the mountain up the river? Things webbed up at the corner of mystery. Ah, the arcane perversity of the past, another barrow mound filled with rusted riches and guarded. What will crawl forth from these places on its knees? A thing cannot really be known, but it will be put forth on the page, spoken at the lectern. And where do we turn? What couplet shall couple the you and I, entwine it in rhyme?

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And if I use the word heart, it is not a metaphor, but the pumping thing that moves me in the dark, on a bed, among some turmoil. Ask me not the names of flowers. Expect not their petals here, for their delicacy is a thing that causes blood from my mouth. Then out comes the spider, right on cue, to crawl out that hole, to grow in stature and be all that you remember, an image that will pass on to you and multiply in your sleep.

Copyright 2014 by Michael Powell

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64

Message in a Bottle

Home is the shoals from which the sirens sing.

Dont trust the fog.

Copyright 2014 by Carly Berg

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66

The Same Color Gatorade

Theres a football game today,

And I just know were gonna win

My son is the star of the team,

And whats more

He is the best son

Since Moses,

Who led his people out of captivity

Into freedom

My husband

Is the best husband

Since Joseph,

Father of our Lord

Our baby says we watch too much TV

Some people say thats bad, but I dont care

Its what I like to do at night

Most people do worse, and thats sure

I remember him,

My husband,

Burying the dog

Our dog, Crazy Horse

I never did like that

Name, it doesnt make much sense

But my baby wanted Crazy Face,

And my eldest wanted

Something else

I dont remember.

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Something to do with a horse

Anyhow, my husband settled it

Crazy Face would have been a horrible name,

Though I suppose his face was a little crazy

In a good way, I mean

At first I kind of thought

We ought to get the priest involved

But

Animals have no souls, dear

My husband said to me

Were just doing this for the children

Well, of course he was right

but I would be amiss if I was to

If, that is, I left out the great speech he made

Over that dogs grave

Actually,

I cant come near to remembering it

From beginning to end,

But it was just right

He said all the things one should say

In that kind of situation

How were going to miss

Our beloved Crazy Horse,

But his memory lives on,

And so on

He didnt get too emotional

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Of course the kids

Were just torn up

Every which way,

God bless their little hearts

But he was strong,

And gravely sad,

And as they looked up at him

Speaking there

I looked at all three of them, and

I knew they had the greatest father

In the world

My baby was only ten then,

And my eldest was five

So I was glad he left out the part about not having souls,

And put in the part about living on in our memory

My sons are almost grown now

Theyve been men for some time in fact,

If you ask me,

But it isnt good to tell em so

Least not

Before youre confident enough to let them go

Thats what my husband says,

And I couldnt agree more

My older son may be twenty two

And a big brave Marine,

But to me hes still mommas little boy

Mommas big boy, actually

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Now, he wouldnt like to hear me say that, of course.

He always did cleave to his

Father more than to me,

But any mother worth her salt

Would say the same

Sometimes I have dreams about him

Over there in the war

I guess I also wouldnt be much

Of a mother if I didnt

My husband is wonderful about it, though

He wakes me up and holds me

He tells me

Theres no way our boy is going to die

Over there

Hes too strong and too smart for that

I still pray every day for Jesus to protect him

People have lots of different ideas

About what its alright to pray for,

But I dont mean it selfishly

If I was given the choice,

Id lay down my life for that boys in trade

Of course, Im being ridiculous again

The Lord doesnt make deals like that

Unless theres very special circumstances involved

But Im just saying

I would do it if I had the chance

Here I started out to talk about my husband,

And what a great man he is,

And I suppose I have done that

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No, it was about the Gatorade,

Which is about him as well

I feel like Im going all over the place, though

I thank The Lord every day for my husband,

And for the sacrament of marriage

Which makes the unclean clean

Im so lucky to have found him

Like all women, I have urges

I dont mean to toot my own horn,

But Im not bad looking either

If my husband and I hadnt married,

Who knows what would have become of me?

I see so many in this world

Whose souls have gone so totally astray,

And try to pray

For as many of them as I can

But my husband

Being the good and honorable man that he is,

Saw fit to sanctify my womanhood

With the blessing of marriage

Its true, I suppose, that we may have sinned

Conceiving our eldest out of wedlock like we did,

But I kind of thought of us as already married

You know sometimes

You just have a feeling

About something?

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Like drinking the same color Gatorade

On game days

Because that was your winning color,

Maybe changing it once it stopped being hot

Once it got cold

For awhile it was red,

Then it was green, then yellow

You get the idea

Superstition?

You can call it that

If you like

Heres another one:

Its supposed to work this way:

My husbands supposed to pretend

He doesnt even know theres a game today,

Because if you thought about it too much

You might feel too much pressure

(My son might, that is)

Which could result in choking,

Which is every star players nightmare

Just like any other player except even more so

That was how it was supposed to go, anyhow

What often ended up happening is that my husband

Would talk about wanting,

But still not wanting to talk about it,

Which for my son

Was pretty much the same thing

As talking about it

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On game days like this one,

My son stays over at his friends house,

And sleeps until just the right time

To get up and begin his morning exercises,

Then he heads straight out to the field

Chugging a Gatorade and a Red Bull on the way,

And leaving enough time to stand in the locker room

Enough time to pray,

And make sure he urinates before he gets out there

My husband didnt want to talk about it

So as usual,

He talked instead about wanting to talk about it,

But not wanting to jinx it

The funny thing was

It didnt seem to make the slightest

Difference whether my son was there or not

It was as if my husband

Were more nervous for himself,

For some reason,

Than he was for my son

Actually, it was my son

Who had created this tradition

or so my husband insists

He had once mentioned,

Back in his Pop Warner years,

That he would like to just pretend

That there wasnt a game that day,

Because he would like to talk about something else for a change

He said

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This had resulted,

After much sports-related psychological analysis

And what-have-you

In my husband making the rule

Of not talking about the game on game day

Which he always seems to break

By talking about

How much he wants to talk about it

Which can sometimes lead to explaining

Just why that is

Which, if you ask me,

Is pretty much talking about it,

Isnt it?

I think he may have made the rule

About the color of the Gatorade, too,

But my memorys not as clear

On that one

Copyright 2014 by J de Salvo

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Code of Silence

The sport was non-contact marriage. Mickey supposed that was better

than hitting each other, although a good slap would have livened things up. But

he didnt want what that would lead to.

Everything you do, Talia said. When youre nice. Its all about getting

sex. Talias straight black hair fell halfway down her back, cried out to be pulled

with his teeth at her throat. Her curves should be caressed but she no longer

needed that. He didnt give her what she did need. Mickey didnt know what that

was. It had to do with words and feelings.

Talia wore a white magnolia in her hair. They were driving to an obligatory

family dinner, and in public they would play the loving couple. Both their

windows were down as he drove, his because he enjoyed the wind in his face,

hers so she could smoke non-stop.

Mickey tried to talk about something she would care about. I watched the

first episode of Homicide, Life in the Streets. Its still good. Somewhere between

The Wire and early Law & Order. I think youd like it.

Yeah? Talia flicked ashes out the window.

Yeah. Not so good for the kids, though.

Talia didnt say anything. Mickey looked over but she was looking out her

window, where the ashes trailed away. Mickey returned his eyes to the road,

hoped Talias silence had been accompanied by a nod of assent.

Fuck, thatd never get him laid.

He drove. She smoked.

#

It was a family dinner, so Mickeys dad, Neil, held court. Neil and Mickeys

mom had divorced years ago, but it was relatively amicable. So Neil sat on one

side of the table, while Mickeys mom sat halfway down the other side.

Neil was the person there most willing to offend, thus the most entertaining.

The rest of the family just drank to tolerate each other.

When I first met your mom, Neil said to Mickey like this was confidential,

except he talked loud enough for half the table to hear, she was drinking shots.

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She had a girlfriend with her. He tilted his head to indicate Mickeys mom, the

old lady halfway across the table. She was the pretty one, but I had to buy them

both a round. And another. I was only drinking drafts. I should have known she

was trouble.

Neil lowered his voice, but only a little. He didnt want any of this to be

private. I never should have made her divorce me.

Public apologies for his past were part of what Neil did these days. But he

never apologized to Mickey or his brothers about how he treated them, never

apologized to Mickeys mom about how he treated her. He expressed regret to

larger groups, and told stories that were funny because he didnt care whose

feelings got hurt.

As they left Talia said, I like your dad.

But shed be appalled if Mickey became him, and Mickey knew it. It might

already be too late.

#

Talia drove home. That was the deal early on. She didnt drink much

anyway, and if Mickey had a couple drinks he could engage in the family

rambles. So he drove there and she drove back.

It was a warm night, but not warm enough to roll down the windows on the

freeway. Like Mickey loved Talia, but not enough to stay sober all the time.

Sometimes the wind was too much.

They got inside the house. I love you, he said.

Im going to bed. Talia walked to the bathroom.

Ill join you soon, Mickey said. He stepped into the kitchen, poured

himself a glass of scotch, took it to the couch. When he drank too much he woke

her with his snoring. Hed stay on the couch tonight. Talias flesh would be

several rooms away. Her dreams? Mickey didnt have a clue.

Copyright 2014 by Rob Pierce

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The Bicycle Review # 26

was edited and curated by

Rhea Adri, J de Salvo,

Robert Louis Henry,

and Michael McCormick

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