1

Fence Post Killers
by Chris Baribeau

I'm hypnotized by the smallest things-

the sound of buttering toast, or
rattling change together

Hobo’s use garbage can lids
as shields
by the mailbox

Although I'm looking pretty homeless today myself-

Nothing I hate more than holes in your armpits,
shirts I mean.

Feeling like a slaughtered pig

2

8 13 on a bet
by Chris Baribeau

-met an iron man at the cholesterol factory
Large and tall,
with noisy teeth and nipples.

I always try to negotiate with evil types
cause I know evil’s
just a word

when I drive the right nail home
and give a manly ultimatum
and stare him down

tell the motherfucker
he should have stayed in the army

insulting my
chic drinks

the ones I use
to balance the beer out

the testosterone dripping
from your
sweating fat

a violation of all that is attractive
and

I'm poised to smash this fucking bottle
over my knee

and go into a stance
like a matador

3

Totem House
by Chris Baribeau

I was born on a merry go round

and every other horse and bench
was my ancestor
I kept hitting in the face
while I flew backwards

A ruthless business lady’s face
appeared
and put an end to it

Maybe I’ll end up at her house for lunch and a smoke,
Maybe paying more attention to the word a q u a t i n c e

Maybe I’ll make a suit of armor out of kitchen utensils,
If she tries to eat me

 

4


Dam
by Ashok Niyogi

after they built the hugest dam

they've given us Korean TV sets
in lieu of disconsolate unlivable homes 
and decimated steep goat track
for acceptable protected gradients
of organized plastic-meshed marigold

now many wild fish dutifully worship
at drowned temples that inconsolably weep
even while young empowered waters roar
and we make modern desperate love
in the sanctioned pitiable aftermath
of a popular elongated family serial
on fair and lovely cable TV



5


Notes
by Colin O'Sullivan

You make lots of notes.  You scribble them down reminders of things you have to do.  It was always was like this you have no memory no good memory you forget things easily.  So you just scribble down on a memo the things you need to remind yourself.  Even this too a memo so you won’t forget that you are trying to tell someone all this should Genie leave and you’ll have no one and if someone new came along how on earth would you explain yourself?

They are on scraps of paper.  All over the house.  You forget where you put them and then they just turn up bits and pieces torn pages scraps to remind you.

Go to the store and get butter.  You are out of butter.

You write them anywhere.  Sometimes even sitting on the toilet shitting.  You don’t have to remind yourself to shit you’re not so bad as all that though Genie has told you of some that are.  And you only sit down to shit you’re not such a lazy man that you can’t stand and piss.  But when you’re sitting sometimes you get ideas for things you might want to jot down.  And also in the shower you get ideas there too or you get an impulse to jot down what you need to remember but you can’t very well write in the shower the paper would turn to mush and wash away.  Genie let you have one of those kid eraser type boards where you can write with a funny grey pencil type thing and drag the eraser across the shiny surface and it vanishes.  But you grew angry with her then.  Why on earth would you want the notes to vanish you need them to stay?  That is the point of your notes.  What was that thing called etchy, etch-a-? You can’t remember.  She got you a blackboard too but again no use you need the stuff to remain so you use pens ink that can’t be erased.

Genie comes and cleans the place.  She’s from the authorities.  She comes a few days a week.  Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday.  Or is it Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday?  She has a lot of patience.  Or do you mean patients?  You can’t find your dictionary.  And you were looking for the encyclopaedias and you don’t know where you put them maybe Genie put them somewhere tidying up.

Don’t tell Genie about the dog you found on the way back from the store.   Keep it hidden.  Keep it outside in the yard or in the cupboard in the kitchen if it barks you don’t know what you’ll do she always finds you out anyway.

You went to the store yesterday.  Mr. Peterson gave you a strange look but he always does.

The notes can be found everywhere.  And they are always different colours. Sometimes yellow paper sometimes a light green but most often white.  Most people prefer to write on white paper you imagine.  It’s clearer that way.  The memo pads are all different sizes.  Some are small and some are big notepads too and you’ve sketch books you’ll write on anything! 

Your dictionary is in your top drawer if you need it.
The program about car maintenance starts at 5 and not 6.  You made that mistake last week.

Find out where the word sandwich came from check the encyclopaedia if you can find one.  Genie told you before about some Earl but you can’t remember the details.

Genie is upset with you.  Maybe it is because of the dog.  You must have forgotten to feed the dog.  Or maybe you stood in the bedpan again and put the piss everywhere.  I told her I don’t need a fucking bedpan.  She said Mr. Peterson is a good generous man but you don’t like the way he looks at you.

Go to the store and get milk and don’t forget the bread this time.

Genie asked me why I am always in a hurry and I say that I have to get the notes done fast because I’ll forget everything so quick even as I write them the next word coming I might even forget it.

The program about car maintenance and handyman stuff starts at 5 and not 6 you made that mistake last week.

You got angry with Genie.   You accused her of writing notes to fool you to tell you to change out of the pyjamas every once in a while but you always remember to take off the pyjamas when going to the store.  You were sure that the handwriting was different but she was adamant that the handwriting was yours.  You made a deep study of all the notes you found lying about and the hand did look different varied from paper to paper some nicely printed others scrawled like the work of a madman.  But you never saw Genie write anything so you shouldn’t have been so tough on her. Don’t be tough on Genie anymore.  You probably wrote all the notes yourself she’s innocent.  She’s there to help you.

Avoid Peterson’s store you bought matches and the look he gave you as if you were intent on burning the place down.  Don’t burn Peterson’s shop down even though the urge is strong.

Genie brings the injections and the pills and everything.  She tells you to write down exactly which ones you should take and at what time.  But the notes get buried under the other ones you’ve already written and you end up losing them.  You tell her to write it down and to pin it to the wall and then she laughs at you and says that you will only accuse her of writing fake notes and confusing you.

You are confused now.  You don’t know who is fooling who.

Remember it’s Jeanie.  Maybe Jeanie is in league with Peterson.  Maybe she tells Mama all about you and the things you’ve done.

Don’t go to Peterson’s store.  He’s a deranged motherfucker those eyes on him and his wife is not much better go to Harry’s store instead.  Harry doesn’t give a shit who shops there and even says hello.
Find out where the expression end of my rope comes from you’re not sure you know what it means or wits end.

Go to Harry’s and get bread to make sandwiches and get dog food for the dog he’s looking hungry again and Genie is afraid of him.

Ask Genie if the dog is a boy or a girl.

Where are the encyclopaedias you’ve only got A through to M where are the rest?  Did Mama ever finish the set?

The urge is never strong regarding Genie.  You don’t want to bury her.

Sometimes you sleep ok and sometimes you have reams of dreams and then you wake up and have to write them down.  They get mixed up with all the notes maybe that’s why Peterson was getting weird on you maybe you were asking for dream things and episodes and not milk and mayonnaise and stuff to make sandwiches.  Peterson said recently that you should have stayed locked up and shouldn’t be allowed out and that Genie is a saint.  You think Genie is a saint too and for God’s sake go to Harry’s you’ll have less trouble there and he has better bread and he says hello goodbye and thank you.

They are on scraps of paper.  All over the house.  You forget where you put them and then they just turn up bits and pieces torn pages scraps to remind you.  Sometimes you end up reading the same notes twice or even three or four times.

The dog is looking sick and tired.  Genie is too but she continues.  She is coming tomorrow you think if tomorrow is Thursday.  Tell her to get you a calendar.  The radio used to keep you up to date on the days and the hours but the radio is not working too well at the moment.  Just static is all you get from it white noise maybe that’s what’s been giving you the headaches you’re not a baby in Mama’s belly you don’t need white noise like the womb to keep you calm and kill the urges.

You should write all this down properly and take care with the periods and commas if Genie leaves you will have no one to what if someone new comes how then will you explain yourself?

Genie said that’s not how you spell my name on the notes the way you have it is like the genie that comes out of a bottle in the fairytales it’s Jeanie.  You said which fairytales and she said Aladdin and you said you didn’t know that one.  And she said she couldn’t believe it that Mama never told you that one.  You said Mama didn’t tell you lots of things.

Genie said to turn the dial there’s nothing wrong with the radio it just wasn’t on any station not at the right frequency so picking nothing up.  You miss the static now.

The dog has a terrific appetite for a small dog.  He eats more than you.  Even eats your sandwiches.  Genie heard him straight off in the cupboard said it was cruel he’d have no oxygen.  You must get more bread and ham.  Go to Harry’s.  Give Peterson the finger as you pass he’s sure to see you pass the window.  But if the wife is there don’t give her the finger she’s not as bad.

Write to your mother.  She hasn’t visited in a while.  Maybe she’d like a letter.  Mama.  Maybe she’d like a puppy too if the dog has puppies you’ll get Genie to send her one. She’s not so old that she can’t look after things.

You had an argument with Jeanie about your age.  You had it written down that you were twenty-five but she says you are twenty-six.  That note was from last year she said.  You don’t remember when you wrote the note and asked if her that was in fact two years ago and that you are now twenty-seven and she said no that she has been keeping track it’s her job.  Her eyes are puffy and maybe she doesn’t sleep much either.

The dog died and you asked Genie if you should bury it.  Genie comes everyday now and she tells you she needs a holiday and that she can hardly take it anymore.  You tell her you don’t know what to say because you don’t.  And that you should not bury the dog she said.  You can’t simply go around burying things the authorities will come and pick it up and dispose of it.  You said that you always buried things.  And she said that’s what got you into trouble in the first place burying things and then not knowing where you put them and the authorities getting upset with you and locking you up.  Well ok you said you won’t bury the dog.  Though you were sad and thought you could have had a special ceremony.  You can’t remember the dog’s name or if you had even given it one.  Maybe you wrote it down somewhere.

What was the dog’s name? Ask Genie.

Check Aladdin in the encyclopaedia you have A through to M so that’s no problem.  The urge was strong with Mama.

Genie said that you had changed the dog’s name so often that she wasn’t sure herself what the dog’s name was.  She’s at the end of her rope she said her wits end.  You never forget Genie’s name.  Jeanie you mean.  Or your own.  Jeremy.  Your name is Jeremy.  You are twenty-six years old.



6


Bugcathedral
by Max Bergmann

The receptionist stopped me and yelled
"What kind of lifestyle d´you live?
Because I saw all those situations
Hung up in your closet,
Stained with bruises and sweat.
Do you really think,
              when you go out of the door?"

I dashed into the metal cube with a couple
Of abnormal beauty. As the floor beneath
Our feet began to lift,
They exchanged their files
And lit every button. I stumbled out
At the first stop, opened 4-3-7
And burst into a scene of passion

In my room she is sulking again, loafing
In that armchair of death
The walls keep sailing
                                   (their way west)
the room expands
into a bugcathedral
                              filled with echoes
and a glimmer of comfort




7


1984
by Jimmy Chen

Before the machines landed and did what they did, I was trying to convince Julia how Sci-Fi was actually the most relevant contemporary genre today.
       “Baby like, it’s all about the future, that’s all we have.” I said, nudging her awake.
       “Will you let me sleep in just once a year?—it’s not even six yet,” Julia said. She had a flare for exaggeration. First of all, it was 6:17AM, and second, this year (and it’s only October) she’s slept in a total of five times. I’m counting.
       “Ever notice how UFOs, aliens, and spaceships all come from above?” I said, taking out my retainer and putting it under her nose to help her wake up. “That’s how we define them, by our orientation to them. It’s a metaphor for God, like Godot was.”
       Julia’s voice gets more serious, second tier decibel. “Can’t you fucking wait?”
       “Nice, love the pun.” I said.
       “I’m going to kill you.” She looked.
       “Baby you are so rhetorical!” I say, placing the retainer on her pillow, and getting up to take a shower.
       The dusty sky framed inside the window is a little off, like a brightness that has nothing to do with the sun. I’m already late for work so I don’t wash my hair.

The new campaign at Burger Planet is HAVE A COW, fancied up by some marketing SVP who has no idea what the people of Allismore want. The people of Allismore want to disassociate the bovine aspect of beef. That’s why we use words like poultry, pork, veal, and beef instead of calling the animal by what it is—to reinvent its purpose as being food. Julia told me all this. She went to college and is full of theories.
       “What did I say about that greasy hair?” P. Rick, the manager at Burger Planet asks.
       “No time.” I say.
       “You haven’t had time in the past two months.”
       “I’m working on my dreads.” I explain.
       “Fucking hippie, just get the register until ten then shelve the new shipment and work the grill. I got a son your age, and he’s not some fag like you.”
       “That’s odd, I got a dad your age, and he’s an asshole just like you.”
       This goes on in my head. What I actually say is the word sorry when he asks about my hair. Sam and Hector are good at sorry too. Sam handles the fries and condiments, Hector does the mopping and garbage, and I take care of the meat. Hector came from El Salvador. He shares a room way out in Pittsburgh with his two brothers. They got two twin beds so they rotate the one who sleeps on the floor. Hector sends a third of his every paycheck to his family in El Salvador. Sam is over six feet tall. She’s got a scar running down her face that I’ve never asked her about.
       “Did you see the new boxes we got? The meat is sort of blue.” Sam says.
       “Maybe we should throw it away.”
       “What about P. Rick?”
       “Nah, let’s keep him.” I say, stepping into the freezer to haul them out.
       Four boxes total, three of them leaking some some blueish oil. Hector and I try to load them into the dumpster but it’s too heavy. We open each box and throw the patties in half a dozen by the time.
       “Son azules,” Hector says.
       “No habla espanol,” which is funny, because I’m speaking Spanish to tell him that.
       “Apestan.”
       I make words with my hand like a puppet-sock and speak slowly, “No. Habla. Espanol.”
       “Stinks,” he says.
       “Si, stinks like shit-o,” I say. Hector laughs and we toss in the last of the patties.

Michael lives next door. He’s a retired accountant and spends a good portion of his day on his porch drinking vodka. Sometimes he says hello. Sometimes he screams obscenities. Today he says hello.
       “Hello Mr. Smith.”
       “Mr. Longblow!!!”
       “Kid I told you to call me Michael.”
       “Sorry, I just love saying that.”
       “Kid you been keeping up with the dogs? They know everything that’s going to happen like that time the doctors took out part of my lung those dogs was howling at night to the Jesus say take care of me.”
       “I have four dogs. They eat prostitute remains,” I say.
       “I ain’t talking about that stupid game you kids keep playing I’m talking about real dogs that spit and chew and die.”
       “Okay. I have zero dogs.”
       “That game is making a mess of things. Don’t know what is real anymore—and those things running around everywhere acting like people.”
       “iBots. I have three already.” I say.
       “Back in my day we called them robots.” Michael says.
       “I’m starting a company called Winston’s Butt Shack, opening in next year in 1984.”
       “Kid it’s 2022.” Michael looks repulsed.
       “Not in world the first it ain’t.”

Julia’s still at work and don’t like me playing, so I quickly login to World The First (WTF). The Host’s Original Liberation Army (HOLA), mainly Stanford drop-outs in Mountain View pissed off about the commercialization of their open-source coding, hacked into Nike’s corporate headquarters and executed the CEO. No one knows the script for this except HOLA, who were recently written up by Washington Post’s WTFs national correspondent, who actually works for the real Washington Post. WTF recently parlayed with MAC, who just released the iBot, which costs $395. The iBot duplicates your actions, learns your behaviors, and scripts characters just like you, like a hyper-cookie. I have 3 so far, all stationed in Miami. I’m currently trying to start a harem, though Levy and Sons is trying to buy me out of my property. Levy is really Chiang Xiu, a 9 year old boy in Shanghai. My second iBot is Dong Johnson, whose my favorite player. So I’m having a Mojito at Miami Nice w/ E. Steele, top paid escort in Miami. She (Charan Lakshmanan, a 12 year old boy in Srikakulam, India) starts rubbing my crotch and my arousal level goes +8.81. I shoot four emocons off and rate her 7.5 in my Friend Finder. I hear the garage door open and quickly pull up my pants and log off.

P. Rick discovers the smell two days later. He grabs my neck and leads me out back to the parking lot. He points to the dumpster.
       “You get all those paddies you tossed, wash them real good and stick them back in the freezer.”
       I jump into the trash dumpster and start digging for paddies. Some dogs bark through the fence. I come across a black 30-ton garbage bag full of magazines, three years worth of National Geographic back issues. I grab one and open to a random page of a picture of a crop circle, a fractal of circles curving inward. That would make a good tattoo I think. I dig deeper in the dumpster thinking maybe I’ll find some porn when it happens…

A glitch in the system—that’s what we called it. The other countries seceded from WTF after the First Inversion and returned to The Real World Proper. By the time the United States withdrew from WTF, its W3C script’s syntax had become so abbreviated all of the language extensions, specifically E4X, were palindromes (eg <1”=aDa=1”>, =="dad")—hence the Second Inversion, or as the iBots had marketed to us: Wrath (Version 1.6) By the time we appointed the linguists as special council, WTF had already colonized most of India and Southeast Asia. We all knew what would happen if Wrath 1.6 hit China, so the US Global Standards Institute developed Obrion, the first and only ELF executable virus to feed off inhospitable vectors, triggering the first buffer overflows in which this information was lost to the skies, formerly known as the heavens [or] the unalienable notion that we were alone, depending on each person’s sentiments. The rest is history.

My fingers tremble so hard that I text Julia aab1# which doesn’t mean anything. I wanted to describe what was happening but I didn’t know what word to use, what word could describe being sucked up just like in the movies. I would become famous: the first person lifted away.
       Big deal at first; the news at it ate. Then it got boring. We knew they were here to stay so we just went along our way, but soon it led to screaming, which led to killing, and the killing led to more screaming. They knew everything about us, our language, desires, fears, inclinations, everything. My brain got spliced up. I could see many scenes at once, an aggregate of consciousness. This part of my memory is still intact, a glitch in the system I suppose, which is how I’m writing you now, or at least, giving out this signal.
       Julia, at night I take all of my visions and join them together for you, like floating shards of stained glass suspended in a cloud. I can see you sitting there, at the kitchen table, looking sad.
       Don’t be sad, this too shall pass.
       I think of you often, and all those crazy things you used to say.

8


Israel Tapestry
by Michael Dickel


Israel Tapestry by Michael Dickel, digital