2010
09.02

i occupy everything on my own
and think that it must be nice
to have a best friend because
it feels bad to walk to the bar alone
but with these nights of sobriety
come paranoia
and i don’t lock my doors
alone naked in my bed,
in my house, and
it’s never bothered me before
but now with these nightly dreams
of being held in places,
against my will, surrounded by explosives
i guess i fear an intruder,
abstractly
but i don’t want to stop sleeping
because i know exactly
what i will do
when i awake
i will drive to the coffee shop
in the next town over
to avoid having to speak to anyone i know
which feels depressing and embarrassing
but not nearly as severe as when i
walk away from a conversation,
i guess
i deserve

not

© Brittany Wallace, 2010
[others]
2010
09.01

L.A. ruined Compton
for everyone.

The world over,
Compton Blvds
Compton Aves
Compton Streets
Crescents
and Drives

will never be a desirable
place to live.

Compton will never replace
Park Place or Boardwalk
on a Monopoly board.

Even Baltic Ave. is too good
for Compton.

And who the hell wants to live
on Baltic Ave.?

© Ryan Quinn Flanagan, 2010
[others]
2010
08.31

they say hemingway could step out of his room
and mistreat his wife
after caring so much about sailor santiago
and
his battle with a shark on a small raft
off the coast of cuba.
but once on land in la finca, outside
of the world of his imagination and the cold walls
and the hard floors of the estate
facing him instead,
he was cold
as the waters off the coast of newfoundland
to his real-life wife
mary.

strange,
how we’re so comfortable inside
and outside the proscenium of the skull,
too often barren of feelings,
the rivers of our hearts
suddenly empty,
unable to flow, unable to give
air.

plants die and persons cower,
as the monster from the room
loving himself only,
now tramples living things far more
precious than his mind can
ever create.
there is something about
the tranquility of live objects,
and more destructible,
than the flitters
and filters
on the other side of the wall.

there is something
about the ephemerality
of the imagination

that preserves it and protects
it in that
strange cell.

© Carl Kavadlo, 2010
[others]
2010
08.30

when we drove through endless new jersey
   in search of a sunset neither of us wanted
   to see: you sang along beautifully to the radio
   and i sat quietly, fingering myself through the hole
   in my favorite pants, chiming in to sing along, monotone and
   deceivingly unenthusiastic to the few songs i knew the words to.

you told me what made you sad and why it made
   you sad and what it was about life that made
   you want to fuck it away.

you told me where you wanted to be and why you wanted
   to be there and how being there would make all the
   difference in the world.

i counted cars that only had one illuminated headlight and told  
   you not everything has to be so shitty.

   not everything has to be so shitty.

once i almost touched your hand. not because i loved you
   but because i thought you had fallen asleep at the
   wheel, when really you were probably thinking hard
   or trying to remember something far away and just closed
   your eyes because you forgot you were driving and
   you needed to concentrate.

   and at one point i knew exactly where we were but
   told you to take a wrong turn because i wanted
   to get lost again.

   we drove across the bridge they were
   doing construction on last year, and made a
   left onto the beach, probably about four in the
   morning. i took my shoes off before i could
   even smell salty air because i knew
   we were getting close.

earlier that day we smoked macanudos on a picnic table
   in a large white gazebo in pennsylvania.

earlier that day we sat in the laundromat and
   read old newspapers and cut out funny pictures
   from magazines and wore the
   clothing other people left behind and drank
   sodas from the only machine on the east coast
   that still only charges a dollar, waiting for the dryer to
   warm our coats.

earlier that day you told me about your green
   jacket.

earlier that day jimmy eat world came on the
   radio and after the second verse of
   a praise chorus i opened the window
   all the way and took off my glasses before
   i stuck my head out into to the night
   and screamed so loud i hurt my throat,
   not because i was happy or because i wanted
   to feel alive or because i was in love,
   but rather because that was just what the
   moment called for and no one else was
   doing it.

earlier that day we were in new york.
   we drove through three states
   and every time we crossed a
   border we took the most beautiful
   part of what we were leaving behind
   with us.

and now i’m running, even though i’m barefoot
   and bleeding with a girl who’s really
   in switzerland, or sweden or scotland or
   some stupid fucking country with an ‘s’ that’s
   not new jersey, or new york, or pennsylvania
   and i want to hurl myself into the ocean
   i see before me, not because i’m angry,
   not because i’m in love, not because it was
   what the moment called for and no one else was
   doing it, but because maybe, i thought
   it’d be easier to float home and i didn’t want to
   put my shoes back on.

   and because not everything has to be so shitty.

and while all of this remained unspoken between us, i had
   to apologize to my dentist and explain that the
   reason i fell asleep in his chair was
   because i had been up all night counting cars
   that only had one illuminated headlight.

 

 

 

© Andrew Chmielowiec, 2010
2010
08.29

Pearled smoothness catches her attention and suddenly she is aware of the last iridescent button gliding under her fingertips. It flashes silver-blue, then deadens-leaving a dull, lifeless gray. She shrugs the silk from her shoulders with a rustle like memories better left forgotten.

Sunlight stretches under the high curtains. It tickles her bare skin as she exchanges professional attire for comfort.  She hums to herself and takes a mental inventory of the evening’s dinner ingredients.

A single reverberating crack wrenches her back in time. She shutters and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a vain attempt to block a gun blast she’s never actually heard. Golden hairs bristle on her arms but she focuses on filling her lungs with air, consciously expanding her chest, until the lurking disquiet slinks back to its hiding spot.

Did he realize, she wonders as she goes to the kitchen and systematically begins removing clean plates from the dishwasher, how his choice would affect her?

Pushing away thoughts of what he did or did not realize, she flips on the stereo and boppy music streams out, providing a mind numbing melody to sing along with. But even as she sings, she needs more distraction. She clicks on the TV and finds strange solace in the static movements of fictional beings.

A blaze of color beckons from the sink. She rinses peppers, eggplant, spinach and carrots and prepares to chop. Momentarily entranced by the flashing steel blade of her chef’s knife her eyes shift involuntarily to the pale green veins twisting down her wrist. Had he considered just letting his life drain away? What prompts a person to utilize one means of death over another?

Maybe if he’d left the requisite suicide note, she might understand. But they never found one. If he put explanations or apologies in writing, the wind tore them away, leaving only a dead boyfriend and unanswered questions.

She seizes a carrot and hacks with extreme prejudice. She can still see him. She pictures him exactly as he was their last night together. His last night, period. A different kitchen, a different season, but the knife was the same. She wracks her memories for some indication of what would come next. She re-examines his comments, his expressions, the way he held the knife, and finds nothing. It’s not the first time she’s played this game.

Would things have been different if she had woken when he slipped out of her bed to go home? If, still drowsy and unaware, she had reached for him and pulled him back to her, holding him close in those desperate wee hours?

She splits a pepper open and scrapes thousands of tiny seeds away from the deep scarlet flesh, as indifferent to the creamy pods as she had been to the inconvenient fetus the two of them created. The seeds scatter across the metallic sink and, in a rush of water, slide down the drain into darkness.


© Rebecca Gaffron, 2010