pressboardpress magazine no. 1
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PressBoardPress Magazine No. 1TRANSCRIPT
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volume 1, no. 1 summer 2012
Joshua McGuffie
Matthew Carroll
Keith Buckley
Kim Farleigh
Michael Basinski & Ginny O’Brien
Peri Enroscado
J.D.A. Winslow
Edric Mesmer
Zara Cassidy-Coss
John Swain
B.J. Jones
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BUFFALO, NEW YORK 14214pressboardpress.com
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Anne Highley-Smith, Letson Williams, Michael Koh, Patrick Riedy
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Michael Koh, Anne Highley-Smith
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Letson Williams, The Poetry Collection of the Univeristy Libraries, University at Buffalo Cura-tor Michael Basinski and Assistant Curator James Maynard, Karen MacCormack, Steve McCaffrey, Myung-Mi Kim, Nicole Manzo, The Lockwood Memorial Library.
PressBoardPress is published quarterly in Western New York. Vol. 1, No. 1, Summer 2012. Please e-mail [email protected] for questions or comments. PressBoardPress welcomes the submission of unsolicited content and requires submissions to be sent through Submishmash™ on the PressBoardPress website which can be reached at pressboardpress.com. Please visit the website for more information.
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MICHAEL KOH
1
Joshua McGuffie
Matthew Carroll
Keith Buckley
Kim Farleigh
Michael Basinski & Ginny O’Brien
Peri Enroscado
J.D.A. Winslow
Edric Mesmer
Zara Cassidy-Coss
John Swain
B.J. Jones
Last Night
Paralysis and the Spirits
Untitled Poem About You
The Kitty of Poetry: A Catoon
Two Poems
Mid-morning Flight
Two Poems
Two Poems
from An Alphabet for Jeff Vincent
A Thin Line
He Was Awarded No Medals
fiction
poetry
poetry
poetry
fiction
poetry
poetry
fiction
poetry
poetry
poetry
11
40
39
36
33
31
26
20
19
16
42
Contributors 45
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FICTION
Joshua McGuffieLast Night
The world is filled with mundanely bad people. Shouldn’t we have stories about them?
Cass felt like shit when she woke up. Her head throbbed from all the beer the night before. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray—an old ashtray. And she was cold. Somehow she’d ended up in just her un-derwear under the sheets. A quick glance around the room betrayed the disorderly heaps that her other clothes had become when she staggered into bed earlier that morning.
A cry. The baby was up. She’d not even noticed that Andy was out of bed. That was part of why she felt so cold. Both in her skin and in her gut. She’d cheated on him the last night. Or rather the early hours of this morning. The beer and shots vaulted her over the line she’d only ever mused about before. And she felt cold and dirty and lost. She didn’t even know the guy’s name. He was younger than she. Mid-twenties, a big belt buckle, boots, a white hat.
Could she have fallen for a worse stereotype?
He offered her a cigarette when he walked up beside her at the bar. Already primed, she gladly accepted. She wasn’t a smoker but when she was out with the girls it seemed a little latitude was warranted. He handed her the stogie and held her hand a little too long as she took it. Then, as she put it between her lips he leaned in with the lighter. Flick went his fingers and magically, fire appeared before her face. He leaned in closer. She moved toward him. The
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brim of his hat brushed her forehead. She took a deep breath in. The glow at the end of the smoke sealed her fate.
She stayed close to him for the rest of the night, letting his hand rest on her back as she kissed her two girlfriends goodbye. They lined up shots. She listened to his stories. The more she drank, the steadier his hands became. The softer his square jaw became.
When it came time for her to get up from her barstool, she nearly lunged floor-ward. Her legs were no good to her. He caught her, spreading his hand over her stomach, a retaining wall to hold back the flood of drink she’d imbibed. The bar lights blurred as they staggered out. To his car—an old Firebird. She couldn’t tell if it was rusted out or had a custom paint job. The seats smelled of thirty years of smoke. He put his hand on her thigh. He lived just down the street. Did she want to come home? “I’ll come any-where,” she said, half laughing, half lisping. His hand moved up her thigh.
As she lay in bed, she tried to convince herself that she was too drunk to know what she had been doing. But that was a lie. She had wanted his hand to move up her thigh. She shuddered in antici-pation.
They got to his apartment. He jumped out, nearly falling. He flung himself up on the hood, only making it halfway across before tum-bling over. She laughed. He collected himself and hopped down, opening her door and lifting her out of her seat. He must work for a living—his body was hard. Not like Andy’s. He sat in a chair in front of a computer for a living. Through the front door, they didn’t even bother stopping in the tiny and poorly appointed living room. She fell on her back on his bed. He stood before her. Hoist-ing herself up, she unbuttoned his jeans. They fell to the ground. She hiked her skirt up around her waist. He leaned in to take off her underwear. She lay there while they fucked, wrapping her legs around his. It was a lie to say she didn’t enjoy it. The daze of the beer, the taste of the cigarettes, the pulse of a younger man, it all
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made her feel like she was in college again. Not like a new mother who had only managed to have the same cliché suburban problems that every other 33-year-old English major with a newborn and a successful husband had.
The cowboy had fallen asleep pretty quickly after they’d finished. She staggered up to call a cab and then gather her clothes up. Get-ting home was a blur.
Her head still throbbed. Andy walked in. He must have put the baby in her basinet. Without saying anything, he opened up the doors that looked out on the beach. Their dream home. The breeze was nice on her head. She squirmed under the sheets. He planted himself on the bed beside her, reaching around her waist with his hand. She recoiled but caught herself.
“Good morning,” Andy said.“Morning.” She yawned and pressed her hands to her forehead. “You got in late. Long night with the girls?”“Too long,” she said, “is there any coffee?”“I’ll get some.”“Good—er—thanks.”
He walked out on his errand. She shivered in disgust. How could she? What would she do? His footsteps were light on the floor; he must have been wearing socks. How many times had he fucked her with his socks on? Looking so adorable in his mismatched white socks.
“Drink up, it’ll make you feel better.” He lowered the mug down into her hand. She had to sit up. “How’s the baby?” she asked.“She’s fine, hungry this morning. I gave her a bottle.”“Thanks.”“How about I go get her dressed and we go for a walk on the beach? It’s warm enough for her.”“I don’t know if I can.”
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“Sure you can, look at how gorgeous it is.”“I need aspirin.”“I’ll bring you some.”
Off he went again. She sucked down the hot coffee, washing her mouth of the stale cigarettes and replacing them with bitter black brew. She got up and staggered toward the bathroom. Inside, she slid down her underwear and planted herself on the toilet, slumped against the glass of the shower wall. Her panties would have to go right into the wash. She leaned forward and snatched them up. Standing up, the breeze pressed against every part of her naked body. Back into the bedroom, she ditched her undies in the hamper and wandered over to her dresser.
Andy walked in. “Come on, let’s go.” he said.
She had no discrete thoughts while she dressed herself. She could see her husband putting their baby in the backpack in the mirror while she slid new panties on: the blue thong Andy liked so much. She put on her jeans and a thick sweater with no bra. Clothes on, she shut the French doors and immediately missed the breeze. Her head still ached. She closed her eyes and nearly vomited, not be-cause she felt ill but because her cowboy was painted on the inside of her eyelids.
“Are you alright?” she heard from the other room.“Of course dear. I’m coming,” she replied.
A quick kiss on the baby’s cheek and she staggered out the side door in front of Andy; out toward the beach.
The sand felt good on her bare feet. Just warm enough. A soft mas-sage with every step.
Cass walked about a pace ahead of her husband and her child. The wind came from behind them, carrying soft white clouds. Not the
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kind that could take on shapes if you lay on your back and stared long enough at them. These were all uniform dollops of floating white cream. A great confectioner’s armada in the sky, lazily coast-ing across the horizon.
These clouds were part of the nostalgia she longed for when they bought the house. Taking her first truly deep breath of the day, she closed her eyes again but instead of her thrusting cowboy, she saw her grandfather, walking her along the beach—Cass in the yel-low sundress her mum had gotten her for her sixth birthday. He’d insisted on holding her hand when they went for walks, so she was never allowed to run to grab a shell or piece of glass.
Her hand was open and cool now.
Allowing the morning sun to flood back into her open eyes, she was confronted by the cloud army again. So purposeful but so mellow—like a hovering, volition-less school of fish.
She stared upwards.
“I cheated on you last night,” she confessed.“I could smell it on you this morning,” Andy said.“A guy at the bar, I was drunk.”“What the fuck does that have to do with it?”“’I still love you.”“No you don’t.”“How can you say that?”“How could I not?”
Neither of them raised their voices. Though the beach was empty, it was poor decorum to fight in public. They both knew better than that. At least she felt better. Silence set in between the two of them, the wind carrying their conversation wordlessly up amongst the clouds.
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I like the facesyou makethe sounds and whispers that coil and snake from somewhere within,shakefrom another you.Then, when awake I can watch with my own eyes as weasphyxiate ourselves in a cocoon ofplatonic prophylactic plastic wrap.Keep down the upchuck,swallow the bile along withquestions I don’t dare to ask.I’ll stay thesick lickle kid with a cyclical wit,go home,sit down,sleep on it.bother and prod and poke,like that corpse I found by the damour conversations are bloated and cold.Approach every moment with somniferous intentNever refuse,always relent.Find solace in dreams,
POETRY
Matthew CarrollTwo Poems
TUESDAY MORNING
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a place darkness teems,where we can be shadows together.
YOU’RE A LUCKY MAN, YOU KNOW THAT
As a childyo-yo tricks theyall escaped me,now I all I can do iswalk the dog,rock the baby.Tell the kidsslow down,don’t hurt yourself.It’s not this townor the charcoal brown youpicked for the living room.Don’t hurt yourself.
The new girl at Whole Foodsknows mejust as well as youdo.
Restlessness.The seven year itch became a scab became an abscess.Every day the same dream: ocean calling for me to mutely follow, My body falling and being absolutely swallowed, The warm embrace of darkness chaste but the best part is when I - “But it’s only 8:30 And I’m not even tired!”I’m only 40 andI’ve long since expired.The pen nib is all dried up
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and I’m afraidmy blood could scarcely fill a cup.
You bought the wrong toilet paper again and I’m still supposed to love you.I entertain your ugly friendsand thoughts of hastening my end.Everyone will carewhen they find my body bare,but until then I’ll stack the dishes,shelve the glory.Darling can’t sleepwithout her bedtime story.
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POETRY
Keith BuckleyHe Was Awarded No Medals
He was awarded no medalsfor he served none but himselfbut this is not to saythat he died undecorated.For his distinguished worry, brave hatred and unflinching sleep-A crown of silver hair placed upon his head. For his fearless despondency in the face of courageous doom-ornate timelines dug permanently above his eyes.For his poise and stately gracewhile marching inexorably through the goreof a neglected suburban battalion- a prayer beneath the name of his wifeon a laminated cardon a refrigeratorIn a quiet house.And for his dedication to death which lasted 14 glory-less years after she passedhe was granted Death itself.Of all the ornaments we collectthis is the most coveted of allfor when we who have not owned it see itwe cannot argue that those with it must deserve it most.
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The bull waved its horns wildly, less interested in red than its ag-gression indicated that it should have been, charging from knowl-edge, not misplaced belief. The bull’s eyes, moving between cape and man, absorbed more than red.
The bullfighter thrust the cape forwards, a cape asking to be at-tacked; the bull lunged at the man.
The bull’s surprising calculation sent gasps around the arena. An old man said: “His insurance company must be worried.”
A journalist said: “Clever bull.”
“So clever,” his friend replied, “it’s been to school.”
The bullfighter hissed into an assistant’s ear: “If I survive, my next victim will have two legs instead of four.”
Pride made the bullfighter fight, surrender unthinkable. “Come on, bastard,” he screamed. “Charge!”
The charging bull’s head flailed. The man, lifted by a horn, bounced on the bull’s head, as if the bull was playing football, the man landing on his feet, the bull ploughing horns into fallen red.
The bullfighter observed the president’s box, the bull’s breeder
FICTION
Kim FarleighA Thin Line
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besides the president.
Pink capes occupied the bull, bullfighters’ bodies distant from pink, dreams of courageous elegance leaving pragmatic minds.
Give it to him, the old man thought, referring to the bullfighter eye-ing up the breeder.
The breeder lashed into his mobile: “What’s going on?”
“What do mean?” one of his staff replied.
“What do I mean!? Where are you?”
“In the pens.”
“Look at what’s happening in the damn ring.”
The bullfighter draped red over a sword. The crowd’s gossiping surprise enhanced the matador’s salient loneliness.
“Kill it now,” the journalists said, “or else….”
The bullfighter screamed: “Vamos, toro, venga, vamos.”
The bullfighter, placing red near the bull’s eyes, closed down the bull’s field of vision, drawing the bull forward, sweeping the cape over the horns, spinning the bull around, kneeling before the bull’s face and screaming: “Your owner is a bastard!”
The bullfighter dropped the cape, his body defiantly exposed, the bull looking, the bullfighter rising and turning away, sweeping an arm up with smug contentment, the bull indifferent to this self-adoration, its tail swinging haphazardly, without conscious inten-tion, the bull’s back legs moving from one place to another and then back again as his shifting eyes shifted from the bullfighter’s legs to the cape and then back again, the bull’s tail flicking, swing-
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ing, leaping, its eyes shifting, the matador shuffling, his cape going forward, the bull charging, the bull’s head waving, the cape turning away, the bull’s waving head turning, the crowd gasping, not ex-pecting cavalier audacity before such an unexpected threat, the bull turning and turning, the matador touching the bull’s back....
He swept his arm up and walked away; triumphant against the forces he imagined opposed him, the bull watching the matador’s back disappearing away.
“He’s letting us know what he’s got,” the journalists said. “He should be trying to kill it. He’s got heart.”
“The angry, calculating madness of youthful ambition,” his friend said, grinning.
The friend, absorbed by the moral beauty in the bullfighter’s livid temerity, felt an illusion of having escaped from mortal entrap-ment.
Einstein you must die, the matador thought. You’re going to pay for knowing too much.
He hated that “cheating” bull. It symbolised hate towards him. He wanted to carve it up: it represented an attempt to ruin his dreams. He wanted to annihilate “that bastard bull.” Nothing is more in-sulting than insulting a man’s sense of destiny.
Some bastard that breeder knows, he thought, wants me dead. But we’re going to see about that.
The breeder felt the matador’s eyes upon him longer than was nor-mal for comfort. The bullfighter was preparing a revenge banquet. That bull represented obstacles that had blocked the matador’s way. Those obstacles deserved to die. Faces of those who had doubted the bullfighter flooded into his mind. He was going to kill them all with a thrust into a “cheating, bastard” bull.
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Rising onto his toes, the sword above his head, he became a hom-inid insect with a steel proboscis; but the bull wasn’t interested in being told when to die; it charged, the matador having to step away, and when the matador was about to rise on his toes again, the bull charged again, the matador again stepping away, a bull trying to kill before being killed, the young matador learning that bullfighting is more problematic than he’d imagined, the bull fac-ing him, turning its head at the point of receiving the sword, catch-ing the matador on the thigh with a horn, the wincing bullfighter bouncing on his feet with the jolt, the bull, bouncing on its feet, shaking, trying to shake off a sword that wasn’t going to be shaken off, blood shooting from the bull’s mouth with each pump of its heart, the grimacing shouting bullfighter singing into the bull’s face: “Die bastard!”
The bull lunged one last time; the bruised bullfighter scurried away, the bull collapsing nose first in a dead-meat, gravity-plunged fall that left rigid legs horizontal to sand.
The crowd waved white handkerchiefs, demanding that the presi-dent award the bullfighter an ear, the breeder saying: “Give it to him, please.”
The president hung a white handkerchief over the balcony’s fa-cade, the crowd roaring, beating their hands, grateful for having been exhilarated by courage, the bullfighter screaming: “No one’s going to stop me! No one!”
Bullfighters and ring staff separated the bullfighter from the breed-er after the two met in the infirmary.
“I didn’t know!” the breeder shouted, through a cage of arms.
The bullfighter’s eyes resembled violent ivory inlaid with brilliant mahogany.
“Tell that bastard who did it,” the bullfighter screamed, “that no
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one’s going to stop me! No one!”
“I want to know what happened as well,” the breeder said. “Do you think I want to be thrown out of business?”
“It was someone in your family! Someone who wants me dead! You’ve got twenty-four hours to produce a name. Or I talk.”
The bullfighter glared at a wall. His exposed right thigh was ban-daged. He had been lucky. The horn just missed an artery.
“I’ve just spoken to him outside,” his manager said, patting him on the shoulder. “I told him we won’t talk if he guarantees that it doesn’t happen again. He’s as shocked about this as we are.”
The bullfighter said: “Tell him I’ll forget everything if nothing hap-pens again. When I was screaming at the bull, I was screaming at him.”
The breeder spoke to his staff.
“I don’t want to know what happened,” he said, “because it’s never going to happen again—ever. If one of you wants to fight bulls, fine, but keep it out of business. You will ruin your lives if you mix this with business. Okay?”
“Si, si.”
The breeder added: “I’ve done stupid things too. I was no angel myself—when I was young. I did too many stupid things too men-tion. Then I started getting pleasure from not allowing irrational feelings or whims from affecting my judgement. You will, too. Okay?”
Everyone said: “Yes.”
“And,” the breeder added, “never mock another man’s ambitions.
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Never! Have you got that?”
“Si, si.”
That bull had been fought before entering the ring, educated to the point of extreme danger; but they kept quiet.
The breeder admired this discretion. His heart soared on grati-tude’s wings, like a flying cape, when the bullfighter raised his hat to him from a ring’s centre two weeks later after the bullfighter had killed one of the breeder’s courageous bulls that had run perfectly in straight lines, no greater tribute for a breeder than that
“It was like a wound closing up,” the breeder said.
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POETRY
Michael Basinski & Ginny O’BrienThe Kitty of Poetry: A Catoon
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POETRY
Peri EnroscadoUntitled Poem About You
A few years ago I discovered crystal meth and conceptual art. Either one of those things are dangerous, but in combination they have the potential to destroy entire civilizations.I also discovered you {as a beautiful human being}
We’re sitting outside and it’s 12 degrees.You look up and speak to me every now and thenmy feet are cold, whitepale.I’m not listening to you, but I’m thinking about you.Thinking can be dangerousbut not as dangerous as crystal meth, or conceptual art.My hands won’t stop shaking and you’re laughing at me.I want to hit you across the face and throw your drugs away, yelling loud words into your smug face.I’m not really offended, I just like hitting people.Remember that time when I bit you and left teethmarks?Yeah, I remember too.I want you to know that I’ve stopped hurting myselfand I’ve cleaned myself upand maybe one day we can go to the Pancake House togetherbecause it’s open till 3am on weekendswe can laugh about stupid things “That girl with the purple pants has cellulite on her armswow, I’m glad I’m not fatwow, I’m glad I can eat these pancakes and not having to worry about getting fat.”
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You never were tactful.I’m good at making things seem like they never happened.I miss you.Sitting on a soggy couch in a darkened carpark injecting heroin into your forearms and chainsmoking menthol cigarettesI’m sorry your Mother is dead.
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FICTION
J.D.A. WinslowParalysis and the Spirits
I disguise myself by lying on my back and speaking to no-one:
“this one time, when I’d just arrived this guy tried to go down on me but I hadn’t showered for like two weeks”
“oh my god”
“haha oh myfuckingjesus this is amazing”
“but like then I stopped him but then like this other guy walked in”
I try my best not to listen. She has tied the left side of her t-shirt into a knot. Her midriff is flat and undulates as she, still high on life, pumps her forearms back and forth, elbows up and out at 90º, twin inadequate wings, flapping in the wrong dimension. She tran-sitions either down the Z plane and along the Y plane or oscillates in the X plane.
“So right I was in this club, oh my god you actually have to hear this. I was in this club and this guy came up to me and he started dancing with me...”
She is Canadian, I realise. Canadian. Her name is the name of a bird. I will tell god. god has talked before about Canadians.
“...and I was like ok... this is fine I can deal with this and then he was like Hey and I was like Hey and then he was like What’s your
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name and I was like I guess this is ok so I told him...”
Eagle? No. Kite. No. Something smaller, less predatory. Finch? No, but a boy was called that. Or a football player? A football player at school maybe.
“...like not my actual name cos I thought he was kind of weird. Are you ok? haha. I’m sorry she’s out of it. Oh my god right where was I...”
Birds seems like a weird thing to name your child after. Maybe her parents were ornithologists. The floor is wooden. I am trying to make eye contact with her, sometimes. What birds are there in Canada? Lark? No.
“...yeh, so this guy kind of starts coming closer and I’m like you know still dancing but hes like kind of getting weird so I’m look-ing round for my friends and he gets closer, and closer...”
Wandering Albatrosses stay together for 50-60 years. Our feet won’t touch the ground for at least 5 years. I will wait until the end of the story then think about birds. I will wait until the end of the story then return to base. I am descending anyway, all my air is coming out.
“...and then he stuck his hand down the front of my jeans. I know. oh my god. I know, but right I...”
“this is the worst bit”
“...haha oh my god I thought you were asleep, but yeh I was like kind of on my period so he put his hand down and then he brought it out and it was like covered in blood and then he was like oh my god you’re disgusting...”
“haha, oh my god, hahahah”
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“hahahahfuckhajesusfuckinghellhaha”
“... I know right! I mean I was just like what?”
I walk out and along and descend towards god. I can’t remember if I see him but if I do he makes little impact upon me. Tescos pro-vides an opportunity for purchasing two ill-advised ready meals.4 hours later I wake up, dazed and confused, but less cheekboney. Uncle calls, he has been buying dead birds again. I am a dead bird but I am still flying, still flying with you, elbows at 90º, flapping away. The day is a waste. I try and talk to god for an hour or two. The light is too bright though. James and Clifford are god knows where. The light is too bright. I nearly cry near the end, when the light finally dims. I cry at the ends, when it is already sodden and falling apart.
I ascend the Z axis as far as I can. I negotiate through numerous alterations with X and Y. I join a small conference. We wander and continue along the same lines, reiterating old patterns and forma-tions, pale gold irregular grids in the mist above frosted green grass. I’m nearly aloft and my wings almost take. I slip. I slip and bruise the base of my right palm. I return to base and agree to meet Uncle at 7. I am incredibly, woefully hungry. I ate garlic bread for breakfast whilst at prayers. This was at approx. 4.30pm. I leave at 6.30pm and realise I have left too early. I make every step count, remembering how James panther-trod the carpet, reverse stalk-ing his prey. My feet ghost and I feel fluid, broken. Hunger strikes again. I am all powdered up.
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POETRY
Edric Mesmerfrom An Alphabet for Jeffrey Vincent
D
at the very least, non-individualistic—a Rorschach shod in electrophoresis—
the archer-gender—“taught as crossbow”— graver sexer— to have gone down in— to a house of parapets
where
“…A brick is replacedhere and else.”
—embraces this unspooling,quasi-practica the- se nonprofit outfits of realia—
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E
a blind mirror, portraiture for anywhere—
circumference round eachcenter,
if— among these hours—speech were to be convictive,
hoax would have its portal—heave and space and time a-
mid locality— spoke a patrix—tracy [hater] familias—
warping epistemes, wooping ‘latitudes;
this flux of arrows—one a sunbeam,
flexing off my hair— make now a star
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F
a nuclear geometry ir-radial, comparatively, in
x-ray— copper long gone in-to Erie, or the spectra luna-
tic, chromosomal chrome rungin by the letter π; by Xerox.
there’s where I thought I saw a shotat scribing circumscription— missing point—
his concrete wing, everything—filling skulled light, splenetic—
many scabbards gleaming offa generative sculling— a loss
in gloss all the same, save for:gleaning has another feather al-
together: the nitric rain, a stream-lined weir— quill generative talis– talus
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POETRY
Zara Cassidy-CossMid-morning Flight
Take flight, I’ll leave a noteOn your bedside table in the early morningBefore light and enginesCross the border of the curtain cloakThe hum of the new dayWill wake you The note will be briefOn account of my lack of sleepIn this box, this room, suffocating and accusatory Where fingers point and condemnChanging again, scenarios and distant plans
Stuff is stuff but mine will no longer clutter the spaceThe anguish will passYou’ll drift back to sleepAnd the note will read‘Nothing to keep’
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POETRY
John SwainTwo Poems
LAKE BLACK TARP
Reclaimed as landblue stones movedfrom the water.I washed in darkas the lake escapedits confined shapeunderneath the waves.I counted intervalson a moving reach.Then water and skyended the sunlightlike a black tarppulled for the rainover a hollow shore.I turned to stareupon the perishingof a stillness within.Wading I trailedthe levelsof water on waterlosing definitionlike a fearas I paled metallicin corridor sway.
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PIER
Fountains fellthrough red netslike the deathof a singerhanging from her gold greenlegs and braids.Fog heavied swellsrolled into the pier.I knew nothingexcept the face stolen,floating entangledand always separatefrom voices.Waves break teethon my arms.I gnawed on my tonguelooking downbereft of essences.
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POETRY
B.J. JonesTwo Poems
MERCURY, VENUS, EARTH and MARS
I can’t remember the order of the planets know the first fourbut after Mars, mix them up like a magician switching the ball from cup to cup
was taught a mnemonic in first grade bytaking the first letter of each planet then recite,“my very excellent mother something something something Pluto”
I can rememberhow to hold scissorsby pointing the tipstowards the ground like a dog’s nose to the dirt sniffing at a scent
was told a story before nap-time
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THE FACES IN THE CHURCH CHOIR
the faces in the church choirlooking down at their hymnalslooking out to the congregationlooking up to Godare a clearance rack at a supermarket singing in unison with unequal convictions
about sharp scissors pointed upward to the sky and a pair of untied shoes resulting in a tripto the hospital
now in my 30’s, those scissors are still pointed downlike the tip of my neck-tiethose planets are still mixed up like the ice cubes in my whiskey the song never helped but I will always laugh when I hear Uranus.
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No.1 Summer 2012
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Contributors
Joshua McGuffie grew up in Los Angeles but spent his childhood summers inWainfleet,ONonthenorthshoreof LakeErie.Buckingthetrendof thelastfour decades, he moved back to Buffalo and lives in North Tonawanda, overlook-ing the canal.
Matthew Carroll lives in Sydney, Australia, and spent last Saturday alone drinking beer and studying Japanese in his broken down car for ~5 hours. He is 19 and coping ok with living in spite of the incorrigible fact of everything. His twitter is @hereyoutry. His email is mcarroll92 AT gmail DOT com. His epitaph is yet to be written. Thanks for taking the time to read this.
Keith Buckley is a resident of Buffalo, New York. Also he is a graduate of the University of Buffalo. He writes lyrics and sings for a band which has been kind enough to take him around the world for the past 12 years. He has met all of his musical idols and because of that, he now has none. Keith once taught Shake-speare at two different high schools. He used to be a very angry person, but recently has calmed down.
Kim Farleighhasworkedforaidagenciesinthreeconflicts:Kosovo,IraqandPalestine. He takes risks to get the experience required for writing. 57 of his stories have been accepted by 52 different magazines.
Michael Basinski is the Curator of the Poetry Collection of the University Li-braries, University at Buffalo. His poems have appeared in Dandelion, BoxKite, Antennae, Unbearables Magazine, Open Letter, Torgue, Leopold Bloom, Wooden Head Review, Explosive Magazine, Deluxe Rubber Chicken, First Of-fense,TerribleWork,Juxta,Kenning,Witz,Lungfull,Lvng,Generator,Tinfish,Curicule Patterns, Score, Unarmed, Rampike, First Intensity, House Organ, Ferrum Wheel, End Note, Ur Vox, Damn the Caesars, Pilot, 1913, Filling Sta-tion, fhole, Public Illumination, Western Humanities Review, Vanitas, Talisman, Yellow Edenwald Field, and Poetry.
Ginny O’Brien is an artist, educator, lecturer, and author. She exhibits her work regularly in solo and group exhibitions nationally and locally, and has
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extensive experience teaching college-level studio and lecture courses in design andfiberart.PublicationsauthoredbytheartistarefoundinSurfaceDesignJournal, Western Humanities Review, Buffalo Spree Magazine and The Journal of Family Medicine.
Peri Enroscado: “I don’t even miss you wait.”
J.D.A. Winslow is an artist and poet currently living in Edinburgh, Scot-land.Heblogsathttp://jdawinslow.tumblr.com/andtweetsathttps://twitter.com/#!/jdawinslow.
Edric Mesmercollatesaninternationaljournalof Anglophonepoetryandcomposition called Yellow Field from Buffalo, New York; his two essays on little magazinesappearinCorditePoetryReview(http://cordite.org.au/);recentpoemsappearinLandscapes(http://landscapeandlanguagecentre.au.com/cur-rent_journal.html)andareforthcomingfromInfinity’sKitchen.
Zara Cassidy-Coss is twenty-three and a full time student in Trinity College Dublin, Ireland studying for an M. Phil in Gender and Women’s Studies. She is currently working on a collection of poetry as well as compiling short stories.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His work has recently appeared in Red Fez.
B.J. Jones writes and lives in Dubuque, IA with his wife. He edits poetry for Stymie:AJournalof SportandLiteratureandreadsfictionforPrickof theSpindle. He has been published in Natural Bridge, Literary Juice, The Rusty Nail, pressboardpress among others.
