MSR Winter 2003
Now Available!Brutal Beauty:
The Poetry of Pam Bernard
By Jean TrounstineElizabeth Hyde:
On The Trail of The Next Novel
By Pat MacEnultyFiction by Lisa Boylan and Gerald Kaminski.
Reviews by Thomas Fortenberry, Todd Hester, Frank S. Palmisano, III, Max Ruback, Sherri Smith, Bill Wesse.
Poetry by Barry Ballard, Donna Biffar, Ace Boggess, Mike Catalano, Fred Chappell, David Chorlton, McCabe Coolidge, Robert Cooperman, Chris Cunningham, Michael Estabrook, Bill Griffin, Carol Hamilton, Roxane Maria Javid, Christian Jewell, Mario D. Kersey, Lyn Lifshin, Karon G. Luddy, Laurie Mazzaferro, Louis McKee, Bob Meszaros, Pam O'Brien, Richard William Pearce, Diana Pinckney, Rebeca S. Porter, Alex Richardson, Jim Spurr, Shelby Stephenson, Geoffrey B. Trumbo, Kevin Walzer, Katharine Westaway, Kelley Jean White, Don Winter, Dale Wisely, William Woodruff.Cover Art by Karon Luddy.
Photographs by Keary Liu, Louis S. Faber, Lesley Parker, Kaisheng Mei.
Spatial Disorientation
by Lisa Boylan
The taxi driver drops me off at a fictional address I concoct on Kalorama Drive. I want him to watch my back leave his taxi as I head for a chandeliered foyer in a mansion I've never entered. I want him to wonder, "Is she is a lawyer; did she plant that beautiful garden herself; how many children does she have; is her husband handsome?" I want him to wonder anything but the truth. I walk up the flagstone path of the alien house and get nervous because the taxi doesn't budge. I turn to smile but see that he is writing on his clipboard. I hope the mansion door won't swing open. The taxi speeds off and I look at the chandelier in the foyer breaking down light to color. I wonder if I am breaking down too.
I walk back up to Massachusetts Avenue and get on a bus. The bus driver shouts "Cleveland Park Metro" and I get off and walk down the battered concrete hill of Porter Street to my apartment. I live next door to Pete, who is a homosexual and one of my favorite people, and above Angelica, who is perfectly vile. I became friends with her entirely by accident because she managed to rope in my college friend Mike at a party in my apartment. I met her and instantly didn't like her and then, through her flattery and ability to extract information, I found myself enjoying her company. She has the boundless, endearing energy of a young Labrador. Charming for a while, but ultimately cloying. Even so, she has seduced me into revealing things I might not tell someone I'd known longer. Now she is Madame DeFarge knitting an afghan of my confessions and vulnerability
I unload my stuff that I snatched up in a huff before walking out of the bank and look out of the small diamond-paned window in my dining room. I love being home in the middle of the day. I like seeing the light hit the glossy paint on the crown molding. I turn on the stereo and listen to faded, forlorn music. I go to the kitchen and make a pot of coffee. Drinking coffee in the middle of the day seems like the right thing to do somehow. Isn't that what a 50's sitcom housewife would do? I don't have too many role models of people who are home during the day. The phone rings and my heart takes a dive.
"Melanie! This is Joan at Power Temp-o. What happened today????"
"I couldn't stay, Joan."
"This puts me in a really bad position Melanie! Did you leave the phones unattended? You just…walked out?"
Okay, time to get serious. I muster up the emotions again, man this is getting exhausting. The tears start to come, my voice breaks, "Joan…it was James Reiser…I felt. I don't know. Responsible somehow. Joan! I felt so bad and no one would understand and they left for the funeral…and I just couldn't take it…"
"Melanie, let me see if I hear what you're saying. You felt bad because…" "…because James Reiser went down in the plane and I'm…I'm the one who got his visa. Joan can you ever…"
"Melanie, hey, listen I am here for you. I just need to give the client an explanation. You were 'distraught,' is that what I am hearing?"
"Yes."
"Even so, Melanie, please give me a call when you feel this way and maybe we can work something out! You were sad! It's okay! Now I have something to work with but it's a definite Power Temp-o 'no-no' to leave a job, okay??? You're one of our best temps so we're going to work with you on this one. Of course there were extenuating circumstances. It was a plane crash! Who knew! Okay. Melanie, refresh my memory. Do you know Lotus?"
"Yes. Yes I do, Joan."
"Okay, you take it easy this afternoon! Make yourself a hot cocoa and call me tomorrow and I'll see what we have for you."
"Thanks, Joan. Thanks for understanding."
I get off the phone and double over for a second. Maybe coffee isn't the answer. Maybe I should go to an open-air drug market and get some heroin. There's a knock on the door. It's Angelica. I feel like Billy Goat Gruff living over the troll under the bridge. Angelica clocks my movements and is always at my doorstep when she hears me come. She's in law school so her hours are skewed.
"What are you doing home in the middle of the day?"
"Oh, they sent me home early because of the funeral."
"Are you having coffee? Yuk. By the way, Mike and a friend of his from work named Annie invited us out to a house party at Bethany Beach this weekend. It should be pretty nice. You in?"
"Sure."
Angelica has roped Mike in with her wiles. He looks frightened in her presence. She has saved every item he's given her in a shoebox. She saved the first rose he gave her. The shoebox mementos remind me of recovered items in a serial killer's freezer. When I ran into Mike last week at Fragments Bar he said, "Don't tell Angelica you saw me here." He seems to be making a retreat, but based on the growing contents of the shoebox, I think his days are numbered.
He broke his arm a few weeks ago and she took care of him, mostly by sharing his painkillers and heightening the buzz with Scotch. Yesterday she pulled out the shoebox and showed me a piece of his arm cast with a red heart she drew on it. She said, "Melanie, if you want to hold onto a man, nurse him back to health. I am getting Mike because I am making myself indispensable to him. Remember that." I feel so naïve sometimes. I didn't know love could be so premeditated.
Want the rest of the story?
The conclusion can be read in the Winter 2003 issue which is still available direct from MSR for $7 at The Main Street Rag Bookstore.BACK TO TOP
TERROR
David Chorlton, Phoenix, AZ
The old dictators knew best
that to execute the guilty
impresses the people
but to execute the innocent
impresses them more. Climb the hill
overlooking your city
and imagine one building
billowing smoke. You can see
a million homes
with the lights going on
where dinner is served
tasting of ash, everyone for miles
having the same conversation.
In tonight’s dream
you will not discern a lottery
from a war. Then you begin to drive
within the speed limit,
you report your taxes
honestly, and you write the president a letter
to tell him how well
he is doing his job. You no longer care
which party he belongs to.
From now on you promise
to wait for traffic lights to change
every time you cross the road.
CLOTHING EUNICES
Fred Chappell, Greensboro, NC
I have visited every last porn site on the web
but I am not yet depraved only depressedI mean who needs Joe Bob’s Blow Jobs
banners that spell it amature
who needs Schoolgirl Panties Anal Antics Ungulate SwingersI want a site that shows only women named Eunice
all of them dressed up to attend PTA
standing before dignified fireplaces
smiling gravely(well, maybe one of them could wear a jaunty hat)
just thinking about it gets me really hot
MARXIST LITERARY CRITICISM LOOKS AT
“THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA”
Pam O’Brien, Pittsburgh, PA
The king and queen tell their son,
the drop-dead-gorgeous prince,
to go out and find a “real princess.”
No word of a “real job”
or sharing the wealth with others.
Drop dead gorgeous
is not wisdom, discernment—
­he comes back single.That night it storms
and the royals find a beautiful waif
on the palace drawbridge.
She claims to be authentic.
Actually she works at the local cannery.Aha. A test.
And the queen devises what they think is a sure one.
Let her sleep on top of twenty mattresses
with a dried pea on the bottom.Twenty homeless people
huddled under the palace drawbridge
and the potential real person
beds down on twenty mattresses.
Next morning the intruder
claims her sleep was disturbed,
displays a small bruise on her back.
And the monarchy welcomes her into the family,
admires her sensitive skin, her frailty.Months later, out on the town,
downing vodka shots with her union buddies
from the Green Giant canning line, the new princess
tells them she misses her old job,
doesn’t bruise so easily now,
since her diet is rich in vitamin C,
claims she isn’t impressed
by his royal pea-ness.
DE FINITIONS
William Woodruff, Pasadena, CA
despair: de fifth tire.
decor: de apple’s center.
depend: where de pool’s bottom lies farthest down.
dependent: de ornament attached to de necklace.
descent: de smell.
debate: what de fish bite.
deliver: de meat you eat with onions.
depilatory: where you keep de asprin.
detail: what de dog wags.
deploy: de stratagem.
defer: de soft hair of a rich lady’s coat.
devote: what gets us our lousy Presidents.
despise: de CIA agents.
default: what, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars.
deduce: de lowest card in de deck.
deceit: de place to sit.
demote: de water-filled ditch around de castle.
defile: de dossier.
define: what de parking ticket makes you pay.
denote: de short letter.
detour: de guided way to see de place.
detritus: de dissertation.
depart: what de actor plays.
demure: de cat.
deride: what you buy de roller-coaster ticket for.
defeat: de raison d’etre for shoes.
defense: what keeps in de cows.
depose: de model’s stance.
delight: an antonym for de heavy.
defame: what de publicity gets you.
despite: de grudge.
devoid: de emptiness.
debunk: where de cowboy slumbers.
detest: what I flunked yesterday.
Home
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