The Bicycle Review

Issue # 28
23 June, 2014






Poetry and Prose by Steve Barratta, John Bennett, Wayne F. Burke, Pris
Campbell, Jeremy Cantor, Brent Michael Canle, Neeli Cherkovski, John
Cravens, M. Justine Gerard, K.T. Gutting, Maria Poggi Johnson, Joel
Landmine, Jared Yates Sexton, Mitchell Untch, and Gerald Yelle.

Original Artworks by Sean Norvet.

Photography by Rebecca McGetrick.

Published by the Pedestrian Press. All works reprinted herein are the
property of their creators and should not be reproduced for fun or profit
without their express permission.


1

The Bicycle Review #28
Five years of B.R. Whoopee. I'm going to spare you my usual rambling
introduction, as I'm so far behind deadline that to compose some such note would
be the height of self-indulgence. I think the art and writing in this issue speaks for
itself anyhow.
I do want to take a minute to mention the passing of Steve Barratta, a fixture of the
Los Angeles Poetry Scene from which this magazine originally emerged before
our relocation to the Bay Area, and a friend of mine for some 18 years. Steve, we
loved you, and we will miss you.

(Steve with J de Salvo and S. j. Cruz, MacArthur Park, Los Angeles, October 2013. Photo by Rhea Adri.)

Share the Road,
J de Salvo


2


(Photo of Steve during the Open Windows Radio show, by Rhea Adri.)

3

There is no mind


No one mind
Or collective mind
Only reactionary
Neo-Conservative
Feminist Anarchist
And revolutionary minds

And the revolution
Will not be televised
Because no one can
Make up their mind
As to which station
Will air it

But never mind
Because there is no mind
No one mind
Or collective mind

And the minds eyes' vision
Has been obscured
By an evangelistic visionary
Who will proclaim
That he will come
Like a thief in the night
To steal the next election

But never mind
Because bear in mind
There is no mind
No one mind
Or collective mind

4


And if we all had
A half a mind
We would all be rational
Wishful thinking? But never mind

Copyright 2010 by Steve Barratta

5


6

She Said She Would Go To The Ends Of The Earth
But She Didnt Even Go To The End of October (Consolation Prize)


We lay in bed that last night,
the sex brought her out
from wherever it is
that shed been hiding
inside herself

for the past few weeks.

She said
(as a few other
well-meaning assholes
already had)

Just think of all the great poems youll get out of this!

Id be happy to never write another good poem as long as I live,
to just have you here with me.
Fuck poems, I said,
I want you, fool.

But fuck, man.

She left anyway. So here we are.








Copyright 2014 by Joel Landmine

7


8

STONE

But we have charms against their rage
Lew Welch

A silver sudden parody of snow
e e cummings


1


this plan our planet

three-ring circus of performing magicians
on platforms
in the ocean

he suffered in the room
wed call sky
and think of more kindly waters
than were used to

those of us who wade

diminutive boat we call intellect
cresting on white tip
of an angered wave

we were more capable of learning
the craft of stone

while at the bottom of our minds
a gentle alchemy was taking place

sand salt sea-surge old snow

crystal birds
on air made of glass
that cracks unless
youre careful

9

our planet
built on wood and cement

making art in a vacuum

coming up for air on a meaningless
meadow of grass and stone
reeling from the knowledge




2


sun is on fire
as we weave baskets
of native straw

men are confused

they fill their eyes with gravel
on rough paths

power of a shadow
on crickets back

men cling to sorrow
near smoke plume

delicate aroma
of strawberries and burnt flesh

emotions cling
to tough edges of the gypsum screen

mother gathered strawberries
and cleaned off ashes with a garden hose

simple eyes a world of wrong




10

wholl pull off a miracle on the stone mirror
and what do they imagine
theyll see? surely not a flock of geese
shameless sublime

mind demands a quiet moment
in homage to early technology
on the altar

quietus dread father

mulberry branches
embrace a fallen log

late Autumn

forest is abuzz with wasps

monolith-stone serves
as an anchor

stone will finally roll over grass
engendering a catalogue
of dying animals

venerable song between whispering walnut trees
in dead vineyards
of Virginia Dare

people name the monolith
and depend on it as if it were
an amulet

caution advised
step carefully
into charnel dream-house

so many people
much to think over

twisted notions
of probity numerous priorities

11

fulcrum swings
birds
peck at ribbons
around the base

five fathoms down
synapses collapse

squiggles deepen the minds expanse

out of pure drafts
come colors muted
in rhapsodic tinctures

rock noon heat


pencil him in
and be thankful
for his legs and arms

this man huddled in on a smooth surface
now part of the schemata

fingers clutching or
taking
eyes roaming
drawing men
on stone

as they throw themselves
onto the highway
and cause a traffic jam


perhaps its time
for more light
to hit snow-burdened peaks
and railroad trestles
clinging to the cliff

but how proceed?

12

igneous
mica limestone granite marble

what to say
when materials
refuses to speak?

capture a rhythm
drawn from
cold flat stone
and surrender

children wronged

ceremonies dimmed
by official in bright uniform

deadly pleasure
of officialdom

upper class
narrow-mindedness

what constitutes
a blue-blood
in an old sense
of the word

primitive music
pounding
like hammers
on a walk
in the woods

birds hidden
under thick cover
of branches

who knows river-bird
or sun-bird
or moon-cat


13

dog-bird
moon-dog
and letters
to be held
in the arms
cherished
bound in books

stone refuses to speak

obdurate frantic
maker of lines

an uncanny time
moves over
round cover

rain flees into dust
puddles reflect eucalyptus
and a solitary crow




3


unforgiving
impatient
man of stone leaning
on a childs head

dog barks
cat meows
day goes dark
frost builds up

aurora borealis
rises on a distant
plank of earth



14

frost bleeds minute particles
of ice

desire falls
underneath wheels
of a lumber truck
rambling

raise a cry
in the night
of a dreamscape

surreal
deeply felt
dark Venetian winter
sublime walls
stubble dark sky

stone
on the wall

stone in a
heart

stone of
a Latin song
the old man
carries in a satchel
on the quay
facing a mythic republic

try to find
a key in what is cherished
and felt as if it were nothing but nature
amusing nature

drops of rain
a torrent
high water and
our stone

cracks in time

15

Moses in the church

marble arms and beard

fierce eyes living sound
of the sculptors poem

paeans for the siren
who lives
on a momentous peak

in spring
stone-cutters go to work




4


Im yours
a stone in the eyes
a lizard crawling
between your lips

to look thoughtfully
from monolith
to lunar bones

turn
stone pages

find eager river
cutting a path

century behind
lost

never to be found again

bits of music
lines writ in cement


16

no one escapes the grip
even when father says
REMEMBER ME

as stone strikes stone
in violent night

embrace gnarled wood and reach
to rich wet soil
teeming life
lines of shadow light refracted

mirror mind monolithic fear

hold to the dark tower
in rings
of stone

Das Machen

come near

breath of stone
on the frontier
muddled in rain water

songs from the ancient regime

snow bedded on the ridge
and snow held in the palm

and sunlight
eating the ice

who do you wish to embrace
one moment more?

to whom do you offer
the snow man?

stern listener in silence


17

Im yours
in these pages
of dry grass
long after the sky has melted

drawing on hard earth



5


the pharmacist
stumbles
from his cove

hes a bee
hovering over pills and
merchandise
in the 20
th
Century
on the ramp

room of naked ladies
from cities, towns, and villages
clinging to poison air

blood surges
out of their bodies

I dare
to whisper in your ear

under the monoliths crude shadow
cold afternoon
warn at noon
near-freezing sunrise

the pharmacist
wears a clean white smock

he smokes his pipe
under Jungfraus shoulder

18

stone touches
stone true eyes
meet troubled words

in the new era
old themes revamped
and miniaturized

whose horizon vanishes?

when?

lithe dancers demand some attention
in the snow melt

men huddle
round steaming mugs
at dawn

take care creating light
elder boy grown to embrace the leaves
on somber oak trees
along the coast this is the planet and our plaents pace


trade no part-time muse

talk interferes
we have no part of it

push shout

cruel lips dazed date-line

weather vane vain striving

forward stand watch

remember the fathers

if only were able



19

working strata crayon on a flat cold
surface

ladies screaming
until they choke unless a songbird
is released

purses on fire

toes roasted

breathing eyesight turned
into rust

May I have some of the
strawberries?

I adore every shudder
of your flesh
and honor our tattered souls

bone on bone










Copyright 2014 by Neeli Cherkovski

20



21

Bargain

The old hooker won't
shut her mouth while
I fuck her, punch her
off and on for the hell
of it.

She mews like a kitten,
brags how Clinton once
hired her, Hugh Grant
and even JFK, the day
before his blood flooded
the streets in Texas.

She claims she once
did a Platoon on leave
in Saigon before they
marched back to rust-
colored jungles and
still has a Cong ear
to prove it.

I decline her offer
to show me.

By now, I know she's
delusional. She smells
like stale smoke and
garlic, besides, but
the price was right and

a man has
his needs, doesn't he?
Copyright 2014 by Pris Campbell

22




23

The More Syndrome

Double tall mochas. Triple apple-cider delights. Banana splits stuffed with cherry
bombs. They go off in your mouth and blow your new dentures to smithereens.

This is what happens when the More Syndrome escalates out of control. You'll
sacrifice your first born and your illegal immigrant house maid for your next fix.
You'll trade in your Mazda for a tricycle and pedal down the freeway to get to
your dealer's house.

It sounds dangerous, but it's not. There's nothing but tricycles on the freeway
these days, and the occasional Moped. Everyone is trading down, full-grown
men pedaling across town on tricycles, their knees up around their ears with
every turn of the pedals.

A law had to be passed to allow tricycles on the freeway. The mayor pulled up at
the press conference to make the announcement on his tricycle, larger than
most, the deluxe model. He apologized for being late, but the street traffic was
heavy and the Freeway Tricycle Law wouldn't go into effect until midnight.

Only the Hell's Angels opposed the Freeway Tricycle Law, going against the
grain as usual. They took to racing up the freeway against traffic in wedge
formation, knocking upstanding citizens off their tricycles with baseball bats. The
National Guard had to be deployed in helicopters, apprehending the Angels by
flying low and scooping them up in metal-mesh nets.

Quite a few citizens on tricycles got caught up in the nets along with the Angels,
and some of them were seriously injured, but it was a price that had to be paid if
law-and-order was to be restored.


Copyright 2014 by John Bennett

24



25

News from a Liberated Colony

The beekeeper thinks hes clever, listing smoke as a business expense. But his
claim is legit. We dont tax his tobacco. And the farmer who says the size of his
crop depends on the size of his family: we need his sorghum so we exempt him
from the one-child law.

His wife gives him nine.

The youngest, a son whose long neck and big ears strain for the city where the
one-child law holds sway, can at least find a woman. He may actually forget
about posterity preferring instead preventive maintenance for the cardio-
vascular disease hes just learned hes genetically predisposed to Doctors
order tests after finding irregularities in the creases of his earlobes.

What we provide for those at risk: a regimen of pharmaceuticals, high fiber,
exercise cosmetics to preclude discrimination and laws against it when it
occurs.

This is the approach we take toward aging. We use the expiration dates on
hearts and lungs to channel people into programs that discourage the taking of
desperate measures as they come full term. Mystics have no place here: With
no uncertainty, no anxiety no solitary forays into the cold light of silence, people
are less likely to see themselves as unique individuals, less likely to cultivate
initiative, more likely to accept counseling and training.

We appropriate critics rather than suppress them. If one draws skulls mouthing
death by the numbers we seize on the humor, march in columns to a
wilderness we win as a team with skulls drawn on our shirts and mission-
oriented experts setting depots in the snow. This vastly outshines the state of
affairs whereby the keeper cannot follow the bee to a peaceful end he pictures
his lungs wriggling like the gills of an eel on the deck of a trawler, unable to
believe the body knows what to do when the time comes.

Its the same with the farmers son. Ashamed of his thin neck, hes plagued by
nightmares of being hanged or beheaded, it never occurs to him that
slenderness inspires tenderness. Wave as he rounds the bend. See how he
hunches his shoulders.

Copyright 2014 by Gerald Yelle

26




27

Small Talk


Madam?
What?
It had been a long night. Benayas feet hurt in cheap high heels. Clients
were scarce this evening. The retro beats of Daft Punk gave her a headache.
Shed been nursing the same weak martini for over two hours. She was ready to
call it a night when he showed up.
Available?
He looked at her expectantly. He was young, well-dressed, and obviously
from another part of the city or from another zone. Benaya wondered what he
was doing on The Strip. There were more upscale places to purchase pleasure.
Available? he repeated.
Maybe.
Benaya leaned forward to show off the deep cleft in her ample bosom.
She tried not to raise her left brow. The rules kept changing. It was hard to keep
up with the mandates, the constant downsizing. She remembered the good old
days when she did not have to guard her tongue.
Maybe, she repeated with a smile and licked her lower lip.
He blushed, opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. Benaya looked
him over. He was tall and well-built, which made her suspicious. She saw none
of the tell-tale signs: slightly dilated pupils from contact camera lenses, or the
bulge of cuffs in his shirtwaist.
Cop?
No!
She drew back. He answered too quickly for her comfort. There were so
many ways to get caught. She already had four convictions. One more would
land her in permanent rehab.
She leaned forward again. His eyes followed her movements, lingered on
her small waist, generous hips, and ripe breasts. Benayas body didnt follow the
genetic dictates of fashion; the waiflike, spiky black-haired girls that dominated
the public consciousness. She brushed back a lock of true red hair, which fell in
a rich tangle to her waist. She was rebelliously proud of her assets, though they
exiled her from polite society.
Cop?
He took a step closer. She could smell his cologne: faint, spicy, and
expensive. He put his palms up in the air.
No.
Benaya relaxed. He got it.

28

He turned to the bartender, and gestured toward Benayas glass. Within
seconds, he handed Benaya a fresh martini. She took a generous sip. He
smiled, relieved.
He sat on the barstool next to hers. For a few moments, they sipped their
drinks in silence. He reached out to stroke her hair. Benaya let him. He had
money. He wanted company. She had bills to pay.
She set down her glass and turned to face him. Up close, she could see
he wasnt as young as he appeared. Small age lines branched out from the
corners of his blue eyes on his lean face. His black hair was sprinkled with gray.
Benaya wondered at this. He had money. Why did he let his real age show?
Legal? she asked.
He nodded. He put down his drink and turned over his wrist. A line of silver
dots were embedded over the pulse point. He gestured. She matched her wrist
with his. Immediately, the room faded around them as they became enclosed in
a privacy bubble. A line of information ran before her eyes. Niall Germaine. 46
years old. Occupation: Sculptor. Status: Legal/Single. Diseases: None. Place of
birth: Paris, France, raised in Rangoon. Siblings: one brother (deceased, 12
years of age)... Benaya lifted her wrist from Nialls. The bubble disappeared.
Too many details. He wasnt a felon, a cop, or under the age of 30.
Niall.
Benaya.
Yes. He smiled.
Benaya didnt like where this was heading. It was getting too personal.
Fee.
Yes.
50.
He frowned.
35, he countered.
40, she stated.
40? he echoed
Yes. She sat back and waited.
Niall nodded. Satisfied, Benaya leaned forward. She reached up to stroke
his cheek. He closed his eyes. He savored her touch. She wondered when was
the last time hed been intimate.
Benaya bit her lower lip, since 40K would take care of the immediate bills
and give her a couple of days off.
Terms?
Yes.
Kiss?
Yes.

29

Tongue?
Yes.
Blowjob?
Condom.
Anal?
Condom.
Bare-back?
Condom!
He smiled. She realized Niall was teasing her.
Words?
Red flag. Benaya raised an eyebrow.
No.
He blushed again. She found herself liking him a bit more. It meant he was
honest.
Niall hopped off the bar stool. Benaya followed. She turned toward the
bartender and winked. The bartender waved his hand in assent. Shed worked
out an arrangement with him for special clients. Hed take care of everything.
Benaya led Niall through the almost-deserted bar, and out into the street.
The night was wet and warm with the promise of more rain. Immediately,
Benaya put her hand to the back of her hair. She prayed the curls would stay
straight, but with the humidity that was highly unlikely.
They walked south for two blocks. Benayas arches protested vociferously.
She ignored the pain. She hoped Niall would tip her well enough to buy a new
pair of decent high heels. At the end of the second block was a low wide
building called Hotel Splendor. Before they entered the lobby, she turned to
find him standing a few feet away. He stared up at the sign.
Coming? she asked.
Niall hesitated. She watched him clasp his hands to his chest and furrow
his brow. What the hell is wrong with him? she thought. She didnt want to lose
this deal.
Coming? she asked and held out her hand.
Niall looked up. He walked over and took her hand. She led him inside.
The lobby was decorated in mid-20th century tones - olive green, brown, and
beige. A scratch-plaid sofa took up one wall.
Benaya led Niall past the check-in desk and down a short hallway. At the
end of the hall was an elevator door. She pushed the button marked Up. The
door slid open. She led Niall inside. The elevator was chrome-paneled. Benaya
caught a glimpse of her hair - curly. She pushed the button marked -7. The
elevator descended. Surprised, Niall looked at Benaya.
Underground. she explained. Niall was silent. Benaya suppressed a

30

smile. Did he think they were going to have sex in the lobby?
The elevator door opened. Beyana stepped out. Niall followed. They were
in a brightly- lit hall lined with chrome and steel. Oval doorways ran down both
sides of the hall, which curved off into a sharp decline.
Benaya swiftly walked down the hall. Niall followed, close on her heels.
They kept walking until they reached the curve of the hall, which descended into
darkness.
Benaya paused before a door.
Here. she told him. He nodded. Beyana touched her index finger to the
scanner mounted next to the door. The door slid open.
As they entered the room, Benaya noticed that everything was in place.
Virtual candles gleamed from brackets in the walls, the bed was turned down,
champagne was in bucket, and the glasses were unwrapped. As usual, the
bartender had come through.
Benaya kicked off her shoes with relief. Now three inches shorter, she
stood up to Nialls shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. She smiled and
looked away.
Champagne? she asked as she gestured toward the bottle. He reached
for the bottle. Deftly, he unwrapped the stopper. The cork released with a small
pop. He poured champagne into two glasses. He handed her one.
Cheers, he said, and toasted her with the glass. She pretended to take a
sip. Benaya never drank on the job. Too many opportunities to get into trouble,
she reminded herself.
She set the glass down. She walked over to Niall and took away his glass.
She set it next to hers on the table, and then put a hand on his chest. He smiled.
Benaya gently ran her hand up and down Nialls torso while her other hand
found its way into his pants. The tell-tale bulge appeared. She looked up. Nialls
eyes were closed. His body tensed as she pulled off his shirtwaist, his pants,
and his boots. He stood in the middle of the room, a pale sculpted statue. Hard
as a rock, she observed. And, hes packing.
Benaya led Niall to the bed. She pushed him back into the mattress. He
reached for her.
Wait, she told him. She stepped back. She turned her back to Niall.
Slowly, gracefully, she started to slip off the straps of her dress. She let it linger
briefly on her shoulders and then slide down down down... until it landed in
a small pile at her feet. Clad only in her long fall of curly hair, she darted into the
bathroom and then out again. She held a package of condoms.
Benaya laid her body alongside Nialls. His erection pointed straight into
the air. She quickly opened the package of condoms, and then slid one over his
cock. Nialls hands grasped Benaya about her waist. Surprised, she felt herself

31

lifted and turned over. Niall lay over her. She started to rise. He gently pushed
her back. He knelt between her legs, caressed her thighs. She felt herself grow
wet. She tried to rise again, but he stopped her.
Condom, she stated.
He smiled, and rose up. She could see the condom was still on and firmly
in place. She relaxed. Niall gently lowered himself onto her. His mouth engulfed
one of her breasts. He suckled, gently bit, first one, then the other until her
nipples were as erect as his cock. Shocked, Benaya felt herself grow warmer
and wetter between her thighs. She tried to get up. Niall stopped her. With one
hand on her stomach, he moved his other hand between her legs, and teased
her vaginal lips apart until he found her clit. He massaged her clit until she
squirmed with pleasure. He moved his hand down, inserted one finger, then
another, into her wet pussy. Excited, Benaya squeezed around his hand. Niall
inserted a third finger. He rotated all three digits inside her pussy until she
groaned.
Please, she begged.
Niall withdrew his fingers. He knelt again between her legs. Cock in hand,
he gently inserted himself into Benaya.
Benaya moaned. Niall was massive. She bit her lip and did her to keep
silent. Clearly, he can tell how much I like this. Fuck, I have to keep my mouth
shut!
Niall flexed inside her. Surprised, Benaya opened her mouth.
Ohg
He paused. Benaya tensed. Hes trying to get me to break the law! No! I
wont do it! Niall began to move in and out, in and out... Benaya lost her train of
thought. Her pussy burned with need as he rammed faster and harder against
her cervix.
Mmmmmmm she moaned between bitten lips. Niall smiled at her
discomfort. He turned her over onto him. Benaya felt him spear her even deeper.
She didnt think was possible. Taking advantage of being on top, she rode him
hard; up and down and up and down. He grabbed her hips, and thrust himself
up into her.
Fused together, and breathing hard, the heat between them generated a
sheen of sweat over their bodies reflected in the virtual candlelight. Beyana felt
Niall's hands caress her bottom, and then explore the crack of her ass. She lay
still as he pried her ass cheeks apart. He found her other tight, dark hole. His
index finger began to poke inward past the sphincter into her back passage.
Beyana groaned. With a burst of energy, Niall lifted Beyana off his cock and
turned her around. She felt his eager hands separate her globes and the warm
pressure of his cock as Niall, with one slow slide, slid up the the hilt into her ass.

32

Benaya was speechless. Niall filled every corner of her. She discovered,
much to her surprise, that she liked this backdoor invasion - one she merely
tolerated before. Niall started to move within her. He ignited thousands of nerves
she didnt know she had. His movements increased. Benaya felt him thicken
and swell. She smiled. He drilled into her, merciless and fiercely. She felt herself
growing lighter as his cock pushed farther and deeper into her. She compressed
her lips to remain silent.
Niall increased the pace. Benaya moaned as the orgasm started to take
hold. She sensed the growing tide of his orgasm was about to burst. Niall moved
faster faster faster
Ohhhhh!!!! Benaya moaned. Her body shook. Niall pulled back then
pushed forward one last time. Their bodies, caught in a mutual moment of
ecstasy, shook with release. Benaya felt the sudden shift in pressure as Niall,
exhausted, bent into her back. Finished, they collapsed on the bed.

* * * * *

Benaya woke to Nialls smiling face. Embarrassed, she rolled over and
hugged the pillow.
Say...
Benaya turned. Niall frowned.
What?
Say he said.
She stared at him, incredulous.
Some thing,he said. Say something to me. Please. Say anything.
Benaya cringed. She felt trapped. This was not what their agreement.
Quickly, she jumped out of bed, grabbed her dress and her shoes.
No!
Ill pay you more, Niall pleaded. He clambered out of bed and rifled
through his clothes until he found his wallet. He reached in and pulled out a card.
It was platinum. Benaya knew Niall was serious.
Niall grabbed Benayas arm. She tried to free herself, but Niall held onto
her arm.
Ill pay you! Ill pay you another 40, anything you want. Please! I need to
talk to someone!
Benaya struggled to free herself. Niall wouldnt let her go.
No! She shouted, to no avail. They were in a soundproof room.
Talk to me. You have no idea how isolated I feel. My class is only allowed
to use 100 word a day! Last year, it was a thousand. Ive saved my words for
weeks. I need to have a conversation with another person. Everyone is silent.

33

Why? Please, please, please, talk to me!
Benaya remained silent. Niall looked into her eyes.
I need to speak. More than I need art, food, sex, money. I need to save
myself from the silence. Please, speak to me!
No!
Why?
Death!
Benaya hung her head. Niall let her go. He gave her his card. She passed
it over her wrist. When she heard a beep, she knew she had her money.


Benaya ran to the door. She turned. Niall seated on the bed, crying. Her
heart constricted. It wasnt fair. It was the law, but she didnt want to break that
law.
Sorry, she said and left.









Copyright 2013 by M. Justine Gerard


34




35

Bte Noire


A cat is hunting a mouse
in the dark
just outside the squirrel 's hollow tree

The squirrel
hopes that noise is not an owl
who sees better at night than the cat
who sees better at night than the mouse
who sees better at night than he does

The squirrel is too afraid of the owl
to write a poem about him

Instead, he will write a poem
about the cat, or perhaps
about the mouse, who will
(tomorrow morning
when the sun is so bright
it would hurt his eyes if he went out)
stay in
and find himself unable
to write a poem
about the cat





Copyright 2014 by Jeremy Cantor

36




37

The Return


I met the man who will skin me alive. He told me so, cleanly shucking
the skin from some nameless love over a bathroom sink while The Love
faced the mirror, mouth hanging open in silent scream, dripping and still

living. He took the eyes last with an assertive pull each, tied the nerves
together and hung them by the shower rod. Washing his hands, he told me
soon and I woke recalling his approach through the peephole. He moved
like a figure in a strobe light.








Copyright 2014 by K.T. Gutting

38



39

Measurements of Desire


My friends and I go out for drinks to become mindless,
which Ive always argued an impossibility because
the mind is not an organ, but an infinity.

This morning, the coffee shop is a cacophony of bird noises.
Little throttles: sex, measured in the length of discourse.

Rain outside. Water ripped from the asphalt weaves into mist.
Shadows drift like torn gowns.

A song over the loudspeaker: someone wails about a torn aorta.
The strings of the guitar sing like the strings of the voice,
a razor see-sawing over a wrist.

These are limits to pain that even music cant measure:
Brahms, Rachmaninoff, Firebird Suite, Mozarts Requiem, Aretha,

but whos counting?

Recycled cups keep lips moist, mouths slightly ajar.
Lipstick blooms along the rims, the steams curling edges.

The front door swings out, the way the heart does, a red template,
a mirror on one side in which other selves are stamped.

Sometimes we forget that its ok to laugh
that we are meant to laugh, that this too
is a travelling of self,

unaware of its great, great distance.

On the table beside me, a photograph of a young man
on the cover of Time Magazine peers through a pair of binoculars.

He stands on water, like Jesus, brightly polished.
How far is it between where he is and what he is looking for?


40

Lately, Ive learned not to measure steps but interior motives.

My coffees cold. Heat spreads throughout the ventilation system
so they have more room to move, to vent.

I read somewhere that birds can usually fly from 150 miles
to over 300 miles daily depending on their size and energy reserves.
that Godwits can fly 7,242 miles without stopping.

How far does the soul travel when theres no one else attached to it?

I say this because scientists have learned to measure the sound of an embrace.






Copyright 2014 by Mitchell Untch

41




42

Angel of Light.

Although the alley is high and narrow, a beam of moonlight finds its way
into the car. shining softly off the blade. I turn the knife gently from side to side,
watching the light shift. It is beautiful. Almost a benediction. Almost, I feel
peaceful, ready.
A brighter light bludgeons the moonlight aside. A flashlight beam from an
invisible hand. The knife thuds to the floor.
Sir, please get out of the car.
There are two of them: a young woman, tiny but sturdy, is holding the
flashlight. Her partner, tall, flabby, grey, watches, leaning against the car. Its
beams illuminate a stretch of brick wall to which cling shredded decades of
posters.
What were you doing in the car, sir?
What can I say? I want to tell her why I was there, what I was going to do,
but shame clamps me into silence.
Pat him down, Ange.
Sir, please place your hands on the vehicle.
Her hands are tiny, brisk but soft. They are comforting in a way that has
nothing to do with sex. If I had the knife, I could pull it on her. They would
arrest me. There would be people, lights, noise, questions, locks, keys. They
would take my belt, my shoelaces. But the knife is on the floor in the dark car.
Hes clean, Tim she says. Then to me, Sir, would you please tell me
what you were doing in the car?
She sounds interested, I think. She really wants to know. An idea gleams
into my mind.
Want to come with me and see, shorty? I force myself to say, moving
towards her. Her partner steps forward.
Its OK, Tim, I got this.
But he is wary, protective,
Cut that out, son.
If I provoke him, perhaps he will hit me. I will fall, I will feign
unconsciousness, or a broken bone. There will be an ambulance. There will be
clean sheets, lights, noise, bustle. Other hands will touch me, people will ask me
questions. Eventually they will make me answer. I muster my courage.
What, you jealous, fatty? Want a piece of her yourself? I bet shes got a
sweet . . .



43

My voice fades. I am paralyzed by disgust. She doesnt flinch but
continues to look at me searchingly, concern alight in her eyes, but not for
herself.
My ugly words hang in the air. I have to drown them, but if I apologize,
they will lose interest and leave. I clutch at a new idea. The limp shred of a
poster catches my eye, and I clutch at an idea. I let my jaw drop, and point
trembling over their shoulders. I try to scream, but can only manage a dry croak,
pathetic.
Theyve come for me! The demons have come! See their red eyes!
Perhaps a psych ward, plastic knives, a straitjacket holding me tight to
myself. Perhaps there they will make me tell then what brought me to this
moment. Or perhaps I can learn how to sink into real madness, to go to a world
peopled by demons, angels, voices that wont leave me by myself.
The older cop isnt buying it: he knows I am faking and he doesnt care
why. The little woman is puzzled and she does care.
Is there someone we can call for you, sir?
Nobody. Theres nobody. Nobody.
Please stay there a minute.
There is a low consultation by the car, her voice hushed but urgent. His
cuts over her,
Ange, let it go. Goddammit girl, youre a cop, not a social worker. There
are bad guys out there. This ones not even high, just a sad-sack. Lets get out
of here.
She turns back to me, and our eyes meet for a long moment: her face is
uncertain. I try to find a way to keep her there, but I am out of ideas. I am out of
everything.
Have a good evening, sir. A good evening.
The doors slam. The headlights widen and sweep over the tattered wall,
curving away from me. The tail-lights, slitted red eyes, withdraw. Even demons
will not stay with me.
In the car, I find the knife and hold it up before my face. It had been
beautiful for a moment, a benediction. But the moon has also left me.



Copyright 2014 by Maria Poggi Johnson

44




45

Ballantine


Whenever I drank Ballantine Ale
I got mean, or
maybe I was already mean;
I dont know;
I dont think so;
but
anyway,
one day
not long ago
after emptying several
of the green bottles
I got it into my head
that this big guy
who had an ugly face
Id seen around town
had somehow
done me wrong
and I saw the guy
on the opposite side of the street
from me
and I screamed
YOU! GET OVER HERE!
like I was talking to a dog
and the guy stared
and I started across the street
and he ran
fast
as I chased him
to a house
he ran inside of
and I followed
up a staircase
to a door
where the guy
stood
holding an axe
and I backed

46

slowly
down the stairs
and left
just as cops arrived
in their shiny car
that I got a free ride in.










Copyright 2010 by Wayne F. Burke


47

1


SPROCKET MAN'S REFLECTION



As Sprocket Man looked along the beach toward the pier he felt
pleased: another perfect day, water at sixty-five degrees, air at seventy-
one, thin wispy cirrus clouds, and pleasant sunshine. He did not carry any
extra weight on his lanky body and he was nut brown from being in the sun
every day. He was alone, with nothing that anyone would want. Safe and
secure with peace-of-mind, he often said to himself, over and over again,
whenever he felt afraid. When he thought of it, he understood that any
satisfaction he had ever had was already gone, but not because of
anything he had done or was doing now. Worse; there was nothing he
could ever do that would change anything about his loss of everything.
Sprocket Man sat on his patch of canvas on the sand facing the ocean
with the smooth path at his back. He looked behind him, toward the rising
sun, and a flash of reflected light came from the polished chrome bicycle
sprocket that hung from his neck on a sweat-stained red ribbon. His chosen
totem today, with Shimano stamped prominently near its edge. The precise
holes through the disc seemed to him a map of the universe: negative
spaces bringing order and precision to the positions of the planets.
Four women joggers were running along the path toward Sprocket
Man. He liked the soft rhythmic pounding of their footsteps. And he liked
that he was almost always invisible to them. The tallest woman seemed
much like his wife. He watched the smooth, tight skin along her inner thighs
flexing strongly. The women came steadily on and then passed him, their
cadenced-steps measuredly fading. Sometimes the women he watched
seemed very serious about running correctly. Often when he looked at
them they would lift their chins, tighten the line of their lips and look away
from him as they glided past on the sound of their footsteps. He particularly
liked watching joggers in the early morning while the air still smelled of
ozone and sunlight, in the time that seemed as if the possibilities of forever
might still exist. It was when his wife liked to run and he always thought of
her then.


2

Sprocket Man saw Lincoln Lin walk past a slender palm tree and
come out onto the beach. Lincoln carried a tall coffee, holding it away from
his body with one finger on the plastic lid. Sprocket Man liked the way that
Lincoln Lin looked, the wonderful combining of African and Vietnamese,
with Northern European blue eyes prominent and striking in his youthful
face. He liked Lincoln Lin's hands: hands of a musician. Sprocket Man
watched Lincoln looking back at him and saw a fond expression come into
the young man's beautifully smooth face. He felt good and happy with that,
and searched Lincoln's face again to gain any feelings that might help him
in the broadening day ahead.
In a voice as quiet as the breeze, Sprocket Man said, "May life bless
you today, Lincoln Lin. You have the love of mankind in your soul. You are
my daily strength and blessing."
Lincoln Lin said, "Ket-Man, you are my blessing." He looked directly
at Sprocket Man as he offered him the coffee, and waited, holding a smile
that seemed as natural as his calm and steady breathing. "I only have a
second; big presentation today."
"Who'll be there?"
"Money people from Singapore." He looked at Sprocket Man closely.
"You please have your fine day and be happy, Ket-Man." Then he left him.
Sprocket Man closed his eyes and listened to the gulls overhead
calling to each other. He grasped the sprocket and held it by its lowest
point, squeezing the cold metal tight between his fingers and thumb.
Keeping his eyes closed, as if praying, he thought of a day at the beach
with his parents and younger sister when he was a child, them onshore
watching him swimming alone and diving into small waves. When he
opened his eyes again he felt calm and peaceful. Then he noticed the
coffee that he still held and peeled back the lid and took a cautious sip:
very hot. He smiled.
In his mind he said, My friend Lincoln Lin knows this Kona is my
favorite. I told him I was on the Big Island once, and that my wife and I had
a room facing the ocean, and that there on our balcony we watched the
most beautiful sunsets that have ever existed, the sky changing through all
the reds and purples and yellows that could ever be.


3

He thought of the time when he had told Lincoln of that and how
something troubling had flashed into Lincoln's eyes, like a suppressed
flicker of a quick jab of pain. He had never again said anything to Lincoln
about any time before he had become Sprocket Man. He left the choking
feeling that was coming nearer now, and then brought the thought of how
he liked the early afternoon when the sun seemed to stop moving across
the sky, and how the air glowed then when there was a layer of faint white
above that was too bright to look into. Then he knew that he was allowing
some of the drift again. He tried to stop that now by looking at the horizon--
sipping his coffee--trying not to think of anything. He held himself very still
and concentrated on the rhythmic sound in his ears of his heartbeat.
Three young women were minding a line of preschoolers who were
roped together like climbers, them all coming along the path toward
Sprocket Man. The women leading the children veered onto the trampled
sand toward the water, taking the children well clear of Sprocket Man.
Some of the children looked back at him with curious expressions and
other children did not seem to even notice him.
Sprocket Man shouted to them in his mind: I care terribly for you all!
You joyful little children, I wish you happiness!
A small girl with thick, dark hair looked at him with cautious interest.
He thought to her: Forgive me; I know nothing about what is ahead. I
wish I could give you only perfect days. If I were God . . . .
She seemed to be looking at the sprocket and he lifted it high, like an
Olympian holding up the medallion won in a victory. A spark of brightness
flashed from the sprocket, as if ignited by his touch. Sprocket Man saw the
little girl startle and pull back, holding tight to the rope that connected her to
the other children. He dropped the sprocket to his chest and covered it with
his hands until the children had gone.


Walter Q. had had wine for breakfast. Sprocket Man could smell it on
him when the short man bent low and leaned near him.
He thought, Cheap wine. Probably some pizza too, smells like.



4

It was an unpleasant mixing of scents and he turned his face away.
But Walter Q. circled and stayed close. When Walter Q. thought that he
had a good opportunity to take the sprocket, he lunged and grabbed for it,
but Sprocket Man batted those small dirty hands away and shushed him
loudly.
"I can't tell from here," Walter Q. said meekly, "which one you
wearing today?"
Sprocket Man looked back at him with a strongly willful distance and
said solidly, "Not my Kawasaki fifty-two tooth. Can't you see? I'm wearing
my Shimano forty-two."
"What makes a forty-two better, more than only those numbers bein'
rounder?"
"Something about it just feels right for this time now."
Walter Q. looked at him with skeptical irritation and then said, "Who
needs them things cept you?"
"Anybody wanting to go anywhere has got to have the right one,"
Sprocket Man said with reserved authority.
"But you already took em."
"I don't take things. None of my sprockets are stolen. I don't even
have the tools anyway. That proves it. Understand? I'd be keeping
someone from getting where they're going and I'd never do that."
Sprocket Man held the polished chrome sprocket horizontal and level
with his chin and looked down at the reflected distortion of his face falling
between holes and spreading off the chain points.
Walter Q. said, "I've got to go on about my own way now, S. M.," and
he turned and left.
Sometimes Michael Harris forgot that people knew him only as S. M.
or Sprocket Man. He also sometimes forgot what he looked like now. For
those instants a comfortable contentment returned, faintly, and he felt as if
he were again somewhat as he had once been. The times he remembered
that were of a secure bliss and seemed so real again that he could almost
smell the clean crispness of his freshly laundered shirt, could almost feel
the skin of his face soft and shaved smooth again, and have the warm
satisfaction flowing through him that came after he and his wife had been
making love together. That all had been. All of that had truly been. He knew

5

well enough that he must control those feelings and not allow them to make
him ache for that time, but remember and only to be grateful that he had
once known such abundant pleasures. A calming peacefulness sometimes
came with the memories, something like what he had often felt in the
moments of that time. He had cherished his wife then almost as much as
he did now. That part hurt him fiercely when he let it come too close and be
too clear. His drifting thoughts often led him to that time with her and he
could still be hurt as badly as he had ever been hurt. Then he would walk.
It was usually a half-day's journey from the last parking lot beyond the
line of houses to the ice cream shop on the city-side of the pier and back. If
he did not stop too often to look at the ocean, and if he did not stand too
long watching the gulls sailing on the wind and diving to the freshly-wetted
smooth sand, it usually took half of the day for him to walk there and back.
He heard the whirr of a bicycle coming fast from behind him and he
pulled his windbreaker over his head until the rushing sound had passed.
He held still--becoming invisible again--and looked down at his blue running
shoes and his crossed legs until there was only silence again.
Tugging his jacket back into place, smoothing it around him, being
careful of the half-stack of saltines and the remaining part of a moon of
Colby-Jack that was in a front pocket, in his mind he said, Today I'll not
argue with anyone. I'll not think about the past or about what I can't change
now. And I certainly won't think about any imagined situations that may or
may not come to be in some other time that might seem to exist.
A high haze was beginning to screen the sun. The breeze off the
ocean was cool. Sprocket Man saw a tall and very thin man come out of
the hotel at the edge of the beach. The man was leading a small black and
tan dog. As the man came nearer, he did not look at Sprocket Man but
instead looked to somewhere above him as if there were something of
great interest out beyond where waves were coming onshore. Sprocket
Man looked there too but only saw empty ocean. Then he turned back and
watched the man and the dog as they walked along the path toward him.
He thought that he might be near the man's age. The man was well
dressed in a comfortable manner. In that moment Sprocket Man liked the
man. The terrier pulled hard on the red lead, taking it out taunt. As the man
came near Sprocket Man he looked directly at him and smiled slightly.

6

Sprocket Man looked back with surprise and then nodded. That was all.
Then the man was gone, following the dog with cautious, stiff and painful-
looking steps.
A very short distance down the path the man stopped and turned
back.
In his mind, Sprocket Man said, What comes next?
He looked at the man and was startled when he heard the man's
thoughts saying, Are you going to sit there and let anything that happens to
you today decide what's next?
The man seemed to be speaking without releasing his slight, closed-
lipped smile. Are you going to sit here until something happens?
Sprocket Man sat straighter and said in his mind, I don't want any
particular thing to happen.
What do you need?
I'm leaving you alone so you leave me alone.
No. You either get up and do something or leave. Leave the planet if
you don't want your life. Give it back. You're taking up a soul that you don't
intend to use. Give it back; other people want to live.'
You're the one who's crazy.
You know I'm not.
You're trying to make me think that this is really happening.
It is. You know it is. You think you'll shock people with your denial of
life, wearing your shit-encrusted clothes. You are piss-stained and stinking:
tangled hair. You stay half-crazy to keep yourself in the blur of not caring.
Sprocket Man leaned back and forced himself to look into the
brightness above him and the conversation in his mind stopped. The terrier
trotted toward him, suddenly pulling the leash tight and the man lost his grip
on it. The dog trotted on as the man followed with short steps that slowed
as his dog ran farther ahead. Michael Harris--without thinking that he
would--leaped up and ran forward and stamped his running shoes down on
the trailing leash. The dog spun around as the tightening leash suddenly
stopped him.
"Sorry," Michael Harris said to the dog. "That's too rough on your
neck I know, but you have to stop."


7

The dog pulled against the leash, not frightened but still wanting to
run free on the beach.
"There's cops all around," Sprocket Man said to him. Then he looked
at the man.
Michael Harris saw the man attempting a normal stride, trying to
conceal the signs of pain. As the man came nearer he lifted one hand in
thanks. Michael Harris waved back in a small-protected way. Then he knelt
on the path and spoke to the dog. "You can still have fun, but you can't go
running on the beach. The ones who get to say who can do that are
humans, and they're keeping the beach for themselves. They'd probably
keep the birds off it too if they could, but they can't."
The dog wagged its docked tail in a fast beat and looked up at
Michael Harris, smiling. Then the dog came closer and raised his head into
the pats and strokes that Michael gave him.
"Oh, you are fine and handsome." The dog lightly nibbled Michael's
wrist. "Sure you are, strong and beautiful and happy." The dog stepped
back and looked up smiling, wagging his tail quickly.
The man came near. Michael Harris looked at him. He handed the
leash to the man as he noted his well-made shirt--its pleated breast
pockets and buttoned flaps--and glanced down at his pressed kakis and
new, blue-tip tennis shoes. He noticed that the man's head had only a light
fuzz of blond hair and that he did not have any eyebrows or eyelashes. The
man's face was ruddy and smooth. His eyes were a pale, faded blue; his
eyelids were very pink and seemed almost transparent.
The man said, "Thanks for stopping this young fellow." His voice was
low and calm. "Thomas," he said to the dog in a kind voice, "you scared
me. Truly you did, my good-fine fellow."
The man looked at Michael Harris closely and then pulled a leather
money clip from his trousers' pocket. He took off a twenty-dollar bill and
offered it Michael Harris as he said, "You saved me a lot more than this.
Maybe some real heartache too."
The bill fluttered between them.




8

Michael Harris looked away and the man dropped his hand. He
shoved the bill back into his pocket and paused a moment, then he started
to walk away. He stopped as Thomas stood up on his hind legs and rested
his forepaws on Michael Harris's thighs.
Michael Harris petted the dog. He said, "He's wonderfully friendly."
"Yes, oftentimes almost to a fault."
"I guess that can be too," Michael Harris said, still petting the dog.
"The authorities won't let dogs on the beach."
"I know; there's a notice of that in my room."
"You can't smoke on the beach either."
"I didn't know that," the man said.
"It's true. There's a sign. The sign doesn't say anything about taking a
pee though. I do that sometimes, but only into the surf. It's not filthy to do
that. Birds crap all over the place here. You have to watch them or they'll
crap on you. I'd never crap here; little kids play all along this beach. But the
birds get away with anything they damn well want to do." He looked at the
man. "I'm not crazy."
"No, I wasn't thinking that."
"Your dog Thomas knows that I'm all right." Thomas looked up at
Michael Harris and wagged and smiled. "He seems smart, too. I like him.
He's very well groomed and has a nice collar. You're rich, aren't you?"
The man hesitated before quietly he said, "I've been very fortunate in
this life, I know."
Sprocket Man regarded the man closely. He said, "Do you think John
Lennon is maybe one of the finest human being to have ever lived?"
The man looked back before he answered. "I haven't considered that.
It's an interesting question. What do you think?"
"It may be, it may be. He put a whole lot of good into this world. He
gave a lot of good to millions and millions of people and he never confused
us in a bad way. We can understand him pretty well, most of the time.
There aren't any wars being fought by people who believe in what he was
saying. People who don't care for him aren't fighting against people who
do, or fighting people who look to Elvis or Bob Dylan and love them more.
Of course there's been no real persecution of people who follow John
Lennon's music."

9

The man nodded slowly. "I think I see what your line of thought is."
"It's nothing to do with lines. It's all floating free and not leading
anywhere. Do you think we're going anywhere? Or do you think this is only
a trip and that we'll never get there? That nobody ever gets anywhere and
we're all just going? I think now we're going in an awfully bad way. Do you
know that? Almost everybody knows that at some level . . . to some
degree . . . in some way."
"You're thinking a lot aren't you?"
"I walk and I look and I think. People look at me like they're trying to
see if I'm crazy. Some of them do that, and some of them are okay. You
can't look at a person and tell if he's crazy, can you? Ever be crazy for any
time at all and glad that nobody was seeing you then? Sometimes minutes
get stuck together and hold on, it seems. But they're not forever, maybe.
Nothing's forever, is it?"
"Eternity is."
"Are we in eternity now? In the edge of it? Just starting off? Or does
eternity start? Is it everywhere, so that we're all already a part of it, only we-
-most of us--don't know it yet?"
Thomas found something of interest beside the path and sniffed it
carefully. Then he raised his leg and briefly sprayed a marker there while
Michael Harris and the man watched him.
Michael Harris said, "If he could go on the beach he might use the
water, too." He regarded the man again, and then said, "I'm talking too
much aren't I?"
"How could you? We only have a short time together and you have a
lot to say. I appreciate your view. You have a different way of looking at
things."
"Sure, different. That's a nice way of saying I'm off somewhere else in
the galaxy."
"No it isn't at all. I've spent time alone and I know how it is to go for
days without speaking to anyone except yourself."
Sprocket Man said, "Do you? You look like you've got a lot of friends.
Hundreds probably. Pretty and good-looking, well-dressed rich friends,
happy people getting all there is to get out of every moment of life.
Thousands of them. They come to your parties. You hug and kiss each

10

other. They say that they love you and think that you're one of the finest
people ever."
The man looked back at him with no reaction.
Then earnestly Michael Harris said, "All that I wanted to do was to
make boxes; to have a factory doing that. Shipping containers: intelligently
designed shapes formed out of the latest materials. I think I was making
better containers than any other container maker has ever devised."
"That's an admirable pursuit."
"It was my fault, I guess. I started investigating different types of
paper. That's all. I didn't see anything wrong in that."
"Nothing at all that I can see."
"And ink. I was discovering how inks went on--or into--different
papers. That was the start of it."
"And what followed?"
He stiffened and looked along the beach toward the pier. Slowly he
said, "So everything's gone very much according to your plans?"
"Far from it," the man answered.
"But you're still very satisfied."
"I try to hold that attitude." He shrugged. "It's a good defense."
"That's still not as good as a good pretense. That's what I lost. Too
many things were falling apart to keep holding on to any good pretense.
The happiest, most certain and confident people know how to hold on to
their pretense, don't they?"
"Invariably," the man said. "Even Plato said you had to do that . . .
believe in something beyond yourself. That's the pretense you mean isn't
it?"
"It takes massive strength to do this without that pretense. Most
people don't know if they have enough strength for it until they find that
they don't. Much safer to stay with the pretense. Even better if you'll keep
yourself from knowing it's a pretense. That's the perfection of only a few--
the very shallow and the very pure of heart. They're the absolute opposite
of those of us who've completely lost all ability at pretense." He took a long
breath and looked directly into the man's eyes as he said, "And then there's
no goddamn way in this crumpled hell of a world to get it back."


11

They stood together in silence, the man looking at his dog, and then
them both looking along the path into the distance.
Finally the man said, "It takes some grain of pretense to build on."
"It must be a believable pretense," Michael Harris softly said.
"Yes, a sincere pretense."
"Not necessarily sincere. If you can be sincere, well then of course
that makes it ever so much better. But if not sincere, then believable will
sometimes do."
Michael Harris looked out to sea and then back at the man again and
said, "When they finally decide you're not sincere in the pretense, then
you're over the top and gone."
"That's it. Now . . . who knows?"
"Trouble is that it's at all levels, from the guy running his convenience
store, the crossing guard, of course the cop in his uniform. Same as the
perfectly dressed sales representative, the receptionist, the customer's
secretary, the customer and his right-hand man. Each of them is sending
out energy to project their pretenses. And you have to receive that, read it
and interpret it--form a pretense to send back--all in only milliseconds. Then
you can never be certain that you've keyed in right. So you make
adjustments that they then start reading and interpreting and adjusting to.
And it starts getting so . . . unbalanced."
"It's complex."
"Some people like the pretense, don't they?"
"It comes naturally to most people," the man said. "They don't even
think of it."
"I could never remember all those things to do again."
Michael Harris looked up and away from the sun. He clamped his
jaws tight then shook his head.
"It's getting late," he said softly. He looked at the man.
"It's still morning," the man said. "I think it's not yet ten. It seems as if
it's going to be a fine day. The air feels good."
Sprocket Man acted as if he did not hear him and said, "Do you think
us talking to each other now is all chance?"
"No, of course not. Everything that you've done up until this moment,
and everything that I've done has put us here speaking to each other now."

12

"That's the way it is, isn't it?" He nodded several times. "We can't be
anywhere except where we are. This all is entirely inevitable."
"I'm certain it is. We're each at a point on a causal line that reaches
back to the beginning of everything."
Sprocket Man nodded again in a small repeating motion. Then
Michael Harris said suddenly, "You're sick now aren't you?"
The man's head jerked slightly. "Yes. Yes I am."
"But was that always to be?"
"Each inevitable selection and process and flawed regeneration of
cells leading to the next inevitability, I'm to suppose?"
"But what was choosing that?"
"The inevitability of every moment that went before?"
"Are endings inevitable?"
"I don't know if any of this ever ends. If we could see the entire line of
connections, how each act and event describes another, then none of this
would be bewildering. We only see the slightest snippet of an instant."
"And what we see makes no sense to us. It all seems only
randomness, the most unimaginable chances of circumstances."
Michael Harris squinted his eyes closed tight and dropped his chin to
his chest. "She was always so endlessly careful. Always. She never took
what seemed to be risks, and certainly not with our children in the car." He
looked up suddenly, not certain if he had spoken or if he had only thought
what may have somehow been said. He breathed deeply and looked past
the man to a gull that was effortlessly being lifted on the breeze. "Still, it
feels like we're alone and that we're creating ourselves."
"Out of nothing? Like the universe came from nothing?"
"That kind of thinking keeps me here on this beach," Michael Harris
said.
For a moment his expression changed to a flicker of weary concern.
Then that faded and he squinted up toward the sun.
"I don't think it's for certain that you can't get pretense from nothing. If
a universe can come from nothing, then maybe it's possible to get pretense
from nothing." He looked directly at the man with a hopeful new excitement
coming into his expression for an instant before it faded again.
The man said evenly, "You may have something there, my friend." He

13

looked at Michael Harris openly and then turned and looked toward the
brightness that was increasing off shore. "This is a fine day for us to be
here."
Michael Harris knelt and Thomas came to him. He stroked the dog's
head gently then looked into Thomas's eyes and pressed his face against
the dog's muzzle.
Sprocket Man stood again and turned away. He started walking. He
thought that perhaps walking to the end of the row of the tall narrow houses
that he liked so well might take most of the rest of the day. It seemed a
good objective. And as he thought of it, he began to be pleased that he was
here in this perfect moment, with a feeling of wonder stirring again for what
had been and for what, inevitably, is to be.




Copyright 2014 by John Cravens

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15

Crusties


He wasn't wrong you know
that fetid manboy
sitting mange with dog
a gumball machine
dispensing jesus' love
coin slot held at dick level
to all us passing
meatsteaks
left on the counter to thaw









Copyright 2014 by Brent Michael Canle

16


17

Thats How A Man Lives


My landlord stopped by a little after two in the afternoon. I knew what he
was there for. Hed called the day before and told me he wanted to talk to me
about the cats. He said hed heard from a maintenance fella that I had three cats
in the house when the lease said I could only have one. Truth was that I had
four cats. They kept coming around my porch and I kept feeding them. Before I
knew it they were inside and settling in.
He knocked on the door, my landlord did. He was a little guy who looked
like hed been melted down from a bigger guy. Lots of loose skin. A sad face.
Sometimes he wore a half-undone Christmas tie in April. Sanders, he said
through the door, you home?
There wasnt much I could do but answer the door. The house was a
wreck. Didnt matter if I ran around or tried to give it a quick clean. Itd really
gone to the dogs at that point. Or, I guess, the cats. There were litter boxes
everywhere and food spilled on the floor. There wasnt even much use in trying
to gather up all the cats and hide them either. If I shoved them all in a room my
landlord was gonna hear them singing and crying.
Hey, I said to him. How you doing, Brad?
Oh god, he said. Sanders, I just dont know anymore.
You or me either, I said and held the door open for him to come in.
Brad took a seat on the couch in my living room. There were a pair of cats
sleeping there. One was on the armrest opposite where Brad was sitting and the
other was snoozing on the back. Brad slapped his knees a couple of times and
whistled. I guess you know why Im over here, he said.
Sure, I said. Doesnt take a scientist.
He said, No, it does not, and petted the cat on the back of the couch. She
was a white cat with matted fur and crust in her eyes. At first she let him pet her
and then she realized what was happening and batted at his hand and gave him
a hiss. That was her game. She aint very friendly, is she? Brad said.
Nah, I said. She knows what she wants.
We should all be so lucky, Brad said. He pointed at the TV. It was turned
to some golf. There was a man wearing an orange shirt and orange hat standing
in a fairway. He was looking at something far away and the announcer said, I
think hes got it now. You play golf? Brad asked me.




18

Used to, I said and finally sat down in my recliner next to the couch. When
I did a cloud of cat hair jumped out of the cushions and fell through the air. Me
and my buddies used to get a six-pack apiece and just go out to the club and
hack around.
Thats the life, Brad said. Say, he said, how many cats you got?
I looked to the entrance into the kitchen and saw another cat walking in.
He was a tomcat I liked to call Gray because of his dull, gray coat. Him and the
other tom of the house he didnt have a name were all the time fighting over
the females. But neither of the females really wanted anything to do with them.
All they had to show for it at the end of the day was a bunch of fresh scars and
some patches of missing hair.
Four, I said. Brad, Ive got four cats in here. Not even gonna try and
bullshit you. Its not like I went out looking to own four cats. Its not like I went out
on that porch and shook a bag of food and waited for them to come running. It
just happened, I said. I dont know. I guess they found me.
Gray went over to where Brad was sitting and rubbed his head against
Brads shin. Brad leaned down and gave him a scratch between the eyes. I think
he likes me, he said.
I didnt have the heart to tell him it was about marking territory.
Whatever happened to that sweet little girl who moved in here with you?
he said.
Long gone, I said. Met somebody in a therapy group.
No shit, he said. I liked her.
Me too, I said and went to scratch my nose. There was hair all over my
fingers.
I knew right then I shouldve just apologized for the cats and asked Brad
what he wanted me to do about it, but instead I asked him how things were on
his end. Howre the kids? I said. Hows Vera?
Oh god, he said. I just dont know anymore.
Dont know anymore? I said.
The kids, he said, theyre a mess. The boy doesnt want to go to school.
All he wants to do is lay in bed all day and get high out in the garage. I caught
him in there the other day with his pants unzipped and a number smoking next
to him in an ashtray. What do you say to that?
Im not sure, I said.
Me either, Brad said. Theres no book telling people how to prepare for
that. And the girl, shes no better. Shes got her a couple of boyfriends around
town. Hardly ever comes home and when she does its only for a shower and a
meal.
Brad, I said. Im sorry.

19

Its fine, he said and touched the white cat again. This time she moved into
his petting and purred so loudly I could hear her from where I was sitting. And
Vera, he said. Veras just a piece of work.
Id met her a few times and knew that to be the case. Once she brought
me over a tin of cookies at the end of November. They were Christmas cookies
and they werent bad. She was obsessed with the holiday though, you could tell
that just by looking at her. Everytime I saw her she was wearing earrings
shaped like trees or bells or holly. Sweaters with snowmen and the like. Thatd
helped me make sense of Brad and his Christmas tie and why hed wear
sometimes in the Spring.
Did you know, he said, that we keep a tree up year round?
Year round? I said. I didnt know that.
January to December, he said. While everyones out in the street setting
off fireworks or cooking hot dogs in their backyards, were sitting there in that
goddamn living room looking at a goddamn Christmas tree.
I said, How about that?
How about that? he said. How about that? And you know what? It started
slow. At first she just wanted to put it up right after Thanksgiving and then take it
down after New Years. That was fine. There was no problem with that. No
argument to be had. But then New Years stretched into February. Thats where
I was gonna draw the line, Sanders. I said theres no way that trees gonna see
Valentines Day. And do you know what happened?
Im guessing it saw Valentines Day.
Thats right, he said. You got it. Then March. Then April. So on and so on.
I shook my head. There wasnt much I could say or add. The gray tom
came over and jumped up in my lap. He scratched my thigh with his claws and I
kicked him off onto the floor.
Say, Brad said, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead, you wouldnt
have a beer would you?
Sure, I said. If there was one thing I had back then, besides cats, it was
beer.
I gave him one and he opened it and had a drink. The white cat got mad at
him again and jumped down off the couch and walked around. Thanks, he said
and lifted the beer. Im not meaning to get worked up here. I didnt mean to
come over here and interrupt whatever it was you had going.
Hey, I said, motioning at the golf on the TV and the cats all over the place.
Youre looking at everything I had going.
Its not bad, he said. Few more cats than Id prefer, but thats how a man
lives. He does what he has to do.
I guess thats right, I said and watched the second tom making his way

20

through the kitchen. He was stretching and yawning.
Brad said, We got a garage full of decorations, but it was like he wasnt
talking to me anymore. Its all crammed in there so tight, he said, that I cant
even park the truck in there anymore.
Thats a shame, I said and looked at the TV. The golfer in the orange shirt
and orange hat was lining up a putt. You need another one? I asked Brad.
Sure, he said and put the empty can on the floor. Ill take another one.
Keep em coming. You care if I stick around a short? he said, getting
comfortable. Dont feel like going home right yet.
You got it, I said, making my way through a floors worth of cats and into
the kitchen for another beer.







Copyright 2014 by Jared Yates Sexton

21


22

Sometimes I Think The Fates Are Just Shitty Kids Shoving Firecrackers
Up Cats Asses and Lighting Bags Of Shit On Fire On Your Stoop


I have a dentist appointment
tomorrow at one.
Please, please, leave before or after that.
Please dont leave me while Im sitting at
the fucking dentists,
with those protective glasses
and that little fucking bib
I dont think I can bear it.

It was the last thing I ever asked of her.

Oh baby,
she cooed sweetly, kissing my scowling mouth,
of course I can do that.
You know I wouldnt do that to you!

And guess what?





Copyright 2014 by Joel Landmine

23


24

The Deep Time


Somewhere unforgiven,
time will wait for you. (Beck)

These are the voices you ignore, that resonate in the marrow with guilty
vibrations, tickle the cochlea with a featherweight fingertip, throw you off balance,
and introduce your stubborn chin to the sandpaper edge of uneven sidewalk.
The sky overhead fills with cumulus clouds as you lie spreadeagled in
nonplussed repose searching the backs of your eyelids for that last shred of
dignity. Be assured; these are the days where people walk around you, a stone
in the path of their already too-crowded workday. No one will give a damned,
except the occasional pathetic with a cellphone camera wholl immortalize on
Instagram.
And still, you lay face-down while the microbes left behind from so many
peoples shoes start to migrate from the ground through your shredded skin and
into your bloodstream. Are you up to date on your vaccinations? As quickly as it
appeared, this thought dissolves as the tsunami of deep time rises from the
depths of the most forgotten part of your personal abyss, rides the storm wreck
of your soul, and smashes against the wall of your subconscious
It hurts truly...
Now is the time closely examine the treasure revealed: bright shards of
memory dimly sparkle in the waning light of your divine spark

Did you eat my lunch?
No. It was the new guy.

Slender thighs beckon from underneath her short skirt.
Wtf?
Im only human!
Shes totally asking for it.

The puppys bulging eyes plead as the soft implosion of a hyoid bone
concaves to the increasing crush of your six-year-old thumb.






25

His nasal voice, so thin and irritating.
Son I want to go home.
The rank smell of hospital.
You walk away.

You open your eyes. The cleansing patter of rain beats against your skull.
Get up, dust the recriminations off your coat lapels, wipe the blood from your
chin, hold the head a bit higher than before.
For now, youre safe.
Dont worry.
Those voices will come back.





Copyright 2014 by M. Justine Gerard

26



27

Prosecution


These violent games that end in death have imprisoned girls
eating each other's face for dinner. When the survivors are rescued,
sticky with blood, they don't look me in the eye. The wardens stand trial

and the chairman walks. Months later, the fat chairman's back
splits in half at the trapezius as he claws toward me, down an aisle
at a wedding. I startle awake, blind in the dark and forgetting if
I, too, have cannibalized.








Copyright 2014 by K.T. Cutting

28



29

Thin Slicing the Comics


Another time the cop asked me to wait while he caught his breath.
He was a cop with asthma. I was his Jean Valjean almost as
important as his lunch which he ate while I waited. He ate lentils
with duck sauce, gingerbread and goat cheese, then pulled out
doughnuts and watched for my reaction. I mightve been disgusted
but I didnt let him see it. He ate in silence since no one could
stand him. None of the criminals, none of the cops. Wed rest and
hed eat and then wed resume the chase. Wed observe the way
life bursts across the boulevard, contrasting its up and inners with its
down and outers. It appalled us the way time moved and nothing
else moved. There was trouble on the bridge. Trucks full of Trojans
and single engine bazookas. There were low-flying kites in the tree
where I hid the mink. I decided to cooperate. I took the cop
shopping. Bought sweaters and turned off fluorescents. I changed
the range where his cabbage nabbers roamed. They no longer
strayed from the edge to the center. They stuffed themselves with
sliced bread and pulled on socks and sneakers. They took turns
telling stories. I took their suggestion and surrendered. This saved
so much time and money they offered to honor me with tithes.





Copyright 2014 by Gerald Yelle

30




31

Eulogy


Coyly covered by a virginal white
sheet--that electroshock mindfuck
machine on wheels.
Convenient.
Rolled right to you.
Pizza delivery techno
in the mental death ward.

Other lights zapped, one by one,
until it's your go round at the party.

Forgotten memories fill the air,
crash through closed windows
in their haste to escape.

Your own visions vaporize of an ashen man
sprawled on his suicide bed,
leftover pill tumbled around him,
that note bequeathing you
his shelf full of books still curled
in the crotch of his old Corona.





Copyright 2014 by Pris Campbell

32



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The Bicycle Review #28 was edited and curated by
Rhea Adri, J de Salvo, and Robert Louis Henry.


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