MSR Winter 2005/06
(actually listed as 2006 for bookshelf purposes)
Feature:
Steve Taylor, Winner of the MSR 2004 Short Fiction Contest
Interviewed by M. Scott Douglass
Essay
The Global Conspiracy Against Shit Just Happening
by Norman BallLike We’re Talking by Patrick Egan
Rock of Ages by Joan ConnorReviews by George Held, Andrea Quarracino, Trey Palmisano, Janet McCann, Henry Berne, S. Craig Renfroe Jr., Richard Allen Taylor.
of the following work:Mead: Twenty-Six Abecedariums by Karl Elder, Drivers by Nathan Leslie, Air Travel by Clarinda Harriss, Hardboot: Poems New and Old by Vivian Shipley, More of Me Disappears by John Amen, Virgins on the Rocks by Karla Huston, Flight to Elsewhere by Samuel Hazo.
Poetry by Justin Askins, Henry Berne, Gary Every, Sally Buckner, Thomas L. Conroy, Gilbert Dale Cornelius, Sue De Kelver, Peter Desmond, Doug Draime, Taj Jackson, Suhaila El-Jallad, Rod Farmer, Bill Griffin, Mike James, Janet R. Kirchheimer, d.n. simmers, Derrick Hines, Angela M. Mendez, Melanie Miller, Will Nixon, Gail J. Peck, Tim Poland, Marjorie Power, Spiel, Belinda Subraman, Juanita Torrence-Thompson, Chris Waters, AD Winans.
Cover Art: Say it Ain't Snow, a photo by Doug South.
Images by Doug South, Melanie Monterey, Taso Papadakis
Norman Ball
Herndon, VAThe Global Conspiracy
Against Shit Just Happening
(Or “I’ve Seen This Movie Before”)I’m not a grassy knoll kind of guy. Inertia is the real king-maker on this planet. That, and jaw-dropping incompetence. In an effort to tack meaning to the morass, some poor souls seize upon intelligent design. But the grim reality is that no one’s in control, no one knows what the hell’s going to happen next and no one is pulling the strings. This comes as horrible news to many as being a pawn in somebody’s diabolical scheme promotes at least a sense of belonging.
The truth is, our universe is a little light in the loafers. There’s a lot of matter unaccounted for. In non-quantum physics parlance, this means a lot of things just don’t matter. Conspiracy theorists should be wary about lashing every little thing to the mast of a sinister plan. They should be wary, but they never are. Massively complex conspiracies attempt to bring sense to even more massively complex realities. Compulsive over-thinkers, conspiracy buffs cannot bear the thought of a vast unscripted universe. For them, paranoia is a welcome respite from unfocussed existential angst. The dirty little secret is that most conspiracy theorists would rather fight than quit their imaginary oppressors.
Others skip the middleman entirely and point the finger at God. After all, he is the Prime Mover. I agree He moved—but to a better neighborhood, one with greased pulleys and well-oiled transitions. (Still, I’m still capitalizing His pronouns just in case.) You see, fellow four-dimensionalings, word from the next-best parallel universe is that God dumped free will and decided to go all deterministic with beige curtains. Mind you, I wouldn’t trade our crimson shades for anything. They go so well with the blood-stained carpets.
So forget about a Grand Design. Life isn’t a movie and it sure ain’t grand. Quite the opposite, movies are the ultimate conspiracies against real life. It’s not even a horse race as mise en scene beats stupid-shit-just-happening every time. When was the last time anyone bought popcorn to watch the random unfolding of events? If truth be told, real life—that craggy montage of fits, starts and awkward gestures—envies the hell out of movies. Perhaps movies are what life could have been if it’d only hooked up with a better agent. Oh well, Spielberg 1, God 0.
You’ve seen the movie: Frantic movie star is running down the hall intent on averting the complete destruction of the world as Hollywood knows it. Trailing him in lab coats, clipboards at the ready, are an ethnically diverse array of experts-who-clearly-have-their-shit-together. The star is barking orders and peppering his entourage with questions. The experts, never missing a beat, fire back answers with impeccable, machine-gun delivery. The movie star fashions an ingenious plan. The world is saved.
For anyone who’s ever worked in a real-life organization, it can take days just to set up an email account. So I dismiss this sort of uber-competency out-of-hand. Movies get away with being so cock-sure of themselves because no director in his right mind would begin filming without a foregone conclusion. In a movie’s small universe, everyone already knows what’s going to happen. So they act accordingly. This teleological certitude gives movies a huge advantage over real life where a new script is delivered with the morning newspaper.
This all comes as news to conspiracy buffs. Forever trying to stuff life’s genie into a movie-bottle, they plot away completely oblivious to their huge debt to Hollywood. Every paper cut becomes further evidence of foul play. Meanwhile the very glue of the human condition—abject terror, complete surprise and epic stupidity—are given short-shrift. The paranoiac’s cascading ‘malice of forethought’ allows for no accidents.
But are we to believe the same guys who couldn’t build a seawall around New Orleans architected the 9/11 tragedy as some kind of fiendish inside job? That’s right. The Internet and magazine-racks are abuzz with all sorts of CIA-laced 9/11 conspiracies. Somewhere in purgatory, the ghost of Lee Harvey Oswald heaves a huge sigh of relief.
Did you know the recently-revamped (and thus emptiest) wing of the Pentagon was intentionally hit so that the conspirators—many working inside the building—would not be killed? Here’s another: the conspirators intentionally chose 9/11/2001 as the strike date in order to coincide with the anniversary of the Pentagon’s 9/11/1941 groundbreaking ceremony. Man, what a bunch of sentimental lugs. Or was this an intentionally selected date thereby planting a coincidental seed for future conspiracy theorists to pore over? Then there’s this: on 9/10, a conclave of small gray aliens was seen high-fiving one another in a popular K Street watering hole, clearly relishing the next day’s horrible events. Okay, I made the last one up. Then again, maybe I didn’t. On the fringes of this fringe movement, there is someone out there who has already tossed extra-terrestrials into the 9/11 mix. The point is that in the highly deterministic world of the conspiracy theorist, everything is governed by intentionality. Or, as Spielberg might say, every scene must count.
But you can’t have it both ways. Government types are either world-class bumblers or they have every little thing in hand. Conspiracy nuts clearly fall into the latter camp. They think the guys in charge really are in charge. By falling victim to this spectacular naivete time and again, they badly misconstrue the power of the powerful. But at least their heads hit the pillow every night feeling someone’s in charge.BACK TO TOP
Joan Connor
Athens, OHRock of Ages
Elvis was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Old Elvis was as dead as a door-nail. So was John. Elvis and John were dead, despite what the tabloids and Yoko’s numerologist say. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat emphatically that they were as dead as door-nails. Elvis sat on the edge of my mattress and tossed his famous forelock back. Lennon stood, peering owlishly around my room. He tugged the collar of his leather jacket up over his jaw.
“Are you sure this is the proper flat?” Lennon asked, stubbing the toe of one boot into the other.
“Sure I’m sure,” mumbled Elvis.
I pulled my comforter tightly to my chin.
“Wake up, darlin,” Elvis said and tugged at the quilt. “Y’all playing possum?”
“What do you want?” I managed to ask. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
Elvis guffawed; Lennon smirked.
“Why, it’s me, sugar. Elvis Presley. And that fella over there’s John Lennon. You know, the Beatle.”
“No,” I said, “this can’t be happening. You’re dead. You’re not really here. Just some dyspepsia, that Toffuti, perhaps, or the oat bran.”
“Whee.” Elvis whistled. “She’s gone. Far gone.”
“You’re a dream,” I said.
“Your dream come true,” Elvis said with a leer. He eyed John from the shadow of his forelock. “Sit down, man,” he said. “You’re making me nervous.”
John bristled. “I’m not one of your lackey goons, Presley. Order some other minion around your dominion, you B movie buffoon.”
“Set your lily-Liverpooled ass down,” Presley said.
“Now come on, boys,” I said. “Calm down.”
Lennon slouched. “I don’t have to take this crap. I’m a star.”
“Knock it off.” I snapped on the light which winked off Lennon’s lenses, sinister and keen. His raptorial nose beaked through the reflections. Elvis rubbed his brow with his index finger and lowered his heavy lids at John. “John boy, I thought me and you worked out this king of rock ‘n roll misunderstanding in purgatory.”
Lennon hunched his shoulders and withdrew his head into the collar of his bomber jacket like a turtle crinkling into its shell.
“Damn it, boy,” Elvis said, “sit.”
Lennon slumped into the rocker by the window. A siren wailed by, temporarily suspending conversation. When it subsided, Elvis raised his eyes to me. “So, honey, y’all probably wondering why we’re here.”
“No,” I said. “Not at all. You’re not here. You’re just a dream. Whoosh, you’re here; swoosh, you’re gone.”
Lennon’s hands tightened on the rocker’s arms, and he leaned minaciously forward. “Look, chick, the dream is over.”
Want the rest of the story?
The conclusion can be read in the Winter 2005/2006 issue which is still available direct from MSR for $7 at The Main Street Rag Bookstore.BACK TO TOP
Gary Every
Oracle AZ
LBJ
President Johnson used to go to church
at 2 o’clock in the morning
accompanied only
by his youngest daughter Lucy,
praying all alone
amidst the empty pews
in stark contrast to the crowded airplanes
stacked with body bags
arriving from southeast Asia.
Late at night, in his White House bed,
the most powerful man in the world
slept with the lights on
and pulled the sheets over his head
trying to keep the ghosts of Viet Nam away.
Peter Desmond
Cambridge, MA
This guy was saying ...
She asked for it.
I mean, what was she doing
out at night?So it was day.
Some parts of town
even in daylight
you’d have to be
stupid to go there.
Well, why was she home?
Get a job, lady.
What’s this, some
lazy bitch in a kimono
eating chocolates?
Whaddaya mean, retired?
If she’s fucking retired,
why didn’t she
move to Florida?The trouble with you is
you believe all the crap
you read in the liberal press.
Angela M. Mendez
West Haven, CT
Labor/Relations
Picket lines like picket fences
form the concrete edge of America
Cardboard signs and rehearsed rhymes
litter sidewalks of small towns
while burger-flippers and taco-makers
make the most of minimum wage
dropping dreams into carry-out bags along with
folded napkins and packets of ketchup
Up the block,
KKK brochures left on bus-stop benches
blow in the breeze of racist minds
hatred passed out like hors d’oeuvres
by those searching for purity
who need look no further
than the nearest Reservation
to find the blood
that first reddened the soilPicket lines like picket fences
separate blue collar from white collar
Lottery tickets and stray bullets
litter sidewalks of American towns
while children read 1964 textbooks
in classrooms painted with lead
making the most of a teacher
who wishes he were in St. Thomas
on the beach, with a Pina Colada
Down the street,
Farrakhan’s followers are teaching hate
two hours after the Jehovah’s Witness clan
passed out religion like cheap business cards
Those searching for faith
need look no further
than the nearest Reservation
to find the Spirit
that was first holyAlong the concrete edge of America
Right-to-lifers are taking lives
outside of lifeless brick buildings
where semen-and-egg dreams are dropped
into cold aluminum bowls
along with umbilical cords
and drops of amniotic fluid
Elasticity of 15-year old skin
stretched over unplanned fetus
something to love and cradle
like a Cabbage Patch Doll or a Tickle Me ElmoSegregation is on the plate of many Americans
who keep their corn away from their mashed potatoes
although everything ends up the same place
Diversity has become Spanish Rice on Monday
and General Tsao’s Chicken on Tuesday
while 19-inch color t.v.’s babysit our future senators
who play with asexual dolls and purple dinosaurs
America has improved labor relations
by turning the cotton field over to the machines
by teaching men and women to say
“Would you like fries with that?”
by using quotas like castor oil shoved down our throats
by fighting neighborhood wars on stolen landAlong the concrete edge of America
white lines are painted down black tar
Affirmative Action dangles from the lynching tree of big business
indigenous Medicine Men dance alone beneath the setting sun
beneath the burning bridges of America
where we are divided by picket fences and picket lines
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