MSR Spring 2004
Features:
Denise Duhamel: Glitter Girl
An interview by Karla HustonFiction by Andrew McNabb, Michael Fowler, and Okla Elliott.
Essay by Gail Peck.
Reviews by Shane Allison, Karla M. Huston, Mike James, and S. Craig Renfroe of the following:
A Normal Day Amazes Us, Poems and Illustrations by David Chorlton, The Dark Takes Aim, by Julie Suk, Sunny Day by Daryl Rogers, Not So Profound by Nathan Graziano, The Laugh We Make When We Fall by Susan Firer, Something Near the Dance Floor by Bruce Dethlefsen, Loose Change by Louis McKee, Joy Unspeakable by Laura Stamps, Shooting the Rat: Outstanding Poems and Stories by High School Writers, Edited by Mark Paulak, Dick Lourie, Robert Hershon, Ron Schreiber
Poetry by Llyn Clague, Larsen Bowker, Elizabeth Bridges, Lisa Fay Coutley, McCabe Coolidge, Denise Duhamel, Cathryn Essinger, Jeannie Galeazzi, Emily M. Green, Mike James, J.L. Kubicek, David Lawrence, Lee Widing, Stephanie Lennox, Louis McKee, Don Mager, Stephen Mead, Christoph Meyer, Susan Osterman, Paul Sohar, S. Craig Renfroe, Thomas Page, Mary Soon Lee, Mark Smith-Soto, Bill Roberts, Gilda Morina Syverson, Kennon Webber, Cheryl Townsend, Jeff Vande Zande, Rosalynde Vas Dias, Gerald R. Wheeler, Leslie R. Wortman, and Michael Wurster.
Cover Art: Dada by Antoine de Villiers.
Photographs by Cheryl Townsend, Gerald Wheeler, and A.D. Winans. Graphic image by Douglass South.
Andrew McNabb, Newport, RI
THE TUNE-UP
Sean McVicker sat on the stiff motel bed, a beer in his hand. He was staring into the mirror on the wall in front of him, thinking how a sunburned face could look like it had been beat up. The voices of his two friends, William Thiggery, known as Thig, and Billy O’Brien, known as O.B., were distant, despite their being in the same room.
Down from Boston for the weekend, they’d rented a dank room in a motel outside of town and had filled the tub with ice and beer. They didn’t know anyone in Oceanside. They were twenty-one years old and had never gone to college. Most of the kids from Boston who went to Oceanside were college kids, or post-college kids. They were there because they heard it was a good place to get juiced up and that women were everywhere. From what they’d seen on the beach that day, it was true.
They’d taken the bus down from South Station because O.B., the only one who had a car, had let his registration slide but drove anyway. He’d gotten pinched the prior week. His car sat in the pound, and it was a beater, so he didn’t even bother going to get it. “Fuck it,” he’d said. “Cost more to get it out than the fuckin’ thing’s worth.”
Sean turned his eyes from the mirror to Thig and O.B., who were wrestling off to the side. Their arms were locked, and they laughed as they tangled. Good cheer came to a halt when Thig smacked O.B. in the face with an open hand.
“Whoa!” said O.B., a drip of blood trickled halfway to his lip and stopped. He smiled.
“Sorry, brother,” said Thig. He stuck out his chin as an offering, but O.B. ignored it.
“Next time,” said O.B..
They drank from their cans, and with his chin glistening. Thig said, “We gonna tune somebody up tonight, or what?”
“Fuck, yeah,” said O.B.
Sean didn’t want to fight, he was there for the women, but he slugged off his beer like the other two and howled right along with them. It was how he’d always done it, just agree until it came time to back off, dance around the outside of the pileup, maybe get in a shot or two to make it look good; but he’d been thinking lately, maybe it was time to back off for good.
* * * Want the rest of the story?
The conclusion can be read in the Spring 2004 issue
which is available direct from MSR for $7 at
The Main Street Rag Bookstore.BACK TO TOP
Mark Smith-Soto, Greensboro, NC
WINTER SPEECH
The President’s without a coat,
Light snow shivers the air,
But with a virile wave he greets
Patriots everywhere.The war that ended months ago
Has claimed another life,
The President’s condolences
Console the dead man’s wife.But let no one here mistake—
Intones the vibrant voice—
Our commitment to this holy cause,
Despite the careless noiseOf doomsters who would break and run
And spoil the fruits of peace:
That oil oppressed since ancient times
Is begging for release.Blood invested in this holy war
Will yield the rich returns
Which all Americans deserve—
The flame of freedom burnsAnd burns and burns and burns! And so
He ends, he waves, he grins,
The cameras proudly watch him go
As wild applause begins.Who listening could be unmoved
By words from such a man?
Who wouldn’t send to war for him
A daughter or a son?The President loves soldiers well,
He wishes he’d been one.
The President loves life so much,
He takes it when he can.
It’s over now, the speech is done,
The country breathes a sigh;
The old go now to pray and wait,
The young to kill and die.
Llyn Clague, Hastings-on-Hudson, NY
NEW YORK DOOR
“There’s a trick ...” he started, reaching past me —
Two locks, dead bolt, chain, steel bar:
a New York door keeps out all those who never knock
especially those who never knock
the criminals, crazies, burglars, druggies, rapists —
keeps out all the riffraff, the trash, the unwanted.After button, bell, squawk box and buzzer
or doorman in uniform with TV and telephone
the New York door — final barrier from the corridor —
stares, ever expressionless and disbelieving,
through its Cyclops glass eye.Flat New York eyes, on bus or subway,
dull as nickels
rejecting access across the aisle
protecting against overtures friendly, invasive
or dubious, warding off all unwanted advances.“...trick to it,” he finished, smiling and snapping
back bolt unhooking chain twisting lock another lock and
grandly
standing the bar aside.The door swung back easily;
I walked out.In the dusky corridor
behind me —
snap, snick, clunk.
Click.A “trick” — that was a joke, of course.
But there is nothing in the least jokey
about the beggars, cokeheads, perverts, maniacs, murderers
and all the other pricks and cockroaches out there.
No, no, no, there is nothing hokey
about a New York door:
to keep the bastards out.
And the demons in.
Cathryn Essinger, Troy, OH
THE MAN NEXT DOOR IS TEACHING
HIS DOG TO DRIVE
It all began when he came out one morning
and found the dog waiting for him behind the wheel.
He thought she looked pretty good sitting there,so he started taking her into town with him
just so she could get a feel for the road.
They have made a few turns through the field,him sitting beside her, his foot on the accelerator,
her muzzle on the wheel. Now they are practicing
going up and down the lane with him whisperingencouragement in her silky ear. She is a handsome
dog with long ears and a speckled muzzle and he
is a good teacher. “Now my wife, Millie,” he says,“she was always too timid on the road, but don’t you
be afraid to let people know that you are there.”
The dog seems to be thinking about this, seriously.Braking, however, is still a problem, but he is building
a mouthpiece which he hopes to attach to the steering
column, and when he upgrades to one of those newSports Utility Vehicles with the remote ignition device,
he will have solved the key and the lock problem.
Although he has not yet let her drive into town,he thinks she will be ready sometime next month,
and when his eyes get bad and her hip dysplasia
gets worse, he thinks this will come in real handy.
Louis McKee, Philadelphia, PA
ELEGY
Etheridge said the knot in the apple tree
looked like a vagina, and every time
he walked by it he would kiss
his open hand and reach out
and touch it;
I’d laugh
at his reverence for Mother Nature.This morning, while I walk
the mower around the yard,
I think of him, stopping long enough
to drink from my can of Rolling Rock
then wedge it into the deep knot.
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