💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › MORPO › morpo5.2 captured on 2022-06-12 at 13:33:59.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
T M M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO RRRRR EEEEE V V IIIII EEEEE W W
MM MM O O R R P P O O R R E V V I E W W
H M M M O O RRRR PPPP O O RRRR EEE V V I EEE W W W
M M O O R R P O O R R E V V I E WW WW
E M M OOOOO R R P OOOOO R R EEEEE V IIIII EEEEE W W
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Volume #5 June 1st, 1998 Issue #2
Established January, 1994 http://morpo.com/
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2
Editor's Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amy Krobot
Bread . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gerald England
Gentle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gerald England
Motives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Fein
Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Fein
Traffic Jam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Fein
filled with such panic . . . . . . . . . . . . . Janet L. Kuypers
games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Janet L. Kuypers
The Acid Letter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joe Kenny
He Makes Me Smell Him . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alan Kaufman
Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alan Kaufman
Lemons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joy Reid
Alchemy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joy Reid
Lawn Care . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jonathon Weiss
About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Editor + Poetry Editor
Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff Kris Kalil Fulkerson
rfulk@morpo.com + kkalil@morpo.com
Submissions Editor Fiction Editor
Amy Krobot J.D. Rummel
amyk@morpo.com rummel@morpo.com
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
_The Morpo Review_. Volume 5, Issue 2. _The Morpo Review_ is published
electronically on a quarterly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is
permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
issue remains intact. Copyright 1998, The Morpo Review. _The Morpo
Review_ is published in ASCII and World Wide Web formats.
All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1998 by their respective
authors and artists.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Editor's Notes
Amy Krobot
Submissions Editor
COLOR COMMENTARY
The painter Ferdinand Leger once wrote, "Man needs color to live. It's
just as necessary an element as fire and water." Of course it goes
nearly without saying that those who are sightless would place a much
higher premium on fire and water, but for the rest of us, color wields
immeasurable power in our lives. It influences our every waking
moment. It is everywhere we look and often where we are not looking at
all, spilling into our dreams, stimulating our mind's eye.
Interesting then that so many of us feel so apprehensive about
choosing colors for ourselves and our most intimate spaces. One looks
at the colors of the natural world as at a husband of fifty years . .
. always with a tinge of romantic wonder, but never without complete
acceptance and familiarity. As lifestyle and decorating guru Martha
Stewart has noted, "In nature every color goes together easily." But
left to our own devices, we gravitate toward navy suits, white walls
and the Estee Lauder counter for fear that we will not "do our colors"
correctly.
We put a lot of stock in color. We each, I feel, hunger for a personal
space (our bedrooms, offices, bodies) colored to connect us to the
easy beauty of the natural world while reflecting who we are. We
recognize those around us who have found and identified with a
particular hue, saying, "That color is you." The ultimate compliment.
But coloring our surroundings often leaves us feeling uneasy. Color is
overwhelmingly arbitrary . . . risky. Facing a limitless palette, we
crumplt. And then, while we are down there on our knees, we thank God
for Martha Stewart.
Martha's (those of us who spent last December just trying to make her
cranberry encrusted holiday wreath have earned the right to be
familiar) latest commercial adventure, dubbed "Everyday Colors," is a
collection of over 250 original paint colors, developed specifically
for Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia and available at Kmarts
nationwide. The colors are all beautiful, and above all, they come
pre-mixed and matched. The Colors and Combination Display found near
the paint was created to "demystify the art of combining colors." It
does, and therefore you cannot go wrong.
To some, this "system," which promises creative inspiration, seems to
have as its ultimate goal the delivery of a significant reduction in
your checking account balance. Yes its guided creativity (an oxymoron,
unless you see that the goal of the paint guides is just to get you
thinking about color in ways previously dismissed as too daring). And
yes it costs. Martha's a business woman, but she also knows a lot
about color, and we could all use a bit of her bravery.
More important than the colo combination charts, however, if Martha's
apparent understanding of the anxiety we feel when faced with having
to choose colors at all, let alone determine the ways in which they go
together. We seek color, but go numb when presented with shades . . .
upon shades, upon shades . . . from which to choose.
And so Martha offers an array of colors labeled as, for lack of a
better description, "things" we find comforting and likeable. To help
us accept an unusual, yet stunning light yellow, blue and brown
combination, the colors are marketed as Heirloom Rose, Lamb's Ear and
Dill Flower. Another shade of blue in her collection is simply Siamese
Eyes. Light Brown, green, and bright yellow are "safe" and appealing
when dubbed Sandcastle, Fresh Hay and Lemonade.
Of course, these labels do much to help the manufacturer identify
different shades, but "Blue 1, "Blue 2," "Blue 3," etc. would have
worked just as well (and probably would have been easier to track).
The labels, I believe, are meant for us. Packing strong psychological
and emotional punch, "Everyday Colors" succeed because they bear names
that reflect the natural world and all things reassuring and good. The
labels remind us that the colors from which we struggle to choose all
appear "easily" in nature and therfore should not cause us such worry.
It should be mentioned that the master of this color labeling
technique is the J. Crew clothing company of Lynchburg, Virginia. They
sell blouses and pants and jackets and tees (items we use to color our
bodies) in all kinds of shades all named with the color-wary consumer
in mind. In the J. Crew catalog, red is Guava, Tomato, Paprika, Chili,
Citrus and Poppy. Atlantic, Ink, Surf, Royal, Aloe and Quilt are blue.
Shades of brown are offered as Caramel, Chocolate, Java, Cognac,
Cocoa, Espresso, Tea, Malt, Tobacco, Bark, Saddle and Mahogany. Yellow
is Corn, Citron or Chamois. Gray is Graphite, Stone, Putty, Peat, Fog,
Storm and Haze.
I'm all for it. Anything to gently remind us anxious ones that the
colors of our paint and our pants are inspired by a natural world
where almost anything goes. Don't be afraid to color away, just as you
like. The fiction editor of this Ezine, who happens to be my
boyfriend, happens to have an extraordinary aunt who, like Martha, is
not afraid. Purple is "her color" and purple it is . . . everywhere .
. . in ways you never even dreamed possible. She uses color 100% as
she wishes and the result is space that reflects her energy and bright
disposition. Her use of color is true, and she does it without
guidelines or anxiety-easing labels. She just knows what she likes and
isn't afraid to go with it. We should all have as much confidence and
style.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Bread
Gerald Englad
Nutty brown wholemeal,
wheat germ, standard white,
supermarket pre-wrapped cardboard,
stale wedding reception left-overs;
it's all the same
to Bewick swans and Mallard ducks
fighting for every thrown crumb,
quacking and screeching
at upstart gulls and starlings
keen to encroach on banks.
Only when the last bag of bread
is emptied,
the last child departed ,
will they retire
fat to the island.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Gentle
Gerald Englad
(for B.S.)
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild" - Charles Wesley.
Who threw the money-changers
from the temple?
Who endured pain,
suffered children?
Who turned water to wine,
fishermen to saints?
Who walked on water,
trod on Roman toes?
Being gentle
is never a soft
option!
Gentle opens more doors
than hard knocking,
can turn the key
to eternity!
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Motives
Richard Fein
I wouldn't have done it.
Like me he probably haunted
those drifter, bus terminal hotels where:
maniac drunks charge doors
their hunched shoulders used as battering rams,
or winos puke in the halls,
or the trash steeped in the alleyways decides to burn.
Then you really need the shoes on your feet,
no time to fidget with the laces.
Even if there isn't any crash, stench, or smoke,
there are always the cockroaches nesting everywhere.
But why he took them off in a barroom full of people
I'll never know; I wouldn't have.
Simply as everyone else did, I moved away.
But not fat man.
"Your feet stink, your feet stink."
He didn't answer fat man.
He didn't even raise his slumped head.
The rest of us pretended to study the bottom of our beer mugs.
"Your feet stink, your feet stink."
He didn't answer fat man.
A rouge of rage colored fat man's face.
Fat man whipped out a gun, pointed it, still
he didn't answer or even move except
to run his finger around the rim of a whiskey glass.
The gun cracked, the bullet whistled
and his bloody head plopped on the counter.
Fat man fled; we all exhaled,
then quickly followed one another out the door,
going our separate ways,
not wanting to explain anything to the law.
Alone, I picked my way
through a carpet of sleeping drunks,
walking, walking, walking, till I saw a park
and collapsed under a palm tree.
Nearby was a fancy L.A. hotel
and in front a fountain lit by colored lights that made
the gushing water seem so still
as if it were a snapshot or
a fluff of red cotton candy.
I took off my shoes to cool my feet.
"Christ, it was so lousy hot."
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Lady
Richard Fein
Lady,
look at that cattail reed, there, by the lake.
Its cylindrical tip tips sideways
and without underpinning its head
bobs and sways when blown by every crisscross current of wind.
It seems to bow
before another member of its species
which still stands tall and is seemingly faultless.
Our broken reed tries to reach its neighbor,
perhaps it will brush against it.
But the same wind which blows our crooked stick so close
also blows its faultless friend away,
so like swaying cilia
they touch only briefly at their tips.
Lady
my fingertips briefly brush your hair
but you bob and weave away so skillfully.
Lady, lady
I confess love
but
all you do is listen
so courteously.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Traffic Jam
Richard Fein
He lay there
right in the middle of the god-damn road.
Used some kind of greasy cloth for a blanket
and folded newspapers for a pillow.
Illuminated
by a line of headlights,
serenaded
by car horns,
and spoken to,
"Move you dirty bastard, outta the road,"
he lay there.
Finally
he raised his head,
turned stomach-side down,
extended his arms
and lifted himself up.
Then he bent down
picked up a bottle
raised it over his head,
then put it to his mouth
and emptied it in one long gulp,
then threw it down,
splat!
He gave us all the finger
and lay down again
head on newspapers, body under cloth,
behind a barrier of broken glass.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
filled with such panic
Janet L. Kuypers
i heard a woman jumped
from the john hancock building,
fifty-something floors.
i work on the thirty-
second floor of the civic
opera building, it's older
than the john hancock, and
we have regular windows
there. you see, the john hancock
has bullet-proof windows
that don't just open up,
whereas we have windows
that just slide up and down,
like the ones you have in
your own home. sometimes
i open the window, stick my
head out and look at the
street. the wind is so strong
when you're up that high.
sometimes we spit out the
window. a few times we
threw a paper airplane out the
window, watched it soar
down wacker drive. i never
stick my head out past my
shoulders, and i'm one of the
more adventurous ones at
my office. i can't imagine
looking out the window,
then going out past the
shoulders, opening that
window all the way, and
just going out. i'd be filled
with such panic. i did the
wrong thing, i'd think, then
i'd struggle to find a ledge
to cling to right before i'd
start to fall.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
games
Janet L. Kuypers
They put in the tape
when dad comes home
from playing cards.
Concentration, Password,
Shop til you Drop...
and when they get to
Wheel of Fortune, mom
has to be quiet when she
knows the puzzle, dad
gets mad when she blurts
it out. How the hell was
I supposed to know that,
he yells.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Acid Letter
Joe Kenny
The letter came on a Thursday two weeks before Memorial Day. After
work, I held the mailbox's contents between my legs as I sped uphill
to the house in my poop-brown subcompact. I had already read the
return address on the only piece not bound for the recycler. I
grinned.
It was from Houghton, Michigan. It was from Carl.
Carl Billings was one of my roommates senior year at a socially-okay
midwestern college. Back then he thought correctly that a BS in
chemistry would get him nowhere in the dim job market. His mother, who
did not want Junior coming home to stink up the house with his
patchouli and three year-old Chuck Taylors, agreed to help pay for his
master's degree. He chose Michigan Tech because it was cheap, close to
the wilderness, and far from the nearest DEA helicopter.
He got so stoned at his undergrad good-bye party that he forgot where
he put the keys to his pickup and couldn't leave for Houghton until
his mom mailed him the spare set. They were in Laura Kurp's apartment
under Laura Kurp's underpants.
Carl always had the best drugs, and the best thing about Carl was his
generosity. No apartment party was right without Carl's wafting
Humboldt charms. All the guests marveled at the stuff and bit their
lower lips in grief when Carl rebuffed their offers to buy. He was no
pusher, he said, just guy with an overflowing baggy.
I deposited the heap of junk mail and bills next to the telephone and
candled Carl's envelope egg-style against the setting sun coming
through the kitchen window. The thing glowed various shades of orange,
the darkest portions falling where the letter was thickest. The
postage stamp was nearly opaque, as was a patch in the opposite
corner.
"My man Carl, the mind reader," I muttered as I carefully tore off the
stamped end of the envelope and held its open mouth over the beige
kitchen counter. After a quick shake the prize fluttered out: two
small attached squares of thick paper bearing two tiny but remarkably
accurate images of the Starship Enterprise orbiting some strange, new
world. I drooled.
With my sick voice the next morning I thanked Monica for her sure-shot
flu cure. She knew that I wasn't really sick, but would submit the
Sick Leave Request Form # 8855 to my boss, Personnel, and Payroll
anyway. She knew I would reciprocate on the next sunny Friday. I put
down the phone and cooked an egg.
Friday bloomed with promises of freedom and chemical joy. I planned to
head for the beach, but, being new to the San Francisco Bay area, I
didn't know exactly how. I had heard that the coast from Monterey to
San Francisco was littered with them. After a moment's thought I
decided to just load up the car and go, starting fifteen miles away,
in Santa Cruz, then driving north, looking for beaches along Highway 1
until I found a secluded one. There I'd plant my towel, sit down with
some beers, crack good book, and, a few miles from the mixing place of
the first jug of Electric Kool-Aid, do the proper California thing by
chemically going where no man has gone before.
Except that all my good books remained in storage after my move from
Chicago two months ago, so I would have to stop for one in Santa Cruz.
After filling a cooler (something important enough to warrant dragging
out of storage two months earlier) with ice and beers and stowing it
in the tiny trunk of my tiny car, I fed the cat, drove past the
mailbox back down the hill, and turned south onto the twisted asphalt
that connects San Jose to Santa Cruz. Singing Gilbert and Sullivan out
loud, I sped, determined to become the merriest of
sun-and-otherwise-baked pranksters.
The Tome Home was the first book store I saw in Santa Cruz. It held a small
window front next to a grocery store along Highway 1. Thinking it to be a
common strip-mall top-seller-only type book joint, I almost passed it
by. But on the way out of the grocery store I noticed a young
bookseller pushing a knee-high cart of worn mysteries onto the
sidewalk for quick sale.
I lost grip of my grocery bag. Two cans of beer hit the sidewalk at
her feet. One popped and sprayed a thin stream of foam. With three
pale fingers she picked up the unbroken one and put it back in its
proper brown-paper home. "Here you go, clumsy." A yard away, she faced
me. At that moment, every resident, tourist, and passer-through in
Santa Cruz should have groped for sunglasses to shield their eyes from
her smile's radiance.
"Appreciate it," I mumbled. I could tell she was looking straight at
me, but assertiveness drew a blank and left me there, blushing. My
shoulder blades felt like they were sweating from the inside. Sure any
words would come out in stammers, I fled for the nearest shelter: an
atlas the size of Poland in the reference aisle. She rummaged around
the front counter for a rag.
My eyes peeked over the top of the olive leather-bound volume to
absorb her form as I regrouped. I squinted at her dark brown hair over
the Isle of Man. I dizzied at her legs as I flipped from Columbia to
Cuba. When she finished the wiping up, she wheeled a second cart
outside. Her eyes reflected midday sun through a pair of grandma
glasses. Finished with her tasks, she took her spot behind a dark
wooden desk beside the shop's front window.
I carefully worked my way to the classics section and picked out the
first thing I that caught my eye. It turned out to be Huckleberry
Finn, (Merry Prankster serial number 00001). Then, carefully inhaling,
I approached the desk.
She had her feet up. Her chair worked as a recliner, allowing her thin
green tank top to fall revealingly over her midriff. She put down a
well-worn copy of an A.E. van Vogt book and looked up.
Shit. She reads science fiction.. Perfect!
The coffee's effects returned at that moment, and I found, despite my
usual awkwardness around pretty people, that I could look her in the
eye and speak without a stutter.
"I love van Vogt. Have you ever read The Weapon Shop?"
She stood up, bagged Huck, and drawled with a fading grin. "Van Vogt
was a misogynist creepazoid and an L. Ron Hubbard butt-boy."
We stood in tepid silence for five seconds while I regretted my birth.
"The Weapon Shop, like most sci-fi, is patriarchal crap. That'll be
seventy-five cents."
My face must have darkened as my eyes fell to my sneakers. I paid her
and fled.
As I drove past the store on the way out of the parking lot, I paused
to get a last look at the woman I'd scared away because I was, at
least in her medium-green eyes, a male-chauvinist sci-fi-loving geek.
She stood in the doorway with her arms folded, squinting at the
highway.
But I was a prankster, dammit! There was a whole psychedelic day ahead
of me. I would not let one glitch spoil my good time.
Except that the encounter had made me very horny, since I hadn't had a
kiss since leaving the Midwest.
And she was just my type, nearly. She worked in a bookstore. She was
beautiful and friendly, at least until my Mr. Spock side arrived and
took over. Yes, she sent rabid ferrets down my backbone.
Then again I was a prankster who could forget about the coquette and
plow on.
But why was she reading van Vogt if she didn't like the man? Gah.
It didn't take long for me to find a beach. The first one was a placid
stretch of beige set against mottled rust-brown sandstone cliffs. Its
problem came from its proximity to Santa Cruz: It was starting to
fill, and the guy at the gate wanted four dollars for parking.
(Pranksters don't pay for parking.)
I had similar luck with the next beach: serene water beside broad,
sheltering cliffs. But the crowd looked a bit much. I saw
buzz-stompers with whiny, litterbug kids and sooty charcoal grills as
well as vapid types poised to ask for beer and suntan lotion. Above
the sea spray, the place looked like a bad trip.
After ten more minutes of Highway 1, I reached a roadside niche
labeled Bonny Doon. The sun lingered at its zenith; I was running out
of time. The place would have to do.
I climbed over a large berm next to a narrow but deserted parking
area. The wind there was severe, but the beach's raw good looks,
invisible from the road, drew me in. Strangely and wonderfully, the
beach was empty. As I descended a very steep bank the wind died. The
beach curled around with the cliffs to form a sheltered cove. I
dropped the cooler, placed my shoes on opposite corners of a
red-and-white striped towel, and sat down. A quick breeze kicked up a
little sand as I opened the cooler, and I had to spit out my first
crunchy mouthful of beer. But the sun apologized. I sank into Twain.
Then, taking the tab from an empty cigarette pack, I wet-docked the
Enterprise.
-----------------
In college Carl had introduced me to the stuff with great care,
knowing its powers could unbalance a steady personality. He handed me
my first tab on as gorgeous a day as Wisconsin sees in June. We played
guitar and walked for miles through the deciduous woods near the
University at Madison campus as the trip set in. Over the entire
five-hour hike we saw little more than a few students, several birds
of prey, and a perhaps a dozen squirrels. Carl knew the area was
mostly private during the summer and, in taking me there, made sure
that a bad trip kept its distance. Coming down that night, we spoke
softly on his uncle's urban back porch while splitting six-pack of Elk
Deluxe.
-----------------
Just after tagging the seventeenth page of Huck with a sweaty
fingerprint, I heard people approaching. It proved to be a couple,
fortyish, with a Sheltie they called Chump. A floppy hat half covered
the woman's face as she threw a foot-long piece of sandy driftwood
into the water and called out. Her tan sizzled. When Chump returned,
the man put down a picnic basket, spread out an oversized purple towel
and unfolded two nylon-webbed chairs. Then, after embracing wet dog
and tanned woman at once, he took off his shirt, sandals, shoes,
socks, shorts and boxers.
She reciprocated and smiled, inviting private moles onto melanoma's
porch.
-----------------
"Half the buzz comes from the placebo effect. Just knowing that you're
tripping is a trip in itself. Respect the chemical, grasshopper," Carl
had once told me. I respected it. Since that afternoon in a Wisconsin
park with Carl, I had dropped acid only twice. Both times I was alone
with no prospects of seeing anything or anyone that could send me down
anxiety's gritty waterslide. Off work for four straight days, I made
sure to have enough food, toilet paper, beer, and cigarettes to last a
week so I wouldn't have to drive. I had a stack of Grateful Dead tapes
and Mahler records. I disconnected the phone and unplugged the TV.
Carl had taught me how to ride the chemical tsunami without getting
wet.
-----------------
On the beach this tsunami hadn't yet risen as I squinted at the naked
pair in front of me. They were not hallucinations. Nor were the five
bare oldsters that soon planted ten yards to my left. Before I could
open my second beer, three extremely well-formed young men ran up and
dropped their skivvies on the sand. I swallowed and grinned as my eyes
fell on the woman with the dog. I reached for my sunglasses. On the
leading edge of a trip that would keep me from escaping (by car at
least), I had entrenched on my first nude beach. Not wanting to be
some kind of freak, I dropped trow as well.
Then straight at me from nowhere came a woman's jarring voice: "I
could tell you were coming here 'cuz you had sunscreen and weren't
wearing any underpants." I hadn't noticed any chemical special effects
until that moment, when I heard the bookseller's stark words in my
right ear. "You know I was kidding about the van Vogt, right?" It came
back. A stripe of pale wonder appeared in the corner of my eye. My
eyebrows dove.
Suddenly it hit. My head filled with the sound of sand grains dropped
one by one onto a sheet of rice paper. I became physically unable to
speak. It was my tell, my way of knowing that the trip had begun.
Anxiety ate my ego and burped. At the edge of consciousness I saw Carl
shaking his head and canting in some would-be Sigmund Freud voice,
"Das ist aber ein Bummer, dude. You are haffing einen bad Trip. Except
that this wasn't that bad. I was just imagining the naked,
flirtatious, Princess Charming next to me.
"Are you familiar with the phallic undertones of Huck Finn?" she
asked, tilting her non-existent head. Not wanting to let on to the
other bathers that I was experiencing the Pacific coast's most
gorgeous hallucination, I turned my head only slightly to bring her
into full view.
Mmmmm.
I put my beer aside and flipped onto my stomach.
The image sounded disappointed. "Well, I see we took our unfriendly
pill this morning."
Minutes must have passed. It seemed like five, but tripping time is,
well, different.
"Hello?" The vision scowled at me. Another pause inched by. Her slick
lips slid against each other: "Well, you had your chance, Mr. Science
Boy. Have a cool life." My eyes delicately swept her frame as my brain
made her walk away.
Whew. Had the beachgoers seen me making a pass at a hallucination,
they would have called for the big net, and pranksters don't eat
without knives and forks.
Three or four beers went by before I had the courage to really look up
again at the other bathers. The sun grew low, my skin pink, and the
beach empty. An older gentlemen with a Celtic-knot tattoo smiled and
waved a lighted joint at me. Two shaved, tough looking women pulled on
tank tops before leaving. A small spot of green disappeared over a
dune at the far side of the cove. Everything looked normal. My trip, a
short one, was over. I spent an awkward moment pondering the proper
way to rerobe after a naked day. Do the shorts go on first or the tee
shirt? Should I wait for everyone else to leave? Is there a polite way
to get this sand off my butt?
On the return trip I stopped at the Tome Home to catch a peek at the
real thing. A thin young man in a black turtleneck stood behind the
counter. I asked him about the woman with the grandma glasses. "Oh,
you mean Jesse. Yeah, today was her last day. She's moving to Santa
Monica or San Marcos or San Mateo or something like that." He couldn't
remember which one.
The cat greeted me loudly at my front door. As I sped to the cupboard
for the bag of Kitt'n Krunchies I saw Carl's letter next to the sink.
On picking it up I found the yet-unread postscript page stuck to the
inside of the envelope.
I read it.
I dropped the cat food. Tiny pieces of star-shaped soy protein found
their way under the refrigerator and stove.
P.s.: Like the blotter? I got it from a comp-sci major buddy who
made it on his very own color printer. Cool, eh? There's no acid on
it, since things are kinda dry up here right now, but since you're
a California dude now, I'm sure you'll find some Berkeley hippie
chemist to soak it for you.
P.p.s: Getting any?
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
He Makes Me Smell Him
Alan Kaufman
among the faceless
deodorized
masses on
the streetcar
i sit
inhaling
the
trash bag stuff
squeezed between
his
knees
the stink
that doesn't
care
that residentially
challenged
unwashed
ass
smell that is
a prophecy
of fallen
empires
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Again
Alan Kaufman
i
fell down
down the stairs
in a vodka black-out
black-out after punching
that russian russian
housepainter
in the
mouth
over an argument
about dosdoyevsky
who he claimed beat
horses and i said
you asshole
that was
just an image in
one of his books
and ilya swung
past my
nose
but i
connected
what a stupid
mess
pat drove him
to a clinic
with a red towel
crushed to
his face
i stayed behind
with the rusky's
old lady, vassa
who mounted me on
the sofa pouring vodka
down my throat laughing
'the victor gets the spoils'
which i got & it was good
then poured myself down stairs
back hurt bad, tea cold and wallet
empty and now i'm waiting
for the break of my
life
but getting
only broken; how much must i
sit here remembering
to make
one
poem that will matter
to you?
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Lemons
Joy Reid
I don't have a cleavage.
If I stuff my boobs
in a push-up bra
all I achieve
is a rising dough effect.
My breasts have veined with time.
Shy tendrils have
eased across my flesh
and gravity has created
a bean bag consequence.
I remember reading
of a young girl's breasts,
the writer (a male)
likened them to lemons,
the kind (I guess)
with teated ends.
No doubt he saw them
thrusting, impatient
with poking nipples permanently erect.
All I saw was thick rinded yellow
while my mouth filled
with a bitter after taste.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Alchemy
Joy Reid
Ocean.
Ageless, infinite
foaming, rushing, yearning,
green groping towards desire,
alchemy.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Lawn Care
Jonathon Weiss
His lawn was in a state of disrepair and had been keeping him up at
night. Last night, after dreaming about it, he woke up with his legs
stuck to his wife's back and all covered in sweat.
"What were you trying to do?" she asked.
"I was planting seeds," he said. "But I've got it all backwards. Go
back to sleep. I'll take care of this thing in the morning."
His wife rolled over, the front of her body now facing him, her mouth
open. They used to discuss things like this, he thought, but not since
he started working. All she said now was that she didn't deserve this.
_____________________
His lawn was sloped. It was sloped just like the surrounding hills.
When together they first purchased the house, he liked to sit outside
on his lawnchair on the back porch, where the grass wasn't as high.
There he would read the morning paper.
Often his wife joined him. When she did, the two sat silently, stared
out at the skyline and the high trees, and drank their coffee, but
when he started working, their lives suddenly changed.
The lawn was, by now, in need of desperate repair. However, rather
than cut the grass, he built a small deck, about ten feet high, and
placed the two lawn chairs on the deck, overlooking the sea of grass
and weeds. When chance permitted, the two of them sat, late in the
evening, and looked at the stars.
Even then, neither one of them said anything about the lawn. But it
had not been mowed in over three years.
When they bought it, they simply had no idea. They had looked at
several houses before choosing this one, all in different
neighborhoods. None of them had a lawn like this. It was the only
reason they bought the house.
They rented during the first few years of their marriage and on her
salary alone saved several thousand dollars for a down payment, but
after that they were broke. They didn't have a penny leftover for
repairs, for lawn care, or any other costs and they were not the kind
of people inclined to take care of the lawn themselves. The real
estate agent never told them how to care for a house, and it was
something they never thought of on their own. He never said it to his
wife but he had never mowed a lawn in his life and was not about to
start now.
So all this time he let the grass grow. And the trees. He never
pruned them and with each passing new year, the trees sprouted new
limbs. The leaves that fell he let lay on the ground until they got
buried under snow. When, during the second spring, the leaves began
to smell, at first he thought it was him. Stress can do that, he said
to his wife. It can make a man sweat. It can do just about anything
you can think of, he said.
Once he came home after work to find a deer asleep on his lawn. He had
gotten off work early, and the first thing he did was chase the deer
away. He actually ran after the thing.
Then he went inside, where his wife was watching t.v. He said he
wanted to show her something. His wife got up from the sofa, and he
showed her where the deer had slept. You could see where some of the
grass had been flattened. There was a giant indentation in the lawn
and he imagined a black hole sucking him in, tugging at his ankles.
Pointing to it, he said to his wife, You can imagine how many others
slept here. He said that he was glad that nobody had seen.
"I accept responsibility for the lawn. But not the deer. They have
nothing to do with this. They're a separate issue."
"Honey," his wife said, "it's just a deer."
She turned her body around and looked out at their lawn. She tried to
take it all in. Unlike him, she took pride in their house. She still
considered it a miracle.
"But our neighbors," he said. "You have to consider them. They see
something like this and they think it's our fault."
She put her hands on her hips. With the exception of the Rollins, who
once came over for dinner, they did not like most of their neighbors.
They were also fairly certain they knew what their neighbors thought
of them.
When the Rollins came over, Mr. Rollins brought over a bottle of
wine. Before drinking the wine, he served whiskey. And it came out
that some of their neighbors considered them white trash. He and his
wife acted surprised, but by the end of the night they all had a good
laugh.
"I'll take the blame for the lawn," he was still saying to his wife.
"But I won't be held responsible for the deer."
"For Christ's sake, Jack," she said.
"Mary," he said, "the deer are here by their own design. They're
somebody else's creation. Not mine. The lawn may be, but not the deer.
That's where I draw the line."
He bent down and drew a line.
"For Christ's sake. You're sick, Jack. Has anybody told you that?"
"Jack!"
When, after a poor night's sleep, he woke up, the first thing that
came into his mind was, I ought to take care of that lawn before it
takes care of me. The two of them kept lists, and at the top of each
one of his lists was inspecting his lawn. Other things got crossed
off and, eventually, inspecting the lawn, had moved its way to the
top.
That's how it happened. He understood this the moment he woke, put on
his clothes, and walked outside.
He didn't have a choice anymore. Whatever had happened in the past was
behind him. Nothing else mattered. He knew there was only one thing
left for him to do.
But who had ever heard of such a thing? A grown man losing everything.
Because of his lawn.
Of course, it wasn't a lawn anymore. It was a bog. Or a marsh. And
deer slept on it. Just then, a strange wail came from him.
He remembered that, on one occasion, not long ago, he got out of bed
because he thought he heard a party going on outside, on their lawn.
He got out of bed and stood in front of their bedroom window to see
what was happening out there.
"What are you doing?" his wife called to him.
"Somebody's outside," he said. "Go back to bed. I'm taking care of
it," but his hands were shaking.
He put on his pants, a shirt, a sweater, and his shoes. Then he walked
quietly down the stairs and slowly opened the front door trying not to
make a sound. He could not believe it.
On his front lawn was a man setting up his tent. When Jack saw the
man, he wanted to rush over to him and say, "This is my lawn."
Instead, he stood where he was.
His hands were in his pockets to keep them still and he watched the
man finish hammering the spikes into the ground to prevent, Jack
imagined, his tent from falling down. Because of the height of the
grass and the weeds, he could hardly see the man as he bent down to
hammer his spikes into the ground. For a moment, the man disappeared
entirely.
When the man looked finished and had stood up, Jack walked over to
him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
The man looked at Jack as if Jack had asked him a stupid question.
Thinking that the man was probably crazy, Jack asked him an easier
one. "What's your name?" he asked the stranger.
"Frank Baker."
"I'm glad to meet you, Frank," Jack said. "But you're going to have to
leave. This is my lawn."
He spoke slowly and tried to get close enough to the man to smell his
breath to detect if he had been drinking. The man stood still and let
Jack inspect him.
"I've got nothing to hide," the man said.
"You're going to have to leave," Jack said it again. "You're on
private property."
Then he turned around to see his wife. Mary was in the upstairs window
watching him. There was enough light in the sky coming from the
stars so that he could see her features in the dark.
"It's o.k.," Jack said, and he waved his hand. "Go to bed," he said
and turned back around to face the man.
A strong wind blew, but the tent remained perfectly still. After the
wind had died down, the two men started up a conversation. Frank Baker
had wondered aloud what it would be like to have a lawn like Jack's,
and at first, Jack didn't understand him.
He opened his eyes wide. Until then, it was as if he was still in a
dream.
"What are you saying, Frank?" His arms were opened wide and, as if he
were an actor, he gestured to the lawn, his lawn.
"Nevermind," the man said.
"You're right," Jack said. "Nevermind."
By now, he had put his hands back into his pockets. "I'd consider
letting you stay," he finally said, "but I've a wife and I've got
neighbors."
Without looking at her, he indicated to his wife by jerking his head
towards the window and rolling his eyes.
He did not know if the man understood him or not but he continued.
"I'll take the blame for the lawn," he said, if not to the man, then
to himself. "But not this."
He waved his hands frantically. "I'm sorry, " he finally said. "But
you're going to have to leave. Do you understand?"
The man turned his back on Jack and, at first, Jack had no idea what
he was doing. Then he heard a zipper being pulled and saw the man
climbing inside his tent.
Jack ran back inside. He had had enough, he decided.
But when he got inside, his wife was waiting for him. She jumped out
of bed. She stood behind him and watched as he opened his dresser
drawer and began pulling out his socks.
"What are you doing?" his wife demanded.
He found what he was looking for and, ignoring her, held it in his
hand. He started to go back down the stairs. His last words to her
were "I'll take care of it."
He ran outside and pushed his hand through the flap that the man had
left open. "I've got a gun," he said in the dark, "do you see?"
"Just get your stuff and leave."
Then he raised his voice. "It's the middle of the night, Frank.
Who do you think we are here? The Holiday Inn."
He discerned a slight movement so he toned it down, "I'm serious
Frank, or whoever you are. I'm asking you as nice as I can to leave
before this thing gets dangerous. Don't make me have to use this," he
said, and he waved his gun.
By now, half of Jack's body was inside the tent.
He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought the man was wrapped in his
sleeping bag and was trying to sit up.
Jack suddenly wondered what would happen next. The man was a
trespasser. And even if he didn't look to be a threat, how was Jack
to know that? All this had happened without any warning, and Jack
failed to make the connection between the man with the tent and the
deer--if there was one. For Christ's sake. It was the middle of the
night. What if Jack let him stay and the man hurt somebody, like
Jack's wife or somebody's kid. It didn't have to happen tonight, Jack
realized, but tomorrow it could happen or the next day.
The man started to stand up inside his tent.
"Don't shoot," he said. "It's o.k.," he said and he made a rustling
noise. "I'm leaving, Jack. The tent, too. It's all yours."
The man exited the tent and Jack watched him walk down the road.
Before taking down the man's tent, Jack decided to crawl inside, all
the way, just to see what it was like in there. He laid down on the
man's sleeping bag and closed his eyes. The tent smelled of stale
breath. Jack opened the flap a little wider and then drifted off to
sleep.
_____________________
In the morning, just before dawn, the sound of an engine woke him up.
When he remembered where he was, he quickly grabbed all the man's
stuff, took down the tent, and threw everything in his garage. Then he
climbed back in bed with his wife.
He tried not to move around but he needed to be comfortable. He
rolled over. Then, turning just his head, he looked at her. She
looked like she was about to wake up. "I know this isn't what we
wanted," he said. "But things will be better, Mary. You'll see. The
lawn, everything," he moved closer to her. "It will be taken care of."
That was when he knew things had gotten out of hand.
_____________________
Starting at dawn with the clippers his father had given to him when
they first purchased the house, Jack clipped the branches off the
trees so that there was a clear path to their front door.
Then he bent down on his knees and began to pull weeds. He pulled at
the weeds that were taking over his lawn. He dug his fingers in the
dirt where the roots would not come out. After he got rid of the
weeds, he looked up at the sky for the first time.
The sky was an ochre color, like it might rain. He wanted to finish
with what he was doing before it rained but just then one of his
neighbors, on his way to work, crossed the street and walked over to
him.
His neighbor said, "Nice day for it."
Jack stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. Then he shook his
neighbor's hand. He saw that his neighbor was wearing his galoshes.
For a moment the two men were silent. Then at the same time they both
looked at the sky. It was going to rain. But he knew that if he went
back inside, there were too many distractions.
He tried to look past his neighbor. Maybe it was true that things had
happened, but couldn't he see that Jack was going to take care of
this.
He took a few steps forward. Then he thought about the rain. It
nearly got him to cursing.
He knew, of course, there was nothing stopping him from working in the
rain. His neighbors went to work every day and, now, he was at work,
too.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
about the authors
Gerald England ( newhope@iname.com )
Gerald England is a British poet, living on the edge of the Pennines
with his lace-making wife, a son and a Manchester terrier. He has been
active on the Small Press Scene for almost 30 years and edits New Hope
International. He has published eleven collections of poetry and been
translated into several languages. His latest collection "Limbo Time"
was published early in 1998. His work has also appeared on various
websites and he is a member of Cyberscribers, a group of writers on
the Internet.
Gerald England's Home page - http://www.nhi.clara.net/gehome.htm
New Hope International - http://www.nhi.clara.net/nhihome.htm
NHI Review - http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Oracle/1735
Cyberscribers - http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Cafe/7573
Aabye's Baby - http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Cafe/9091
Zimmer zine - http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/2957
Richard Fein ( bardbyte@idt.net )
Richard has been published in many journals, such as: Mississippi
Review, ELF: Eclectic Literary Forum, Talus and Scree, Comstock
Review, Whiskey Island Review, State Street Review, Caveat Lector,
Luna Negra, Sunstone, REED, The Rockford Review Touchstone, Windsor
Review, Maverick, Sonoma Mandala Literary Review , Ellipsis, Roanoke
Review, and several others.
Alan Kaufman ( akpoem@aol.com )
Alan Kaufman's most recent book is "Who Are We?", a collection of
poems. Hailed as a "new young Kerouac" by the San Francisco
Chronicle, he appears widely in print magazines and anthologies,
including Aloud: Voices From The Nuyorican Poets Cafe , Witness,
Tikkun and Long Shot. On the web his prose and poetry appear in Salon
Magazine, ZuZu Petals, Poetry Cafe, Eclectica and many other 'zines".
He has given readings throughout the U.S. and Europe and is translated
into several languages. He lives in San Francisco.
Salon Magazine - http://www.salonmagazine.com/
Joe Kenny ( jck@hooked.net )
Joe Kenny is an engineer who moved from Chicago to San Francisco in
1992 shortly after celebrating his first quarter-century. His poetry
has been published in the webzine Gravity.
Janet L. Kuypers ( ccandd96@aol.com )
Since she got so fed up with her job as the art director for a
publishing company that she wanted to wear postal blue and take out a
few incompetents, Janet Kuypers, to relieve the stress:
a. vents her twenty-something angst musically with an acoustic band
composed of her and two guys who like to get drunk a lot (the
band's called "Mom's Favorite Vase"),
b. writes so much that she irritates editors enough to get her
published over 2,050 times for writing or over 190 times for art
work,
c. writes so much that in order to make her feel like a big shot gets
five books published, "Hope Chest in the Attic," "The Window,"
"Close Cover Before Striking," "(woman.)," and "Contents Under
Pressure,"
d. gets tired of thinking about her own pathetic life, so edits the
literary magazine "Children, Churches and Daddies" so she can read
other people's depressing stories, or
e. all of the above.
When doing all of that didn't work, Janet decided to quit her job and
travel around the United States and Europe, writing travel journals
and starting her first novel.
Poetry Page - http://members.aol.com/jkuypers22/poetry/kuypers.htm
Scars Publications Site - http://members.aol.com/scarspub/scars.html
Joy Reid ( jreid@staggs.schnet.au )
"I'm 35 years old and live on a property in Gippsland which borders on
the Mullungdung state forest in Victoria, Australia. I teach
Literature and Psychology and love reading sci-fi and watching
ground-breaking films. I've been writing seriously for just over a
year and in that time have experienced a wide range of success
including publication in over sixty-five international e-zines as well
as ten print magazines and four anthologies. My aim is to promote
Australian literature as widely as possible. My own work has appeared
in the U.S.A, Canada, England, Croatia, Israel, Sweden, New Zealand
and Germany."
MorningStar - http://www.wams.org/pages/mornstar.htm
chewtoy - http://www.geocities.com/BourbonStreet/5771/Scrawl.htm
Poems - http://motley-focus.com/~timber/poems.html
Jonathon Weiss ( jondweiss@erols.com )
"Presently, I am practicing law in Philadelphia. Prior to becoming an
attorney, I was teaching English at the community college level. I
have a Master's Degree in English from Old Dominion University in
Norfolk, VA and an undergraduate degree from UC-Santa Cruz in creative
writing. I've had several poems published in lesser known magazines
such as the Tidewater Review. Presently I am concentrating on short
stories."
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
in their own words
Motives by Richard Fein
"Motives is loosely based on a newspaper account many years ago."
Lady by Richard Fein
"Lady is my ode to everyone's lost love."
Traffic Jam by Richard Fein
"Traffic Jam also actually occurred, and I was the angry motorist. The
incident has haunted me for years."
filled with such panic by Janet L. Kuypers
"The story that someone jumped out of the 55th floor of the John
Hancock building in Chicago is true; in fact, the person who jumped
from the building landed fust feet away from someone I knew. I think
that people have a fascination with death, because in a split second
it can change your life. I wrote this thinking about how someone
falling next to me would affect me, and what had to go through the
person's head when they made the decision to fall."
games by Janet L. Kuypers
"Games is one of a series of poems written as responses to Paul
Weinman's poetry. Paul Weinman often takes poems by a given author and
writes responses to them; I decided to turn the tables on him and
write poems as reflections of some of his work."
The Acid Letter by Joe Kenny
"The Acid Letter is pure fiction."
He Makes Me Smell Him and Again by Alan Kaufman
"I write badly in a beautiful way."
Lemons by Joy Reid
"'Lemons' was written after a frustrating bra shopping trip. I've
exaggerated the condition of my 'lemons' partly to shock and hopefully
to get a laugh, it certainly made an audience of poets laugh heartily
when I read it out at a conference."
Alchemy by Joy Reid
'Alchemy' was written in response to another poet's work who had
missed the point as far as the sea is concerned (in my humble
opinion). I grew up by the sea (Sydney), there is nothing more
intoxicating than swimming in the ocean.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
SUBSCRIBE TO _THE MORPO REVIEW_
We offer two types of subscriptions to The Morpo Review:
= ASCII subscription
You will receive the full ASCII text of TMR delivered to your
electronic mailbox when the issue is published.
= Notification subscription
You will receive only a small note in e-mail when the issue is
published detailing where you can obtain a copy of the issue.
If you would like to subscribe to The Morpo Review, send an e-mail
message to majordomo@morpo.com with a message body of
subscribe morpo
end
if you're interested in the ASCII subscription or
subscribe morpo-notify
end
if you're interested in the Notification subscription.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
ADDRESSES FOR _THE MORPO REVIEW_
rfulk@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Fulkerson, Editor
kkalil@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson, Poetry Editor
rummel@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor
amyk@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amy Krobot, Submissions Editor
submissions@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . Submissions to _The Morpo Review_
editors@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reach all the editors at once
http://morpo.com/ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Morpo Review Website
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR
To receive the current submission guidelines for _The Morpo Review_, send
a message to morpo-submission@morpo.com and you will receive an automated
response with the most current set of guidelines.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Our next issue will be available September 1st, 1998.
+----------------------------------------------------------------------------+