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
Vertun
Vertun arrives from Target with a new shovel. He tells himself, “I have no obstacles in my way. I could dig a hole, but that’s been done.” Today, Vertun thinks, I’m gonna fly. Vertun digs a slight hole in the ground. Inside the hole a petit feller named Delmar Watt is covered in dirt. Delmar shouts, “Some upright monkeys played voodoo on me. They shrunk me and stuck me up their butts. Then they vomited here and buried me.”
“Little man,” Vertun says. “First tell me your name.”
“Delmar,” he answers. “Wow. I feel really good. Nobody cares about my name. They write it down in places but never address me.”
“Delmar,” Vertun says.
Delmar jumps up, “Yes! Yes, tell me you love me!”
“I’m gonna have to get rid of you,” Vertun says. “You’re no good. You’ve been rejected.”
“What?! Who?!”
“By me,” Vertun answers. Vertun drives the shovel into the hole, letting the shovel’s head sing to the Gods. He climbs up to the roof of his house and jumps down, assfirst, onto the shovel.Vertun think, Damn, that felt good. He touches a button hidden behind his left earlobe. The Slut Princess appears. She slaps him and tells him, “Boy! Now you can fly!” Wings split from Vertun’s shoulder blades. The Slut Princess disappears. Vertun glides through the air. He thinks how it’s all due to his new shovel. He shouts, “Thank you shovel!” He’s high into the stratosphere. He feels light and sick, but doesn’t care. He declares, “I have a shovel up my asshole!”
Tom and Michael
Tom met Michael through Craigslist, in the Casual Encounters section after he had clicked on the t4mm hyperlink. Michael’s post was named, “Looking for writers.” Tom was ecstatic. He opened and read Michael’s post:
Are you a fan of the song Lola? Even if it’s the cover version that you know, I’m the girl for you. You say you’re a writer? You got experience? Now come on baby, take a walk on the wild side. Take a few sips with me, and maybe I’ll take you somewhere special.
After reading the post Tom saw the image tagged with it. It was of a large full-figured woman. She had dark skin and a thick mustache. Michael, Tom thought, what a beautiful name.Like sunrise. Tom liked the boxing gear Michael was wearing. Tom wondered if he were in the ring with Michael, who would win? Tom was sure Michael would. Tom spent most of his school days getting beat up by girls, and it sure seemed Michael worked out. This might befun, Tom thought.
Tom emailed Michael’s post with the subject heading, “I WANT EXPERIENCE.” In it Tom listed all forty webzines that had published him, his high school, his community college, his university, and the rehab clinics he’d spent a few nights in. Michael responded quickly, informing Tom of where they could meet up that night—also including his cell number, just in case Tom got lost.
In the gritty bar where Tom met Michael, they drank whiskey on the rocks, all Michael’s treat. Michael informed Tom that he was the editor of a small lit journal that published underground writers. Michael told Tom that he didn’t want to move the world, just make it laugh, because the days were ugly fucking days, and if he didn’t laugh, he’d have killed himself a long time ago. Michael didn’t want to die, he told Tom, and didn’t want anybody else to die.
“But at the same time,” Michael said. “Writers are like drug addicts.” Michael reached his hairy arms around Tom’s shoulder. The bar smoke stood frozen between their faces and was separated as Michael reached in and kissed Tom on the lips. “Eternal man-children walking the streets thinking their life is important, that somebody really gives a shit what they have to say. But you don’t seem that way Tom. You look like a good writer. You’ll let me do the talking, won’t you? You’re coming home with me.”
The Man Alone in his Auroras
And he was asked, “Who are you? Do you have a name? How can I know you, feel for you, if I can’t see you?” But it doesn’t matter, the man alone in his auroras thought. I am the one who lives in auroras, alone.
The man alone in his auroras thought of the future, how his thousand dollar deposit would be cuckolded from him by the slum-lords he’d been paying rent to the past six months. “My name does not matter,” the man alone in his auroras said. “All you want is my money so that you can pay off your car.”
The man alone in his auroras thought of his jobs, the thirty-five jobs he’s had since he’d moved to this town. Each one, after a few weeks in which the man alone in his auroras felt comfortable, felt stable, would disappear. The man alone in his auroras would arrive dressed in uniform—fifteen minutes early, because he’s responsible—and the building, where he’d worked the day before, was gone. Nothing stood in the space where he’d spent eight hours making money for someone else. But on the ground: mounds and mounds of dead leaves and detriment, as if nothing ever stood there for years, as if people passed by everyday and deposited their waste.
Now comesthirty-six, the man alone in his auroras thought. Where shall I find it?
You can see more Andy Riverbed
in the new Second Lit
Chaos Print Issue.
Read a review by Michael Fisher here.
Also, check Andy and his first
book on Google or see his blog at http://ylarivera.blogspot.com/?chaos
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)