MSR Fall 2002
NOW Available!!!Featuring: Alive In The Air
an Interview with Keith Flynn
of Asheville Poetry Review and Crystal Zoo.
Fiction by Craig Black and David Plumb.Commentary by Okla Elliott.
Reviews by George Held, Jen Hirt, Janet McCann, and Frank S. Palmisano, III.
Poetry by Priscilla Atkins, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Barbara Crooker, Livio Farallo, Keith Flynn, Serena Fusek, Maura Gage, Taylor Graham, Nancy Henry, Eric R. Hoffman, Albert Huffstickler, Brett Hursey, Gerald Kaminski, Nancy King, Gerald Locklin, Don Mager, David T. Manning, Albert Markowitz, Jon Marshall, Sheila Sinead McGuinness, Robert Moore, Robert L. Penick, Mike Schneider, Andy Schuck, Gena Smith, & Bill Wesse.Cover Art by Robert Moore.
Living In The Dollar Amount Democracy
by Okla Elliott
Depending on how cynical we are, the US government and American culture as a whole are either entirely or mostly controlled by the heavy influence of major corporations. It is no secret that we live in a market economy, and that, as the saying goes, money talks. Considering the alternatives, this is a state of affairs I support. In the way of isms, capitalism isn’t the worst by far. I much prefer it to fascism, communism, or monarchism. And democracy is one of the greatest social constructs mankind has devised in its several millennia of civilization. I do not, however, mean to suggest that all is well in the state of the republic—not by a far, muffled cry. We have all heard of the dozens of outrages that occur monthly or weekly, to say nothing of the daily atrocities of which we never hear. What I do mean is that there’s hope in America, where there might be none in another society with a different social structure. As America becomes more centered around businesses, the means of voicing our concerns change. It is no longer sufficient, or even relevant in some cases, to vote politically. Today, financial votes are the votes that matter.
Gore Vidal, among others, has repeatedly voiced the opinion that there is one party in American politics, the Big Business party. Large corporations donate huge sums of money to aid politicians in running for office. Individuals donate money as well (considerably less of course), but there is one major difference. Individuals tend to donate to one candidate, while corporations make it a habit to donate to both candidates. Why would they do such a thing? We’re supposed to donate money to the candidate we want to win, right? Corporations don’t care who wins so long as the winning candidate owes them a favor; therefore they make both candidates indebted to them. The moral rottenness of this and the question of whether this should even be legal are topics for another essay. All we’re currently concerned with is the fact that money plays a major role in the decisions made by our government officials (no matter which party they belong to), and that our government is not entirely on the side of small businesses or the common citizenry. This is especially true now that our president and vice president are both individuals who have benefited from Big Business their entire lives. Is it any mystery why the Bush administration has proposed huge tax breaks for a small handful of multi-billion dollar corporations and the already superrich?
So, why did I say there was hope in such a bleak state of affairs? Because we are free to purchase—and more importantly, free not to purchase—as our hearts and consciences dictate. How many people remember when the supermarkets, which are certainly major corporations, had only one shelf dedicated to organically grown foods? Now there are entire aisles, sometimes multiple aisles, populated with soymilk, vegan cheeses, organic vegetables, and countless other such products. It is not due to kindness and a sense of moral rightness that these corporations have begun harming fewer animals and using fewer toxins in their products. These corporations were taught, due to the consistent purchase of such items, that these products would sell. Could we someday see collections of poetry or short stories in the checkout lane?
My point is not that these particular products are somehow better than others (though I personally believe they are), but rather that supply-and-demand does work, and it’s taken on a new moral weight. Every purchase is a total affirmation of the product purchased. By purchasing any product we are saying that we agree with the methods of production, storage, transport, handling, and sale. Though I harbor hopes that my readers share certain concerns with me, it is ultimately immaterial to my argument what interests they may have. So long as they understand that every purchase is a vote of approval. By purchasing any product ranging from pornographic magazines to McDonald’s burgers to foot powder to books of poetry, the purchaser is saying—and in a language much stronger than words—that she supports the product’s continued production and distribution in the exact ways that product is being produced and distributed. Companies, individual humans, chimpanzees, dogs, and pretty much every organism in existence will continue a behavior that is rewarded. The only reward a purchaser can give manufacturers is a purchase, and the only reprimand—a refusal to buy.
In a capitalist state our votes, like everything else, cost money. The aforementioned purchasers of organically grown foods had to pay outrageous prices for these products at first. Now the prices are coming down to a more reasonable level because more people are purchasing them, and it is therefore cost effective to sell more at a lower price.
This is also true of hybrid cars, which we see more of every day. The purchase of hybrid cars is more politically charged than ever, considering the current problems in the Middle East. Is it not possible that by reducing our dependency on fossil fuels that we could avoid situations such as the current “war” on terrorism, our continued support of Middle-Eastern military groups, and the eventual need to battle these groups armed with US weapons?
If at first we have to pay extra for a product we believe in, we simply have to tell ourselves that the extra sum is the cost of our vote on this matter. If shopping at a locally owned store or at a farmer’s market is slightly more expensive, or if a small press novel is more expensive than a harlequin romance, then that difference is the cost of the vote. If we want the arts to flourish, then we must support them in the only way our society recognizes, with money. Small presses, art galleries, community theatres, and locally owned grocery stores go out of business every day in America, and usually not for lack of verbal cheerleading. There are thousands of people who bemoan that loss, but there are too few supporters and too many opportunists who want support without giving any in return. Unless we want to see the total homogenization and commercialization of our culture, then we must make our voices heard.
We live in the utopia of capitalism, the dollar-amount democracy. We have a freedom and a power that are awesome. Our political votes are one way to exercise our will as citizens upon our society, but more powerful, I believe, are our financial votes.
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The Evening News
by Craig Black
I tune in to watch Rita Vasquez every night. She’s on at five for the Kansas City edition of the news and again at 6:30 after Dan Rather. I catch her once more at ten, after my wife has gone to bed. Rita and I grew up together, though I haven’t seen her in over twenty years. If Rita were on at sunrise, I would probably wake up early to watch her then as well. I am unemployed and have more free time than is good for a man.
Watching Rita on a thirty-two inch television, I detect subtle changes in her makeup and hair. I suspect that she bites her lip during commercial breaks. At the beginning of the program, she reports murders and airplane crashes, her lips shiny with freshly applied lipstick—always a tasteful shade of red; never pink like the women with the other affiliates. Thirty minutes later, she warms our hearts with stories of newborn animals at the zoo, but by then her lips have faded to the same color as the sportscaster’s sitting next to her.
Rita was the first girl in our class to wear makeup and have her ears pierced. She was painting her nails in the fifth grade, wearing lipstick and eye shadow in the sixth. Her mother sold Avon. While Rita and I played Battleship or Monopoly in the family room, Mrs. Vasquez would spread her bottles, tubes, and plastic cases over the kitchen table and help my mother find “her color.” I can’t look at a tube of lipstick or a bottle of mascara without thinking of Rita.
The five o’clock news comes on while I am grading papers for Stephanie. In a live-on-the-scene report, Rita is interviewing the girlfriend of a dead man named Kenny Drexel. I lay the papers on the coffee table and turn up the volume. Rita is among a gathering of Drexel’s family and friends huddling under umbrellas in his front yard. She wears a blue raincoat, the camera lights glinting off her brunette hair.
“Just four hours ago,” Rita reports. “Kenny Drexel was shot to death after he attempted to demolish a hospital with a tank.” Rita explains that he stole the tank from a National Guard Armory. Although Kenny Drexel didn’t hurt anyone, he flattened thirty parked cars before he was stopped. “Disgruntled” is the term she uses to describe him. He had worked in the hospital cafeteria for eight years before being fired just two months ago.
“He believed in UFO’s,” Kenny Drexel’s girlfriend tells Rita. She is blonde and has an overbite. “I went to Star Trek conventions with him.”
The girlfriend goes on to say that just a month earlier, she and Kenny had gotten matching tattoos. Rita asks the girlfriend if she might show the viewers of Channel 6 this memento of Kenny Drexel’s love. The girlfriend giggles. “It’s in an embarrassing place,” she says.
Rita nods and turns with the microphone to Kenny Drexel’s first ex-wife. In a hushed, confidential voice, the same voice that passed me test answers in class, Rita asks the woman about Kenny Drexel’s abusive behavior.
Eight Dollars and Change
by David Plumb
Mitch whips in looking like he’s been hit by a small truck and hasn’t slept in a week. He wears the Levi’s jacket and the Levi’s that are too small so his belly hangs over in the red plaid shirt. After all, it’s winter in Florida and it’s fifty degrees the last few days.
“How’s the song?” I ask.
Mitch shakes his head, snaps out his wallet and sets it up on the fish counter, folds both hands over it, looks in both directions, leans down so I can see his yellow teeth back stuck in that big old scraggly beard.
“What’ll you have.”
“Three pounds of kingfish,” he says, but he’s anxious about something.
“How’s the cat?”
“Cat’s fine,” Mitch says and I see he doesn’t want to talk about the cat. Seeing I’m the only one in the store what with Mazza and Fred in the back and the women making fish dip in the kitchen, I let him take his time.
“Remember I told you about the sheep?”
“You said you were gonna rent a sheep.” I say.
Mitch shakes his head. “No, no, no, no. Marcie said I should put angora on my bad shoulder and I said who’d wear angora in Florida? And Marcie said wool works. Just put wool on it like a wool sweater maybe. And I said, how about a sheep? I said, how about, RENT A SHEEP. Right? Rent a Sheep!
Now I thought that was funny and Marcie thought I was making fun of her and she hates it when she thinks I’m making fun of her which I am but am not, so she walked out.”
“I remember,” I say flopping some kingfish steaks on the scales. “Well she came back.”
“Good.” I flop two more steaks on the scales. “True love is where it’s at.”
“Marcie’s got cancer.”
“Oh,” I pause.
“In the breast.” He points to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“She has to have a mastectomy and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“So what do you need to do?” I say.
“I mean, hell, I don’t know what to say and she looks at me like I’m a foreigner.”
I push the button on the scales and the price comes up eight dollars and ninety-seven cents. “You don’t got to say anything. All you do is stand right next to her, Hoot.”
“Well she’s all worried about it and what it means and well, you know. What about sex?”
“What about it?” I say, folding the fish in the butcher paper and reaching for the plastic bag.
Mitch takes both hands to open the wallet and fish out a ten spot. “I don’t know,” he says without looking up.
And we know that he knows that I know that he knows what we don’t know.
The conclusion to both of these stories can be found in the Fall 2002 issue which is still available direct from MSR for $7 at The Main Street Rag Bookstore.
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APPALACHIA
Keith Flynn, Asheville, NC
Daniel Boone, coming through slaughter,
Is inexplicably drawn to another standard.
Fourteen painted figures, with eerie deserted
Cries, form into trees, while brazen spinning
Silhouettes, grazing on the fringe, find
The frontiersman on all fours between two
Rhododendrons, dreaming a railroad into
Being, as gladioli, measured by bees, shiver
Like marmalade in the bestial window.Carbon pirouettes surround six fly fishermen
Flinging spiderwebs into red water as
Mad shattered cows in fishnet stockings
Swat metallic mosquitoes on the bank.
A true native of this prickly country,
With roots up to my neck, pulling
At these denizen’s bitter natures,
Whose final versions of themselves
Contain one skin too few, I acceptThe responsibility of vengeance without
A second thought, my sun-stirred
Southern cross hogging its family slice,
Jinx talk making its overture to Orpheus
In the underworld as he plucks the wings
Off another hummingbird to add to his harp’s
Veneer and sneers at Daniel Boone
Shooting turtles like skeet on the other
Side of the ever rising lake of fire.
WHEN THE TIME COMES
Albert Huffstickler, Austin TX
Mike, my hippy painter friend,
and I talked about it, sitting
in front of the Hyde Park Bakery.
I told him how I had found
Bukowski in a mag in Florida
in the Sixties before anyone
much knew him. I think he helped
me learn how to just say it.
I think he helped me understand
that you don’t have to be a
saint to be a poet, that it
would be nice to be both but
no one ever is so you just
tuck up the rag-ends of your
days and keep doing it. We
sat in the sunlight on the
bench and talked about what
we wanted to do and I may
have said that I was afraid
I wouldn’t get through because
I had about a hundred years
of work projected. I think
I thought again about what
exactly “It” meant in the title,
It Holds My Heart in Its
Hand, decided that it
Probably meant life.
THE RIVER OF TIME
Serena Fusek, Newport News, VA
stagnates in Savannah
under the live oaks
that shade every street
and square sift sun
and rain through the
lattice of leaves
they never shed.
Summer cannot escape
into autumn’s open sky
on winter’s gale.
The years pool under
the tideless green.
I saunter by houses
with newly painted trim,
the bookstore bright
with the latest bestsellers
and that ghost current
eddies around me:
a music that still hums
along the nerves,
a flash glimpsed
in my blind spot,
a stillness that tingles
through my hair’s roots
like the memory of a breeze.
It blends into my breath
with the weight
of drugged dreams.BACK TO TOP
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