MSR Fall 2004
Available October 1Features:
Mike Beyer: Young Energy, Urban Voice
An Interview by Barbara Kidd Lawing
Choices
Part 3 of the election year political commentary
by M. Scott DouglassFiction
Para-Pet by Carl F. Thompson, The Bandoneon by Dennis Must--both runners-up in the 2003 MSR Short Fiction Contest.Reviews by Melody Clayton, Julia Hayes, Mike James, Barbara Lawing, Mary C. Legg, S. Craig Renfroe, Jr.
of the following work:
Lost Heartland Found by W. K. Buckley, Epicenter by Wendy Wisner, Sex Education by Janice Moore Fuller, German War Child by Christa Blum Mercer, Journey from the Keep of Bones by Michelle Miller Allen, Half Lives: Petrarchan Poems by Richard Jackson, Bleachy-haired Honky Bitch by Hollis Gillespie.Poetry by Ed Albaugh, Ziggy Edwards, Margaret Boothe Baddour, Joan E. Bauer, Paul Bernstein, Ace Boggess, Jamie Cavanagh, Summer Copelan, Peter Desy, Sybil Pittman Estess, Denise Duhamel, Maria Fire, Harris Gardner, Marvin Glasser, Wendy H. Gill, Arthur Gottlieb, Bill Griffin, Deming P. Holleran, F. Cameron Hunter, Dade County Johnson, David T. Manning, Michael P. McManus, Brenda Kay Ledford, Deborah Mead, Michael Estabrook, Michael Meyerhofer, Chad Parenteau, Jeff Jarosch, Ishle Yi Park, Juanita Torrence-Thompson, S. Sebastian Petsu, Greg Schwartz, Stephen Morris Roberts, Bob Sharkey, Richard Taylor, Richard Vargas, Charles Webb, Lori Wilson,
Cover Art: Ideology, mixed media by Terry Thirion.
Images by Christopher S. Harter, Douglass South, Gerald Wheeler.
Carl F. Thompson, Jr., Annandale, VA
Para-Pet
(A runner up in the 2003 MSR Short Fiction Contest)
Within the high parapet that protected the villa’s uppermost balcony, the parrot read to Miguel while Miguel peeled an orange, separating it into radiant slices to be eaten one by one. Sunlight reflected off the smooth plastic of Miguel’s cellphone on the little table at his side. The brightness made him squint as he contemplated calls to make when the bird took a break. Miguel, of course, was the famous literary artiste Miguel Miguel, the author of seven novels, two collections of short stories, and a slender volume of refined poetry (i.e., not blank verse). Some day, when the two of them had time, Miguel Miguel might also begin scripting dramas. As Miguel was only fifty-two and the parrot twenty-one (red Amazons live into their forties) and both were in sound health, it was not unreasonable to expect fortune would reign long and kindly over Miguel’s career.
The parrot (symmetrically named Parrot) “read” (rather than spoke), of course, for it is well known that parrots cannot speak in the sense of consciously propelling forward polite conversation, appropriate, say, to a small dinner party or a soiree—no whip-like witty quips of social repartee. Thus, Parrot might “read” (“recite” was more accurate), though he could not (properly speaking) “speak.”
To say the least, Miguel’s decorous literary career had been bolstered by his companionship with his dear pet, indeed, in truest terms, his dearest friend. Sixteen years prior, when Miguel’s ten-year affair with Clarisse dissolved, she made many common law claims in the nature of property (the in-town condo, heaps of porcelain treasures, and numerous Oriental tapestries). Miguel steadfastly retained, in addition to his seaside villa replete with its lofty parapets, those things which were to him of greatest import: Parrot, along with the substantial and exotic birdcage, reams of wide-lined notepaper and the Mont Blanc pens, plus, naturally, the Smith-Corona portable electric self-correcting typewriter (replaced eventually by a purple-hued MacIntosh due to the difficulty of obtaining typewriter ribbons).
Arguably, it may be said that Miguel’s relationship with Parrot had, from the start, been largely foreordained by the fact that Parrot’s parroting voice corresponded exactly with the tonalities of Miguel’s own voice. Miguel at first had thought of this curious coincidence only in its most obvious practical terms (e.g., giving rote orders to servants, or inviting guests to make themselves comfortable while “I” (the offstage bird) “will be with you momentarily”). Over time more profound and inspirational utilizations were realized, for when Miguel heard Parrot parrot, he heard himself.
The literary relationship began with Robinson Crusoe and was greatly amplified in subsequent explorations of extensively varied literary offerings. It was Miguel’s habit to read volumes aloud to Clarisse in his study—the same upper room that housed the bird’s enormous cage. Here windows opened to sweeping views of the lovely shoreline and permitted as well the pleasantries of morning and evening breezes infused with aromas both delicious and exotic. Miguel noted over time Parrot’s immaculate silence and pacific demeanor during the hour or more that the novel was read aloud. Parrot was at that time young and precocious. The parrot’s apparent attention contrasted with Clarisse’s inattention, as it was her habit to drift into sleep under the extended melodiousness of Miguel’s sonorous voice. After Crusoe, Miguel read in sequence Wrinkles, The Magic Mountain, Kappa, Catch 22, Our Lady of the Flowers, and works by Melville and Dickens.
Want the rest of the story?
The conclusion can be read in the Fall 2004 issue which is still available direct from MSR for $7 at
The Main Street Rag Bookstore.BACK TO TOP
Mike Beyer, Baltimore, MD
Night Walk
Walking government length
sidewalk guaranteed a nightly
nose gush over whose
shoulder dips last passing
another person: the inside
turmoil in confrontation is
the only stain left on the long
back of neighborhood cement
there isn’t the smallest effort
left for the subsidized night
things: out the screen door
shouts at yard dogs barking,
used boots hanging from power
lines smiling pole-to-pole, puddle
light, clouds pushing through
gaps between homes: and in these
things, the things in you least
are: crack some brew, then
leave the bottle propped against a
telephone pole and name the
alphabet of the night circling
the stem of its dark dark open
flower
Wendy Gill, Charlotte, NC
Burning Towers
I can’t purge that
September image of you
with outstretched human wings
inadequate for flying
plummeting sixty stories facedown and I wonder
did you have the time and presence to consider
and did life play back in an insane race against
the velocity of your desperate drop
at the rate of a year or so for each floor
and did you hurtle past childhood playgrounds and candy apples
flaming windows passions
and regrets acrid plumes promises
and promotions floating bits of building
babies born raining glass loved ones
you never kissed
goodbye and I wonder
did you shut your eyes or did you
stare without blinking at the terror of earth’s
impact as it stared back brutal
and resolute in its rubble and I wonder
did your soul ascend to feel the face of God before
or after your own face felt the mortal
concrete of the Twin Tower Plaza because
what I really want to know after all is
were you truly flyingor only falling?
Ace Boggess, Huntington, WV
“Would You Like To See Sexy Women Making Love?”
[e-mail ad]
Waking up at 4 a.m. to springs
squawking on the upper bunk
while my college roommate
introduced his newest conquest
to the stinging revelry,
the fierceness:
I watched naked backs
gold with moonlight
in the mirror,
saw curves sleek as a Porsche’s,
rise & fall of tiny breasts
as with ten thousand sighs.
Unarmed security walking Capitol grounds
with my poetry pen & flashlight,
I spotlit the young embraced by night
stretched out over Cultural Center steps
or hiding behind hedgerows,
walls along the Kanawha river.
Years later, in my bed or hers
those nights I pretended to be someone else,
in love,
or a decadent god who grins
through glitter & cuttlefish lips,
I traced her skin with fingers.
Her fluttering eyelids!
Angry glare that meant she
couldn’t restrict her final gasp!
No image on my Macintosh
captures her vulnerability,
intensity & need; no stolen
fantasy reveals in these bodies
their sensual instants, arrogance
amidst the vanishing night.
Deborah Mead, Needham, MA
37
Graceless I age.
I pierce my navel. I grow my hair long.
I hear the snickers, catch the rolled eyes,
but I will wear low-rise jeans.Grace be damned.
I do not want to be a bobbed woman.
I do not want a minivan.I will not go down without a fight.
* * *
But these boys,
these soccer boys alarm me
with their sleek lickable torsos,
each and every lad strapping.
Where were these boys when I was their age?
Tall and undefeated, their young bodies
pivot and leap with ease. I hug the sidelines
and watch them run over the field, lightly,
as if gravity doesn’t pull them, as it now pulls
me.Long legs, firm and dusted with fine blond hairs,
scissor swift and sure. The goalie bucks and heads
the checkered ball, pumps a victorious fist. His shirt
settles again over lean muscle. My finger caresses my
side, feels for my own oblique. Tracing my lips, I proffer
my mouth to him. I imagine holding his hand
and bringing him home and running my tongue
down every groove.A hard whistle blows: I’ve strayed
onto the playing field. A forward in gold shorts
dribbles his ball over my foot. He tosses
an “excuse me, ma’am” over his shoulder
and I am reminded, again,
that these beautiful bodies are only boys,
these partisan fans their moms,
and I have no reason to be at this game.* * *
Beyond reason,
I cheer for the boys, all the boys.I give it up for their new hair and strong legs.
I give it up for their swinging arms and budding manhood.
I give it up for their youth.I do not go down without a fight.
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