Goodness Is That The Time??

Welcome back! I can't remember the last time we embarked upon an Underground Literary Adventure together! Fortunately we had the Torino Olympics to focus on, and what glorious games they were! Don't know about you, but my most memorable Olympic moments this time around included heavily hyped skier Bode Miller's string of pathetic failures. Worst of all, the guy doesn't even realize that A) He sucks B) He's an embarrassment to his country C) He's a pampered dumbass who'd be better off competing in the SPECIAL Olympics.

Citizens of the Adventures Blognut Gallery, we must learn from Bode Miller's terrible example. Do we want to veer off course in a haze of hungover apathy, or do we want to ski arm in arm down the highest peaks of literature? Then ski up again, just to prove we can? Oh slalom rapture!

Here to get us back in our groove is unhyped poet Cynthia Ruth Lewis. Her first poem, Saving Face, has nothing to do with Bode Miller, nor does the first line of her second poem, which reads, "Who the fuck are you to snub me?" Who the fuck, indeed!

Two Poems from Cynthia Ruth Lewis:

SAVING FACE

I never admit I'm a writer--
I don't like to refer to myself
as a "poet"

not that I'm ashamed, mind you,
it's just that whenever I tried
to explain to the everyday idiot
that I write--
and underground poetry, at that--
they never got it

as soon as they found out
I had no intention or interest
in writing the next 'Great American Novel,'
they plastered that uncertain,
polite grin on their face
and nodded as if they understood,
while secretly wondering how to
gracefully steer the conversation
back towards safe and mundane topics
like the weather, or the latest hit movie

so that's why I never confess my passion
for the underground word
to the masses--
I keep it to myself

just like the sweet, sweet thought
of obliterating all those brain-washed clones
from this overly smug and plastic society


UNDERGROUND POETS ARE PEOPLE, TOO

Who the fuck are you to snub me?
We're both writers--
just because you lost your gag reflex
to get your book on the bestseller list
is no reason to look down your nose at me

I write from the gut; I don't shit words out,
and I don't take them for granted
as you seem to do--

the last 'original' thought you had,
you probably left floating in the bowl this morning,
so get your nose out of the air
and stop acting like you just smelled
the essence of your latest plot

I may not be a world-famous writer,
but at least I have a good handful of loyal fans
instead of the entire world eating shit
out of my palm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cynthia Ruth Lewis has been published in various print mags in the past, but is now spreading her sickness through online zines. It is her aim to psychologically corrode each and every person on the planet, poem by poem. If she dies first, at least she will have gone down trying.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two Poems by J.D. Nelson

Ca-Na-Da


Ice crystals sparkle
upper there
in the norf,
where the auroras
live in peace
& the black gold
grins underground.

Snowy cats dance
in the mid-light
fun-shine.

Canned ice.


---------------

Gorilla Tab

Who are your ancestors?
Gerbil U = Chicken.

Topped with cucumber,
sunflower seeds

Tongue Game!
Carefully,
E*G*G string.

Chuckle x = tofu,
self-loathing pop.

Joint Staff?

Unfit to have a baby
for mental health reasons.


--------------------------


bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (1971) experiments with text and sound in
his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared
in many small press publications, both print and
online. J. D. lives in Colorado, USA. Visit his
website for more information: http://www.MadVerse.com


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Happy Holidays!

Blog faithful, I have been in a tizzy trying to figure out what to post you for Christmas this year! Some of you would surely enjoy a (somewhat) traditional Christmas tale sent in by Musea's Tom Hendricks...but since Tom's been a naughty boy and posted it to his Musea site first, we'll save internet space and just link you over there.

Most of you will send me nothing but coal this Christmas because i used the potentially-offensive word "Christmas" instead of the more generic "Holidays." If anyone was offended, please pop over to the Red Roach World blog to read an intelligent post on the benefits of saying "Happy Holidays." Personally, i prefer to say "Bah Humbug" and avoid the controversy entirely.

No doubt the youth among you are bored by all these poorly-written words of mine! You want something exciting for your Christmas...i mean...Holiday Adventures blog post. Well, for you i have a special treat: the newly renovated ULA Multimedia page! Wow! Hear some ULAers reading their work, singing random songs, and...we've even got a video! Have we got a video? YES!

Ah, as usual i feel that my holiday gifts to you all have been inadequate. I AM A FAILURE AT GIFT-GIVING! I don't know what you want...looking at me...with your EYES! I am going to mark my Christmas by jumping off a bridge...unless an angel disguised as a stranger intervenes and shows me how great and important i am. Any angels want a piece of that action? Didn't think so.

In any case, i hope we all enjoy the holidays, and i hope you blog readers get something out of the meagre scraps i've thrown your way. How's about another holiday tradition...the New Years Resolution we won't keep!? Here goes: I, Adventures Blog Editor Pat, do humbly resolve to post quality stuff more frequently on this blog in 2006. Furthermore, i resolve to...oh, never mind.

This Thanksgiving, Try Some
Wolfe With Your Turkey!

Patriotism Redux

By Jennifer C. Wolfe

“When a whole nation is roaring Patriotism at the top of its voice,

I am fain to explore the cleanness of its hands and purity of its heart.”

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Claire Dawson sat in front of her living room television set as she waited for her egg-timer to announce her frozen sausage pizza was fully oven-baked. The newly-re-elected US President had made a major press conference announcement: His chosen, prior-term Attorney General would remain in the position for his newest, final term. Claire shook her head as the President congratulated a familiar man, with a dour facial _expression, whose squinted-eye hateful glances and perpetual frown, combined with his fiery anti-terrorism rhetoric, had been demonized by political commentators and editorial cartoonists alike the world over. The President was managing to make the entire announcement very Presidential…, Claire thought, sarcastically. She disliked the current US President, and she disliked his chosen Attorney General even more so. She, along with a great majority of the rest of the country, had been gravely-disappointed by the recently-held November Presidential election. There were so many things, going wrong with the US…, she inwardly-surmised. …Skyrocketing poverty levels; dwindling Social Security funds; Lack of affordable health care, for hardworking families; Disappearing US jobs, etc. There were enough problems with the how the President was conducting his Administrative business, in the US, to, as her Southern Belle Aunt often ascertained: ‘Choke a horse.’ And then there was terrorism…

Claire continued thinking, as the President and his Attorney General held their hands aloft in a victory salute, before the wildly-cheering press conference assembly. …The President was embroiled in three universal wars, with terrorism. The war against terrorism, being waged in Afghanistan. The war against terrorism, being waged in Iraq. And perhaps the most important: the war against terrorism, being waged against American dissent. This war clearly drew its battle-lines from the heated political debate of ‘National Security VS Civil Liberties.’ Claire gritted her teeth as the Attorney General readied himself to speak, stepping to the podium, bearing the US Presidential Seal across its front. The President stood to his immediate right, slightly behind him. “My fellow Americans…,” the Attorney General began, scanning the attending crowd, with a non-smiling, sour glance, as though he were sizing them up. “…Today, we celebrate a great victory, for both our President and our nation,” he continued, as the crowd erupted in applause. “Speak for yourself…,” Claire spoke, disdainfully, addressing the television screen as she vented her frustration. “On January 20, we will see the swearing in of our President for a glorious second-term-of-office.” “I haven’t heard of any leader’s term being called ‘glorious,’ since Adolph Hitler,” Claire commented, scowling. “Ve have von a victory, for our glorious Third Reich!” Claire impersonated a thick German accent. Undaunted by her unheard verbal innuendo, the Attorney General continued. “The President, having been given his mandate, for strong leadership by the voters, has now-honored me with a mandate to expand our resolve against terrorism within our nation!” The crowd members erupted, wildly, with applause, many of them jumping to their feet. “Expand our resolve against terrorism within our nation?” Claire repeated the phrase in her humorous Parrot’s voice. “And, how might we go about expanding our resolve against terrorism within our nation?” she demanded. “I am proud to announce, at this juncture, a new section, and phase of terror-preparedness, within our great Department of Homeland Security…,” said the Attorney General. “…The Department of Homeland Security has added a new wing. This wing is called the ‘Domestic Terrorism Enemy Combatant’ wing. Its sole purpose and function exists to target those individuals living within our great nation who seek to undermine our anti-terrorism resolve.” “DTEC—isn’t that precious???” Claire scoffed, her scowl deepening. “There are those within this country whose protest actions against the President and the policies of his Administration, directly-aid the cause of terrorism,” the Attorney General warned, attempting to sound charismatic. “Oh, please…,” Claire snorted. “…We’ve heard this recording, before.” “We must unite together, as one strong nation, if we are to defeat the forces of terrorism, on our home ground!” implored the Attorney General. Once again, the crowd leapt to their feet, cheering and applauding, wildly! “I want to make it extremely-clear, that we cannot tolerate dissent with our President’s policies, or distrust of his leadership…” Claire’s eyebrows rose in mild concern at this statement. The Attorney General continued. “…Terrorists live to fight another day—and continue to fight against and threaten—our great nation, in part, because of those individuals who engage in domestic dissent.” The Attorney General scanned the crowd for their reaction before expounding upon his chosen theme. “Those who protest the War in Afghanistan, or the War in Iraq, dishonor our brave men and women who are fighting—and, in some cases, giving their very lives—for the cause of liberty!”

“Bullshit!” Claire now became angrily-animated, as she faced her thirteen-inch color television screen. “People protest the war in those places because they are fought against hopelessly-outmatched countries with no military capabilities to speak of—Because the cause of ‘liberty’ in those countries has turned into the cause of ‘occupation,’—And because no matter what you or any of the President’s miserable cronies say, don’t tell me the wars do NOT have anything to do with the OIL!!!” Claire shouted, her blue-green eyes narrowing into squinted, angry slits as she spoke. “We must understand, my fellow Americans...,” the Attorney General elaborated. “…In order for us to realize a truly-solid, beneficial margin of safety against terrorism—we cannot abide dissent with our leaders. Questioning our President and his Administration’s leadership only leaves us vulnerable to terrorists. We remember September 11, 2001. And, next year, which is the tenth anniversary of this heinous act of terror aggression against the US, we should only strengthen our resolve as a nation—as we re-install our great President—to never tolerate those who would willfully-engage in domestic terrorism!” The crowd rose to its feet with heartfelt applause! “USA…USA…USA…,” they began chanting in unison. “Unbelievable!” Claire was horrified at the direction the Attorney General’s remarks were taking. More horrifying, however…, she reasoned. …Was the surrounding crowd’s reaction to them? “Our President is the leader of the greatest nation in the world! The US must remain the beckoning beacon of freedom to all those countries who are striving for liberty!” affirmed the Attorney General. “Beckoning beacon?” Claire repeated, fighting the impulse to giggle. “Nice alliteration……Did you think of that, all by yourself?” she commented, wryly. “My fellow Americans…,” the Attorney General droned on. “…We must remain committed to our goals of supplying liberty to any/all Middle Eastern countries who wish to embrace it! We will not be defeated in this admirable goal! And, most importantly, we will not be deterred by those domestic terrorists within our own country who attempt to focus our attention away from faith and trust in our elected leadership!” The crowd, once-again, rose to their feet, applauding, as a fresh round of “USA…USA…USA,” was chanted around the room. The Attorney General focused his direct attention at the cheering crowd assembled before him. With his fiercest facial _expression, plainly visible, he glared directly into the eye of the main camera lens focused upon him. “My fellow Americans…remember these two affirmations carefully—for, we, at the US Justice Department and the Department of Homeland Security, will not back down from the anti-terrorism mandate handed to us by our President! So, remember: You are either with us, or you are with the terrorists! You are either for us, or you are against us!” With that said, the Attorney General fell silent as the crowd lurched to its feet in smart-unison. Their applause and cheering screams were thunderous!

For the first time in remembered history, Claire noted the corners of the Attorney General’s thin lips turned upward in a demonic smile. Claire often equated the events she encountered within her life with memorable moments she had witnessed in Hollywood film. Listening to the Attorney General’s closing remarks had prompted a scene from the 1959 Warner Brothers movie, Ben-Hur, to come to the forefront of her troubled thoughts. In a dialogue-exchange, between the film’s two chief protagonists, villain Roman Tribune Messalah and Jewish Prince Judah Ben-Hur, Messalah has asked Judah to speak to his fellow-countrymen about not causing violence or unrest against the ruling Roman Empire. Judah had related to him that he had already spoken to a number of people on this topic, stating a great many of them agreed with him—though, not all. Messalah demands Judah turn informer, and tell him the names of his countrymen who do not subscribe to obedience to Roman rule. Judah stubbornly-resists telling Messalah the names, insisting he will not simply hand over his friends for Messalah to have them killed. Messalah utters a grandiose rebuttal to Judah: “Judah—you have no choice. You are either for me, or you are against me.” To which a heartbroken Judah felt compelled to reply: “If that is the choice—then, I am against you.” That is how I feel…, she pondered. If the choice offered by the Attorney General consisted of: ‘You are either with us (i.e. a US President and Administration she despised and had no faith in), or you are with the terrorists (i.e. those individuals who used their US Constitution-guaranteed rights to question the leadership of their freely-elected government)—then, I guess, I would have to be classified as being with the terrorists. Then, again…, she inwardly-continued. …I already was a terrorist—a domestic terrorist—since I have never been shy about voicing my dissatisfaction with the President and his Administration? A new incarnation of a favorite anti-terrorism term, “Enemy Combatant,” sprang to mind. How long might it be—if the majority of the US adopted the Attorney General’s attitude—before she, herself, was classified as a ‘Domestic Terrorist Enemy Combatant?’ Claire thought, setting her jaw-line in the wry, thinking philosopher’s posture she adopted when she was deeply-pondering something.

* * * * *

Claire awoke from a deep trance some fifteen minutes later. The CNN news reporter was in the midst of summarizing the Attorney General’s speech. “And, so, Marla…,” he commented to a very pretty young woman with sandy-blonde, shoulder-length straight hair. “…the Attorney General, delivering a stirring address, this evening, before a capacity crowd in the White House Press room.” “It was stirring…,” Claire resumed her dialogue with the television as she brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “…It stirred my stomach, into nausea.” “I’m sure those both watching and listening to this press conference are wondering the same thing we are this evening?” “Yes, Steve, of course…,” the news woman agreed, showcasing her gleaming white teeth. “Oh, this should be stunning…Please, tell us exactly what it is we are wondering this evening, Steve?” Claire commented, sarcastically. “Does this new hard-line approach, to domestic terrorism spell the death-knoll for American Civil Liberties in the US as we currently know them?” CNN reporter, Steve Roberts, questioned. At this juncture, Claire’s egg-timer let out a lengthy, shrill clanging sound. “There’s the bell, tolling, right now!” Claire admonished, sardonically, racing to the kitchen to pull her sausage pizza out of the oven.

* * * * *

Claire was in the middle of her third slice of sausage pizza when the cordless telephone to her immediate right began ringing. Seated at the end of the living room sofa next to it she brought the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” she asked. “Rah-rah-siss-boom-bah! Some speech, from our precious Attorney General, hey?!?” the voice of her closest friend, Kelli Sprent, was soon heard. Claire laughed, nearly choking on her pizza! “Well, didn’t you hear CNN’s Steve Roberts?” she inquired, in-between giggling and chewing her food. “This is the supposed ‘death-knoll’ tolling for American civil liberties in our country as we know it.” “Careful…,” Kelli warned, clucking her tongue, comically. “…Sarcastic references like that regarding our magnanimous Attorney General’s ‘stirring’ comments, will get you labeled as a ‘Domestic Terrorist Enemy Combatant’,” she continued, struggling, not to giggle herself. “Pppft!” Claire snorted, derisively. “Our ‘magnanimous’ Attorney General, indeed! The only thing he’s magnanimous about is his tearing down of the US Constitution!” “Here, here!” Kelli applauded. “Seriously, though…,” she then continued. “…Some pretty creepy stuff, huh?” “Yes,” Claire agreed, growing serious. “But, we can’t dwell on the negative…,” she continued. “…We can only fight, for the positive,” Kelli finished one of Claire’s signature rebuttal-lines. “Right,” Claire affirmed. Shortly, a set of recurring, ominous-sounding clicking noises were heard over both girls’ telephone receivers. Claire’s eyebrows rose in mock amusement. “Oh—and Homeland Security, or Government, or whoever else might be happening to be listening in on our conversation, here is a lovely spoken-word poem, expressly-composed for those of us within the ranks of those you consider: ‘With the terrorists,’ for simply speaking our minds:” “Ready?” Claire asked of her best friend. “Ready,” she affirmed. Claire and Kelli, simultaneously began the poem the two friends had put together one particularly-drunken evening:

“The President is a mighty, strong man,

And, his wife is a handsome, fine lass,

Though, we hope when we’re dead, to be buried, upside down,

So, the President can kiss our ass!”

Both friends collapsed into gales of giggles as they finished the makeshift poem. Several more ominous clicking sounds were heard over both girls’ telephone receivers. Claire yawned, widely. “I really need to get going…,” she told Kelli. “…I have an early day tomorrow.” “Me, too…,” Kelli replied. “…Just wanted to gage your reaction to our loving Attorney General’s speech.” “Gag me, with E.T.’s finger, as per usual…,” Claire stated, matter-of-factly. “Buh-bye, then,” Kelli stated, comically. “Bye,” Claire laughed, switching off the cordless receiver and placing it atop its base. She turned her attention back to the television. CNN reporter, Steve Roberts, was still droning on in his summarization of the Attorney General’s speech. “It’s a patriotism redux…,” Claire announced to no one in particular, preferring to spell (and refer to) the term “re-do,” in the more modern “cool” form of “redux.” “…If you do not stand with the President and his Administration, then you are not a good patriot…,” she further contemplated, speaking with a grand flourish as though she were performing in a Broadway play. “…Obviously, you are not a good patriot, since—if you do not agree with the President, that makes you a terrorist? If you are a terrorist, you cannot be a patriot. Hence, if you wish to be a good ‘patriot,’ you have to agree with the President and not challenge his leadership.” “It’s a Dick and Jane Patriotic Primer…,” Claire admonished, speaking at the television. “…See Dick and Jane publicly-criticize the President. See the US Attorney General have the Justice Department monitor Dick and Jane. See the Department of Homeland Security arrest Dick and Jane. See Dick and Jane classified as ‘Domestic Terrorist Enemy Combatants,’ and sent away to the nearest forest labor camp. The US can now sleep safer and more securely—knowing that Dick and Jane have been found-out as the terrorist-supporting scumbags they are—for daring to have the gall to criticize the President! Dick and Jane are never heard from again. The End.” Claire smiled. Reciting sarcastic commentary was one of the emotional-coping tools she utilized the most in the face of what she termed as: “The forlorn, discouraging political quagmire, the US was sinking in—on all available fronts.” Placing her jaw in her right hand, she wound back into her philosopher’s mode. Abruptly, a loud knock was heard, outside her apartment door. Peering through the peep hole, Claire glimpsed two tall men, dressed in smart, gray business suits. Keeping the chain lock to her apartment door secured, she edged open the door. “May I help you?” she asked. Both men flashed gleaming, police-like badges. “Department of Homeland Security,” they spoke, in unison.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jennifer C. Wolfe has worked in varied fields of personal employment, ranging from ten years of music retail to fourteen months of branch secretarial duties within the Central Intelligence Agency. She casts her vote as an opinionated “Independent,” and feels a grave disturbance, in the Force—until the 2008 US Presidential election, anyway.

Spooky Literary Treats
in lieu of razor blades & candy,
from the friendly ghouls of the ULA...

Halloween Horror Haiku!

by Leopold McGinnis

Hooked killer on loose!
Young couple hear thump, drive off
FIND HOOK ON CAR DOOR!!!!!!!

--------

Spider bite on cheek
Itchy, inflamed and swelling
BLACK SPIDERS POP OUT!!!!!!!

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Shattered

By J.D. Finch

I’m not going to tell you what happened, step by step, because I never was the analytical sort. That and you’d call me crazy if I tried. But maybe you’ll see the truth if I lay it out plainly to let you decide for yourself. After all, you know and trust me. So why am I getting stressed, right?

It was in that blown glass shop we used to go to – the one with all those tacky front porch flags for sale. (I never really "got" those things. But the country’s ever-plummeting intelligence level leads me to believe folks can’t be bothered to remember names anymore. Easier -- and less mentally rigorous for the poor drones -- to identify each other by symbols: "Oh, here comes ‘cow jumping over moon.’"; "I wonder what ‘sailboat on the bay’ has been up to lately?"; "When did ‘juicy slice of watermelon’ get back from vacation?")

But when a stiff breeze blew through the shop I thought it was a bit threatening, considering the large collection of delicate glass pieces. It left one flag tangled amidst itself and revealed behind it a woman who looked nothing like you. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you that. It’s akin to saying "the news tonight is there’s no news tonight", right?

Anyway, her mirrored image, refracted by a hundred glass balls in a fragile domino-like row was you. Though there were variants in much iteration, I managed to pick out my favorite version of her. That is, of you.

Another breeze arose and the flags that had remained untangled fluttered their own images across the glass balls creating a Technicolor film strip of you in movement. Perhaps dazzled by the balls a few moments too many, when I looked back the source of your reflection was gone.

And then I began wondering if I had unconsciously reversed reality: was the truth of identity in the images and not the brief glimpse I’d had of the source?

I made my way carefully through the shelves and racks of glass art and decorations. I pushed through the rows of garish flags, my progress fed by my desire to find that living version of you I had seen.

The silks whipped the side of my face and kites hanging from ceiling strings grazed the top of my head. At last covering the entire space of the shop without success I approached the proprietress. She greeted me with silent disapproval.

"The young woman who was in here – do you know where she went?" I asked in rushed, clipped words that made me realize I was breathing heavily as my heartbeat raced.

"You’re the only one that’s been in here within the last half hour, sir. And if I may offer a bit of friendly advice, I think you should slow down. Are you always so…insistent? It’s not good for your health, you know. I had one like you in here a while back and next thing I knew, he was having a heart attack right on my sidewalk."

"Thanks for your interest in my welfare," I began again, trying in vain to sound unconcerned and relaxed. "But…"

"And besides, you might consider this," she interrupted and indicated an "If you break it, you bought it" sign behind her.

I turned away without comment. I was in no frame of mind to tell her that my health was just fine, while her opinions meant as much to me as a bicycle to a fish.

I began to make for the door, yes, now more calmly, I thought -- though my need to find you was slaked not at all -- when I was jerked to attention by an incredible piece of glass.

It had been blown, as had most of the others in the shop, but this one made those look like pretty but trivial bubbles a child blows on a lazy sunny summer day.

This massive ball, at least four feet around, was fluted with hundreds of indentations, each with tiny ridges, which worked in concert to create a wave effect across the entire surface of the piece. As it slowly spun on its turntable discrete spectrums of color inhabited these waves, which continued to merge and separate without end as they brightened and darkened with the sunlight and clouds that played a game of hide and seek through the front door and windows. Within moments I saw the waves take on the quality of casually hanging hair, while the light hit so two of the indentations stood out from the rest, like the eyes of a spirit. And then with another quarter turn I saw the face within the glass, terribly real, was you again!

"How much do you want for this ball?" I asked the proprietress, who on my return I startled so that I imagined she believed I’d gone.

"That’s strictly a display piece sir," she said politely, yet with her well-rehearsed ‘you don’t exist in my world’ aura. "It’s not for sale at any price."

"Rubbish," I said. "Everything has a price. Just name it."

Our argument didn’t last long enough to become heated. I can tell you that at its conclusion three things were true: I owned the ball; the shop’s front door had its OPEN sign turned to CLOSED; the proprietress now modeled one of her own silk flags – "Good Morning Starshine" was what they called the cheesy celestial design – rather too tightly around her neck.

But now, here you are. Or rather, here is your image, turning slowly in the light, where I can appreciate the shimmer of your multicolored eyes and the glinting highlights in your hair; earthbound starlight projected to meet a halo of changeling hues that undulate above you and make a small universe of you for my hungry eyes.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that you’re no longer here, in fact. To make me regret that after you coldly said I would never have you I jammed on the car’s brakes, sending you into the windshield, shattering the face and ending the life of the one I loved.

I don’t know who made this wonderful ball -- the proprietress didn’t live long enough to offer the information. But I know that local glass sculptors go to the town dump to get cast-offs, including windshields from car crashes. You see, I guessed I'd find you like this, but never imagined you'd be such a masterpiece.

I’ll go back to the shop after the shock of the murder there has passed. Maybe the new proprietress will know who created this thing of beauty.

But only I will ever know how beautiful you are turning for me so gracefully in the sun.

---------

THE THING THAT COULDN’T DIE

by Frank Walsh

Something ran across the television screen
when no one was looking.
The housewives, the eighth graders taking the vow of abstinence,
a creationist with a biological science text book in one hand
and a scientist with a Bible in the other,
thought they saw something and they wanted to buy it
for a song and a dance preferably from Walmart China.
From my sickbed cardboard rattled with tubes under the over-
pass, I thought I had seen everything in lieu
of what was, I tried to remember another time when
the police beat something to death with their moving violations
but it turned out I was wrong, every stone was left unturned,
because there it was finger prints written all over its face:
The Thing That Couldn’t Die.


Take it from one who never made out in the back-seat
of the Moonlight Drive-in on a Summer Friday night underage
when it dawned on me the Japanese physicists
in black and white three piece suits who covered up nuclear licorice
only scratched the surface and melted a runaway iceberg
burning the ravioli in the process, since what those little men
with big ideas had on their hands besides latex gloves
was the Thing That Couldn’t Be Killed For Certain.
Did it have a head in the sense we’d grasp in three dimensions
and, if so, did that head have mouths to feed
far superior to an inside trader conflict of interest or not?
Or no one could make heads or tails or else were too scared to call
911 and tell the Federal Reserve to watch the skies
for STDs and spermacidal.


But the shadow of a doubt never crossed my mind, it was, despite
the General Theory Of Relativity, the Thing That Couldn’t Die
riding at the head of the motorcade, waving its stump behind
bullet-proof windshields, blowing sweet nothings
to the crossing-guards from various holes in the argument,
without flinching because it didn’t have eyes but sun-glasses
polarized. The Thing That Couldn’t Be Killed changed shape
like you sometimes change socks and underwear. It was
cited in Church most every Sunday especially after
a Saturday of heavy drinking and domestic violence come rain
or shine performing marriages between a man and his private property rights.
Once a small child named Catfish reported to his parents as they sat down to a Last Supper at the nickel
and dime that he’d seen the Thing That Couldn’t Care Less
soiling the national past-time but that didn’t make a dent
they checked him for bite marks
and went back to their repast
at the fork in the spoonful but especially the knives.

3.18.05

----------

A Creepy Sonnet

by Jessica Lynn Disobedience

With a straight-razor, you shaved off my scalp;
And a bonesaw cut through my delicate skull.
The bats escaped the belfry - I was a hull,
An empty shell, until you stepped in to help.
You took their place, inhabited the hell
That is my brain. Once infested with howling ghosts,
You came in, and then my head played host
Only to thoughts of you - and just as well.
The bats and ghosts were gone, but you were there
To keep me company, to fill my days and nights.
But one day you took off, without a warning;
Your presence missing from my brain, where
Now the bats have returned, to what is theirs by
rights,
And the ghosts fly about my skull, screaming and
moaning.

---------

Cancer

by Wred Fright

Every night before Jennifer went to sleep she folded her arms across her chest to save the undertaker the trouble in the morning. She would try to lie as still as possible. The effort would snap her wide awake no matter how sleepy she had been when she had gone to bed, and she would keep her eyes closed tight, listening to the crickets serenade her through the open window in the heat of August, the cars whizzing by on the road in front of the house, her neighbor Mr. Moore bidding his cats good night, the occasional laughter from her parents watching television downstairs, and the creaks and moans of the house as it settled in for the night.

She would also listen to herself, the rise and fall of her breath, the rustle of the sheets as she would involuntarily kick or move; she even thought she could hear her heartbeat if she was quiet enough. She imagined the roar of her blood as it rushed through her body and felt the warm breezez stir the dirt and sweat that clung to her skin. In the flush of summertime, she could never seem to get rid of that dirt and sweat no matter how many times she washed her face before she went to bed. She could feel the grime lying there on top of her Sometimes she wondered if that was the cancer but she knew it was not.

After a long time of lying there, she would hear the television shut off, and her parents climb

the stairs. It felt odd to move again after lying still for so long, but she would uncross her arms quickly and lie still again, pretending she was sleeping. The floorboards would creak and the footsteps would draw nearer and she would almost want to sneak a peek but she kept her eyes closed tighter than ever. Her mother would kiss her on her forehead, and say, "Goodnight Jennifer. God Bless You," and then the footsteps would fade and the floor boards creak in the opposite order. She wondered why her parents couldn't tell she had cancer, but she was relieved because she didn't want to worry them like they had worried over Aunt Sally. That was when she had learned about it.

Jennifer remembered the arguments from the spring time. Her parents had been arguing a lot. She knew it was something about her. It was always when she was out of the room.

"She's too young Carl! Jennifer's only six years old. You seem to forget that. I'll stay home and she'll stay with me," her mother shouted.

"She has to learn about it sometime! She's my only sister Ann! I want Jennifer to know her before . . ."

One day the argument got very loud, and then there was silence. Her father came upstairs and told her they were going to visit Aunt Sally. Her mother didn't come with them. When she and her father got to the hospital, they rode the elevator to the third floor. Down the hallway, in a little white room was Aunt Sally.

She had her head shaved and Jennifer didn't recognize her at first. She smiled weakly at them. She was lying down and tried to sit up, but Jennifer's father said,

"Sally no! Lie back it's fine."

"Carl, leave me alone, I want to see my little Jennifer. Come here darling," she patted on the bed, "How's my one and only godchild."

And then Aunt Sally kissed her and Jennifer tried to stay still but she drew back. She felt Aunt Sally's dry and cracked lips on her cheek and a drop of spittle brushed off on Jennifer's cheek.

The next time she saw Aunt Sally was at the funeral home, the mortician's place, where people went before they went to the cemetery. It was there she saw Aunt Sally lie with her arms crossed and heard the word "Cancer" again and again. That night she had the first dream.

She was sitting in the field behind her house. It was a beautiful summer day. The letters appeared like on Sesame Street and begin to dance. First the "C," then the "A," then the "N," until the entire word arrived and began to chase her. The "C" hounded her, attempting to catch her in its hungry jaws with the entire word following like a train behind. She ran terrified, but it was always only one step behind. It was then she knew she had it.

She was determined no one would know. She didn't want her head shaved. She didn't want to go to the hospital and be hooked up to tubes, and be around nurses and doctors, and eat the awful food her parents talked about. If no one knew, she would just go peacefully in her bed. She knew there was no chance of beating it. Her parents had said that so many times while Aunt Sally had it. It had eventually become a form of shorthand. After meals, her father would sigh and say,

"It's only a matter of time, I suppose."

"Yes," her mother would sigh, and they would both stare into their cups of coffee. Jennifer had tried coffee once. It had tasted terrible. She wondered if it gave you cancer.

After dinner, they would always watch the news. She wasn't interested in it, but she wasn't allowed to go outside and play that late, and she didn't like being alone so she brought down some coloring books or some of her toys and played on the floor while her parents watched the news. Occasionally she would hear "Cancer" and look up. Something was causing cancer. Asbestos, saccharin, Cigarettes. She once asked her mother what cancer was. Her mother said, "When something good turns bad."

Jennifer wondered how she had turned bad.

On Saturdays and Sundays, she went with her mother to the indoor flea market. Her mother ran a booth and sold jewelry and glassware. It was a shadowy, dusty place but was cool compared to outside and she liked it. Everything was old, and seemed like it had been there forever. Sometimes her mother would play cards with some of the other venders when it wasn't busy. They would all comment on her, and offer her food or toys. Sometimes they would slip her dollars and tell her, "What a good little girl you are--always listening to your mother!"

She would usually play on the floor behind the tables, or just sit in her small chair swinging her feet, humming to herself, or counting numbers, "One, two, three, four, five . . ." seeing how far she could go up before losing count.

Because they knew everyone there, and she didn't have to worry, her mother would sometimes let Jennifer run the booth while she ran to the restroom or Ziggy's restaurant to get them lunch. One day, an old man came up to the table. He was dressed neatly in a faded suit and wearing a small brown rumpled hat that fit his head perfectly. He smiled at her and she saw he had a small hole in the middle of his throat. Jennifer wondered what that was for, but she was too polite to ask him.

He bent down and looked at the jewelry, picking up a piece and examining it closely from time to time. Finally, he picked up a bracelet, gazed at it intently, and spoke, his voice a harsh metallic clicking. She couldn't understand what he said. "Pardon me," she said, as she had been taught.

He spoke again, slower this time, "How much for this piece?"

Jennifer motioned with her hands to see it. The man passed it to her and their hands brushed. His skin felt dry and cracked like Aunt Sally's. She turned the bracelet over and over again in her hands but couldn't find the price. She didn't know what to say, and was relieved when she saw her mother returning from the restroom.

Her mother slid between the tables to enter the booth. "This one?" she said to the man, "I'm sorry. It's brand new. I haven't had a chance to price it yet. Um . . . five dollars sounds right."

The man smiled and held a finger up in the air while digging in his back pocket with his other hand. Jennifer looked up following the man's finger. She thought he had been pointing to something but she only saw the rafters of the flea market was located in. The old man paid her mother, and she gave Jennifer the bracelet to wrap and put in a bag. As she wrapped it up, she saw the old man take out a cigarette and light it. He put it to the hole in his throat. Jennifer handed the bag to her mother who passed it on to the old man. The metallic voice clicked, "Thank you." He smiled and tipped his hat to Jennifer. As he walked away, Jennifer saw puffs of smoke drift backwards.

That night she laid in bed with her arms crossed as usual, under the covers so her parents couldn't see. She thought of the man in the flea market. She thought he was a magic man, or a robot like in the movies. She had wanted to ask her mother about him but they had gotten busy and in the rush she had forgotten to ask. Now she remembered him, and again she seemed to see him walking away with the puffs of smoke drifting back. She remembered his finger and how he had held it in the air like a magic wand. She fell asleep.

In her dream that night, the cancer was chasing her as usual, when the man in the suit appeared. He spoke in his metallic clicking, saying each of the letters, "C!" "A!" "N!" "C!" "E!" "R!" and pointing at them with his finger. As he pointed at each one, the letters disappeared. The old man turned toward her then and tipped his hat just as he had done in the flea market. He faded away then leaving only a hole which puffed smoke. In the morning, her arms lay at her sides. For the first time in weeks, she woke up without surprise.

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Nasty plugs and fleshy bits:

Leopold McGinnis lives deep in the bowels of RedFez.net, where he stubbornly attempts to re-animate the lit-scene with kooky projects like GameQuest!

J.D. Finch is an undead satyrist who plans to appeal his 1692 conviction at the Salem Witch Trials!

Frank Walsh is a poetic werewolf, stalking the streets of Philadelphia in search of fresh verse and warm blood!

Jessica Disobedience is the zombified midwestern ghoulette who starred as herself in the cult horror classic, Return of the Wanna-be Bride of Tom Waits! Issue number 9 of her zine, Sad & Beautiful World is possibly for sale here!

Wred Fright used to edit this blog, until a jealous & psychotic Pat Simonelli KILLED HIM IN COLD BLOOD! Or, married him off and forced him into exile. Wred's book, The Pornographic Flabbergasted Emus, is forthcoming from ULA Press!