THE FUNERAL Terri Cooper When you died stars and stripes blanketed you as sweat bled into wool collars of proud young men standing straight at attention on a hot May day, their pristine white gloves holding gleaming guns that saluted you in hallowed ground. When you died a woman wept, mourning... Show moreTHE FUNERAL Terri Cooper When you died stars and stripes blanketed you as sweat bled into wool collars of proud young men standing straight at attention on a hot May day, their pristine white gloves holding gleaming guns that saluted you in hallowed ground. When you died a woman wept, mourning the shy son ofa Portland boxer, a farm boy with ideas bigger than his 10th grade education, his wooing words to her preserved forever on reels of magnetic tape shipped home from Asian rice fields. When you died “I Will Follow” played in a 16 year old girl's head U2’s gospel tinged lyrics giving voice to the loss of a love that ignored awkwardness glasses braces and gracelessness, its absence leaving a barren garden where only grief grew. Your suicide buried everyone in a fallow field. 69 Show less
MORE THAN EVER Mt-lotlit- l lane Ar I sit nar you my hand resting on your arm. you Ilctp. But still your hands tremor. I want to rub thc Parkinson's out through your finger tips-- to slow what it is taking from your lifc. I watch you through tears and mcmorics ofycars ofatlorarion and Iovc. Now.... Show moreMORE THAN EVER Mt-lotlit- l lane Ar I sit nar you my hand resting on your arm. you Ilctp. But still your hands tremor. I want to rub thc Parkinson's out through your finger tips-- to slow what it is taking from your lifc. I watch you through tears and mcmorics ofycars ofatlorarion and Iovc. Now. my father. you lean on me. You rest. Fccl my Iovc and gratitude for all that W: have shared. I will treasure this momcnt whcn you open your eyes. look into mine and ask. “Do you still lovc me?" “More than cvcr.” 50 Show less
X-MAS MASS Scan Ewnson she doodles a zig—zaggety reindeer across the Christmas donation envelope. mom fills her cupped hands with goldfish. the pastor's sermon, breathy and quiet, is graced with a distant whiny siren. heads look up from prayer books and out towards the salted street. she tugs at... Show moreX-MAS MASS Scan Ewnson she doodles a zig—zaggety reindeer across the Christmas donation envelope. mom fills her cupped hands with goldfish. the pastor's sermon, breathy and quiet, is graced with a distant whiny siren. heads look up from prayer books and out towards the salted street. she tugs at mom’s fluffy sweater. listen mommy, it} a firetrurk. is there a parade? ll'f Show less
lap: before us before the dock's second hand and our stomachs wtenched with hunger throat dry hair in a knotted nest roofof mouth numb out of breath idolizing Blow and Monroe we ate the chips but the crumbs fell between our legs onto the bed and so did our hearts as well as our brains it was... Show morelap: before us before the dock's second hand and our stomachs wtenched with hunger throat dry hair in a knotted nest roofof mouth numb out of breath idolizing Blow and Monroe we ate the chips but the crumbs fell between our legs onto the bed and so did our hearts as well as our brains it was beautiful and she had to tell me what she had to do to get these drug; and she was beautiful but before we could taste the blood in our mouths light fell through the windows into our laps illuminating our hips and we heard the bird's tong alarming the nestled dew and out the window white sky at our faces ill with fatigue disappointment 58 the same Show less
Girls who disappear into male shadows. [11] She says it's casieSt to feel ugly on days when the mirror doesn't reflect what society says it should, She says it seems so simple— So necessary— To break the glass and shatter her own image— To see her body broken, dismantled, and glistening in... Show moreGirls who disappear into male shadows. [11] She says it's casieSt to feel ugly on days when the mirror doesn't reflect what society says it should, She says it seems so simple— So necessary— To break the glass and shatter her own image— To see her body broken, dismantled, and glistening in hundreds ofpieces. She sighs as her wrists leak red. And cradles the broken shard ofmirror that she scared herselfwith in her limp arms Because she's on fire, But no one else can see her light. [Ill] Why is it so hard to feel pretty? Why is it so damn necessary to feel wanted? Why are we disappearing— And dismissing ourselves— When our reproductive organs are covered.> When I look in the mirror her and l are the same in our doubt. In our brokenness. We know how it feels to wish our existence away While we wait by our lifeless phone To dream while Darkness alludes that we're protected And then to wakeup Alone. [IV] I know how it aches when you let someone hold you and he secretly slips inside. Because “to cuddle“ means “to somehow consent to sex” Because there are no boundaries anymore. And ifyou say no— Then you’re prudish And despicable. Augsburg 6015090 Show less
or anything but she was really friendly. We called her Jasmine. and she curled up and went to sleep right in the middle of Ben's ghosrly legs. He said it felt kind of ticldy to have a cat right in the middle ofhis legs, and I just nodded. Once we got to Cali, I thought about getting a job. I was... Show moreor anything but she was really friendly. We called her Jasmine. and she curled up and went to sleep right in the middle of Ben's ghosrly legs. He said it felt kind of ticldy to have a cat right in the middle ofhis legs, and I just nodded. Once we got to Cali, I thought about getting a job. I was always good with my hands. Maybe a handyman could take care ofhimselfon the Pacific Coast. It might be nice, to have a life where I could build things and not have to live up to a teacher brother and a doctor sister. We took a detour to a crazy litth town called Isley in the middle of nowhere, California, for the annual festival. The Islcy Crawfish Festival? I'd seen weirder back home. Who’d ever have thought a crawfish festival would even exist in California? One summer vacation my parents dragged me to this middle- of-nowhere town in Minnesota called Renville for Sugar Beet Days. “You complained the whole time we were there. Sam," said Ben. I was trying not to respond because talking to a ghost would make me look even weirder than I already was, gawking awkwardly at a crawfish-shaped bounce castle. But eventually, when I was sure nobody was watching, I said, “So did you. You kept asking why we didn’t go to that amusement park we saw in Shakopee on the way there." "Well we finally at least got to go to Camp Snoopy." “Yeah, after Sandra made Mom and Dad admit that Sugar Beet Days was a huge mistake." Our sister was always good with logic and arguments. She said ifshe didn't become a doctor, she'd thought about being a lawyer. Ben was looking at a crawfish fondue stand, longing to be part ofthe crowd. “Looks good." I picked some up. “Smells good, too." It was fifty cents. I was with my brother. We were remembering the same thing. But I couldn‘t touch him, and he couldn’t eat the food we were standing in front of. even though he wanted to. Ben and I, a year earlier, we would have taken this silly festival apart for everything edible. Now, I was munching on crawfish hush puppies, wondering ifthis was the right decision. “Hey, Ben, look at... wait." I was talking to thin air, and the cute girl at the hush puppy stand looked at me funny. Well... I wasn't, but she'd never know that. The people near me were starting to look away like I was crazy or something, and nor for the first time during the trip I was wondering ifmaybe I had gone crazy. We got back in the car. I had a goal, a mission. Ben was starting to be less visible. and I wanted him to aetually stand in—or on-the Pacific before he vanished into thin air. I started to have an idea what he was going through and what he was trying to hide from me. The day after the festival I heard him singing a folk song that I'd never heard in my life and I knew he hadn't either. “I won't be back," he said. “I’m trying to hang on just this long, because you deserve this. But after we reach the Pacific..." The next morning we were there. A quiet, secluded little beach oifRoute l. The most beautiful thing I ever saw was Ben’s spirit floating on the Pacific. He was slowly evaporating in the noonday sun. like ice sublimating without melting first. The cars engine was softly tick-tick-ticking toward air temperature, the sound completely absorbed by the crashing surf. Waves flowed through Ben’s attenuating selfwithout him even noticing. I nodded to him. “See you ‘round. Ben." Ben shook his head and walked off over the ocean, though. and his last words were, “No, you won't." The cat meowed softly, wondering where he'd gone but unwilling to go anywhere even close to the water. I picked her up and took her in search of an apartment or a cabin to rent. Cat-friendly was a must. And I needed a phone. I wanted to make sure people called offthe missing-person report they’d surely filed when I left. jenna was furious. Mom and Dad were crying. They'd moved my shit to a storage locker. It’d be there when I got back to the Midwest. [fl ever came back. Sometimes I saw ghosts floating on the Pacific, though. They liked to come here, it seemed, to heed some call to the West before they went on. to the afterlife or reincarnation or whatever. Talking to a ghost, I found out that some of them hung on for years. But Ben was right. I never did see him again. Show less
IN MINNEAPOLIS, MORNINGS COME flUICK ,‘Iill“\ KI(‘(‘I\(‘I‘ It‘s only {our a.m. in I m Anchcs, I Kay and you \‘ay chI. in Hawaii, it's two. ’Ihu \un Rtretchcs in through (Ilc blinds and you rcach up [0 [\\’I\'l’ [he Icvcr that turm (hum closcd, 'IIIar's hardy past midnigIIL I whisper and you inch... Show moreIN MINNEAPOLIS, MORNINGS COME flUICK ,‘Iill“\ KI(‘(‘I\(‘I‘ It‘s only {our a.m. in I m Anchcs, I Kay and you \‘ay chI. in Hawaii, it's two. ’Ihu \un Rtretchcs in through (Ilc blinds and you rcach up [0 [\\’I\'l’ [he Icvcr that turm (hum closcd, 'IIIar's hardy past midnigIIL I whisper and you inch cIoscr to wmp me in arms like rhu- Pacific Show less
continued to barrel down the path that I blazed with my wife's All I know is that I'm not death. novel. Not yet. Layne Staley had just died and I guess he lived just down the Let‘s get to it then. I have an errand to run. street from me which was kinda crazy when I realized that my son was going... Show morecontinued to barrel down the path that I blazed with my wife's All I know is that I'm not death. novel. Not yet. Layne Staley had just died and I guess he lived just down the Let‘s get to it then. I have an errand to run. street from me which was kinda crazy when I realized that my son was going to have to die ofleukemia and I immediately stopped writing. I turned off the computer and turned back to the television, back to the bookshelfand the newspaper. I let it sit for six months, delaying the inevitable, before I finally accepted the diagnosis and began going through the motions to prepare for his death. It went roughly the same as it had the first time though much less traumatic. Shortly after my son was buried the main charaCter killed herselfleaving the husband and father destitute. The novel ends with him going to visit a gun store. 30 it's done. I'm done. Here it is. I'm no writer, and I’m sure people will have plenty to say about this because of that. I did try my best though. And there‘s a few things I’m certainly proud of. Some good metaphors and such. But people will still probably complain. That‘s fine. I do want to wax philosophical again briefly before we get to the story. I have been thinking about this for some time, almost the whole time I‘ve been working on this book. It's a thought I want to plant in your mind so that it can grow as you go forward. One final thought before I’m finished. Ifwe as characters in this story hold true enough to one of these ideas (life, love, death) then can we also become the embodiment ofthem? Can we, as people, be symbols? Perhaps. I suppose you could say that my wife represents love as I’ve never loved anyone as much as her. You could say my son represents life, a life I created. Or maybe not. Maybe my wife is death. Maybe my son is death. I don’t know. What am I then? Am I life? I’m still alive, so maybe. Am I love? I’ve loved a lot. And lost. Loss seems to come naturally to me. It repeats itselfinfinitely. All of this does. Life is like a wheel rolling down a hill. These moments repeat and in each iteration they are smaller and more finite. The wheel slows and finally stops after the hill gives way to valley. We stop. The death that has repeated all our lives becomes our own. So what am I now? I don’t know. Show less
GALAPAGOS Magaly ()rliL‘\ut-apina Volar coma un pclicano con las alas cxlcndidas y cl pico aludo. la vista hacia cl horimmc. y cl corn/m :n I: boca. Un hondo suspiro a la imagcn (in lo: pcqucfiitos blancos. quc 5c Iltva d vicnm par csas alas. ronco desahogo ad infiniwm. Dcsunso para la; quc flown.... Show moreGALAPAGOS Magaly ()rliL‘\ut-apina Volar coma un pclicano con las alas cxlcndidas y cl pico aludo. la vista hacia cl horimmc. y cl corn/m :n I: boca. Un hondo suspiro a la imagcn (in lo: pcqucfiitos blancos. quc 5c Iltva d vicnm par csas alas. ronco desahogo ad infiniwm. Dcsunso para la; quc flown. los quc sabcn navcgar cl profundo vacio: ncgro marino. horas incicnas. frio. olvido. ant: ul quc vc cl agujcm cclcstc. fucgo cn cl ciclo, quc acompar’u Ia solcdad dcl mar sin scmirlo. Show less
DRIVEN BY A PURNDGRAPHIC INSTINCT T0 [IBIIWN Patrick \VerIt' to sink my face my tired face my empty face not my face her Face your face into the cool water of [I'lC river of the lake ofthe cast iron bathtub not the lake or the tub but a nightmare your nightmare open to the nightmare I want to... Show moreDRIVEN BY A PURNDGRAPHIC INSTINCT T0 [IBIIWN Patrick \VerIt' to sink my face my tired face my empty face not my face her Face your face into the cool water of [I'lC river of the lake ofthe cast iron bathtub not the lake or the tub but a nightmare your nightmare open to the nightmare I want to help but I am driven by a pornographic need for your suffering my suffering our suITering not suffering surviving an addiction not my addiction her addiction the false addiction an accusation a presumption an acquisition a distraction from [CIIIOFTOW from the roses from the rain from the empty gardens and overturned gravestoncs and marble and limestone and granite marking the dead not her dead my dead undead the dead before and the dead that IICVCI' VVCI'C drowned bCforC. Show less
The sibilant Long Island esses. The Southern drawling. Laughter, shouts. sobbing. Murmuring and lullabies. They are fading fast, more fleeting. less distinct, as the current picks up speed and the waters roar over what seems the end of earth but merely marks one stage in the river's relentless... Show moreThe sibilant Long Island esses. The Southern drawling. Laughter, shouts. sobbing. Murmuring and lullabies. They are fading fast, more fleeting. less distinct, as the current picks up speed and the waters roar over what seems the end of earth but merely marks one stage in the river's relentless progress toward the ancients' wine-dark sea. 8’: Show less
WHEN I WORKED IN BERGEN Colin Irvine IT was not yet 8:00 AM . and the temperature was a notch or two above fretting The streets and buildings of this cramped. picturesque pan of Bergen looked slick with rainwater. everything seeming old and new at the same time. lzippcd up my big coat to just... Show moreWHEN I WORKED IN BERGEN Colin Irvine IT was not yet 8:00 AM . and the temperature was a notch or two above fretting The streets and buildings of this cramped. picturesque pan of Bergen looked slick with rainwater. everything seeming old and new at the same time. lzippcd up my big coat to just below my nose and put on my ear muffs. looking down as I did so from my third—floor window at Rosencrantzgaten and a couple of people hurrying in opposite directions on the far sidewalk of a very narrow. one- lane. one-direction street lined on either side by solid rows of four- and five—story buildings. Then. after patting my various pockets to be sure I had my wallet. jump drive. and room key. I regretfully said goodbye to my spacious room and luxurious but — from the outside anyway — oddly unassuming Hanseatiska Hotell. with its front door tucked away at the end ofan alley between the yellow wood building housing the Casa de Tom and the red one home to the Finnegarden Restauant. The Hanseatiska was the kind of place. I realized as l maneuvered myselfand suitcase through a small doorway and out onto the sidewalk. perfectly apropos for contemporary Norway. It kept mostly secret from passersby the lavish interior. while offering to the locals in-the-know something altogether better than almost any massive. metal-and—glass monstrosity squatting behind acres ofconcrcte back home in Minnesota. After stepping heel-toe down the sloped sidewalk of slate slabs along Finnegfirdsgaten — with its fan—shaped designs of cobblestone pieced into the street — I arrived at that area near the wharfwhere everything opens up. between the round little Narvesson and the Egon Restaurant on the other side of the intersection. lfyou were to give directions to somebody wishing to arrive at the spot where I stood. you would need to tell them to go to. and I'm being Google-Maps exact here. to llryggen I Finnegardsgaten I Riksveg 585 IShetlands-larsens 26 Brygge. Bergen, Hordaland. Norway (and I love that on the Google maps page it states in shadow font beneath this bolded location “Address is approximate." It's not. That‘s precisely where you are. and where l was when trying to get my bearings as one might when finding the You-Are-Here dot on a map. Business—bustle in this vintage city ofyellows and reds and tilting old wooden buildings was already well underway. especially here where the inlet met up with several traffic arteries. each radiating out into the rest of the Bergen with its relatively modest population of roughly 270,000 and up into the hills behind where I stood looking at the fish market coming to life. Traffic on the four-lane road to my left was socked with cars and busses. and off to my right a huge green— and-white cargo ship and a much smaller tidebris boat were headed out to sea as ifthis wn no big deal at all and not worth noting. But ofcourse it was. and it was worth a halfdozen pictures as well. which I took after leaning the handle ofmy suitcase against my thigh so as to keep the bottom of the bag up out ofthe water. The air was soft, not crisp and dry like at home in Oslo. and an almost imperceptible fog floated through the space. the kind of fog you don't notice until later when you look at your pictures and wonder ifthey'te out of focus. In the market, rain flaps were being tied up and awnings of these nifty little kitchen kiosks were opening from the inside out. The fishmongers in their wide—wasted orange rubber rain pants were shuffling about. some more animated than Others. and everyone apparently oblivious to the unlover weather. Seagulls screecth and swooped in tight arcs out over the water and back above the small buildings. several landing with a few fluttery flaps close to pedestrians who didn‘t seem to notice them. The birds then bobbed along among the people‘s feet in that funky way that birds do all over the world when pecking about oblivioust for food. I begrudged the birds their freedom. and I also realilcd Show less
NEPHEW J. K. Pinlher I wish that l were your nephew and I wish I wcrc your brothcr and all around In: whir|ing arc (h: pcgs pcoplc havc placed mc in. I look bound to being a niccc. I still look likc a sister. l'vc ncvcr bccn vcry religious and l (3k: the reins and hopc to god xhcy won't compare... Show moreNEPHEW J. K. Pinlher I wish that l were your nephew and I wish I wcrc your brothcr and all around In: whir|ing arc (h: pcgs pcoplc havc placed mc in. I look bound to being a niccc. I still look likc a sister. l'vc ncvcr bccn vcry religious and l (3k: the reins and hopc to god xhcy won't compare mc (0 who I uscd (o be. but in a way I have always been your ncphcw and oncc I point it our it'll be like you'vc always known. IO’I Show less
v 8222 Sean Evenson My name is engraved on the top of your left foor. Sharp black cursive flowing up and around your purple spider vcim. I heard that you had it touched up with lavender delphinium stalks that spring over my signarure like a bouquet of mourning roses. Underneath the fresh while... Show morev 8222 Sean Evenson My name is engraved on the top of your left foor. Sharp black cursive flowing up and around your purple spider vcim. I heard that you had it touched up with lavender delphinium stalks that spring over my signarure like a bouquet of mourning roses. Underneath the fresh while buds my name srill aches. fling-soaked into your skin. 2’: Show less
FOREWORD T0 MANDELBRUT Rowan Smith are a few things constant in life that are inescapable or we are doomed to or cursed by or whatever. The problem is that it's really hard to talk about them with detail or specificity. How am I supposed to sit down and write a story about life? A story about... Show moreFOREWORD T0 MANDELBRUT Rowan Smith are a few things constant in life that are inescapable or we are doomed to or cursed by or whatever. The problem is that it's really hard to talk about them with detail or specificity. How am I supposed to sit down and write a story about life? A story about death? A story about love? I guess you just start writing. So let's write. C When I was born my mother and I passed each other like two strangers on opposite sides ofa revolving door. My father loved me immediately. staring into my red face and trying to see all the bits and pieces of himselfand my mother that I also owned. as ifa paper doll ofhis creation. While he was doing this my mother died. By the time the wonder had worn off and his consciousness phased back into the hospital room the doctor was jolting my mother with the defibrillator and my father just stood there holding me and staring as I cried and the alarms beeped and the nurses rushed past. The blood poured from her as the love for me poured from him. My father would call it the day that he lost everything. I fell in love with a girl when I was a junior in college working on a bachelor's degree in social work. I thought I was going to change the world one young person at a time. I didn't know that most kids were already too Fucked up by the time they walked through the door for me to do anything. 'Ihey were broken children — broken by fists and systems and governments and families and societies - and even if glue could hold them together. cracks still showed. particularly in the light. where the dark outlines of them would pop to the surface like a second set of veins that death flowed through. She was an English major and I always thought that people who went to college just for the pursuit of knowledge were somehow noble and deserved my respect. I met her because I 6’: was reading Pynchon's The Cg'ing of Lot 42 out on the quad. She asked me ifl was enjoying the book and I said yes I was and that a friend of mine who was an English major had given it to me because he thought I would like it and she asked if he went to school here and l said he did and she asked me his name and I told her and she laughed and said she knew him and then explained that she also was an English major and that they had had many classes together and then l asked her what her name was and she told me and I laughed and said that yes I had heard about her from him a few times and that it was nice to finally get to meet her and she agreed and smiled at me and that was when I knew I had fallen in love. When we went on our first date she picked me up at my shitty apartment because she had a car and I didn‘t. I was surprised because she had a nice car with a tape player that was playing the Purple Rain soundtrack. Growing up poor. you tend to forget that not everybody else you meet is poor. I think it goes the same way for rich people. I got in and we drove to the theater and sang along to “When Doves Cry," because what better song to listen to on a first date than one about an emotionally abusive relationship? I loved her singing voice though. It really was something. I sang quietly so I could hear it more clearly. "Why do we scream at ear/J other? 751': is w/mr it tumult like when dominant: a]! " Soon the tape transitioned into “I Would Die 4 U" which I don't think anybody at that point realized was about Jesus and so I sang a little louder trying to drop a hint that I would die 4 her but I don't think she picked up on it. I never asked her. Our son died when he was six. We were in japan. At that point. as is known. my wife was a successful author and had made enough money that I didn't have to work. so we went to live in Tokyo for a year while she researched her next book. Show less
TEARING PAGES FROM DEAD WHITE BOOKS Patrick \Verlt- l smoke ‘em to the filter, burning my fingers, my eyes, my lungs, my future bottles explode against corner store back walls, bitter piss and vinegar of youth in rebellion. punk rock anthems and American waste calico dancers slide wide down black... Show moreTEARING PAGES FROM DEAD WHITE BOOKS Patrick \Verlt- l smoke ‘em to the filter, burning my fingers, my eyes, my lungs, my future bottles explode against corner store back walls, bitter piss and vinegar of youth in rebellion. punk rock anthems and American waste calico dancers slide wide down black walnut bannisters, I offer them herbal teas in common rooms of western suburbs, where prime real estate and damp basement dominatrix dreams leave nothing to be desired. and I have nothing sacred. porcelain skin stretched tight to hide inflicted self-scars. eyes wide in hopeful illusion of recovery or a new day cowering in a corner and I am fearful of what's to come. ofwho I may call of what I may say. Daydreams no longer take the edge off the hum of addiction and I am tearing pages from dead white books 60 Show less
