Paul Beckman is a real estate salesman, a writer, snorkeler, traveler and photographer. He specializes in the short story, the short-short story, post-card, flash fiction, micro & briefs stories. He coined the term "briefs" to describe his 60 word and under stories, Last year his 105 year old aunt and his dog died but he has no current plans for replacing either.


Some publishing credits: THE CONNECTICUT REVIEW, THE NEW HAVEN REVIEW, ONTHEBUS, SHORT STORY LIBRARY, THE WRITER’S VOICE, PLAYBOY, 5 TROPE, OTHER VOICES, THE SCRUFFY DOG REVIEW, PARTING GIFTS, FICTION WAREHOUSE, WEB DEL SOL, JEWISH CURRENTS, LONG STORY SHORT, PITTSBURGH FLASH FICTION GAZETTE, RIVERBABBLE, EXQUISITE CORPSE, COLLECTEDSTORIES.COM, OPIUM, CLEAN SHEETS, THUG LIT and SUGAR MULE.


MR... FIX ALL

There was a line forming outside THE FIX ALL SHOP when Elwin, the proprietor, arrived at seven thirty Tuesday morning. Although most of the people knew who he was, no one exchanged pleasantries with him or him with them.

Elwin was a presence; around forty years old, six-four and stocky with bushy eyebrows and thick brown hair parted on the side. The comb marks were always visible which is what happens when you comb your hair wet. He was clean-shaven and could’ve used a mustache or beard to minimize the size of his nose, but most likely the concept never entered his mind.

It was only a year and a half ago that Elwin Miller drove into Northampton, Massachusetts, parked his car and walked both sides of the wide Main Street. There were only three empty stores and he honed in on the one at the very edge of town—the least desirable for a retail business. He rented it and then looking for a place to live settled on a garage apartment six blocks from the store. The furnished apartment was over a four-car garage that was used for the four-plex in front. Elwin paid three months rent in advance and continued on that way.

He keeps his own car behind the store and starts it once or twice a week and drives it once a month. Otherwise, he walks everywhere and occasionally takes a bus.

Elwin unlocked the door, turned on the lights and walked into the back room where he put on a pot of coffee and his canvas apron. He put the loop over his head and tied the strings in back. It had three slots for pens in the bib part and large pockets on the sides. He sharpened a pencil and stuck it behind his right ear. The door to his shop remained unlocked but the “closed” sign was still hanging so no one entered. He sat at his desk, wrote out a few bills and when the coffee was ready he took the newspaper and sat back down. He read the first page of each section, except sports, and never continued any article beyond that initial page. He never read the comics, advice columns or his horoscope.

At seven-fifty-six he got up, rinsed and cup and walked to the front door where he turned the sign to “open” and then walked behind the counter which was three feet wide and almost the width of his store.

Almost instantly the opening door jingled the attached bell and Elwin’s first customer walked in. He was an almost bald man with a friar’s fringe. He held a large paper shopping bag on its side and with some effort hefted it onto the counter. Elwin waited while the man handed him the manila card he had filed out in line, from the stack of manila cards in the Plexiglas box by the door. The card had a perforated receipt on one end and two six inch strings coming from a hole at the other end.

Beads of sweat dripped down the man where his sideburns were meant to be. As the man slid a large roasting pan with a turkey out of the bag, Elwin read the problem section of the card. I over cooked the turkey and my wife is coming in from a business trip and bring company home for dinner at seven. Elwin ripped off the receipt, handed it back to the man, tied the strings around a drumstick and slid the turkey back into the bag. “Be back at six,” he said and then placed the bag in one of the many bins behind him.

His next customer placed a shoebox on the counter and handed Elwin her card. Problem: Son dropped vase, It’s been in the family for years. Why do so many people feel they have to put the reason that things happened, he wondered. Elwin opened the shoebox, surveyed the dozens of pieces and said, “It’s not all here. Pieces are missing.”

The woman looked sheepish. “I think a couple of pieces may have skidded under the breakfront but it’s too heavy for me to move.”

Elwin pushed the box back at the woman and told her that he was a fix-all man and not a magician. “Bring this to Penn and Teller’s shop in Amherst,” he said and ripped the card in half.

After Elwin had rented the storefront he spent a month building his bins. The landlord had partitioned off an office and a bathroom and left the rest for him to finish. His bins ranged from two feet by two feet to large floor to ceiling ones—eight and a half feet tall and six feet wide. Behind the counter were the smaller bins that stretched from one end to the other leaving only passage room to get to the larger bins which were not visible from the front of the store. The bins were all painted white and touched up as needed from scuffs and dings.

At first no one knew what he fixed. People were turned away with broken televisions, bicycles and the like. On his third day in business a woman came in with a broken iron and a limping dog. He told her to take the iron and leave the dog. He tied a card to the dog’s collar and placed the pooch in a side bin. Elwin check the dog’s paws and used a tweezers to take a burr out from between the pads on his left front leg. Later that day the woman came back for her dog, now non-limping, and went around telling everyone about The Fix All Shop.

Elwin refused an interview with the local paper but they ran a story on him anyway. They used a picture of people lined up in front of his store since he wouldn’t pose for a picture with his bins. He kept to himself, took most of his meals at the local diner, was often seen at the library and occasionally at the movie theater. He was always alone and although satisfied clients and other business people invited him to picnics and parties he never went.

The line was orderly and one customer after another came in and put their items on the counter. Most were accepted and went into bins in an order only known and understood by Elwin, but like the vase, some were rejected, Just after noon a man handed Elwin two sticks and before Elwin was able to read the ticket the man told him that he was a dowser and this was his best dowsing stick. “My last customer broke it on me because he only got two gallons a minute after drilling down over four hundred feet.”

Elwin picked up both pieces of the branch. The bark had been removed and it was worn smooth with visible finger indentations.

“Willow,” said Elwin.

“Willow,” said the dowser.

“After five,” Elwin said and handed the man his receipt. He turned and put the sticks in the upper bins behind him.

Two women appearing to be mother and daughter were next at the counter. Wordlessly, Elwin turned and walked to his back room, poured himself a cup of coffee and carried it back out front, taking small sips as he went. The daughter was now sitting atop the counter, her knees up, arms crossed on top and her head resting on her arms. She had her face turned away from her mother and towards Elwin, her eyes closed and her face pained. He didn’t have to read the ticket—he knew what was wrong. Her mother held the ticket and fidgeted. He took the ticket, ripped off the receipt for the mother and tied the strings to the girl’s large hoop earrings, and then gently picked her up and carried her around the side and placed her in a large bin. Her position never changed. Elwin patted her hair, whispered in her ear and walked back out front. “Call me Friday,” he said, “Broken hearts take a little longer.”

Mrs... Sheehy was next with her toaster oven. Elwin had turned her down twice before but she was old and obviously forgetful. Even so, he couldn’t help his disdainful look as he tossed the toaster oven in a bottom bin telling her that he’d call her when it was ready. He told her that if she’d taken it to Bob Villas’ Fix-Er-Up Shoppe he would have fixed it while she waited. “It won’t be this month,” he told her. “That fine,” she said. “I have a new one anyway.”

A couple stood flanking an eleven year old boy. The man wore a plaid shirt and had a pleasant face. The woman wore what she thought of as a weight-hiding dress and had a puss. The boy was vintage Norman Rockwell—freckles, cowlick, red hair and jug ears. Elwin waited to hear what they wanted done with the boy when the boy handed him the card. My parents are splitting up. Please bring them back together. Elwin told the boy to come back after five, closer to six and handed him the receipt for his parents. He tied the strings to a button hole in the father’s plaid shirt and then walked to the rear of the store and returned with a double wide hand truck. Elwin had the parents stand next to each other and on their toes. He slid the hand truck beneath their feet and then went around front and adjusted them both. He then wheeled them, tilted back, and deposited them in a rear bin.

He took another half-dozen customers and then, ignoring the line, locked the door and turned the sign to closed. He took the bag with the turkey into the bathroom, put it on the closed toilet seat and turned on the hot water. Steam was beginning to fill the room as he closed the door. Elwin left by the back door and walked away from town.

“Enough already,” Dr. Schlermer said. “If you recite your whole day it’ll take my whole day.”

“I thought you wanted to know what brought me here,” Elwin said. “I was just telling you what brought me here.” Elwin, being a man of few words was actually not surprised at how freely his thoughts spilled out. Remembering the other towns and shrinks he recalled that they always did.

“Okay, so tell me what brought you here?”

“Pressure. I’m feeling too much pressure from my customers.”

“You’re here because of pressure?” Dr. Schlermer asked.

“Yes,” Elwin said.


You don’t know from pressure,” The psychologist said. “Sit in my seat and listen to people kvetch all day. That’s pressure. Most of you people who come here have no idea how good you have it. Pills,” he said. “It’s a good thing for pills.”

“You’re going to give me pills? What kind of pills?” Elwin asked.

“The pills are for me, not you. Otherwise I’d never get out of bed, much less make it through the day. Maybe I should check myself into your shop,” Dr. Schlermer laughed. “Do you take Blue Cross? How much is your co-pay? Any professional courtesy?”

Elwin didn’t bother to answer. He got up and left. His shop was closed from noon until four and it was now one-thirty. He stopped at a coffee shop for lunch—a departure from his routine. He usually took a nap until one-fifteen in one of his bins and then went to the diner for his tuna on rye toast. He knew that when he returned there’d be a line waiting to pick up whatever was fixed and ready. Elwin was a bit edgy from his lack of a nap and his visit with the shrink. He almost told him too much and might have if the shrink hadn’t started in about his own problems.

He was a fraud. No matter how many people Elwin helped, he saw himself as a con. He knew it was time to start planning his move to the next town before he was found out. He thought back to the limping dog’s paw. He knew that others wanted things to be right and for someone to say so and between the powers of suggestion, the praise of others and their desire to please him, most people made adjustments. He also knew that these changes were temporary even if he never stayed around long enough to find out just how short lived they were. Believing this was the reason he didn’t stay in any one town too long. “Always leave them wanting more, but always leave them,” read the needlepoint pillow in his head.

“How’s my father?” the waitress asked as she put a BLT and lemonade on the counter in front of Elwin. He’d ordered a tuna on rye toast and a coke. He knew she looked familiar when she’d taken his order.

“Please,” Elwin said, not knowing for the life of him who her father was, “I don’t talk business during my lunch time. It’s my only break of the day. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

The waitress apologized and said that she’d see him later anyway. “I’m scheduled to pick him up at five and I hope his Alzheimer’s has gotten better and he recognizes me.”

“Stop!” Elwin ordered her. “No more business talk. Bring me a slice of Coconut cream pie.”

“Out,” she said. “How about banana cream?”

“Make it tapioca, then.”

“Rice pudding?” she countered.

“You must have blueberry pie. Bring me a slice of blueberry pie.”

“Apple?”

“Okay, apple.”

“Ice cream with it?”

“No. Just a slice.”

“Warmed?” she asked and when Elwin didn’t answer she walked away and returned with a slice and a half of warm apple pie. When she switched the pie plate with the BLT plate she winked at him and winked again when she brought his bill and there was no mention of pie.

Elwin paid and walked back to the shop. He walked in through the back door to avoid the three people standing in line. He walked over to the girl with the broken heart, leaned inside the bin and whispered, “You will feel great when you wake up and wonder what you ever saw in him.” He repeated this scene every fifteen minutes whether she was sleeping or awake.

He pulled up his chair in front of the couple that was splitting, spun it around and sat down resting his arms on the chair back. “You might as well take your son out and drown him or shoot him,” Elwin told the startled couple. “The odds are not in his favor. Ted Bundy, Mark Chapman and Hannibal Lecter were all eleven years old when their parents split. So were Hitler, Arafat, Newt Gingrich and Richard Nixon and also Louis Lepke, Don King and Aaron Burr. Eleven is the most pivotal age of all. Hang in there a couple of more years and he’ll stand a better chance of outgrowing that mass killer phase of anti-socialism. Besides, you could be held financially liable.”

Without looking at each other the couple had been edging closer together during Elwin’s lecture. By the time he finished they were holding hands. Not long after he left them he heard love moans from their bin but chose not to sneak a peek.

Next he went to the bin and took out the two pieces of the dowser’s stick. This was his first dowser. Finally, he thought, after all these years of going town to town setting up shop, there’s something different. He held the broken piece of willow along side the other and marked it with a pencil. He then scored the long side with his pocket knife and broke it, evening up both sides—shorter but symmetrical. Elwin tossed the willow remnants away.

At a quarter to four he went into the bathroom and turned the water off. The turkey was moist. He carved it for the client and drained the water from the pan.

Lastly, he walked over to the bin with the Alzheimer’s patient. “Your daughter’s coming to pick you up soon,” he told the man, “She hopes you’ll recognize her. Do your best.”

“Can’t I stay a little longer” the man asked. “She drives me crazy.”

The waitress daughter was the first in line when Elwin reopened. She winked at him. He brought the old man out to his daughter and he looked at her and said, “Molly,” calling out his late wife’s name. He then grabbed his daughter and kissed her, sticking his tongue deeply into her mouth. Speechless, she pulled away wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Her father turned and walked back to his bin. She winked at Elwin, “I’ll call you,” she said and left the shop.

At six Elwin closed and locked the door and went home. He felt good but a little sad that it had become time to move on. The next morning as he walked towards he store he saw Dr. Schlermer standing in line filling out a card. Elwin turned down a side street and sat on the curb. He watched the line getting longer, but it wasn’t until he remember the girl with the broken heart that he finally got up and began walking, taking out the store keys as he went.

TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker; he has had poetry published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, and others. He lives in Ithaca, New York.

Flown Flakey Flow



The slow comes down in snow-motion millefleurs,

which leaves crystal leaves and petals galore

in a shifting floor of shifting flours.







Presence In The Gorge



More and more ice creates a wide impact

(water’s way of getting itself across)

(the thin brown urination of the stream

left, around the pile up) which gets me to

thinking (or I wouldn’t even be here).







My Right



Exercising my rights responsibly,

my solemn right’s responsibility –

it’s a big world out there that’s not out there

it’s right here.







I thought I saw a path on too thin an

emotionless surface to walk across.








Across The Lawn



The Duke Of Early to duck-obvious

quacks wakes, his day starts, gubernacular

thoughts guide the glide, the druthers and the yens

follow.







Night In The Open



I find space easy enough, but sometimes

it escapes into space.

I show the whore my song of filth & death/ she
says I should have died before I wrote it/ she
doesn't realize I've been dead for years/ if


she could smell herself she'd know that
her pussy too is dead & rotting now milleniums, but
her arrogance makes her think she lives/ thank


God I am one who fast forgives/ though God too exudes
the effluvia of death/ He speaks the word & it comes from
his sick breath/ I forgive dead God & relieve his

pain with meth/ He speeds about like the
mad corpse He's become/ spouting love like some
sex craved bum/ His festering phallus makes


the angels run to satisfy their lust with the devil's dork, as
the good Lord eats worms & beetles in raw pork/ the
Lord goes right to sleep forsaking work, missing


the pope's cattle & their circle jerk, with
little children thrown is as a perk/ it's
enough to make a good man smirk, but


all the good men have been eaten by the capitalist beast, &
Mammon sucks their blood as a spiritual treat, as the
children are slaughtered by the penis of the priest, &


the bishop joins the celebration sucking a sister's teat, &
through his lips squirts the blood of horror that
the bishop drinks & shouts for more, which


brings us back to the beginning & our vicious whore, dripping
the pus of morality from from her venal & lusty core, with
disease & agony squeezed from every pore/ &


today our land is strewn with rotting souls baking
eternally on the devil's coals; so
rejoice, you miserable ingrates, dried


up as festering raisins & foul dates with screaming
furies as your mates, craven dogs of sundry hates!
Rejoice! your bowl of foul


drippings
awaits ...


!

Fritz Hamilton

My poetry is a blend of my personal experience, philosophy, and sin. I have just begun the process of trying to get my work published, so I don't have anything to share with you in that regard as of yet. But, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Adam Mayster


Desert Heat II

This riddle, I must discern…

Beast circling skies full of sun;

A bit deeper, I need to run;

Gliding over the land,

I can not understand;

Wrestling each grain of sand,

I still find nothing;

The figure, long and lean,

What else have I not seen?

On with the same routine,

I need to find something.


The Impulse

A powerful impulse,

Lurking unrestrained;

The collapse of virtue,

The death of tradition,

The revenge of sin;

Let freedom reign.


AVII

Irrational face,

And contradiction,

With man interlace,

Modern condition;

Transcend, understand,

Decomposition.


Flee Red Dow’!

In the obscured lived the bold angel of venture;

She came down to rescue the ridiculous;

Her intensions of extravagance,

“Too much veracious offender!”


Shy of brightening everything,

Much more than certainly,

She laughed at the amateur for the fine,

And, for so she was damned!

Ken "Kookinelli"

Apparently not content to squander public money to challenge Obama's federal health care reform or the EPA's authority to regulate greenhouse gas emissions, to say nothing of that quick flop "modesty" redesign of the Commonwealth's seal, Virginia's Attorney General continues on his quest to become a legend in his own mind by now investigating former UVA research scientist Michael Mann's academic e-mails concerning climate control under the pretense of fraud with regard to use of state grant funding! A much better inquiry would be to look into all the taxpayer revenue that "Kookinelli" is wasting in his pursuit of these obviously personal pet peeves in these hard economic times.
Per the 1967 US Supreme Court decision in Keyishian v. Board of Regents, the First Amendment "...does not tolerate laws that impose a pale of orthodoxy over the classroom..." That case must be in a book that has not made it onto Virginia's top lawyer's reading queue. Or maybe because that matter came on appeal from New York, he has rationalized that its dictates don't apply in this state. Scarier still, maybe he just doesn't care. Sure, there's that 2000 Federal Appeals Court decision holding that college professors have no First Amendment based academic freedom rights in job related teaching and scholarship, but that ruling is ten years old, regionally and judicially limited in scope, and it was never considered by the Supremes. As a matter of fact, in forty-three years, from our nation's highest court, nary a whisper again.
In 2007, a US District Court decision, now on appeal, denied First Amendment protection to professors who spoke out against hiring and promotion practices, excessive use of adjunct faculty to be specific. And the US Supreme Court did rule a year earlier in Garcetti v. Ceballos that the First Amendment doesn't shield public employees from retaliation for speaking out if that speech was part of their "official duties," in that case, whistleblowing. But internal e-mails traded in the normal course of academic discourse are a far cry, no pun intended, from vocal and/or extrainstitutional whining. And vigorous scholastic debate is not tantamount to an intrusion into employer personnel decisions. Those are distinctions with merit that "Kookinelli" will be hard pressed to overcome. But maybe that's not his point.
Maybe our "Almost Governor" just wants to have a chilling effect on any thought he finds disagreeable, and by threatening to, or bringing these frivolous lawsuits, he may somewhat achieve his purpose and accomplish that result. If his strategy works, it could be a return to McCarthyism for this state and equivalent to the 1950s Communist purges in this country or oppression under Communist rule elsewhere. "Kookinelli"'s Virginia would be the Dominion of the Old-fashioned, stuck in a time warp of only all that he deems worthwhile. Laissez-faire Virginie, ignoring that moniker aside, the Commonwealth theory is not embodied in our federal Constitution, and that James Madison railed against the retention of any state sovereignty in a national government as destructive. Apparently on Ken's bookshelf, historical tomes are collecting dust as well.
Since he is the Attorney General, it is important that he doesn't lead us into becoming the laughing stock of the nation, or even worse, into being an outlaw breakaway republic under his whimsical rule. In a political climate where residents of Louisiana are feeling ostracized and unloved by yet another Administration, but are still pleading the value in being part of US, there is irony in "Kookinelli"'s separatist stance. While throughout Virginia we're cutting library hours and slashing education funding, there's one budget we haven't looked at - his. Perhaps to stop the "Kookiness," we should. The State of the Union isn't perfect, but membership has its privileges, making it far better than going it alone.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Mike Berger, PhD is
bright, articulate,
handsome, and
extremely humble

Hi, may I introduce myself. I am Mike Berger, PhD.

I hold a doctorate in psychology. I am now retired

and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing

for a year. I have had good success publishing.



Attached are three poems and bio. Thanks for your

consideration. I hope you like the poems.



Best,
Mike


RETURNING HERO

Starch
The military laundry put too much
starch in my shirt. It chaffed around
my neck. My heavy green coat was
a little too tight; in the hospital, I
had put on a few pounds.

My leg ached during the flight; I
could feel each scar where the
shrapnel was removed. I struggle
to my feet; I was unsteady on my
prosthetic leg.

I walked with a limp and in a few
minutes I hurt. My back screamed
at my unnatural gait. I leaned my
cane on an airline seat and tugged
trying to straighten my coat . There
on my chest was a Nam campaign
ribbon, a Purple Heart and a Bronze
Star.

I was greeted by my family. There
was mom and dad and my sister
Beth. People rushed by in a hurry
never giving as a second glance.
This was a heroes welcome.
Nobody gave a damn.

Second

Dog eat dog.
First is first;
second is nothing.
To the victors...

Human sharks prowl;
barracudas bite.
Get him,
or he'll get you.

Bizarre system;
needing a fight.
Winner takes all;
might makes right

Loving success stories;
Winning happy end.
Deifying the victor;
making demigods.

Tragedy abounds;
bloody playing field.
Tragic heroes play a part
coming in second.

I croak on Memorial Day &
only the frogs are gathered round my
deathbed, singing of crocodiles & snakes/ my

body goes to medical science where
they cut out my heart for the study of black
heartedness/ they find the blackness but the

heart is long gone/ they check my family to
see what's happened to my heart, but nobody
recalls that I was part of the family, &

even when wiping the blood from their
mouths, they claim they were eating the
heart of Bab's the babboon, but nobody knows

my name, unless I was the stillborn
aardvark several centuries ago/ the family
boiled & ate his little corpse while singing

"America the Beautiful" they agree, but
no one remembers me/ they do recall having
murdered a Mongoloid child & chopping his

gonads into the salad, but those were the
salad days, & their memories are in a haze, because
then they lost it all in the crash & had to eat

Mongoloid hash, & the last they recall is
cipher like me; so I give it all up &
seek out my friends, & am

standing in an empty field too
arid to yield anything at all/ it's
after the fall, & there is no friend, not

even one!/ I'm
alone & life is done/ I
take out my gun &

fire it into my brain, but
it's vanished like my heart/ they
won't even take me in the death cart to

be buried enmasse with Mozart, but
the music is also gone too
the very last song/ like

Mozart's & Fred Hammy's art, which
is dead like God, rotting
beneath the sod, &

thus I fart to
have my stench lost in the wind
leaving nothing, like

nothing at all, or the
void of Mergatroid in
which we sink beyond our

stink, with
one last wink &
we're gone

gone

gone ...

!

Fritz Hamilton

Pasted here are 6 of my 'love lost' poems, "If It Seems Too Good To Be True", "Love In An Elevator", "Plotting Her Escape","Wake-up Call", "When To Worry" and "The World Is My Ashtray" to be considered for publication in (A Brilliant) Record Magazine.

My poems and stories have been published in print publications such as The Boston Poet and Spare Change, as well as the anthology "Out of the Blue Writers Unite" and my work is soon to be featured online with COAP Press.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Erik Tate


IF IT SEEMS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

From which Erica Jong novel did you step?

Morning you rise with kissably fresh breath already,
your skin sweet as Tiffany's perfume before even showering.

It's a source of amazement that your vagina insides
can taste like cherry and butterscotch interchangeably.

A four-star chef with agile wrist motion,
you don't even want any help in the kitchen!

You give great manicures - very gentle with the cuticles,
tell me to soak my feet while you change into your
navy blue nightie with no underpants easy access.

Free spirit, uninhibited you climax four times to my one,
your leg knocking mirror off bedroom wall.

But you must get up sometime,

rush from the condo after a phone call
from your "personal trainer",
speed away in your green Saturn
coveted by every man in New Jersey,

leaving me to contemplate my great fortune
in sharing your bed.


LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR

Even before you told me your dream,

how we were at the Aerosmith concert
and I was going into convulsions,

paramedics working over me
while you stood thinking

I was ruining the concert for you,

even before you told me this,
I knew how you felt about me.

You didn't need to reitterate it
with a second
(or third) telling.


PLOTTING HER ESCAPE

the time that we playfully
wrestled

on the bed

and I maneuvered on top of her,
straddling her,
pinning her wrists to the bed,

it wasn't a game anymore

and as she struggled to get free
but couldn't,

she said with some surprise,
"You are stronger than I am,"

got a look in her eyes

like she was storing this
piece of information away

for future reference.

WAKE-UP CALL

She said she had to get out now,
before we both drowned

and it scared me; I'd never
heard her talk about our relationship
in those terms before.

When she hung up
I put the receiver on the cradle
in the floor, next to the mattress
and turned over on my back.

I couldn't sleep.

It was the first time I'd
truly been awake
in days.

WHEN TO WORRY

When she broke up with me,
she was very business-like,

and when I asked her how she could
be so detached,

she said that she had
broken up with me in her mind
over a month before, and had

taken the month to
get used to the idea.

When I asked her why she hadn't
said something sooner
before it had gone that far,

she said she hadn't wanted to
worry me,

that I had other things on
my mind.


THE WORLD IS MY ASHTRAY

So of course I ash on gas station pavement
beside no smoking sign,

ash on apolstery of my new Mitsubishi
while admiring your immaculate Chevy Impala,

ash on pavement outside shops at Faneul Hall,
discard my butt there and watch you scramble to pick it up,
scared we’ll be picked up by the cops for littering,

you pressing the butt neatly into your Starbucks cup
and searching for a trashcan.

I ash on the floor of Christopher’s Restaurant
with wild belly laughs, the two of us,
tripping off barstool and slapping your thigh.

Throw my butt down in mock angriness
just to watch you dive under the bar and retreive it.

Ash on my hopes when I fall drunk on your neck,
feeling you against my lips

Ash on my sentimentality
when you call me from your cell phone,
tell me you are
sleeping with another man already.

Erik Tate

My hands turn green & scaly &
they're reptile hands to match my
reptile brain/ Pasadena where I dwell sinks

into a swamp/ I'm there among snakes & fish,
gators & birds black with oil, dead & dying/ my
reptile soul feels the injustice/ British Petroleum is

a giant monster, bigger than a dinosaur, with
tremendous, razor teeth dripping oil & blood & the
spirits of the Southern states that

lie as corpses with all the rotting animals on
the shores of the dead Gulf of Mexico, &
the rest of the U.S.A. embraces her 3rd World

status with horror, & the American people not
dead are reptiles like me, wallowing in our dead
swamp & chewing on the bones/ Jesoo

descends rapturously, looks around &
shrieks with horror, "Daddy, let me come
home!" but God observes us with such loathing &

disgust, He goes mad, & BP takes advantage by
charging Him double for a tank of gas/ Jesoo now realizes
he can't go home again, because he's homeless/ he

tries to take his Daddy to the madhouse but
is aware that we're already there/ God tries to wade through
a puddle of oil but is pulled down by quicksand, &

Jesoo knows the quicker the better, because
it's not fair for God to live through the deplorable
abomination of His creation/ God is sucked

under, & Jesoo says, "Good riddance!" then
Jesoo puts himself on the cross because there's nobody
left to do it for him/ he wants to scream,

"Daddy, why hast thou forsaken me!" but
what's the sense when God is moldering in His
grave/ proof that

there is no sense/ now as
always, & there is no
Jesoo or HIS DADDY!/ they

aren't dead because they never lived/ they're
nothing!
NOTHING ...

!



My nose drips its virtue on
my pillow case as I breathe out
my ear, making my breath wax foul/

dustmites creep from the down down of
my pillow/ they eat my nose with diseased digust/ I
am now flatface, a pugugly without a pug/ I

try to accept my condition/ I shrug/ my
face is now a cherry pie/ We should all accept
our piece of the pie, says Emerson/ but flatface is

the entire pie, dripping cherry juice on
my crust, making me soggy & obtuse/ I eat a mouthful of
my face, & the cherry juice is blood, dripping

over my face & nose hole/ my nose hole goes
down into the sewer of my brain being ripped out in
chunks by an eagle, that

goes mad knowing he's eating
the filth in my brain, which
has never known such pain

"Never again!" I scream. "Never again!"as
the eagle swoops like a plane &
rips off another chunk of brain/ I'm

now a halfass with
half a mind, &
the half supposed to work is in a bind/

"How unkind!" I bellow like
they skewer on a spit &
put into the fire, a victim of desire for

a piece of cotton candy I
devour/ I
want her/ I

need her/ I
covet her, &
SHE KILLS ME ...

!

Sitting outside the Novel Cafe with
pretty Therese who
won't give me the long, sensual hug she


gave me weeks ago when I first met her at
the Novel Cafe/ of course I should consider
my cold & my dripping nose/ perhaps


that turns her off to my intimacy, &
I discover she has three children, the
oldest of whom is 29 yrs old, &


when I fist met her at the Novel Cafe, I
thought she was no more than 2l, but
in truth she's in her 40s, but of course she


will not tell me, but no longer can I
be her granddad/ I learn that she was a
well-to-do housewife, & even an admirer of


George W Bush, the
Anti-Christ, but lost it all on
drugs to end up on the streets of skidrow L.A. &


a series of misadventures that took her to
AA for the rich is Brentwood, where
she was rejected for being penniless, &


now she lives in the streets, where
she slept the lst night I met her, in front of
the Japan Town Library a few blocks from


skidrow, but in the arms of Jesoo free
of fear in the land of cutthroats &
madmen, knowing if she took her eyes off


Jesoo that she'd sink into the water like
Peter, so with her eyes on Jesoo & not on my
dripping nose, I get a


1/4 hug at most, & I
head off for my Pasadena room to
wash my face & beard &


sleep with a snotrag beneath my
nose, thinking of Therese &
lost love ...


!



Fritz Hamilton

Bio
Natascha Tallowin is a hippy, writer and poet from Suffolk, England.

Whilst most of her time is spent writing poetry and sitting in patches of sunlight on the floor listening to David Bowie, she is also working on a magic-realism novel entitled 'Guylian's Magic'.


To Ziggy Stardust
– by Natascha Tallowin

The imagination gurgles,
a head spoiling rush, an amusing row,
a mind slip, a trip, until you fall
I'm a debutant drug, I'm a film star now.

Testing life. one. two.

Pink lipped men with curling smiles,
they laugh louder than before
Smoking smooth menthol like pine needles
One, two, three, four...more.

and more.

A blink is all It takes,
to slip from caviar to capes
I'm a fashionista now, wearing Moss green sleeves
on an Armani expedition against designer retching thieves

Haute Couture to time obscure,
to a star crossed hippy downing lime liquor
The all seeing high begins to dim,
and pricks of reality start to creep in.

A story unwritten played out on the page
another failed supposed epic spilt
poisoned and violated by my imaginative rampage
It was not death, for I stood up.
And all the dead lie down.

Countless lines inside lay dormant,
the biggest one beneath the rest.
after ten minutes of toil,
I gave up and got drunk.

countless lines outside
the biggest one in me.

until then, I’ll
one…two…three.

The Holiday Maker – by Natascha Tallowin

You stumbled into town like a scared cow
Brown eyes wild
The sky above you was blue
No longer made of glass
The crack in time from which you had come, had gone
And all the silhouettes about you stood still
Looking at you
You pause, and with collected limbs
You make your way across the market square
Wishing you had something else to wear
Other than that terrible green hood
You fall as you reach the grey stone steps of the church
Its door ajar
You rise quietly
It is hard enough to keep formation
Without these new thoughts
You reach for the door, but in the time it has taken for you to stand
It has closed
And you are left facing your shadow
Odd and fragile, stretched against the church wall
A small silhouette jabs you with a stick pulled from a nearby elm tree.
You think how neat he looks
But as he sees your face he screams
The fear inside his head consuming him
He fascinates you
You reach out to him
With one fluid arm
Worried he might break his mind with his screams.
But before you touch him another noise is heard
You look down in confusion, wondering at how your legs seem to crumple
Something wet and red is leaking across the steps of the church
You reach for it, curious
But the sound comes again and you begin to feel cold
A feeling that you had eagerly read about before
But now you find it unpleasant
And when you ask for it to stop no sound escapes
And the ground edges even nearer until your head rests on the stone

Your hood falls back and the little silhouette tramples your hair as he runs back to his Mother.

The End of it All – by Natascha Tallowin

Tempestuous clouds billowed
Raucously tumbling overhead.
An announcement had been made
Humanity was filled with dread

Outside people stopped and wept
Each person alone together
Traffic halted silently
Oblivious to the weather

I looked out of the window,
looked out and saw,
a thousand weeping angels
Desperate for more.
The sky cracked, smacked, retracted and tore.
The noise shattered my brain
I had nowhere to go
So many things surrounded me
from such a long time ago.
Thunder crashed across the sky, lightening splintered through the sky
Enraged clouds clashed in the sky, we could no longer close our eyes

A man outside screamed in pain
Threw his arms up to his head
Rain slithered down his nose, and he cried out to be dead

A mud spattered rainbow flag, fluttered in the hands of a young man
And with fists uncurled a husband reached, and took him in his arms
The sky seemed to convulse, to pulse and to rain
And the rain was cold, bitter and plain
The clouds faltered forward, and I thought of my Mum
I couldn't face to go onward, whatever may come
And the lightening streaked, caught my eye
All hope was gone

It is possible, to die.

Memories of a Mermaid – by Natascha Tallowin

A glittering sliver of something was glimpsed on the horizon today.
Bobbing slowly nearer, like a cork on a rough sea.

Every now and then, the beauty of it caught the eye of a turning sunbather.
A child even pointed once, declaring it a mermaid.

But as the day drew on, interest waned, and the beach began to clear.
The glimpse of glitter swelling with the tide, grazed the shore for the first time,
Finally coming to a halt.

Moments passed.

The snout of a spaniel snuffled about its form.
A dog walker stopped hesitantly, poking at it with her toe.

A body flopped back.
A picture of sullied perfection.
Skin, a wonderful shade of pale,
Eyes wide, with an expression of mild surprise.
A mane of colourless hair lay spattered across the beach,
Only a curl of paper held within his hand.

With trembling fingers the dog walker removed the note.
“I told you not to drown.”
It said.

For Sale: Dorothy’s Shoes
By Natascha Tallowin

It arrived on the eve of the carnival. The slow autumn wind that blows nobody any good sent it fluttering against a shop door where it stayed for a while, as if catching its breath, flat and pressed against flaking red paint, before slipping slowly to the floor, relaxing onto a sloped stone step.

For Sale
One pair of shoes, heel trodden, curled up and wrinkled like owners face.
Condition of shoes put down to weight of expectation and over use.
Any price accepted, and can deliver. However near, however far away.

Violet had passed by the antique shop window on her way to school every day. On this day however she had looked up and noticed the small crumpled advertisement sellotaped onto the inside of the glass.

The wording caught her imagination and she entered.
The shop smelled of daylight trapped for years. For a while she wondered if there was anybody else in the shop at all. Until a bell tinkled and a small frail man with pale papery skin and white hair shuffled in, glasses perched on the end of a long thin nose.

He looked at her, stopping where he was, looking her small frame up and down, the dark hair, the purple bow, the school uniform and scuffed patent leather shoes.
“You must be Violet.”
He nodded, before she had spoken a word.
“I have something for you...”
He continued, shuffling over to his desk, and opening one of the draws. He pulled out a pair of shoes and blew on them hard, a flurry of glittering dust fell from them.
“Here.”

He held them out to her with trembling hands.
She looked from the shoes, to him and back again.
“I don’t have any money.”
She spoke quietly, made nervous by this man who knew her name.
“The seller wanted you to have them. You will be giving her so much more than money, by accepting.”
He paused, before placing them on the desk, their heels knocking together as he did so.
“I’ll let you think it over...”
He nodded once again and made his way slowly back into the room where he had come from.

Violet looked at the shoes. Standing crookedly on the flat oak,
She left on the tail of the carnival. The air was thick and heavy and the sun was beginning to set, falling slowly into the sea, like a dose of warm honey, creeping through the veins.
She walked with purpose. Short meandering steps, thoughts wandering in the vague way of children. She caught my eye as she passed by, dark eyes acknowledging me from behind a glimmering row of candied sweets and handsome treats.
Her look was sharp, like mint on the tongue. She nodded her head in the briefest of greetings, across the cacophony of sugar coated confectionary.
And then, with the dizzying blur of the carnival she was gone, swept into the waves of ruddy faces.

Now those Ruby shoes would walk out once again, ruby shoes wrapped around twelve years of feet.
All the men that mattered, she had met in those shoes. But, one had no heart, one had no brain, and one no courage.
Now they no longer fit, but how much rested on them, how long ago it was, that those ruby shoes walked out.
The cold wind blew harder, and the dream of friends yet to meet and challenges yet to face, flicked the tail of the old woman’s skirt, teasing the hem of her imagination.
The dream of adventures yet to come, far off places yet to visit...
For someone else next time.

A Canadian poet & composer, I'd like to submit a selection of poems from a collection entitled BROKEN HEART & A HOLE IN MY SHOE. You will find them both below, and in the attachment.

Previous work published in:

Quills Canadian Poetry, Fractions, Neon, Forma Fluens, Poesia/Indiana Bay, Motel 58, Word Slaw, poetryfriends, kudos, Sonar 4, Poet’s Ink Review, The Battered Suitcase/Vagabondage Press, Twisted Tongue, Danse Macabre, Language & Culture, Kritya, Burst Now, Yellow Mama, greenbeard, Glass Poetry Journal, Wow, Orbis, Faraway Journal, riverbabble, Blueprint Review, Unheard Magazine, Toucan (forthcoming Summer 2010), Accenti (Spring 2010), Sex & Murder (Spring 2010),

Sparkbright (forthcoming June).
Short stories in: Chicago Quarterly Review (2); Happy; Taylor Trust (forthcoming Spring 2010).

Following a recent stay at STEIM, a contemporary music center in Amsterdam, I have been writing for the stage.

DISCOGRAPHY: http://www.cdbaby.com/all/mcmonty

GANG OF TOLSTOY
Manufacturers of Music for the Savant-Garde
www.myspace.com/gangoftolstoy

MCMONTY
Gritty Music & Streetwise Poetics
www.myspace.com/mcmontylive

ITALIAN JAZZ ARMADA
www.myspace.com/italianjazzarmada

Luigi lives in Italy.

Selections from BROKEN HEART & A HOLE IN MY SHOE

Luigi Monteferrante


SCHOOL CROSSING

In a fluorescent coat

He swings a paddle

Stops the cars

We cross the road

But one day she came

His wife

They all said

She floors the gas

She wants him dead

He runs

And we cried

Instead of the old man

She got me

I roll down the street

My books in a bag

I spin round the curb

Pull a wheelie

Do a 360

They applaud

I race to school

Roll up the ramp

I sit in the back

Listen to Mechanics

One day I’ll find

How to get my legs back

Meanwhile I study

Rush from the class

I like watching hockey

The coach brings me chocolate

I like it hot

Keeps my hands warm

It starts to snow

Coach starts to worry

I laugh:

I’ll get a sled

And he laughs along

And off we go

Our home team won,

I sit in my room,

Open the window to the ice

The cold stings my tongue

And snowflakes melt

I push myself off

Then pull myself up

I stare at the ceiling

Warm and cuddly in bed

A good day again

I did my homework

Passed all my tests

I prayed to God

May you all be so blessed.

I HAVE SINNED

SO I MUST BE PUNISHED

No bars to mark the time

No windows or lampshades

They set the rules

Gave me a Constitution

Learn it by heart

Or we’ll turn up the juice

They gave me no reason

Just do it, that’s all

I broke from office

And ran to the mall

They caught me running

They broke both legs

After cracking my skull

They fried two eggs

They fired some juice

I feel better, alright

Keep the juice flowing

Redemption is free.


RED HOUSE

You sat on the rocking chair

On the porch

In the shade


You hold a glass

And your musings

Who’d have thought

It’d come to this


Me walking out

And away

Holding a bag

Dirty laundry inside


You won’t wash my clothes

Called me a stranger

Don’t know my name

How could I?

Never seen you before

Now get going!


You pointed my rifle

I picked clothes off the line

I couldn’t go roaming

In pajamas

But the clothes

They weren’t washed


I made off alone

I sit and I watch

From under a tree I shout:

Please let me in

It really is me

Your man!


She fired a round

I heard the click

She fired another

I ran in


Don’t like what I see

Said the sheriff that day

She’d been complaining

Told us thing

I’m ashamed to repeat

And a man in my place

Can’t help but suspect

She’s the one you shot dead


Come ride with me

Said the sheriff:

The judge wants to talk

He’s passing sentence

On his sister

The one you made pregnant


It’s the hangman for you

Up the gallows you go

A week from the next

You’ll be hanging

For the show.

CHEMISTRY

They go to church

Ride home a family

But girlie, she pukes

Must be the whisky

Pregnant she’s not

She’s a virgin

She claims

Took it in, yeah

Right where you think


Daddy’s at harvest

In his tractor, he’s glad

Mom’s watching game shows

The microwave rings

Time for our pills

Amen.


GROWING TOMATOES & CHILDREN

On his hands and knees

Tying tomato stalks to sticks

With ribbons, pink and blue

From my mother’s chest

Keeps ‘em straight

While for me

He used a broom

Why I grew up

Crooked.

Old Friend

The wave of me
crashes into her
with its peculiar twirling
and swirling of intensity; bubbling.
Only to recede back to the depths
as the sun begins drying her now smooth sands.

You see; she's not mine,
nor I, hers...
even though for a few intense moments;
we both pretend.
...and then
the contest begins.
That race to find a sock, or a bra
and the first one dressed wins.



An awkward goodbye

And a half promise that “we’ll have to do this again”

Said with a sly, yet fulfilled grin.
Old Friend...of the benefited persuasion.

A house could be built,
with the joules of energy that it takes to restrain
myself from her...and the taking; the biting, swirling, passionate,
hair pulling intensity of that wave crashing...

Having it only to recede back;
back to the depths, back to work, back to the doldrums of normalcy.
Only to return when that sand of hers needs smoothing again...

Old Friend........of the benefited persuasion.

Joel Clonts