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Volume #10 June 1st, 2003 Issue #1
Est. January, 1994 http://morpo.com/
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Contents for Volume 10, Issue 1
Hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dean Kostos
Spoken Under Hypnosis:
An Earlier Life in Burma as a Woman Named Mi Aye . . Dean Kostos
Exercises in Memoir or A Tarantula and a Bong
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elise Bonza Geither
The Bridal Shower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kelly Ann Malone
The Dark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . jj goss
Candlelight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amanda Auchter
Mortal Nights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Durlabh Singh
To Die at the Springs of El-Hamma . . . . . . . . . Elisha Porat
What became of us . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . W. Wessels
Asleep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Keith Felberg
Thunder on a Clear Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eric Prochaska
Tower 147 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D.G. Harris
About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Editor + Fiction Editor
Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff J.D. Rummel
+
Poetry Editor Associate Editors
Kris Fulkerson Lori Abolafia, Skip Ciulla
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Morpo Review. Volume 10, Issue 1. 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 2003, The Morpo Review. The
Morpo Review is published in ASCII and World Wide Web formats.
All literary and artistic works are Copyright 2003 by their respective
authors and artists.
ISSN 1532-5784
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+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Hand
Dean Kostos
In the midst of glass
he can't quadrate
a mannequin's hand
into its polystyrene
wrist. He can't adjust
its gesture.
The square flange
lodges in the wrist's square
hole the wrong
way, so the hand
won't rest
at hips
(poised as if
the mannequin
stalked breezes,
long hair scrawling
toward a future),
instead twists forward,
agitated
as if it could rip
a hunk of flesh,
as if it could
strangle
him.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Spoken Under Hypnosis:
An Earlier Life in Burma as a Woman Named Mi Aye
Dean Kostos
Imagine stepping through a gate that is exit and entrance:
Pass from who you are to who you could
no longer be. What do you see?
Pretending not to notice men's glances,
I traipse, soles tasting soil.
Filaments I embroidered
into dragons entwine on the longyi skirt
whispering across my calves.
Lanterns yaw overhead. Pushed
by the crowd, a soldier falls into me.
The way a blade slices an envelope,
he opens my silence.
What does he say?
He calls my eyelids suede seeds,
my hair black streams. His arms gleam
like leaves after rain.
By candle-flicker, my hair scrawls calligraphy
onto his chest. He leaves, but always returns
until the moon no longer bleeds persimmon.
My belly swells like a rice sack.
While another life ripens, I grow
thin. Can't eat. Food reeks.
I'm a door closing, a door against.
Not wanting to shame Mother,
I spill air from my veils and sail
into a ravine. In brief oblivion, my silks and hair
tint a cut of sky. When spasms
cease, she holds the baby: bald squab,
flesh flinching against death. She wraps it
in banana leaves,
buries it by the creek.
What do you see now?
Mother wakes me with a bowl of rice
but it looks like maggots.
My arms go cold, my self coils
from its core. I lift from flesh: pit from fruit. She
spreads my cloths across her pillow, entombs
her face in embroidered leaves. . . .
What do you see after dying?
Petals hover in hoof-smoke as a gold
Buddha riding a gold throne
sails men's shoulders on a palanquin.
A basket swells with saffron rice; another spills
pomegranates and lotus pods the color
of oxblood. Binding my days to Eternity,
an altar wears a swag of knotted ropes.
A man tilts a mirrored disc-plate full of sky,
a boy breathes into an oliphant,
an elder thrums a boat-shaped harp; from its strings,
dead ancestors sing me toward them,
our words dissolve like gauze.
Are you at peace?
I can't say; peace no longer has an opposite.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Exercises in Memoir or A Tarantula and a Bong
Elise Bonza Geither
I'm not lying when I tell you his name was Ken Wolf. He was a senior
theater major, had a single with a loft, a bong, and a tarantula. He
had blue eyes, faded so they looked like reversed mirrors in his head.
First time: I was sitting under the blue lights of the student-run bar
smoking clove cigarettes. I was in that uncaring mood; classes hadn't
even started. I could sit here and get drunk as hell. I could lose
myself in remembering last year: beer and boys, my soft legs and feet
tangled up in chairs and beds, one special boy I thought I loved. I
was still sad over him. I still wondered if I had gotten pregnant if
he would have married me.
Ken came into the bar. He recognized me from last year. He'd been a
friend of my boy. Ken bought me a beer. He bought me two and we just
kind of looked at each other. The music thumped up and down in my
belly. Ken leaned forward and said, "he wanted to marry you. But he
asked us and we told him no. But he wanted to."
My eyes filled with sugar-water. The tears ran down my face in
rivulets. I held in a sob until I couldn't any more and it broke out
of my throat like the cracking of glass on glass. Ken leaned back in
his chair.
Other kids came in and one guy started to rub my shoulders and say,
"C'mon, c'mon. You're just drunk." I tried to say, "No, you don't
understand. He wanted to." But I couldn't get the words past my
throat.
The music slowed down and Ken pulled me up by my arm and dragged me to
the dance floor. I buried my face in his jean-jacket shoulder and he
gripped me. Really held on like we were both in trouble, I'd like to
say "drowning" but that sounds stupid.
At that moment I didn't know about us, about my dreams of being a
super hero girl and flying just to show Ken Wolf that he needed me. I
didn't know he'd leave me for a girl we'd nicknamed "Death" because of
her black hair and pale, China-plate skin. I didn't know that he'd
say, "I wish I could tell you I was falling in love with you," and
then I'd tell my mom, "He is falling in love with me." I didn't know
how much he loved his room, his pot, his TV.
At that moment, I was attached to him. We were like two small animals
or one-celled creatures, like a flower and its petals. I was filled
with pink lights. I WAS a super hero girl and we were flying up into
the night sky. I could smell the summer night flowers and a tang of
stale beer. I felt his fingers grip my waist. I wrapped my arms around
him and squeezed harder. The tears stopped. I closed my eyes and
watched the blue sparks from us shatter into the cold air.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Bridal Shower
Kelly Ann Malone
As I wrote the name of the gift-giver on the back of a paper plate
I couldn't help but think what a silly mistake
No amount of tulle or pink lipstick can make this work
Desire is an attractive but misleading motivation
The bride-to-be is savoring her interim glory
At her peak and never thinner, with an impressive tan
Envious ladies offer gifts and praise
A white confection with blush roses graces the table
Undignified games produced intelligible banter
How many items on the tray? Don't cross your legs!
Cold-cuts and veggie platters along with a spinach dip
The round thin mints in pastel colors tease the weight conscious
guests
"John and Jill forever" printed out on delicate white napkins
She assumes if it's in writing, it will work
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Dark
jj goss
last night I ran out of white
the kind in dark bottles
and too soon I was dreaming
of the glass stem cool and smooth
as words overheard in the hallway yesterday afternoon
dreaming of wine
and a lazy slipping off
of my skin and words that slide out without stumbling
over clenched teeth
over other people's voices droning through movies
I've watched a hundred times before
dreaming of the woman in the upstairs bedroom
screaming at night until my ceiling cracks
in a strangely familiar pattern her words
creep in between my sheets in between the dreams
I have of dreaming her face reflected in my mirror
in the mirror and in the mirror again
my face kept in clear uncolored glass so I can keep an eye on
the level of emptiness
so I can tell how much is left inside
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Candlelight
Amanda Auchter
A match strikes. The white flame
dips into an open mouth . clean,
blank, sleeping. The black tongue
curls upward in repose, rough edges
cracking with soot, then flicker,
spark, and rise. It is a quiet voyeur
in a room, dancing upon walls,
twirling shadows down curtains,
across the floor, dark, light,
passing over a face, a book,
breaking into a half moon
of yellow glare. The jagged
fire bobs above the pool of wax,
the sweat carving rings of age
around and around, down, down,
melting and then out, silent, gray
ghost trails into the night, cough,
sputter, spent.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Mortal Nights
Durlabh Singh
Mortal nights
The wind with serpents
The trees with stones
And stars with dust bowls.
The original nakedness of
Being
Cornered now with
Vacuity of gaze
Empty eyelids feebly abound
With nettles of teared streams
Mortal nights
Full of secrets
Full of arrows
Freshly calcined
In dust bowls the undertones
Amid heartaches begin anew
In seasons of whispered tones.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
To Die at the Springs of El-Hamma
Elisha Porat
Down into the fichus boulevards at the springs of El-Hamma
come the starlings, trembling then landing.
The water is hot at the springs of El-Hamma,
Yet night is more hostile than day.
Layers of sand on those who landed before:
Layers of sand cover their faces,
The water is dead at the springs of El-Hamma.
From great distances come the starlings
Beating to these death-ponds: always they come.
Who sends these birds to end
In the booby-trapped springs of El-Hamma?
They fly so urgently, with no chance or time,
No time for life and no chance to learn
If someone expects their return.
The starlings are flying in to die in the seducer
Springs of El-Hamma, poisoned by the salt.
Fowl can't stop the soldiers, for their faces
Are pointed into the earth. Oh, how easy it is
To finish as a starling, and not as a soldier.
translated from the Hebrew by the author and Ward Kelley
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
What became of us
W. Wessels
We walked the luckless streets through a strange city
desperately searching for work in old ugly buildings
blankfaced offices stared back at us
scared secretaries tuned sharply to the comfort of smooth featureless
phones
wished us away
static voices promised distant money when we left.
By noon John's feet were killing him
his cheap shoes surrendered to smaller steps
we slowed down and ceased to joke about the borrowed suits
our tired reflections scattered across countless blind shop windows
I judged the few Stuyvesants in a crumpled pack
weighed the change in my pocket
traffic lights blinked nervously moments before rush hour descended
we couldn't cross when the demon dark angel man cornered us
in a
brilliant move
cars pushing home
blocked our escape
left us with
no excuse
when he held out his hand
I stepped back said fuck off
sensing heavy wings under a black coat
two coarse growths beneath peroxided hair
but he liked the jinglejangle of my coins too much
and still persists those streets
a ghostly reminder
of luckless ones like us
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Asleep
Keith Felberg
Light slid along thin strands of cobweb, and the morning sun poured
through the green vineyards in the valley. He brushed the sticky
invisible threads from his face, and walked the steep path towards the
top of the hill. He breathed hard of the air that was stale and humid
and had the pungent smell of earth. Plants flourished everywhere, and
there were groves of small white flowers covered in dew. He could feel
them brush damply against his bare arms as he began to sweat. Tall
green hills rose on all sides and above them the air was bright and
drowsy. There was no breeze and the odor hung thick in the stillness,
strong and sickly sweet.
He looked down the way he came, the path vanishing in the green, and
then to a farm down in the distance where he heard a rooster crowing.
She was sleeping down in the car. There was a monument there where a
battle was fought in the Spanish American War. A tall stone stuck from
the earth, and the ground glimmered with broken glass all around it.
They had driven in the night, and parked when the sun was still cool
and rosy on the horizon, and the air was crisp and fresh and smelled
of eucalyptus. They watched the mist that settled in the valley, and
the rolling green mountains that rose out of it. There was that potent
beauty that comes when the eyes are tired of looking, or when the sun
comes after watching the ghosts of places in the night, and the
hypnotic rush of asphalt. They dozed in the car while tall palms
swayed and swam in the gentle morning breeze.
They rolled down the windows and the breeze came cool and lovely
through the car. She leaned back in the driver's seat and closed her
eyes. He stared out into the sway of the palms, and the deep sun
lightened green of the hedges. It really was a fine morning. He leaned
over and kissed her neck. She started at first: opened her eyes, then
leaned her head back smiling.
"That tickles," she said, and shut her eyes again.
He pulled the strap of her gray tank top over her shoulder
"Quit it," she said playfully and sat up.
"I'm glad we came," she said.
"Me too," he said, still feeling the dampness of her skin.
"Do you remember when it used to flood by your house, and we'd race
paper boats in the street."
"I remember," he said, sitting up.
"I miss it there," she said.
He stared out at the flowers that shivered in the light wind, with the
birds singing in the stale humid air, and the long shadows falling
across the parking lot.
"I miss how we used to just stay in bed in the winter because it was
always cold and the wind seemed to go right through it," she said. "I
remember being all warm and tucked in, and just listening to it howl
outside."
He still wasn't looking at her, but knew she was smiling, could hear
it in her voice.
"What's wrong?" she said.
He blinked, then looked at her.
"Nothing."
"Do you want some water?"
"No, that's ok," he said.
"This one's still cold. I froze it before we left see," she said, and
put the cold bottle of water against his cheek.
"Stop that."
"No."
"Don't make me tickle you."
"You wouldn't dare, we're in public."
"You never though of this car as public before," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"That's it mister," she said opening the water bottle.
The water was very cold and his shirt was halfway soaked, but it felt
kind of good in the heat.
"You win," he said.
"I know," she said. "I always win." He leaned over to tickle her and
she backed against the door.
"No no I'm kidding I'm kidding," she said, and he sat up.
"Are you happy now?" she said softly and almost scared.
They were early at the park, and the sun was hot after the hike above
the monument, and there was that over-ripe taste still in the air.
Inside she wanted to see the birds, and pointed and smiled with the
sun on her face. He told her they should ride the tram first, it would
be crowded soon. So they stood in the shadows of the trees and against
the rising leaves of the brush until the tram came. The sun was higher
now, and white, and their car was full of children. Some cried and
were unhappy, and stared sometimes out at the animals that roamed free
on the rolling green savannah. Sometimes their eyes were wells and
other times fixed, out past the shadows in the heat of the morning
sun. The little girl that sat next to him looked at him for a long
time, and he looked back at her. She had blond hair and blue eyes and
was about four. When he imagined having children, it was always a
little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. He didn't know why. They
rolled across the bottom of the long green valley, and tigers moved
lazily and catlike in the shade. They passed the last of the white
rhinos that laid like giant pale stones beneath a broad shaded tree.
The guide said there was nothing to be done for them. There were only
five left in captivity, and two in the wild. She said all the females
were past their breeding age, and they would be extinct inside three
years. He looked out at them a long time. They did not move, but laid
perfectly still and hot in the shade. He thought for a moment about
the last time he was in San Diego, and how they found a whale washed
up on the beach. It was long and grey like the sky above the water,
and they climbed over the rocks that were wet with rain to get near
it. Seagulls pecked at it, and they could see where they'd broken
through the thick dark skin to the pink inside. It was sad to watch:
those tiny scavengers picking apart that great animal that just laid
on its back with dead black eyes. The rhinos were like that, not on
their backs, but like stones, like they were already dead.
People gazed into the hard white sun with fading sour smiles, cameras
cocked, no wind. There was a woman in front of him: horse toothed,
wrinkled eyes, and just staring. They were just staring out at them.
None of them would ever see another alive again. Would they live on
vacation film? One last generation brought down from time immemorable,
to be gawked at by tourists in khaki shorts with sun burnt noses. How
could that be destiny. Their lives, such startling and beautiful
things, fierce and wild, but now just like stones, porous, unmoving,
flies swarming. The rhinos were colorless in the shade, and the harsh
whiteness of the sun. They were alive, but not alive. There in that
car full of people he felt unspeakably lonely for a moment, but just
for a moment and then it was gone.
He looked away from the horse toothed woman.
"Hi." Said the girl.
"Hi," he said.
His wife squeezed his hand, her eyes the color of corn flowers.
"Why do you miss my old house?" he said. "Don't you like the house we
have now?"
"No I do. It's just, I don't know, good memories."
There was water down in the gully and he could see the insects alive
in the sun. They walked over the boardwalks, and she gazed into the
water that was green muck, and at the birds that swam heavily through
it. It was very hot now, and too bright. He could see the giraffes
nibbling on the long slender limbs of the trees, and the children
pointing though the wire mesh of the fence.
They left the park and were very tired. It was early in the afternoon,
and he slept in the car and did not dream. He was almost awake when
they pulled into the hotel, on that pleasant edge of sleep, but he
kept his eyes closed so she could whisper to him to wake up, they were
there.
The air came cold and damp off the water even before the sun had set,
and now he stared out past the end of the pier to the darkening
Pacific. The ocean was always strange at night, a dark vacuum, with
the lights of the city pushing at its edge, and the sound of the waves
coming in. He looked up for the stars, but they were distant and weary
with the lights of the restaurant, and San Diego glowing not so far
away. They ate fried clams that were fresh and greasy and looked out
at where the ocean should be. He took a drink of the cold wine,
smelling the salt air, and the fish death smell of bait from where the
old men sat with their poles at the end of the pier. He looked up at
her, and she was just watching the darkness. She looked back at him
and smiled. People always smile when you catch them staring.
"How's your food?" she asked.
"Not bad," he said, watching her sip her wine.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" she said, watching him with her full
beautiful eyes.
"The Rhinos," he said.
"The Rhinos at the park?"
"No."
"Oh you must mean the rhinos back at our hotel," she said smirking.
"The two left in the wild." He said, turning to the darkness where the
tide was coming in.
She did not speak for a long time, but it wasn't bad with the clams
and the crab in drawn butter, and the old men fishing in the night.
"I remember when you went to San Diego when we were in college, and
you brought me back that seashell nightlight you said you bought at
the airport because you didn't have time to shop."
He didn't speak, but just looked at her.
"You always used to bring me back little things when you'd go away,"
she said, and she was still smiling, but her eyes were sad. He'd
watched that look on her face before, the way a smile could ebb, find
its peak and then pull back just slightly.
"I couldn't afford big things then," he said.
"No, I didn't mean that," she said. "I loved it. I loved that you did
that. I loved all those things. Didn't you ever notice how I kept all
of them?"
He smiled sheepishly and squeezed her hand, and stared back out at
nothing. He felt sad now, but didn't know why. Gifts always made him
feel sad after they'd been given.
"I miss my seashell nightlight," she said.
"What ever happened to it?
"It broke when we were moving," she said. "I put it in a box, and then
when I opened it up again there were just the white shards of it."
"I could buy you another one," he said.
"It wouldn't be the same."
They walked up the beach in the dark ocean breath of the night. He
listened to the sand shift in their footsteps, the tide washing up the
shore. His eyes glided over an infinity of footprints dimpling the
sand, and the strange dark shapes of seaweed washed in by the tide.
He stopped though he wasn't really sure why. He felt his hand against
hers, closing on it, stopping her, moving it to the small of her back,
her feet turning in the sand. She opened her mouth in surprise, but
she was already against him, and he kissed her long and soft beneath
the starlight. It was funny too because he was thinking about the
winter in Korea, about waking from the cold in the dead of night with
a month's worth of pneumonia. He remembered about how the heat was
out, and he shivered and huddled over the blue light of a stove burner
for warmth, listened to Miles Davis, watched the light dance over the
empty liquor bottles strewn though the kitchen two days before
Christmas. She was warm and close against him. It isn't the loneliest
I've ever been he thought, and ran his hand through her hair, pulling
it towards him, down against her cheek, fingertips tracing her throat,
down against the edge of her breast.
"Not here," she said, gently pulling back. "There are people." All he
could think was she used to close her eyes, she used to tremble.
His eyes drifted, watching the facades of the houses along the
waterfront. Light came thin and latticed through the shut blinds, or
the windows were dark and uncovered as if no one was home. He imagined
people behind those dark open windows, sitting back against the
furthest wall, watching the night.
There was the veil, the silence: the almost purging drift of it.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said, and her not looking up, but
straight ahead and towards the sand, and him listening to it shift in
their footsteps.
"It's alright," she said evenly, and not hurt, and him not knowing
what to do or say ever when she started to lie.
"I'll be back before you miss me," he said, listening to the movement
of the sand again.
"When I was a girl I used to want to live on this beach," she said.
"But not anymore," he asked.
"No." she said. "Not anymore."
"That's alright we couldn't afford it anyway."
"It doesn't look the same as it used to," she said, and never lifted
her eyes from the sand.
In the morning they drove east, with the sun bright against the
horizon. They traced their way back along the same roads: all
different somehow, the desert flatness, the upturned boulders against
the road, and the white crests of dunes gleaming in the sun. All of it
seen before but from another angle, and the backward motion making it
seem new and eerily familiar at the same time. He did not speak, but
watched as they fell back through those landmarks with dry mouths, and
felt the hum and shiver of the road run in reverse till they came
through the glaring heat to places they knew. Farmhouse with the
rotted fence and green hills against the pines, the world he knew
materializing suddenly, snapping into focus the way it can when you
know where you are.
They turned the corner of the drive, the house seeming small, the sun
sloping through a break in the clouds. The engine sputtered to a stop,
and when the car door creaked open she stretched in the shade of the
pines. The air was clean and cool and tasted damp like it would rain
in the afternoon. He felt his lungs empty. There is never anything
like coming home.
He drank a glass of water, and put his tackle in the car.
"Be home tonight," he said, feeling the dust of Sonora as he pushed
his fingers through his hair. Her face still as he kissed it, and
still again as she waved from the drive, and he thought of the rhinos
sleeping far to the west in the hot shade of the afternoon.
Flowers tremble beneath the starlight. You remember how it was; dark
against dark, the still, shallow curves finding each other in the
night, the petals black and damp. You felt it then, in the turning of
limbs, in the quickening pulp of the heart. Don't feel love or the
slipping burning purity of any true thing. Do you still taste that
air, that fertile decay, bleeding its strange musk through the tram.
The heat of it gone like milky bowls of rice wine, or the skin taste
of salt, blossoms of apricot in moonlight. He watched the twin yellow
curves vanish beyond the headlamps and lose their color, the red of
the stones faded to nothing. The steep mountain roads darkened and
cool.
A haze of moon glowed through the thinning clouds, and he felt the
crisp fragrant darkness wrapped around him. It was comforting somehow,
the blackness, and the dreary silent rain that fell like sparks past
the streetlamps. He walked up the street in the cold gentle wind, and
the trees whispering with wet branches, and he could see the lights in
his house. He remembered he left his pole and tackle in the car, but
felt too tired to turn back. He opened the door, and felt a stirring
queasiness in his stomach. The lights were dim inside, but it was
pleasant and warm. He saw her, and felt suddenly weak, and hollow. Her
eyes had become heavy with sleep, and she stretched lazily on the
couch. He came closer, towards the fire, and felt its warm crackling
breath. She shifted silently on the fat white cushions, and curled
like a cat in the fire's flickering glow. The rain had stopped, and
droplets slid off the roof and past the window to the damp and curving
ground. He smelled the rain through the cracked window, and saw the
luminescent beads of dew that collected on the screen. He slid his
cold white hands underneath her, and lifted her gently into his arms.
She grumbled, half awake, but was soon relaxed and soft. She breathed
slowly as he carried her back towards the dark of their bedroom.
He couldn't see the clock, but it seemed he'd been lying awake for
hours. He wasn't particularly comfortable anymore, but didn't dare to
disturb her. He just kept looking at her, and secretly apologizing. He
told her silently I love you, I love you, again and again. He meant it
too. He stroked her hair, and in his heart thought of all the things
he could say to make things right. This was the only time when
everything seemed right, when she was sleeping against him. They
didn't fight or speak, they only loved each other silently. He closed
his eyes, and ran his fingers through her hair, and she kept her eyes
closed and pretended to be asleep.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Thunder on a Clear Day
Eric Prochaska
For a moment, the sky showers thunder and I can't hear him breathing.
No heartbeat. Only the slight swelling of his chest, which lifts the
weight of my reposing head, lets me know he is still here, alive, with
me. The sky above is clear. Mechanical thunder from a jet, which I see
miles distant from its sound, lows through these skies often.
Supersonic: like a teenage summer love affair. Then the beating
resumes. Distant, but not like the jet. More muffled, as if hidden
beneath avalanches of barriers, trying to let someone know it is
there. The beating is quick, almost frantic. It's always like that,
even when he sleeps -- especially when he sleeps. Becoming desperate
in dreams, anxious in nightmares, I don't know. Maybe when he sleeps
his heart senses that somewhere in that inconceivable pile of
barricades there is a weakness, a path, and it clamors all the more
vigorously for freedom.
Do I only imagine that his hair, his skin, still exude that faint odor
of burnt motor oil, even on his day off? Waiting for him to wake, I
reach over lazily and put the Tupperware lid back on the container of
potato salad. So odd, that salad. Though I've always detested celery
in my otherwise smooth potato salad -- the way my mother always made
it -- as I made that batch I found myself slicing up the celery. Even
as I was slicing it I thought that I didn't really want it in my
salad, but I tipped the cutting board over the mixing bowl and pushed
it in with the flat side of the knife, all the same.
The residue of the watermelon like Velcro between my fingers annoys me
steadily, but I can't reach the cooler to dip my fingers in the
melt-water. So I just close my eyes against the steady sun and wrap my
arm toward his head, toward the hair I would run my fingers through,
if they were not so sticky -- if I didn't fear waking him.
__________
Shuddering abruptly, he awakes, forcing me sit up suddenly. It's
nearly three in the afternoon on another Sunday, and although I am not
working, I do not feel relaxed. I love his company, I guess, but
sometimes I resent not being able to just be alone with me. He sits
up, stretches a little, cracks his neck (I hate that sound), then
reaches into the cooler for a beer. The can makes that crisp breaking
sound when he opens it. He puts the can to his lips for a second, then
pulls it away with a look of disgust and spits yellow liquid onto the
grass, hitting the blanket we're on, too. "Warm!" he says, not yet to
me, but to the surrounding animals, people, and trees which certainly
have been awaiting his report. He tilts the can and impatiently pours
the beer into the grass, watching with a scourging glare, as if he
were punishing peasants for insolence. "Let's go get something cold to
drink," he says, for the first time acknowledging my presence, though
his eyes still haven't met mine. He gets up and heads to the car.
Shaking off the grass and bugs and crumbs with a few quick snaps, I
haphazardly bundle up the blanket, grab the cooler, and catch up with
him. He's always like this when he wakes up.
__________
He has more than one "something cold to drink." It is around seven and
he's not himself again. Or maybe this is his true self, and the sober
guy is an alias. Anyway, the beer has gotten to him, so we end up at
my place. With the curtains drawn, it's somewhat dark inside, so the
blinking red eye on the answering machine is prominent. As he heads
through the bedroom toward the bathroom I set the cooler just inside
the kitchen doorway, with the blanket on top, then kneel beside the
telephone table and press the "Play" button on the machine. The first
is just a wrong number, so I fast forward through the annoying tone.
As soon as the second starts, even before I hear the voice, I hear the
same wetting of lips that I always hear at the beginning of her
messages. So my finger skims across to the "Stop" button. Mother. I
don't need this now.
He's got sleep on his mind, but the last time his mind made a decision
for him was before puberty. He seems to think he has to give me the
lay-of-my-life every time we're alone. His front of super-confidence
is just a coating to waterproof his weaknesses, I know. There I go
again, pretending I can guess his psyche. Might as well guess people's
weight and age while I'm at it, and at least I could charge a buck for
the novelty.
So in his stupor he gets his pants off, but leaves his shirt and socks
on, and fucks me with his eyes open only enough to know it's still
light out. I can't say it's my favorite part of spending time with
him, but there's no sense in trying to stop him. That'd only spark an
argument about whether or not I like having sex with him, which I
usually do. Men are so fragile.
Before he passes out in sweaty exhaustion and relief, he moans
something about a perfect weekend. Maybe for him. Personally, I could
still use that dose of peace that's been on back-order. I swing my
legs over and get out of bed, covering him to the waist with the
sheet. How is it that he can't get himself undressed, but all of my
clothes are flung to the remote corners of the room? I take a white
button-down from its hanger in the open closet and I fasten the bottom
two buttons as I pick up my panties with the toe of one foot.
His mysteries seem so near the surface when he sleeps. His eyes become
gentle, forsaking the piercing glare always found there when he's
awake. His brow relaxes, and everything seems calm, inviting, tender.
. . vulnerable. I feel I could reach in and encounter that beating
something that so desperately wants out. Or extract one by one those
blockades, barriers, and battlements that permeate him. But I know
better. I only suppose I know what I'd find, but can't be certain.
It's only my fantasy. He's not mine to manipulate, anyway. Just a man.
Just a good time. Just someone who will leave, not because of me,
he'll say (although I know better), but "because of his job." Someone
who wants to be a lover, but not in love. Who wants to know my
everything, but does not know the meaning of "share." Who wants to
know my everything not because he cares, but because he supposes that
I want to tell him, and he wishes to humor my desires as long as
possible. Without remembering my favorite flavor of ice cream, or my
hometown, or why exactly I dropped out of college. Without caring who
the last man was, or when I plan to settle down, or why I cry when
that certain song is played. But asks me all the same, as if I had
some need to expose my soul to him before sleeping with him. As if I
needed to feel pain before pleasure, which, if it ever is pleasure, is
only fleeting, soon to be replaced by the longing that it truly is: no
more than a contribution to the scar tissue on my heart. Confusing me
me into thinking that he's sincere, that he's the first one who won't
leave. But leaving me with a lump in my throat some morning until he's
driven out of sight and I can cry like I need to. That's what I really
need to do: cry. Cry for all the bridges I've burned, always on
accident, so young in my life, and the mistakes I feel can never be
erased. Cry because he's just a man, but he seems so childlike, and I
want to help him, hold him more than anything else, and comfort him
and tell him it's all right, but I know I can't. Because he's just a
man.
I pull the door until it starts to get tight in the jam, then leave it
ajar that much so the noise of shutting it completely doesn't bother
him. If I wake him, there goes my quiet time alone. Stiff,
once-upon-a-time shag carpet now resists my bare feet more like a
cross-stitch piece which weathered a hurricane. Flat, matted patches
here and there among the overgrowth of wild yarn. Could it ever have
been plush, or anything less than abrasive? Rentals. Layers of other
people's paint; cheap carpet the landlord found at a garage sale
fifteen years ago; windows that don't open right or close securely
because of those generations of paint; smudges on the plastic frames
around the light switches and outlet plates -- some of which are white
and some beige; dust along the top of the baseboards, which are
typically the same color as the walls -- often white -- like they were
being weather-proofed or preserved together, and which further
foreground the dust because it's the only seam along the smooth scar
of accumulated paint from floor to rain-leak-stained ceiling.
I don't risk turning on the TV and waking him, but just put in a CD
and play it low. The answering machine's red numeral and blinking eye
plead for my attention as I pass, panties still in-hand, to the
kitchen. Sorry, but you just want to ruin my peace. No matter how
harmoniously I strive to accompany Annie Lennox, anyone within earshot
can only hear a timid woman with bare feet flat against the
non-acoustic grit of Linoleum in a kitchen with cupboard hardware too
rickety to pose as a sound booth. As the water heats up in the
microwave, I put on my panties and sit at the table, legs drawn up
from the cool floor. Tilting my head back, I capture the proper angle
and see in the rain-stain over my table the scene of a horse galloping
up a cloud of dust. When the microwave bell rings, I wish I'd stopped
it prematurely, just so as not to risk waking him. He'll be asleep
most of the evening, and then won't able to sleep tonight, but that'll
be his own fault. He'll whine about being too tired for work in the
morning, but I'll have slept right through the old war movie he'll
find on some cable channel, and I'll go to work fifteen minutes early
and won't have to hear about it.
Walking tenderly on the brown and gold pine needle carpet's worn path
back into the living room, I smoothly stir the spinning island of
cocoa under the water's surface. I could drink hot cocoa on an
Indonesian beach in August. It's relaxation in a mug, for me. But a
hot mug. So I set it on the glass-topped table between the rocker and
the rattan catalog-ordered couch that I hate. It looked so cozy -- and
was an affordable way to help fill up the living room -- but when you
sit in it, you're cast back so you can hardly get out of its
cup-shaped cushion. You have to really be planning on staying there
awhile to make it worth the effort of getting back up. The
dully-dust-coated magazine covers glance at me from their plastic
cubicles -- those milk-crate style, stackable ones -- but fail to grab
my attention.
Pulling the curtains open I see the breeze has picked up and is
buffeting the high wildflowers across the road. The walls pale to a
shadow of white as the sun falls behind a cloud. Even when the sun
reappears, the room stays somewhat dim because the sun is over the
trees now. The day is winding down. Through the sheers I watch the
neighbor's cat hop up on my car's hood to sunbathe. If I had clothes
on, I might open the door and scare it away. Then a couple walks by on
the sidewalk, looks toward the house, and I wonder if the man, whose
glance lingers, can see my breasts from there. Still, I don't button
up the shirt. Let them look. What would you say to that, Mother?
That's why you called, right? To remind me to straighten out my life?
Well maybe someone should remind you that it's my life.
Without purpose, I ease into the rocker. The sheepskin cover is matted
on the seat, but still softer than the carpet, and warmer than the
sleeping air around me. The kitchen clock's tapping both defines and
overpowers the taciturn ambience between songs. Lackluster. That
framed print has got to go the next time I move. I'm sure I thought it
looked fine before, but now its drabness (in fact, it's even cornily
drab, like a parody of dullness) dominates the wall, which would be
more interesting with only the nail's own shadow hanging in lieu of
the picture.
Jesus, it's exhausting trying not to look at that damned little red
light. Come, come, come, come, come, come, come, its patient mantra
repeats like blown kisses. No, no, no, no, no, I think, picking up the
cocoa, giving it a last swirl and hugging it near my neck to feel its
warmth.
On top of the stacked milk-crate shelves lies a letter, collecting
dust since Thursday. If I don't read it another will come, and when I
don't read that one either Mom will call to see if I received them.
She'll give me the same lecture over the phone as in the letter. So I
know that reading it and writing back would be the easiest way, but
maybe if I ignore it long enough the words will become bored and
entertain themselves by re-arranging into sentiments that wouldn't
offend or agitate me. They'd talk about the weather, and the Senate
race, and the new sit-com on Tuesdays. But nothing about me. No
pointed, wiggling fingers, cataloging whatever might be wrong with my
life and the way I live it. Let's face it: such neutral words will not
likely come from her pen. Not until I've been canonized will the words
be benign. In the meantime, all is malicious.
She doesn't even know about him. But she's seen them come and go and
can guess. But I'm twenty-six years old, damn it, and I have a right
to have sex. What would you say to that, Mother? Would you lecture me
on the benefits of chastity?
No. I suppose not. That's not your style.
So what? Should I write you back? That'd be easier than calling you.
But calling would get it over with sooner. I could just pick up the
phone right now, dial you up and say, "Hey, Mom, what's your problem?
Why do you think there's something wrong with my life? Because I don't
go to church anymore? Because I dropped out of college? Because I'm
having sex? Come on. What disappoints you the most about my life?"
And what would she say? Would she critique every mistake I've made
over the last few years? No, she'd be reserved. "Honey," she might
say, "we all make decisions we regret."
"But they were my decisions," I'd say. "It's none of your business.
Why do you think I'm not happy? I have a nice place here." She'd never
know it's only half true: she's never been to visit. "I have a good
job at the trucking company. Not every college drop-out -- or
graduate, for that matter -- becomes the assistant director of public
relations for a national trucking company in only two and a half
years."
And she'd say . . . well, she wouldn't cut me down. She never tried to
cut me down. She'd say something like, "I know that, Dear. I've been
hoping for the opportunity to tell you how well you've done."
Then I'd want to tell her she could have just called anytime, but she
knows as well as I do that it's me who won't return her calls. So I'll
drop that one.
"Is it college, then? Are you disappointed that I dropped out? Is that
it? Well it wasn't a total waste, you know. I can go back anytime I
want to and finish. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I
might take some night classes," I'd say.
Still, she'd be understanding. "That sounds like a good opportunity
for you, Dear," she might say.
"So," I'd say, "are you upset about my personal life? I know you wish
I'd get married, but I'm just not ready. So maybe the guys I date
aren't husband material, but someday I'll change and the right kind of
guy will come along. But why can't you accept that? Is it the church?
Is it all that chastity bull that the Bible goes on about? Well,
that's your god talking, Mother."
"My god?" she'd clarify, and I'd know I had her. "Honey, God is the
same. For all eternity. He doesn't just go through phases like us."
And I'd be ready for her. "That's not true," I'd say, calmly. I'd want
to frustrate and flabbergast her with this one. "God's changing all
the time. A few hundred years ago, women couldn't be ministers, but
now they can be."
"Honey," she'd say, too patiently for me to believe she was just
trying to keep her temper -- so much it would make me want to chew the
phone cord in half, "that's not God changing. That's people's minds.
Yes, women can be ordained now, but skirt lengths have also changed in
my lifetime. And even though our society has, for the most part,
evolved into acceptance of these new ideas, that doesn't mean anything
in relation to the immutability of God. Next year skirt lengths will
probably change again. And the death sentence and abortion and drugs
and the purpose of education will be hotly debated until after I die,
too. But even if everyone suddenly agrees and the debate ends, it
doesn't mean the solution was right or wrong -- not on any universal
level. It just means we've reached consensus. And consensus is not
Truth: it's merely justification."
And then I'd hang up. In my mind, at least. She always has to be
right. And using words like "immutable." She'd change this into a
religious discussion when it's really just about me living my life.
__________
Drinking the cooling, last thick bit of cocoa, I take the mug to the
kitchen and place it gingerly in the sink. As I return to the rocker,
I pick up the phone and pull the slack cord from around behind the
table, resting the phone in my lap, then closing my eyes to the music.
One of those planes goes over and until the jet is ten miles away the
only sound is the bombardment of waves of nothing against the ground
-- like intentions tumbling and smashing from hopeless heights. I've
missed part of my favorite song, but it doesn't matter: I have the
feeling I'll be sitting here long enough to hear it come around again.
I don't want to be in there, with him, not now. I don't want to go
anywhere, do anything. Just sit and think about nothing, not even
memories, and let things fall into place invisibly while I'm totally
unawares. It takes doing that every now and then to keep going.
The sounds of him getting up, then a groan as he goes to the bathroom
without shutting the door because he never shuts the door. I crane my
neck and see him emerge from the bathroom in only his t-shirt now,
pausing long enough to put some underwear on and open the window for
the cool breeze before going back to bed. He'll be out all night.
Of course she'll call back. Leaving a message on a machine wouldn't
satisfy her, and it doesn't tell her what I'm thinking. So go ahead
and ring. I have some wisdom for you, too, Mom. You see, no one has
what they want now. You have to be patient, because good things come
to those who wait.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Tower 147
D.G. Harris
Murray picked up a bottle of Knob Creek. He sat it back down on the
dusty wooden table. He had on a heavy fur lined down jacket, and still
the cold got in. Rob unscrewed the cap and took down a healthy glug.
"Damn, that's good."
"There's another, and a case of beer," said Murray. "Been saving the
whiskey for something special, but I figure that ain't no more special
occasion than tonight."
Rob winced slightly on the words. He had another hit. He stared out
through the tower screen, out over the endless vista of cold green
sunset Oregon forest way out to the distant cascades.
"How long you been a smoke spotter?" asked Rob.
Murray kicked his feet up on the edge of the table. He scratched at
his beard. "Oh, let's see now, this is my 9th season working for the
park service. Worked for the BLM in Idaho a few years before that.
Only job I ever heard of where you can sit around and get stoned. If
you can handle not seeing hardly another human being outside of the
general store over in Ashland for months on end. It's a pretty fair
deal."
"I done this for 3 seasons myself and I don't mind them putting 2
people to a tower now one bit. Gets boring staring out at that sea uh
wood all day long. Nice to be able to share the load with someone
else."
"Seems stupid to me," said Murray. " I done called in about 30 fires
in my 9 seasons. The way I figure it, you don't have to be looking out
hardly at all. Seems to me once you been doing it a while that you
just get the feeling. You could be taking a piss over the tower edge
facing the wrong way and you'd just know there was something sneaking
up from the other direction. You'd feel it. You could be asleep. You
could be stoned into a coma and you'd know."
"Maybe I just ain't done it long enough," said Rob.
"Yeah, maybe so."
Rob checked his watch. "It's a quarter to 7. Sun will be heading down
soon. You think we'll see it when it happens?"
Murray sighed. "We'll see it." He stood and stepped to the downstairs
ladder. When he returned he had more beer. "Let's see how many of
these we can kill before it happens."
Rob didn't say anything. He popped a beer and took it all down. Murray
did the same. Dozens of moments passed in silence.
"You think it'll hurt?" asked Rob quiet.
"Too quick. Don't think it will a bit."
"You gotten hold of anybody on the Ham?"
"Not since yesterday morning," said Murray. "But the last regular a.m.
broadcast said it be up our way about 7 tonight. A few minutes till.
That was yesterday morning too. Ain't been nothing but static over the
ham or the radio since then."
Rob closed his eyes but aimed them at the ceiling. "They're all gone,
ain't they?"
"Yep," replied Murray. Like a sigh. Like a leaf fallen down slow from
somewhere way high.
"Who woulda thought," began Rob. "Who woulda thought."
Murray lit up 2 smokes. Handed one to Rob. "Man fucks around," said
Murray. "Makes things that even nature can't. Man's always fucking
around."
Rob picked up a pair and poured both into him. Murray drank the beer
slow, but finished off the good stuff quicker.
Robs head began to float. "I ain't gonna look."
"You wont have to. You'll know anyway."
"It's coming up on 7."
"Yep."
Rob picked up and quickly drank down half the 2nd bottle of the Creek.
He immediately puked all over the floor.
"Man, you got to slow down."
"Ain't no time to slow down."
Murray watched smoke rings blur up and around the lone bulb hung from
the ceiling. A rush of wind breathed through the far off forest. He
sat up."It's here."
Rob stiffened. His eyes burst wide. "What? How do you know?"
"It's like a clear fire. Like invisible smoke. And it's moving in
fast. Real fast."
Rob looked out. He looked at his hands. He looked at his boots. "I
can't see it. Don't want to see it."
Murray finished off the 2nd bottle of sweet brown. "I like drinking,"
he said. "Always liked being alone. Don't dig people all that much.
But Rob, I'm glad you're here."
Now, Rob could hear it. Now he could know it. He tried to light a
smoke trembling fiercely.
"Here, let me," offered Murray.
The forest began to bend. The trees began to be skeletons. They began
to be dust. They were dust.
Ferns in the understory withered and blew apart. A slight fog came in,
between the trees and everything.
"Here it comes," said Murray. "Just like a fire.
Rob stood and stood at the opposite tower screen, facing away.
Murray was watching. "Look at that baby come. Saw a fire move once
like this. Only once. Had this storm of summer wind to push it.."
The moss hanging on the eaves began to wither and break up. Rob heard
a gurgling sound behind him. A bottle crashed to the floor. He winced.
He just didn't want it to hurt.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
About the Authors
Amanda Auchter currently works as an editorial assistant at the Gulf
Coast literary magazine. She is completing a degree in creative
writing from the University of Houston.
Her writing credits include poetry and short stories in Benchmark,
Carillon Magazine, Coffee Press Journal, The Moriarty Papers, Rearview
Quarterly, Red Booth Review, Shadow Voices, Southern Ocean Review, The
Wolf Head Quarterly, Wilmington Blues, Write On!!, and others. She has
also published with Sun Poetic Times, who selected lines from her poem
.Omniscience. to appear in the 2003 Poets Market. She has published a
novel, Burning Sins to Ashes (2000, Writer's Club Press) and has won
several awards for journalism and personal writing, and was a 2001
Helios featured poet. At present, she is at work on a second novel.
Keith Felberg was born in Kodiak, Alaska in 1976. His father was a
Bush-Pilot and a Game Warden, his mother a teacher. More recently he
has spent time in the South-West, Europe, and Asia. Currently writes
music for his band projectmajestic.com, and teaches English.
Enjoys Travel, Music, and Binge Drinking.
Elise Geither has had poems published in The Mill, Slant, The Artful
Dodge, Whiskey Island, and The Blue Review, among others. Her short
plays, "Zephyr House" and "The Poet's Box" were produced in 2001.
"Zephyr House" was a finalist and placed at Lamia Ink! in NYC. Her
experimental play "The Angel - A Poetic Interview" received a staged
reading at Cabaret Dada's Black Box Theatre in Cleveland. In November
2002, Elise traveled to Fuling, China, to complete the adoption of her
daughter, Chloe. Elise continues to write and teaches at
Baldwin-Wallace College. "Inspiration is in the poets around us."
jj goss resides with her husband in central Massachusetts. Her work
has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Happy, The New
England Writers Journal, Net Authors E2K, Babel, Branches Quarterly,
Amarillo Bay, Lummox, 52%, Copious Lightening Bell, Writer's Monthly,
Poetry Superhighway, Entropic Desires, Red Booth Review, Sometimes
City, Seeker, Kimera, Eclectica, Blindman.s Rainbow, Unlikely Stories
and Slow Trains. Her short story, "Missing a Beat," was nominated for
a 2001 Pushcart Prize.
D.G. Harris writes in bars and has been doing it for the last couple
of years. He's gotten a few hundred works knocked out in late night,
smoke laden rooms. In his words, "It really is the only way." He was
born and raised in So. Cal., and he's just hoping to stay alive or at
least keep off the streets long enough to make a little cash. "It's a
tough profession in a tough world. But it's the only one to be in. In
the mean time I'll light up a smoke, have another beer, and see if I
can get this damn pen to put out one more."
Dean Kostos is the author of the collection The Sentence that Ends
with a Comma and the chapbook Celestial Rust. He co-edited the
anthology Mama's Boy: Gay Men Write about Their Mothers, a Lambda Book
Award finalist. His poems have appeared in Boulevard, Chelsea,
Rattapallax, Southwest Review, Barrow Street, Poetry New York, Oprah
Winfrey's Web site Oxygen, Blood and Tears (anthology) and elsewhere.
His translations from the Modern Greek have appeared in Talisman and
Barrow Street, his reviews in American Book Review, Bay Windows and
elsewhere. "Box-Triptych," his choreo-poem, was staged at La Mama. He
has taught poetry writing at Pratt University, Gotham Writers'
Workshop, Teachers & Writers Collaborative and The Great Lakes
Colleges Association.
Kelly Ann Malone is the mother of three active boys. She also has a
wonderful husband and a full time job as a Project Analyst in a Cancer
Research Department in the health care industry. She has been writing
since she was around twelve years old. Her poetic influences are Ogden
Nash, Dorothy Parker and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Some of her
published credits include York University's School of Women's Studies
Journal, Cappers Magazine, The Rearview Quarterly, The Penwood Review,
The Wesleyan Advocate Magazine, Free-Verse Magazine, The Street Corner
magazine, Promise Magazine, Poems Niederngasse.com and Pulsar Ligden
Poetry Society.
Elisha Porat, the 1996 winner of Israel's Prime Minister's Prize for
Literature, has published 17 volumes of fiction and poetry in Hebrew
since 1973. His works have appeared in translation in Israel, the
United States, Canada and England. The English translation of his
short story collection The Messiah of LaGuardia, was released in 1997.
His latest work, a book of Hebrew poetry, The Dinosaurs of the
Language, was recently published in Israel.
Eric Prochaska teaches English in South Korea. "Thunder on a Clear
Day" (Volume 10, Issue 1) is part of a collection started several
years ago and recently completed. Aside from The Morpo Review, Eric's
short stories have appeared in such places as InterText, Eclectica,
Wilmington Blues, Fictive, Comrades, ReadTheWest, The Sidewalk's End,
Palimpsest, Dakota House Journal, The Tumbleweed Review, The Woolly
Mammoth, Split Shot, and Moondance.
Durlabh Singh is a poet based in London, England and has been
published widely in anthologies, magazines and in e/media.
He has four books of verse published, the latest being CHROME RED
(ISBN 1898030464) His aim is to revitalize English poetry with new
expressions.
+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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