Poems by Aimee Delong
Cat, Poem, & Notes (poetry & fiction)
by Ralph-Micheal ChiaiaCharlie Parker's Garden (poetry) by Puma Perl
Red Mama (artwork/poetry) by Moctezuma Johnson
The Mob (poetry) by Doug Draime
Willie Lepers (music video) by Norman Ball
Sometimes Suicidal by Aimee DeLong
SUBURBIA PURGATORIA (EXCERPT)
Sight of oily water running alongside the sidewalk parallel in the
underbelly of the city center, now Sid was staring at what had brought
him here to the water, events of the past, it was his recurring make
believe sold over and handed to some slave he would be. Scenario plays
over and over always seeming incomplete looking over short wooden
wharf and the small craft with a thatched cabin roof. He saw ancient
junk tattered, boats huddled in an elaborate jigsaw pattern. He
turned, buildings staring blankly over his shoulder as if holding each
other up. Peeling paint, windows obscured, rash, cardboard, doors
open, it shocked him, gleaming steel, broken glass, urban from within
the inside out, old souls, old tales, repository of dreams, erotic
fantasy and obsession all fitting together like the people too who
rushed and brushed along narrow cobblestone lanes.
“You live in and above and all around your bleak brick mountains. You
make your own dismal gray haze, you huddle together, hurried and
hallucinating through the natural world!”, an old bum rants to no one
in particular.
Sid replies in the fading evening, ”Hey, yeah, I understand.”
“Then keep your eyes closed on your ancestors and bite hard.”.
Sid grits his teeth.
Winding through the mad city met their fates amongst urban decay-
Sid stumbles into squalid downtown and its noisome stereo sound,
finding himself in a land of commands. Left lane must turn left. Right
lane ends. No through traffic. One way. No loitering. No breathing.
Gaudy storefronts, neon against chrome, vast stretch of misery
appearing before him as far as the eye can see.
This city is becoming asleep, a living breathing dreaming snoring
machine -the bus careens down Fifth, Sid in the belly of the metal
beast, from his window gazing at the sleepwalkers roaming from one
gray dream to the next. This city is becoming stagnant, a living
breathing pissing shitting machine -the bus turns on Oak, Sid hits his
flask and tucks it back in his black suede coat.
This city -we are all alike here in this void ,if only in some
ways, some sort of common bond, a running theme. We all know each
other here. We envelop nothing like dogs in heat lapping up sex like
water, we sit languid like junkies waiting for the connection, like a
hypodermic needle pushing heroin into the vein.
A cup of coffee on an empty table black as hell, the steam rises up
and blends with the stale haze of cigarette smoke circulating about
the room in the essence of the mood, flickering candlelight highlights
the ominous silence of lonesome walls and downtrodden faces, a dull
roar emanates from the ceiling fan setting forth a tone of trance like
tranquility. Sid sits rigidly at the end of the table lost in thought
smoking away on hand rolled cigarettes. He loves his nicotine, he is a
fool for caffeine, too much coffee poured down the old throat fraying
already frayed nerves. Frantic mental roaming and schizophrenic
dreamscapes are a common state of mind for Sid. He runs his hand over
his shaved purple hair, if he had any hair he would probably rip it
all out, his eyebrows were already sparse from nervous plucking and
anxiety attacks. You could say he nurtured quite a few stares when he
did venture out, purple topped bald faced figure in his smooth maroon
leisure suit nearly jogging with his urgent pace going to nowhere
really, just out, away from anything. But the disturbing image that
would send aches to your heart —the eyes— mirrors to the soul, you
could look into those blue things and see the emotion of ten people,
you ask ‘what’s wrong?’, he’d reply “Don’t know.” and unlike most
people he wouldn’t be lying, and often times, that would be what would
get to him the most, that he simply didn’t know, what he called the
suburban brat syndrome. You would not walk away from Sid Dresch
without some sort of distinct impression.
His mind is swirling high above him, he takes a drag off of his smoke
and glances across the room, Anesthesia is crouched contently on the
floor, her glazed eyes peeking out from behind her black spider webbed
hair in curious amazement as she pours dish washing liquid over an
immense tower of cigarette packs forming patterns with the thick ooze,
smiling, pleasantly amused with herself. Anesthesia considered herself
an artist, but her canvas consisted of anything that struck her, often
time the canvas was her head. She was the ultimate outsider artist.
Too goth for the straight kids and too weird for the Goths, Sid was
about her only friend in the world. She loved him as much as she could
love some one, but was forever silent and waiting for him to notice,
or care. Sid exhales a cloud of smoke and speaks.
“I think I’m going to explode.”
Anesthesia mutters back without bothering to look up.
“There is more essence to imploding.”
“I am going to explode.” He insists.
“Exploding is overdone.”
“Any form of self destruction is definitely overdone but the lure is
still there.
She finally looks up to make eye contact.
“Yes ,but if you must self destruct at least have an air of originality to it.”
“I think I’m going to explode.’
“Like a time bomb in the soul?”
“No, more like a plummeting egg.”
“An egg?” Her interest is piqued.
‘‘A soul shattering like an egg.
“Self destruction is like a suburb.”
“No, a suburb is waiting to die. A shattering egg is self destruction.”
“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”
“I’m going to explode.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Sid picks himself up as if he would vomit if he moved too quickly,
slinking across the dimly lit room towards the door. Anesthesia goes
on with her work undisturbed by the conversation which between the two
of them was quite routine.
Outside it’s mid-day, the sun looms like a stagnant disease. Sid steps
out, explosion waits on wings as sure as he wants it to as he walks
into the street. He finishes his smoke and throws it to the ground.
Book Reviews:
Dancing on Thin Ice by George Anderson (review by Ralph-Michael Chiaia)
92
Rapple by Lyn Lifshin
(review by Helen Peterson)
10
Poems & Ampersands
by Ralph-Michael Chiaia
(review by David McLean)