Nap 1.4

  //////00pabst00/////

  SALOON BAR

  Require 'dead_record'

  ruby-h

  didn't take her love to town

  cmd. HitThisButton

  not F9 or F12

  t.columnLite: client - Budweiser Coors and Michelob, :string Putty and/or Silly

  $vegetable1=”Brussels sprouts”

  $vegetable2=”asparagus”

  $vegetable3=”carrots”

  {three foods babies usually dislike}

  while (defined not so clearly in quartz ($a=))

  #rutilated#

  [western saloon run by Joan Blondell]

  cmd. OneWellDoneSteak

  not rare nor medium

  [made a hearty poker game]

  LIMBO OF HIPPOCAMPUS

  Vindaloo creeping out my mind

  after Bombay

  Mumbai

  Ah the sweetest mystery

  finding what new worlds are in

  limbo of hippocampus.

  Julie Kovacs lives in Venice, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Children Churches and Daddies, Because We Write, Illogical Muse, Poems Niederngasse, Aquapolis, The Blotter, Danse Macabre, Silver Blade, The Camel Saloon, Falling Star, Veil, Moria, Nether, and Cherry Bleeds. She is the author of two poetry books: Silver Moonbeams, and The Emerald Grail. Her website is at https://thebiographicalpoet.blogspot.com/

  VANESSA BLAKESLEE

  AT A DINER WITH ANDERSON COOPER OFF AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS

  “All things were together.

  Then mind came and arranged them.” ~ Democritus

  The framed portraits of cable news anchors hang

  above the Formica counter,

  signatures in Sharpie squiggled across their

  fox-fleeing-the-henhouse

  smiles.

  Below, I wait at the counter in my parka

  and order tomato soup and grilled cheese

  because this is what it seems one should order

  on a January day

  in a greasy-spoon-favorite of the sound stages

  up the street.

  The diner before me has left a section-strewn

  New York Post on purpose,

  like the mints left by the maids at the Hilton.

  I pretend to read the Post,

  thinking, this is not my news,

  I am not a New Yorker,

  this is not my governor’s sex scandal,

  but then I am reading it. This city calls us back.

  When in New York, one is a New Yorker,

  its news, our news.

  And as I twist on my counter stool,

  I glance at the door every few seconds,

  not so secretly wishing for Wolf Blitzer,

  George Stephanopoulos

  or Anderson Cooper—

  oh yes, definitely, Anderson Cooper,

  to bluster in,

  settle next to me and remove

  black leather gloves, first right and then left,

  tug off his Burberry scarf,

  and order a grilled cheese.

  CUCUMBER-VEGETABLE MAN

  You scratch and sniff and wake me up,

  with your cucumber poking into my back.

  Why do you suppose I want to eat

  a cucumber first thing in the morning?

  I eat cucumbers but only in salads.

  And remember, I pick off the carrot shavings.

  The carrot shavings, I save for you.

  And I have never cared for creamy dressing.

  But here we are with the morning,

  and your poke wakes me up,

  along with your scratch on my arm

  and rub of my side.

  I think, I need to pee.

  Eggs scrambled or over-easy?

  You say I am not easy at all.

  But I never poke. I always let you sleep.

  And I give you all my carrots

  and make you hot tea.

  But yet you scratch and sniff and poke.

  I guess I will have to learn to eat cucumbers,

  or tell you to find a girl who likes salad

  in the morning.

  Maybe an Asian.

  NO GRADE LESS THAN A “B”

  Dad says:

  “No grade less than a B.”

  You say:

  “I gotta hive of Bs.”

  He says:

  “Smart ass, do you have all Bs?”

  You say:

  “Honey’s in the hive.”

  But you lie.

  Four courses:

  Speech, Music (History of Rock’n’Roll),

  Math and a science,

  Intro to Entymology.

  One afternoon in lab,

  A monarch dies in your palm.

  The instructor dons a beekeeper suit

  In front of the class and returns papers.

  Darth Vader’s minion has scrawled,

  “Do Bees Interest You?”

  Above the ninety-five percent.

  Midterm, Dad drones:

  “No grade less than a B.”

  You say:

  “I’m an expert in bees.”

  Dad says:

  “When pigs fly.”

  You hum:

  “Wait and see.”

  But your music instructor

  Doles out a D for

  “Rhythm of the Hive”—

  Your presentation.

  And in algebra,

  Not all problems

  Solve for Bs,

  Result in Bs.

  Harvest yield:

  Dad’s swarm:

  “Nothing less than a B!

  Nothing less than a B!”

  Your sting:

  “Science, Dad, one perfect A.”

  Dad’s pinch:

  “And what about it?”

  Your buzz:

  “My hive made smooth honey

  while all the other bees died.”

 

 

  Vanessa Blakeslee’s work has been recognized by grants and fellowships from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Yaddo, the Ragdale Foundation and the United Arts of Central Florida, and has appeared or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, The Bellingham Review, Green Mountains Review, and The Southern Review, among other journals. She was a finalist for the 2011 Philip Roth Residency at Bucknell University and the Sozopol Fiction Seminars. Please visit www.vanessablakeslee.com for more.

  J. BRADLEY

  EXCERPT FROM We Will Celebrate Our Failures (NAP, 2012)

  BLAZE

  I'm staring into the mirror when the Blackberry rattles against the sink. My stomach is an awkward Boy Scout who can't tie a square knot but tries repeatedly.

  ***

  Peter says Eden has become more of a second skin. “We were like Bonnie and Clyde but without the blaze of glory ending and the crime and the Warren Beatty on Faye Dunaway action” he said over the phone “I wish sometimes we would go out like that though. Her idea of excitement now is wandering around IKEA, buying the shit that least looks Swedish. I miss those days.”

  Have you tried talking to her about this? I tried. There was that time I set his futon on fire, switched his beer but he just replaced both. “Maybe there's a way you can go out like that.”

  ***

  Around the pots and pans, I watch Peter and Eden look at dinner plates. The revolver finally warms up to my waist. As I start to pull it out, Peter's chest explodes, ruining his yellow plaid long sleeved shirt. Eden runs a finger across the blood and tastes it. I get out of there as everyone stares at Peter, bleeding.

  ***

  “I'm sorry, Farrah. Eden bumped into me and I just hit the trigger and bam, I was wearing a stigmata t-shirt. I told her some friends of mine made that stuff and we were supposed to try it later. She believed it, thank fucking God. Got any other suggestions that might not involve firearms and fake death?”

  I had other ideas. When burning hi
s futon and tainting his beer didn't work, I borrowed Eleanor's test results and said they were mine. “I'll love you always, just won't fuck you ever again”, he belched. “I mean if I'm brave enough, I might finger you. That's the most you'll get out of anyone now that you're infected.” He didn't believe me when I said the results weren't mine.

  ***

  “I read that poem your friend wrote for me to break it to Eden we were done and it backfired.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently she really liked the line about 'taking her home/to look for her expiration date./you and your taste/are worth the salmonella shakes.' I mean, it was like old times, the room destroying fucking. Jesus can't you hear the mattress in my voice? Is that what I need to get this back, vaguely offensive and charming poetry? Can your friend write more like that?”

  “What if doesn't work again?”

  “Then she'll break up with me. Or stay with me and just throw up an ice wall all over my dick. Shit, maybe that's not a good idea, then.”

  “Do you still want to break things off with her?”

  “I...yeah...this wedding planning shit is driving me crazy and it's driving her crazy and I think it would be better to just end things at this point.”

  “What are you more scared of, being alone or being with her?”

  “What?”

  Oh shit. “Ignore what I just said.”

  “What do you mean am I scared of being alone or being with her?”

  “It's just...look Peter, I just ended things with my fiancee and it took a stranger to do it because he wouldn't listen to me. He learned to drown my voice out with PBR. You keep saying you want to end things but I don't think you want to end things. Was that thing in the IKEA really an accident? Did you read the poem the right way?”

  “Why are you asking me this shit? Your supposed to help me end things. I mean, you needed a stranger. I need one too.”

  “Peter...” I take a deep breath. “Peter, you don't want to end things. I can tell in your voice. You love Eden. A lot. Don't do this. Please...” I stick my thumb in my right tear duct. “Don't fucking do this to her. Don't. Don't.” The phone lays on the other end of the living room. I'm trying to breathe through my hands, but I can't. I'm not good at this at all. I don't know how to keep anyone. I don't know how to help anyone let go.

  J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009), The Serial Rapist Sitting Behind You is a Robot (Safety Third Enterprises, 2010), and Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2011). He is a contributing writer to Specter Magazine, the Interviews Editor of PANK Magazine, and lives at iheartfailure.net.

  TOBI COGSWELL

  TRANSFIXED. SOFTLY

  She got tattoos the way some people got therapy. When she turned 18 she defiantly placed a rose in a spot where it wouldn’t show in a wedding dress and it wouldn’t stretch with weight gain and weight loss like Silly Putty on the funnies. When her marriage got broken she had the word for strength carved at the top of her shoulder where she could glance down and remind herself. When her divorce was final she graced her body with a phoenix. Happily she now inked her lover’s lips on the inside of her right wrist, closing her eyes and remembering his beautiful face as he kissed her there.

  RAINCHECK IN THE BOOK OF MORNINGS

  Sun blinding off windshields,

  a ricochet of white that no shade can

  camouflage no matter what the intention.

  Pupils constrict into pinpricks.  Heat,

  cold, time on the clock it doesn’t matter.

  I should have stayed home with you.

  Tobi Cogswell is a two-time Pushcart nominee. Blah blah. She has three chapbooks and her full-length poetry collection Poste Restante is available from Bellowing Ark Press. She is the co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.sprreview.com).

  JOHN HARVEY

  HEAVEN AND EARTH

  We turn each other from chair to bed,

  tracing small fires along

  the hallway, above waves.

  Our breath forms islands, wrecked

  galleons on my shoulder, your stomach.

  Sixty-watt flames burn great

  sea monsters and wild beasts of every

  kind into our eyes—

  so much to see, so much to touch.

  Hills slope into grass and

  whispers. Your thighs round off a darker sky.

  I pull you on top of me,

  hold your neck, drag white silk from your

  shoulders, cup your breasts.

  A swath of black rides above your hips and

  my head sinks into a blue sofa—

  wine-dark sea, wheel-like fan

  of flowers. Pray your husband

  dies broken, burned on the interstate.

  Pray any you loved before

  go blind and sick. Pray my wife jumps

  from a bridge and drowns.

  Happy the woman who kills anything not love.

  Happy the man who murders

  his children, walks away.

  I’VE SAILED FURTHER INTO DAYLIGHT THAN ANY PORTUGUESE SAILOR

  In the anti-traveler’s book of cul-de-sacs

  light’s the only excursion. This pour warms my lungs.

  My hands turn over an hour like a sail pulled

  away from the sky.

  I thumb turquoise air and watch dust play across

  an empty shirt. The sun threshes my skin, cuts

  blue from bone. I’m a little holocaust laid

  on our bed. Fire streams

  through windows, burns my face into dark, peach walls

  and green shutters. Smoke and sweet smell. At daybreak,

  my heart’s a handful of ash poured in a glass.

  Drink.

  THEOGONY

  An ankle against tile, hand clinging to

  a chair. Flesh painted on cupboards,

  windows—our moans like pooled water, calm sea.

  The house breathes. Your hair falls on my knee.

  I lift your face to mine, always to my mouth.

  The stove dreams a brilliant sun, white clouds,

  silver leaves cutting the air. Your fingers find my cock.

  We hear children’s laughter touch, flatten then scatter

  across the road. I press inside you and

  the world burns into life.

  John Harvey directs the Center for Creative Work at The Honors College, University of Houston and is Resident Playwright for Mildred's Umbrella Theater Company. His poems have appeared in Gulf Coast, The Paris Review, Poet Lore, XCP and other journals.

  MICHAEL MARTIN

  from COLLAGRAPHY

  Ten thousand miles later and the horizon hasn’t moved.

  Someone died in the car that’s why he sold it for cheap.

  Someone probably died right where I’m sitting and, and,

  I’m sitting there—a good soul from Long Beach discussed

  vortexs of energy with me until the bus rolled by for our tokens.

  We are filters and as such some things are left behind.

  I wonder how often I’m me.

  Five hundred miles retracing ourselves,

  one hundred miles on the right track,

  the horizon hasn’t moved. JR hasn’t given up the wheel,

  I don’t want him to I don’t trust my wherewithal.

  He advises me to consider compiling a report

  And sending it to the interdimensional police for investigation,

  Because this is just stupid.

  I’m thinking I will also CC my youngerself.

  Let him know your mistakes are small devastating blows.

  from THE SOFT DESTRUCTION OF A SINGLE ENTITY OVER A PERIOD OF TIME MIGHT CALL AGING

  I died around the same time you lived.

  We are not punctual people. Or functional.

  Kind of like how NM means nevermind and not much.

  By the way, I’m eating y
our girlfriend out while Hunter plays on tv,

  Stepfanie Kramer as Dee Dee McCall, “the Brass Cupcake”

  discussing the merits of being grim, example: Monkeys trained

  to locate high value mine fields and tinker with the suckers

  until it’s safe to move out, because blown up monkey is worth

  twenty minutes in the jungle with an oversized lidded butterfly net.

  I’m thinking this still swirling my tongue up and down

  and you’re girlfriend is loving the motion, her hips gyrate.

  Excuse the all-in-one printer printing blank pages of a manifesto

  written in the condensation of our heavy breaths. Enjoy

  while it lasts, this is a freebie. This is a piano falling,

  a near death experience. Or not. Or I’m a dead fish

  and your girl is just happy to have someone new

  fucking up the motion of her ocean.

  Michael J. Martin works in the IT field solving downright hilarious problems. Various poems have sprouted legs or are doing preparatory stretches in journals like New York Quarterly, Juked, Drunken Boat. But better yet, look for the poems themselves. "from Quantum Leap" might be a good start.

  DEMISTY D. BELLINGER

  STATE FAIR REVERIE

  AT the fair, the hawker with the little handheld hand-sized vacuum cleaner sucked purposely made crumbs from a square of material. “No more messy table cloths again,” he said, and I stood there with one, still in its almost obsolete clamshell package, in my hands and thought: it’ll need batteries, it’ll have a pair then run out, and I’ll always mean to replace them, to recycle the old ones, to buy rechargeable ones. And I see it sitting there in the pile of junk we keep by the bureau, a pile full of stuff that we need batteries or parts or inks or whatever for covered with a light coat of dust which will grow fuzzier and more fuzzy as the days pass by. Those things will never have batteries or parts or inks, they will remain there until we move, when we’ll sit there, sorting through that shit, wondering what to save, what to toss, what’s sentimentally salvageable and what is useless and what we have forgotten about, what is almost so nice to remember together it hurts like all fuck—I’m standing there with a little vacuum in my hand thinking how