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Contents
curated by
Edmund Zagorin and Kevin Dublin
featured artist
Zoltron | zoltron.com
W
the Auhdo ExactlyrisThis?
ie n c e f o
1
muskets. They also look like the guys on the Three
Musketeers candy bar wrapper. All enjoy Three
Musketeers bars, although one prefers Milky Ways,
which I imagine becoming a running joke on the series
I can’t quite crack yet. I’ve already posted this idea on
my blog, which hasn’t been updated since 2006, and
is in desperate need of a refresh. Even so, the Three
Musketeers candy people have already sent me a cease
and desist letter. I got so stressed out from receiving
this that I ate four Mars bars in an hour and loaded the
musket that I keep in the garage. This was irresponsible
of me, but I was in a vulnerable place. Fortunately, no
one was hurt—that’s the most important thing, and
that’s all I care to say about that.
2 Mat t L e i b e l
rejecting you before you have the chance to reject me.
And you know what? It feels good.
There is 1 character.
You’ve already met him. He’s an on-the-edge television
writer looking for one big score to put him back in the
game. We can call it “Who Exactly is the Audience for
This?” (Cut to: a studio crowd collectively shrugging
their shoulders and throwing up their hands in
bemused bafflement.) The writer is alone in a room,
staring at a blinking cursor. We watch him struggle for
a half hour every week. We watch him drift toward
drink and high-carb foods and pornography. We see
his false starts, his doomed opening gambits. We hear
the voices of resignation in his head, the crumple of
balled-up printouts jump-shotted into a tiny wire
wastebasket. We imagine the alienated girlfriend who
has finally moved on, the old friends who won’t even
dare call him up to grab a beer. Of course, none of this
is remotely funny, so we goose it up with bongo-heavy
theme music like a 1970s game show. The proposed
title of the show doubles as the probable critical
reaction. The show is self-annihilating. It’ll be lucky
to reach four episodes.
Mat t Le i be l 3
We don’t have to fill in all the blanks. We allow the
viewer to create her own show—a show in her mind,
imagination unfettered, the best show ever. There’s
nothing I can do to make this fail: It’s the story I was
born to write.
4 Mat t L e i b e l
young Lee
Min
It Was the Cat’s Fault
Once there was a cat who lost her left eyebrow. This
worried the cat very much. You see, for a cat, losing
an eyebrow is like a human losing an eardrum or an
eye, maybe even a finger. The cat was afraid to explore
since she no longer knew if her head could fit through
the hole in the pantry wall. She didn’t want to sleep
on her favorite corner of the bed since she might fall
off in the middle of the day. Most of all, she didn’t
want the other cats of San Francisco to see her. They
would surely make fun of her missing eyebrow when
they gathered for their Thursday evening tea in the
Presidio Parade Ground.
The cat didn’t know where she lost her eyebrow. She
looked in the mirror one day and saw it was gone.
The spot above her green eye that once housed five
white hairs, stiff like the leaves of a spider plant in the
summer, was bare save for a thin carpet of black fuzz.
Before she had seen this, she had lived like any other
housecat, meowing at the humans so they would feed
her sardines from a can, batting at the silverfish that
crept around in the shelves, and leaping on top of the
table by the bay window to chew on the parlor palm.
5
crawled to the corner of the drawing room, tucked
herself underneath a chair, and started purring.
The cat purred for three days and three nights. She
paused her purring just twice a day, to lap up some
water and snack on a hummingbird. But as soon as
she was finished, she loped back to her upholstered
fortress and purred again.
6 Mi n youn g L e e
her face with her paws, combing her whiskers back
and pressing them against her forehead, counting the
number of eyebrow hairs she had on each side. She
counted five hairs on top of her right eye, but still only
three on her left.
That’s when the cat looked around and saw the city
collapsed around her. And she decided never to purr
again.
You and I know this cat. You can meet her when you
come to San Francisco and cross the Golden Gate
Bridge. People visit from all around the world to see
her, since, like all cats, she is beautiful, despite her
lopsided eyebrows. The day after the earthquake, the
cat swam across the strait to hide, away from all the
hurt and death she caused, and lay down to nap. She
never woke up again.
Mi nyou ng Le e 7
吉岡実
神も不在の時
いきているものの影もなく
死の臭いも のぼらぬ
深い虚脱の夏の正午
密集した圏内から
雲のごときものを引き裂き
粘質のものを氾濫させ
森閑とした場所に
うまれたものがある
ひとつの生を暗示したものがある
塵と光にみがかれた
一個の卵が大地を占めている
8 Yo s h i o k a Mi n oru
s hioka Minor
Yo u
Eg g
9
y Rider
Ginn
N o Sp
a c e L e f t in t h e N i g h t
11
h Paone
Ralp
f o r w il l ia m
13
h Paone
Ralp
i a m t r yi n g
i am trying
to air the gritted sound
of mom teeth
out of this tent
which houses my soul
i am trying
to forget
my niece cowering
me cowering
at her age
and now
i am trying
to crawl
into the bones of my grandmother—hoping
this crooked old shell
might protect me
i am trying
to hum
a guardian’s spell—hoping
to shield my sister
to heal my mom
from 1953 miles away
14 Ra l ph Pao n e
i am trying
to let the tears
carve their own stanzas
*
*
** * *
i am trying
to rekindle
this fire
striking damp matches to mush
i am trying
to evaporate my roots
the concrete blocks of my heart
every drop of sweat poured here
(was never home anyway)
become a cloud
on the next trade wind out of town
i am trying
to find home by giving it freely
i am trying
to fall back to form
to visit your ears
as rain plucks a harp
Ra lp h Paone 15
o rencia Milit
Fl o
Su m ik a
17
work, a friend in the hospital), and on more than one
occasion I came home to a lavish spread. Her garlic
bread, each thick slice prepared with almost half a
clove of garlic, was particularly comforting.
18 F l or e n c i a Mi l i t o
Sometimes all it takes is one experience to shake our
skepticism. Looking at Sumika, I knew I was looking
at an old soul, and it was the reflection of this old soul
onto the body of a twenty-something-year-old girl that
produced the optical illusion: either an old woman
or a young girl, depending on how you focused your
eyes. I could not shake the feeling that I was looking
at more than one life encapsulated inside the body of
this young art student.
F lore nci a Mi li t o 19
n Hill
Steve
N i g h tstil l
22 S t e v e n H i ll
back to bed I crawl
to the sound of my partner›s hairy snores.
At the edge of the bed and rapideye dreams
on my knees I pause
and claim all my voices—
St e ve n Hi ll 23
a Galloway
Lis
Mercy
25
Can you hear
the mother say You are My baby, always will be
Or
do you hear
her say No daughter Of Mine…
Do you leave it unexamined?
Can you see us now?
Without pry or pound, I need things
from her mouth.
But, no one can hear I’m sorry
before our mouths fill with water
and become just warble and bubbles.
26 L i s a G a lloway
a Galloway
Lis
F i s ts
are the size of Hearts
27
Cutting through to
carefully scalpel tissue, a surgical blade like
the one I stole to slit at my numbness, to feel.
28 L i s a G a lloway
ven Meloan
Ste
The Apartment
San Francisco, 1980s
29
the new rent, and she could stay and pay just 30%. She
looked at me suspiciously. “Why would you want to
do that?” she asked. I told her the truth — that it would
still help me out rent-wise, and I wouldn’t have to find
a new roommate. She didn’t seem entirely convinced,
but finally agreed.
30 S t e v e n Me l oan
idea. “I guess…write what you know!” I said.
St e ve n Me loan 31
Sure enough, the bowl water was a deep electric
blue — and it hadn’t been that morning. I pulled-
off the porcelain top. There was a Ty-D-Bol device
hanging inside. I got back into bed, saying I had no
idea how it had gotten there.
32 S t e v e n Me l oan
back, and really bad.
For the next several days I kept all the windows open
while I was at work, and then closed them when I got
back home — seeing whether the smell ever dissipated.
It didn’t. I asked my neighbors on either side whether
they’d noticed “a chemical smell,” or had perhaps been
doing repair work. They didn’t/hadn’t, and looked at
me strangely.
St e ve n Me loan 33
blanketing the area in a mist of electrical oil. The
high-rise was soon evacuated by the fire department,
and we were all sent home.
34 S t e v e n Me l oan
The station was playing, “Shock the Monkey.” I
wondered what else Scotty might have in store, how
far it would all go… and when the movie would end.
St e ve n Me loan 35
- SET 2 -
Taylor
Sean
F ir e w o r k s
37
this isn’t categorized fantasy.” Your Bible review
was helpful to six people, and thirty-seven people
disapproved of it.
38 S e an Tay l or
Some nights I wish I hadn’t included my book in the
box of fireworks I sent to you, though some nights I
am also glad that I did.
Se an Tay lor 39
ra Hodder To
r ba oh
ey
Ba S o M u c h in L o v e
No one else can love him like I do. We’ve been together
since college. We were both engineering majors—he
was civil, I was chemical. We got married right after
graduation. We both wanted to go to grad school. He
got into MIT, and I got into Purdue, but we wanted
to be together, so we moved to Cambridge. I got that
really great job with Heinz. We did a lot of research on
new ingredients. I really made a difference with that
job…
41
are there… number 11 in the oven. I should do one
more to make it an even dozen.
What? Dead?
No. No, I didn’t see him get into his car. We drove
separately, you see.
42 B a r b a ra H o dde r Tooh e y
Who? Deanna?
You have to find the person who did this, Officer. What
about her? She seems to have some sort of obsession
with my husband.
Well yes, there were papers filed. But that was a while
ago and it was all a mistake. We worked it out last
night. No divorce.
Oh, not parked in the lot. Oh yes, that little lane right
beside the restaurant. He didn’t like to use the lot. He
said it took too long to get your car from the valet… he
was always in a hurry.
Search my house?
Good.
44 B a r b a ra H o dde r Tooh e y
Of course, you can stay here and wait for it.
47
Just hungry for the center of the sweetest flower
and how you flaunted your nimble wings.
48 T e r e s a poor e
wasn’t thinking of hummingbirds when he did.
Te re sa p oore 49
y Rosado
Gre
51
There were screams now. The heads of the people
in line with me were pointing every which way. I
remembered that wildlife documentary chapter about
flamingos, and how a flock of them would move
sideways together, heads pointing this way and that.
52 G r e y R os a do
communicate with each other. I feel like sand, sinking
into the ground.
I am alone.
Gre y Rosa do 53
nny Alvare
Joh z
W r o n g O n es
The things she did not know, Dolores felt they would
suffocate her one day.
Whether a pillow over the sleeping lips, or a plume of
noxious gas, out like a quick dirty light she’d go.
The basin of her ignorance, nay, her hollowed head,
carved from the inside out like some molten
jack-o-lantern; sure as sun, would it not concave
in the heat?
A frayed transaction leaves expired crumbs ‘cross the
threadbare bones and no broom for the sweeping.
The time together and the time alone, it collides
in a mighty maelstrom.
Tearing what’s between asunder and pulling out the
remainders.
What remains, that sweet, frustrating Missouri mare.
Ride her over and under, over and under, over and
under.
Don’t be mad when the finish line is actually the
stables.
It’s a pretty funny trick, miles covered in a loop,
only to return to the same swamp. It welcomes
you back with a burp and a belch.
55
Give it a kiss and say thanks and go to bed.
56 J o h n n y Al va r e z
waiting under her bed.
Disgusting, slimy things, she invited them to join the
party.
They didn’t like the pillows and decided to stay home.
She bought new pillows, left the others upside down
in trash cans. Waving goodbye to her California
‘coons.
Filthy wine is the right kind, leaving trembling lips a
warm red kiss. The stomach ache heading toward
new life. New life heading away from certainty.
Certain was not the word for soured milk.
Penetrated, permeated, promised.
This sounds like something her brother might do, if
he were alive.
She pinches her bellybutton, measuring where it will
be in months.
Wonders if the moths in the closet wait eagerly for
fresh oxygen to bathe in. The termites in the
cupboard, dancing to the brand-new heartbeat.
The spiders in the ceiling, salivating for new skin
to tickle.
How big will brother grow before he’s ready to come
back?
Joh nny Al va re z 57
That promising bulge, electric and blood orange.
Ass fat as Florida flies.
Belied by crooked limbs that never move forward or
backward, just side-to-side.
The outside kids sneer through screens, cackle
through cracks, tumble across thresholds. Bawdy
words meet broken bones, wanting to push those
limbs further. Out of place, dislocated joy.
Tears taste of salted caramel, dairy-free cream.
Almond brittle and backyard burials.
The rat didn’t mean that much to him anyway. Except
that it’s the only one that stayed. And that its
percolating whiskers reminded him how we
move through the air as we should.
A demonstrative diamond, ashen with hate.
What more to say?
He growls, I’m worthy of love.
58 J o h n n y Al va r e z
Curtis
Sage
A Seri s o f
Small Apoecalypses
Watch a heartbeat,
a chest rise
and fall. You think only of the day,
59
of the second that ends. You have
time to watch it play out, cinematic.
Forget
(or did you ever know?)
to be a girl meant sit
60 S a ge C ur t i s
g y Schimmelm
P eg an
Mojave Moon
61
of Shoshone shamans
dance with the spirits
of Serranos, Cahuillas
Gram Parsons and
moon drunk peyote-stoned hippies.
62 P e g g y S c h i mme lm an
e Le Mont Wil
dr s on
An
K nif e
63
Did you pretend you had to kill me?
Did I pretend I deserved to die?
Must we always mask our desires
with violence—real or simulated—
the only language our culture permits men
who want to remain men and not other?
Must we always play the roles
of Krazy Kat and Ignatz Mouse?
Zip! You throw a brick at my head and
Pow! I fall forward, seeing hearts of love.
The light turned on.
My brother/your friend stood in the doorway,
his hand on the switch,
his eyes, his mouth wide open.
Caught in a compromising position
with you practically on top of me,
I did the only thing I could think of—
I yelled, “Get your hands off my thigh!”
You catapulted from my bed
and dropped the knife.
Shaking your head, you sputtered,
“They weren’t on your thigh.”
I twisted your words into a weapon
sharper than any blade.
I slashed you.
“Oh, yeah. I know what you were reaching for.”
We stared at each other
and then at my brother/your friend,
wondering who he was going to believe.
His face said he believed neither one of us.
But what if he hadn’t barged in on us?
Would your hand creep up my chest
and plunge Cupid’s arrow into my heart?
What if you held no knife
64 An dr e L e Mon t Wi lson
and we could only prick each other
with what we had between our legs?
What if there were no darkness
and we could gaze into each other’s eyes
and know the truth of our desires?
67
Rockets were being fired at our neighborhood every
day, sometimes a few times a day. Usually one in the
morning, and one in the afternoon. I tried to time
them and find the patterns, just like the contractions
I was anticipating. Drawn-out crescendos of sirens
followed by a staccato: boom! The whole house shook,
an old Arab house owned by Jews and split into two
apartments. The rockets weren’t landing, but being
intercepted in midair by missiles, thanks to US-funded
Israeli technology. Instead of heading for cover, people
would stop on the street to watch the spectacle in the
sky. We were victims and victimizers yet untouchable.
I was resentful my birth experience would be shrouded
in noise and news of deaths, but I knew my punctured
dreams of sublime and orgasmic rushes (what Gaskin
calls contractions) were pure privilege. I tweeted:
“NOW: Sirens in Tel Aviv, followed by several loud
booms. Israel is pounding the Strip. No end in sight.”
68 Ma i rav Z o n s z e i n
the number going in, as if it was inevitable. At that
point I was too busy wriggling about and releasing my
jaw and pelvic muscles to tweet. It was just as cliché as
it sounds: I was ushering in new life as those around
me were ushered to their death. The common theme:
blood. Lev and I first met in the midst of all this. Lev
means heart in Hebrew, the physical organ that pumps
life, and the rich, obscure emotional center that can
drain you. I was genuinely happy. He was almost 10
pounds and the nurses were impressed I managed to
get him out vaginally. I accepted their praises.
The first few times Lev was sucking but the milk wasn’t
flowing out right. I commiserated with the woman to
my left about our initially sore nipples. When I finally
got the hang of it, and felt confident enough to free
up one hand, leaving just one to support his round
warmth, I checked the news, and then tweeted: “Entire
Gaza family killed in air strike as Palestinian death toll
reaches 940, the majority civilians.”
Ma i rav Zonsze i n 69
na Donovan
Dia
R e t r o s p e c ti v e
***
71
There was no job waiting for me, but I had a place to
stay in San Francisco for the summer. As a graduation
gift, my mother had bought me a used Acura Integra.
Moving twenty-six hundred miles away was a funny
way of saying thank you, but I don’t think anyone was
surprised.
The night before I left, I checked the attic for any last
items I might want to bring with me: black and white
photography paper, cookbooks, journals. I wasn’t sure
when I’d be back.
72 D i an a D o n ovan
where I was born, St. Elizabeth’s. It was just a few
miles away, next to the magazine where I’d had my
internship the summer before.
She was just like me, this woman who gave me up. I
was 21 on the day that I was staring at this piece of
paper.
***
Di ana Donovan 73
I registered with the information I had, including the
name of the hospital. And then I waited.
I was.
***
74 D i an a D o n ovan
that her house was only a fifteen-minute drive from
my dad’s (my adopted dad, that is). Anne was an art
teacher, married, with a seventeen-year old son.
When she admitted that she never told him she was
Di ana Donovan 75
pregnant, I tried not to judge.
***
One day, Anne wrote to say she finally met Patrick for
76 D i an a D o n ovan
lunch to tell him about me. She said he got angry and
stormed out of the restaurant. She said he didn’t even
want to know my name.
I was crushed.
Di ana Donovan 77
shared humanity and give us all an opportunity for
growth.
78 D i an a D o n ovan
- july 1, 2019 -