Tom Tylee

Crash

The beeps and blips of the life support equipment flowed in and around the sounds of Pink Floyd emanating from the iPod next to my bed. I sunk deeper into my pillow trying to drift to sleep. Despite the quicksilver flow of morphine through my blood and the womblike dark and closeness of the hospital room, I couldn’t sleep. Quirks of pain jabbed me through the chest and arms leaving me in a dazed state.

The jolts of pain brought flickers of light against the insides of my eyelids. Snippets of a voice got caught in the rhythm of "Us and Them," walked the fine lines of guitar and organ, then pulled me into the rainy streets of New York. That demure, whisper soft, sweet voice of Audrey Hepburn called from the TV. I was sitting on a ratty 70s era armchair; "Breakfast at Tiffany’s" played quietly in the corner. Angela sat across from me, then suddenly, in my lap, lips meeting.

Pain surged through my chest.

I was on the end of a phone call, Angela couldn’t talk then. She couldn’t talk ever again, at least not to me.

A spasm jerked my hand. I cried out.

A hammock swung beneath the whirling ceiling fan. I gauged my drunken stumbles to match the rhythm of the hammock. Robinson’s voice cried from the other side of the dark room. He called drunken invitations, patting the bed, but had passed out completely before I could stop the hammock from swinging.

White flashes zipped around behind my eyes lashing the corners of my brain.

I held Robinson’s hand, his cold, cold hand. Even in the heat of tropical Mexico he was dead, dead cold.

My Mom, holding me, her adult son, crying for lost girls, lost friends, lost paths.
A nurse came. She emerged into the dark room, the door a rectangle of institutional bright, sterile light behind her. Another sweet syringe of quicksilver dreams went into my tube, into my arm. I had cried out. The call button so near my hand had been too tempting. The girl in white came to disconnect my mind from the pain. The pain was still there, but quiet now. Pink Floyd sang me back into dreams.

I was older this time; the girl I was with was no quiet, demure Audrey or Angela. She smiled, her eyes crinkling so they almost closed. I had said something funny. She smiled a lot, hiding those blues eyes behind laughter and delight. She was teaching me how to smile. She held my hand and opened me up to the world. She laughed me into it.

In a car, far from home, the blue-eyed girl cried out to me. I was her home, her life, and she fell away from me. I had seen it in my head a thousand and a thousand times. Just seconds it took for those blue eyes to lose the light and life behind them. I watched it again. It took only seconds. It always takes just a few seconds.

Faster came the music into my room. It was colder now. The beeps and blips surrounded me, sounding insistent, demanding my attention. I had no attention left. Someone else would come. They would find me and know what to do. I didn’t know anymore.

Those cold blue eyes looked up at me from the wreckage on a lonesome highway. Warmth spread into them, and they crinkled up in a smile. She had found me again. We could both finally go home.

Michael Lukas

W.W.G.D.?

I have to buy a spatula
and some tongs
for my father. It’s Father’s Day,
and I want to get him the best
for his shiny new black Weber,
but I can’t find a thing
at the Minocqua hot tub/grill store,
the local hardware,
or anywhere else for that matter.
So I ask myself:
What Would Geronimo Do?

I’ve tried to ingrain this question recently,
carving it into a piece of snipped tin sheet on my wrist,
chucklingly authorized with Wayne
spraying cranberries with a leaf blower
in front of my one-mile-per-hour-tractor.
Over a joint, Wayne told me I should meet
His brother; he was in A.I.M. ,or something).
Did I say we had a good laugh about my bracelet?:
W.W.G.D.?

But, I go to Wal-Mart anyway,
where a senior-citizen smile greets me at the door.
I part the shimmering shelven hedge-maze,
happen upon blue-vested,
pimple-faced-minimum-wage-complacency.
He turns with query, downcasts eyes, and ushers me
to the “Outdoor Living” aisle,
to the finest, most durable grill paraphenalia
I have ever seen:
W.W.G.D.?

I swoon in fluorescent gleam,
faint from the sight of cookware,
pull myself up from vinyl
sprint away, face in hands,
tears streaming between fingers,
mourning: over Southeast Asian mothers
shipped to Saipan
sleeping two to a cot,
wrapped in bed-bug infested blankets,
sipping slop from crusted bowls,
paid a pittance
to sustain far-off starving children
they long to hold and caress, every moment
they pull the lever, pouring scalding liquid metal
into barbecue fork molds.

I slam the door on my truck
drive and go away
far away.
Is this what Geronimo would do?

But I remember my father,
the grill glistening on the deck…
I turn back,
ashamed,
believing I have offended the Apache warrior
who resisted
until there was no other choice…

Yet Calamity Jane,
And Geronimo,
are action figures
in “Wild Bill”’s Wild West Show.


For Ed Dorn.

Joe Loviska

The Bedsheets Will Help


Rob and Donna Lundquist went horseback riding every year at a guest ranch in Canada. They had gone for twelve years in a row now, and for Rob the trip was a chore. Each year, his week's vacation meant only that he traded his coworkers' nagging for horseflies and his neck tie for tight blue jeans. Donna liked it more, but she complained, on the way there and back, about the horrible sunburn she always got on her chest. “It's these open-necked shirts,” she would say. “You'd have to live your whole life in heat like this not to get burned everyday, wearing these cowgirl shirts.”

“Maybe try spf 45,” Rob suggested each time the subject was brought up.

“You sweat it off. It always just sweats off,” Donna would answer.

He had no reply to this. Rob felt about these trips the same way that he used to feel about his girlfriends. It was so much easier to keep saying “I love you” than to change things. If he were to suggest that he and Donna stop their vacations into Canada, what more would have to end along with them? She would start thinking that he no longer enjoyed her company.

This year the trip had been the same. They had seen some really beautiful country, had spent hours watching horses' asses, pretending not to be disgusted by their long pisses. Rob likened the riding of horses to humping a woman while driving a car slowly across a rutted country road, and so he passed the time. Donna's sweat and dirt mixed on her face to reveal a different and strangely more beautiful person than Rob normally knew. The vacation to Canada, he realized, was the yearly shaking out of their lives. Residual fumes of office and home were washed away, replaced by a more animal stench, which, at least for a week, he actually enjoyed. The feeling of a special occasion also meant that they had sex more often. But this year Rob and Donna had both developed sores on the insides of their thighs from rocking in their saddles over particularly rough paths. The sores prevented them from making love for the week. There had been no other redeeming qualities of the trip.

Click here for the conclusion to "The Bedsheets Will Help".

Cameron Martinez

MUSIC

Hark! The music in these halls
Is enough to bend any willow
Like the ones your grandfathers used to claim
When porches were used for mornings
And to celebrate the coming of the night.

The music controls the rivers of fertility.
Enough for any farmer
To be seduced into protecting his crops.
Like the ones that comforted you on Saturdays
When dad would curse
And mom would do the dishes.

The music always lets one slip
Enough to regard any man
From a distance
Like the ones who faithfully hunted
Like a true rider of the wind
That always listens for
And never chats away the silence.

Madison Unsworth

Making Love to the Novel

It is not difficult for me to fill pages and pages with reflections on an orange or a lemon. Lengthy considerations of simple objects, not just those citrus in nature, come effortlessly. One can discuss the morality of a Sharpie or assign generosity or a curmudgeonly attitude to a garbage pail, with relative facility and ease. Upon first glancing at a spoon one is not necessarily struck by an intense need to write; yet about the mundane, writing is strikingly simple. Their very objectness lends itself to exploration through pure imagination and is entirely open for interpretation. You may see anger in litter, and I passivity. Both are correct because it is merely litter, lifeless and inanimate. This sort of contemplation builds a playground out of writing. It frees the author to swing with verbs and play foursquare with adjectives. It can be some of the most amusing writing to read and write.

Though an essay could simply be a discussion of drinking fountains in a Chicago subway, where for instance, the reader finds him or herself intensely interested in the gum to the left of the spout. Yet, the ease with which words are able to flow from pen to reader when expounding on the simplest of subjects is somehow lost on more complex topics. I do not know if this is an experience shared by humanity as a whole, but the more interesting the subject and the more I assume I have to say, the less that I am actually able to write. Politics, religion, art—anything that fires people up and arouses emotion has a halting effect on exploration. Tact is required. One must be informed, knowledgeable, and fluent in the subject and take into consideration the intricacies of its history. The writing becomes less like the smooth ride of a luxury Cadillac and more like the jarring travel of a 1976 VW bug. Yet things like great art, political debate, personal relationships, or any emotional experience are what inspire writing.

Does the complexity of passion, emotional investment and the great love for a subject not call for more elaboration? Why then the difficulty? Are the subjects we have the most enthusiasm for perhaps discussion enough in themselves? What is stuck in the space between my brain stem and the fat rounds of my fingers that causes this stuttering of mind, this noiseless speech impediment? I am struck by this handicap as I attempt to write about writing.

Click here for the conclusion to "Making Love to the Novel".

Zach Radford

"The Town and The Country" 2004

Isaac Brock

"What Useless Tools Ourselves": Stolen from Modest Mouse's backstage area after the show in April. Presumably written by Isaac Brock.

Oh, & I know this of myself/ I assume as much for other people/ & I know this of myself[,] we've listened more to life's/ end gong/ than the sound of life's sweet bells.

Carried it all.

Oh & we owned all the tools ourselves/ Without the skills to make a shelf with/ Oh what useless tools ourselves.

Crystal Munger

The Problem With Pumpernickel

Shaking, my pale hand reaches out to adjust the cold microphone. Clearing my throat, words fail to come out of my mouth, I instead just nod my head. Slowly I turn and walk, zombie-like back to my squeaky metal folding chair, where my strength fails and I collapse. White globes of fire shine into my blinking eyes as hot, salty tears run down my flushed cheeks. Voices resonate around me, a chorus of unidentifiable words. The world appears to continue, though I am frozen in time, repeating the word over and over in my mind.

I had always been a good student. I was in an advanced reading group and I was part of the Math Club. I knew that I was smart and I wanted to prove it to all of my classmates and partly to myself. So when my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Fountain, announced the upcoming spelling bee, I knew I had found my chance. That day in class, she handed out a couple of pages of vocabulary words that we could study for the small preparatory contest we would have in our class. By holding a miniature spelling bee, we would choose one student,the winner, to go to the school-wide competition. I was determined to be that student.

Click here for the conclusion to "The Problem With Pumpernickel".

James Blanks

Anywhere

We’re going to Lee for Thanksgiving to visit Marcy’s parents. It isn’t my idea. If it were up to me I’d still be in Boston in my one-room apartment, eating day-old donuts and watching football. But my parents are both dead. I don’t have anyone to visit and I haven’t met Marcy’s parents yet, so I’m being dragged along for the holidays. We’ve been dating for a few months now, so I guess it’s time.

During the three-hour drive to her house, Marcy lectures me on what not to say to her parents. Lee is a small town, she says. She tells me her parents are religious. They go to St. Mary’s every morning before work. Her dad works at a paper mill and her mom works in the church office printing bulletins during the week. I know all that, of course. She just needs to remind me to behave.

“They’re a little conservative,” she tells me. Then she says, “I don’t bring a lot of guys home to meet my family.”

"Well, I’m not just any guy,” I say. It’s a joke. She looks straight at me.

“I know,” she says.

I had been drinking coffee when we first started driving, but now I pour that out the window. I reach under the seat and pull out a small bottle of whiskey. I pour a little into my cup. She stares at me while I try to drink and keep my eyes on the road.

“What?” I say. “Oh, do you want some?”

She shakes her head and looks out the window. She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re unbelievable,” she says. What can I do? I’m never good at meeting people. Even at the company where I work, if I’m handling a new client and he comes in to talk to me, I start shaking. I can’t help it. I get nervous and start to sweat, and if I don’t have at least a little something to drink, I’ll be a mess. I don’t need much, just something. By the time we pull up to her parents’ house, the bottle is half empty. What can I say; I was thirsty.

“Please, John,” she says when we get out of the car and start toward the house. “Please, just be good.”

I put my arm around her and pretend to stumble. But she looks at me and she’s frowning and I know that she’s already a little pissed off. “It’ll be fine,” I say. God, I love that girl. She really knocks me flat. She has these dark, intense eyes, and I swear when the light is just so they look purple. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I just wish things were square between us. They haven’t been right for a long time now, and this dinner isn’t going to make it better. I can bet on that.

Click here for the conclusion to "Anywhere".

Noah Ptolemy

Noah is a Missoula based artist who is deeply and completely controlled by his work. Please click on the image of your choice for a better view.

*Note that these pieces are available for purchase. View Noah's biography for contact information and pricing.

Michel du Pacie

Untitled

Sol Patch is rocking now, and not so long ago it started as a Janis Joplin cover but has quickly evolved into something much closer to God. They're a great favorite among the patrons of Primo's tonight.
And how could anyone not be moved by this sound, this unrehearsed rocking, this spontaneous electric prayer? The face contortions on the guitarist are there, the head banging of the drummer continue dervish like, the young mothers in tube tops dancing with bud lights in hand,
and how could we all not be a great favorite tonight? Oh Christ, the bass player has his solo now, his seismic revelry is palpable, the sonic-ness almost crushing. And why should it not be this way tonight?

The week being near its end and the weak are here again. A goateed bartender is hitting on the girl from Houston who's marrying the CPA next week. And the girl that does nails is grinding with the obese house painter, but she does this with her hands weaving through her hair, the bud light lifted in the air so that the eroticism is fleeting, letting his hands there till the chords change. Because they have to tonight, they're secretly compelled to leave social norms at the door when drunk with a sound so alive.

That might be Spanish coming at us from the man with the mic, a cappuccino colored Stevie Ray Vaughn struggling though La Bamba. And the heartfelt beauty of it isn't lost on the crowd this evening. There's dignity in a cover band if done right, this Sol Patch, this steady stream of rock, country and
blues. They say the female lead grooms cocker spaniels for a living and the lead guitarist may very well be a Turkish immigrant who fixes computers. But tonight they're seeing the bar through the end of the night. The young cowboy with his spurs still on, a group of Austin girls with their giant purses, young men with hats backward, older men with t-shirts tucked into their wranglers, we're an eclectic bunch tonight if we're anything at all, a reflection of the populace who enjoys a mild drunkenness heightened by a live band.

After 2am and they kick into an Oasis cover, the one that's far from the last call. Fuck yeah’s are in this air tonight, and sloppy swing dancing now, with sweat shining briefly as it disappears between breasts, it's a timeless moment of drunk unity before a night that will never end.

Robert Stubblefield

Frampton Abroad

A double-album, pressed onto pink vinyl. Frampton Comes Alive, it was, and I listened to it an awfully lot that summer between my junior and senior years of high school. I owned Exile On Main Street, arguably the best record The Stones ever made, and Born To Run, and Darkness On The Edge of Town, twin testaments to Springsteen’s poetry of poor folk, which I was, without knowing it. Already The Clash were firing up Hammersmith Palais, and I was waiting for them to storm America in the fall, again without knowing it. But the record I listened to more than any other that summer, by a count not even close, was Frampton Comes Alive. The breezy “Baby, I Love Your Way,” unabashedly echoed in “Show Me the Way,” and the voice-synthesized, and at that moment startlingly original, strangeness of “Do You Feel Like We Do.”

For that one summer, and the phenomenon was indeed almost limited entirely to that single season, Peter Frampton sold out Portland’s Memorial Coliseum and Seattle’s Kingdome and Frampton Comes Alive became the biggest selling live album of all time, which meant, like Velveeta cheese, it must therefore be the best. And it wasn’t unpleasant to drive around listening to the cassette I had recorded. Making tapes was becoming an art form for me. I had given up on the pubescent rock star dream due to a glaring lack of talent for the guitar, an unwillingness to practice, and an unfortunate case of mistaken identity when I was taken for John Denver rather than Rod Stewart on rock star day of homecoming week. So taping, and more specifically and later tape-mixing, was becoming my form of expression. I wanted to say something, to scream something, and The Clash wasn’t there to do it for me yet.

So mostly that summer I hoed weeds down long rows of peppermint fields, changed hand-lines of irrigation pipe, and then in the afternoons either drove around or lay around listening to “Show Me the Way” or “Baby I Love Your Way” and dreamed about Liz. Liz, a year older, as beautiful and unattainable as the Rings of Saturn or the Moons of Jupiter. She owned a perfect sky-blue bikini, and was, I kid you not, the runner-up in the national teen hula-hoop championship. A combination perfectly capable of capturing wholly what limited imagination I possessed. She never succumbed to my desperate, persistent, telepathic advances; a few shared lunches and Coca-Colas in Dempsey Boyer Park marked the extent of our “relationship.” But Peter Frampton and Liz consumed those long afternoons when high desert heat dulled every sense and the indeterminate late-day humming of distant insects made everything else inaudible.

But, to quote Frampton himself, something was happening. And in Portland and Los Angeles and Omaha and Albuquerque, that summer it was Frampton Comes Alive. And that was important to a shy, skinny kid in Monument, Oregon. The fact that I was tuned in. It got me through, I suppose.

Ultimately Frampton Comes Alive sounded first overly familiar and then stale. The problem with allowing others to speak for you is that eventually, inevitably, their words not only fail to speak for you, but to you, and for better or worse you are who you are and are left to shout, mumble, or just sit down and shut up for yourself. The following year Liz was off to university on a full scholarship and eventually a long-flying isolated-spots-of-turbulence marriage to an airline pilot. Frampton Comes Alive made Peter rich and perhaps lazy, causing him to rush out I’m In You, the dreadfulness of which was readily apparent even to a country kid from eastern Oregon. The Clash, The Replacements, Husker Du, even George Thorogood, all quickly became more appealing and immediate. I recently read that Peter Frampton lives in a suburb of Cincinnati, reportedly content, occasionally touring and recording, applying his gifts and craft as he sees fit, the news somehow echoing Johnny Fever and WKRP in Cincinnati.

I still own the record. Stored away in the basement, pressed on pink vinyl, a double album—I listened to it an awfully lot that summer.

By Rex Koestler

Lost Keys:Found Keys

By Michel du Pacie

II.
i can think of nothing that rhymes with the way they
rise off the plains
so that i'm forced to follow that form
with my eyes upwards and gone from here.
together we could give them names, add numbers to their
place, even build signs along the way.
none of this would come close enough;
how do you make sense of that emptiness that fills us
when standing in their shadow.

to begin, i give you francoise du cinoc, who on
a forgotten monday in may, became our father of
arial balloonism.
and to begin again, i give you icarus, who with borrowed
feathers became our bastard of the sun
so that when taken together, we soon discover that
the hot air that takes flight is the same hot air
that takes life.

IV.
oh shining sun, you great celestial baboon ass forcing
yourself across this sky, lay waste to their
mountain of cliches, have sent that way
make love to the curvature of my earth and know that
you alone are the only god in my sky.

VII.
to the secret vowels left in pockets, to the countless
words said in reverse
among us, you were like a raptor tethered to the ground.

-Michel du Pacie