Featuring: Finding the Pulse...
Rita Dove Interviewed by Don MagerFiction by Paul Austin.
Reviews by Jarret Keene, Kevin Bezner, Jen Hirt.
Poetry by Glenda Beall, Robert James Berry, Kevin Bezner, Patricia Kennedy Bostian, Sean Brendan-Brown, Mike Catalano, Robert Cooperman, Michael Estabrook, Mark Fabrizio, Patrick Flynn, Jill Hinckley-Noble, Betsy Humphreys, Marie Kazalia, Genevieve Kissack, Stephen Kopel, David T. Manning, Catfish McDaris, Brent McKnight, Robin Merrill, B.Z. Niditch, Edmund Pennant, Sean Reagan, Angela D. Stancar, Karen Stuart, Jane Terrell, Travis Venters, Kelley Jean White, Gerald Wheeler, A.D. Winans.Cover Art by M. Scott Douglass, back cover by Lydia Oakes.
Internal Images by Allison Abbott, Melissa Hines, Michele Renzi.
Catfish McDaris, West Allis, WI
CULTURE IS A VIRTUE
We had two free tickets
to Arabian Festival
at a park on Lake Michigan.I ate a seafood gyro thing
my wife and daughter
ate a vegetable dish.We watched men dance
and yell and belly dancers
with sword blades on their heads.People were smoking hookahs
that smelled of tobacco
the market was thriving.An over zealous rug dealer
put sample after sample
over his arms and mine.Finally I asked if he
had any bathroom sets
with surround the toilet
and tank toppers.That's when I got
my Arabic language lesson.
Patricia Kennedy Bostian, Charlotte, NC
REBUTTAL
We think it's enough, the speckled
mirror above the bar, the darkened brass.
Bottles misting on the sticky wood,
tequila in sweaty gulps, bitter lime and salty glass,
laughter straining high above the saxophone,
night swinging through the door.We button smoke in our coats, trip down the street
ignoring lights, cars, puddles, kissing in open doorways.
The old man selling peanuts and flowers flashes
a gold smile as you flourish a cellophaned bouquet.Oh, yes, we think it is enough to love in the night,
crushed roses and baby's breath sharp under our backs,
petals clinging to damp arms and cheekbones.
The streetlight's long blade, slicing our faces,
the wooden floor, the old quilt.It cannot be enough to stop the screen door
from creaking in the early wind,
a restless heel crushing a cigarette;
smoke twisting in the breeze roping the silver leaves;
a car's harsh bark breaking the dawn,
the terrifying thump of your own heart.It's never enough to save a red-webbed eye
from blinking dryly in the morning's cold blast,
the cat rubbing the ankle, the empty bottle tipped
in the corner, the thorn embedded in the ball of the foot.The long night rushing up to meet us.
Robin Merrill, Anson, ME
ME & JOLENE
gonna buy me a notebook
nothin' fancy
no psychedelic reflective covers
or wolves dancing on moons
not even the kind with pockets
just a notebook
from walleyworld
(was $1.78, now 98¢)
I'm gonna call her Jolene
and I'm gonna take her everywhere
fill her every line
with wise and clever verse
me and Jolene are gonna
change the world
and when she's full
I'm gonna send her
to those pretentious academic assholes
who say there's no room in the world of poetry
for us barnyard imbeciles
and somehow
somehow
Jolene's gonna prove 'em wrongBACK TO TOP
TATTOO
by Paul Austin
Rob stopped. “This is it.” He turned towards Peter, who was watching two girls walking down the deserted street, silhouetted by the bright lights of the amusement park. Their hips swayed with the indolence of a late summer evening; the tropical scent of coconut suntan lotion lingered in the air.
“Huh?”
“This is the place Jack was talking about.”
“What?”
“Damn,” Rob laughed. “Two girls walk past, and every circuit in your brain gets erased.” He nodded toward the brightly lit storefront. “The reason we came. To get tattoos.”
Peter clapped Rob on the shoulder. “You came here to get tattooed. I’m here to lay around on the beach, maybe meet some girls.” He glanced towards the plywood sign above the window. Painted with the bright colors of a carnival poster, it resembled a box of animal crackers. The edges were splintered, and the paint was peeling like sunburned skin. Several of the small lights around the perimeter were burned out. “Are you sure you want to get a tattoo here?” He pointed towards the main strip. “The other one looked cleaner.”
“That’s what I was just telling you. Jack said the other one was where the college kids go.”
Peter shrugged. “We’re college kids.”
“I may go to college, but I’m not a college kid.” Rob walked towards the door. “You coming?”
Peter again looked towards the brightly lit main strip. “Are you sure?”
Rob pushed the door open.
“Don’t let the cat out.” A gray blur streaked towards the door. It got past Rob, but Peter scooped it up and held it at arm’s length.
“It won’t scratch or anything, it just tries to run off all the time.” The old man sitting in the corner peered at them from behind a newspaper. He had a fringe of gray hair and a scraggly white beard. The thin skin of his eyelids sagged down, almost past his eyelashes. Thick glasses made his pale blue eyes huge. His shirt, pants, belt, socks, and shoes were all black. “You can put her down.” His voice was crisp and carried well, like an announcer in a side show.
Peter leaned over, and gently dropped the cat. She rubbed against his ankles.
“Hellion,” the old man barked. “Leave the customers alone.”
“I’m, uh, not a customer.” Peter pointed to Rob. “But he’s thinking about getting one.”
Rob looked at the yellowed sheets of designs thumb-tacked to the wall. A skull, impaled with a knife, floated above hearts dripping blood. A naked woman, huge breasts punctuated with cherry red nipples, held a henchman’s ax. Her bright green eyes glittered from behind a black hood, and the sparkling edge of her ax dripped huge drops of blood. The next panel had eagles. Eagles with talons out and beaks open screaming down from above. Eagles with guns, knives, and Tomahawk missiles in their talons. An eagle in profile; an eagle soaring above a sunset. Another panel had parachutes: parachutes with skulls, parachutes with “Death from Above” inscribed across them, parachutes in red, white, and blue. Rob looked over to the old man, who had gone back to reading his paper. “You got any with Chinese writing?”
The old man didn’t look up. “The college kids usually go to the new parlor on the strip. It’s called ‘Dog Moon,’ or something like that.”
“That’s what my buddy said.” Rob looked back at the panel with the naked women. “Jack. You may remember him.”
“No.”
“You gave him a tattoo.”
“Kid, I’ve been doing tattoos for forty years. That’s a lot of tattoos.” He looked up from his paper. “Was he a muscular kid, talked a lot?”
Rob turned and grinned. “Yeah? Do you remember him?”
“No.” The old man pulled a ball-point pen from his pocket. “Lucky guess.” He clicked his pen, and filled in a word on the crossword puzzle.
“Well, he plays on my rugby team. I’m the captain.” Rob looked over to a panel covered with crosses, angels, and a head of Christ, framed in a circle of thorns. “Anyway, Jack’s got several tattoos. One of ‘em, Lyle Tuttle put on.” Rob moved to a panel of cats. A lion sat in profile, like the one guarding the New York Public Library. A panther was slinking at a downward angle towards a tiger pouncing high in the air. “He did Cher’s tattoo.”
The old man nodded and carefully filled in a string of blocks on his puzzle.
“Anyway, Jack said that you’re the best tattoo artist on the east coast.”
“He probably meant the oldest.” The old man glanced up from his crossword puzzle. “Do you know a seven letter word for ‘uprightness?’ Probably starts with ‘p.’”
Rob shook his head.
Peter cleared his throat. “Would ‘probity’ fit?”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Thanks.” He inked in the word.
“Jack said you’re the best.” Rob looked back at the picture of Christ, framed by a ring of thorns. Jesus’ head was tilted down, and to the right. A single tear escaped from the inner corner of his eye. “Where did you find this picture?”
“I drew it.”
“You did?” Rob looked back to the old man. “It’s good. Really good.”
The old man scratched his jaw through his thin beard. “Didn’t your soccer buddy tell you I was the best on the east coast?”
“Yeah. And he also got a tattoo from you, in Chinese characters.”
“Yeah?” the old man laid his pen on the paper. “Kid, I told you. You need to go to the Dog Star place, on the strip. I don’t like to do those Chinese characters. Or that Irish crap with the knots, and chains. None of it means anything. That’s why I send all you kids to the Dog Comet on the main strip. They do all that stuff.” He picked his pen up. “I do the army kids, the navy kids. Those tattoos mean something. A kid gets a Byzantine cross on his chest, you can figure he isn’t exactly a Muslim. He gets the Hand-maiden of Death: You know he hasn’t been lucky in the woman department. Even the lions and tigers mean something. Same with the motorcycle stuff. They all express wishes or dreams.” He clicked the pen. “The foreign crap” he quickly doodled a Celtic chain up the edge of his newspaper. “Doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“But you can do them?”
The old man sighed, leaned down to open a drawer under the counter, and pulled out several sheets of rice paper. “I really don’t like doing these.” He handed them to Rob.
He spread them across the counter top. Bold brush strokes slashed across the pages, in complex characters.
“Damn. These are good. Did you do them?”
“Kid, I do all the designs I use.”
“How did you do them? I mean, they don’t look like magic marker, or pencil.”
“Used a brush. Like the Chinese do.” He reached for them. “I was just screwing around when I did these.”
“This one.” Rob pointed to the most complicated design. “What does it mean?”
The old man cocked his head, to look at it. “What do you think it means?”
Rob shrugged. “I was thinking about getting ‘Honor’ on my forearm.” He blushed, at his revelation.
“What a coincidence.”If you would like to read the rest of "Tattoo", copies of the Winter 2001 issue are still available direct from MSR for $7 at The Main Street Rag Bookstore.
BACK TO TOP
BACK ALLEY / BOOKSTORE / CONTESTS / EDITOR'S COMMENTS / ESSAYS / EVENTS / INTERVIEWS / GALLERY / POETRY / REVIEWS / SHELF SPACE / SUBMISSIONSMain Street Rag, PO BOX 690100, Charlotte, NC 28227-7001
704-573-2516, contact us