October 2010 | back-issues, poetry
The snow may be 9 1/2″ deep, but
I’m a resourceful He-Manly man, man.
Up at 5 a.m.
Layering layers upon layers.
I stagger around, puffy, prepared.
Stagger and sass, sass some more,
dawn dreaming in the inky dark.
As the sun slowly rises, grunting
like some 47-year-old ex-NFL quarterback,
I am the magnificent soloist maestro,
wielding my shovel heroically,
I dig a moat around my mansion,
clear the way for my wife and her wee dark-green Honda.
Staggering back inside, I take off some of my layers,
wake the kid, kiss the wife goodbye,
bulk up our bellies with oatmeal,
dress him in layers, vaseline his tiny gob and cheeks.
I relayer myself, and then we go for the bus.
Two grand staggerers on an epic intrepid Dr. Zhivago walk,
bobbing and weaving through dirty gray snowbanks,
which have fresh crunchy snow layering their tops, and,
really, I wouldn’t mention the frozen dog shit,
except it’s fucking everywhere,
so that 31st is a toxic knickerbocker glory.
When the bus arrives, its engine stuttering as it vibrates against snow banks
I climb up the dirty mountain, lift the boy up and over
and nod at my fellow warrior, the bus driver.
Once home, I peel off my layers. Blow
my nose so hard it hurts my ears,
savor a cup of tea, listen
as my knee cartilage creaks. Listen
as my neighbors struggle to start their engines. Listen
to the ranting on Sports Radio. Wonder
at the warm wire I feel through the muscle in my heart.
Struggling up the stairs, turning up the heat, I
run a bath, spit out snot and get naked.
I bathe, ponder my aging balls.
Look at the clock: 9 a.m.
Now it’s under the covers and
sleep.
IVOR IRWIN is a native of Manchester, England. He is the author of A Peacock or A Crow and has published writing in
Sonora Review,
The Sun,
Playboy,
Shankpainter,
The Long Story,
Actos de Inconsciencia,
The Review of Contemporary Fiction and various other journals. He writes a weekly column on Premier League soccer for
Global Football Today. He thinks that a kidnapper who quotes Malthus may auger well for future sociopaths!
October 2010 | back-issues, poetry
I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation
busted for
malfeasance.
Crying glib
crocodile tears.
The codpiece of
tenure ripped aside like so much recycled paper.
Keening.
Staggering
through Bridgeport,
foul of breath
from ersatz Cuban panatellas,
singing out tthe
true stories of their lives,
fuelled by
Maker’s Mark, Dylan and a heaped tablespoonful of self-pity.
Embittered.
Half-written
memoirs, unfinished romains,
the glorious
shimmering stank of student pussy in their mustaches.
Trapped in the
afterglow of the grins of lesbian colleagues.
Their chances
now doubly improved, they smile,
bask in your
misery. A Superior predator
Grateful.
Their kids and
anti-trophy wives
like question
marks burned into forehead
by the tip of
the white-hot rapier that was once your own sense of humor
but now belongs
to your spawn.
Crying.
Yeah, cry,
motherfucker, you only went into teaching for the three free months
of summer
so you could
disappoint your parents,
show off your
scintillating repartee
and shagshagshag
little slags.
Laugh.
Gigglle when you
encounter the winners.
Their classrooms
trouble free.
Risk averted at
the very gates.
The dross
propaganda of Derrida, Beaudrillard and f-f-f-fucking Foucault,
dead without a
gutter, without a singular tear.
Hallelujah.
I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation purple with envy.
Preaching
against the national debt .
Haunted by the
prospect of perpetual war,
and a singular
dream where their children’s children bear prayer rugs.
Dream.
World’s end, as
the sun, a pitted, acne-infected orange,
spitting its
haliotosis accompanied by a bass-heavy worldbeat soundtrack,
weights and
measures,
whimpers-versus-bangs
God and the
devil in the final World Series.
IVOR IRWIN is a native of Manchester, England. He is the author of A Peacock or A Crow and has published writing in
Sonora Review,
The Sun,
Playboy,
Shankpainter,
The Long Story,
Actos de Inconsciencia,
The Review of Contemporary Fiction and various other journals. He writes a weekly column on Premier League soccer for
Global Football Today. He thinks that a kidnapper who quotes Malthus may auger well for future sociopaths!
October 2010 | back-issues, fiction
By Brandon Graham
I consider myself an attentive father. And I know my daughter; I know she has a big heart. So when she made friends with this big fat girl who has two big fat parents I asked “Who’s that?”
My daughter answered “That’s Jackie? The other kids were picking on her and I thought she could use a friend.”
I said: “You ever think there might be a good reason the other kids were picking on that big fatty? Huh? You listen. You’ve got to quit hangin’ out with that Fat Jackie. And I mean now. Or her loser-stick will cling to you from now all the way through High School. Now you don’t want that, do you?”
“No,” She said.
“That’s my girl,” I told her.
I think we really dodged a bullet there.
October 2010 | back-issues, fiction
by Brandon Graham
The phone rings.
I know it’s my wife calling before I even look at the caller i.d. She calls everyday at the same time.
The phone keeps ringing. Even though the receiver is right by me, I let it go. On the fifth ring I pick-up and say “Hello.”
“My heart doesn’t feel right,” she tells me. “It keeps racing and I can’t catch my breath. I feel like I might pass out. I just wanted to let you know so when I die you can tell the doctor what was wrong. Also I was thinking you should keep the house when I’m gone; because we have a lot of good friends in the neighborhood. Plus the kids really like their school. Also church is near by and Reverend Chandler is great in a crisis. He’s just great. You will need all the help you can get. There’s a supportive network for you and the kids right where you are. Tell the Reverend I want to be cremated. I liked the eulogy he delivered for that nice old lady with the facial hair. Tell him that; but not the facial hair part. And play that song by the Cranberries. You know the one.
I really think you should keep the house. I am serious about that. Not to mention the burden of trying to find a new home, and put our place on the market and pack and clean and unpack and decorate a new house. You are not great at that stuff. I’m just being honest. That is not your best type of thing. You would already be grief-stricken, of course, and then all that stress piled on top; it would be too much. You would get irritable with the kids. And the kids will need you to be as patient as you can. This sort of tragedy is hardest on the kids.”
She stops talking. But I don’t say anything.
“Well, what do you think?” she asks.
I say “I will take that under advisement. But really, that will be a decision for me and the new wife.”
My wife laughs and says “You’re so funny,” because she thinks I’m kidding and she likes when I make jokes.
I knew she’d laugh. But I’m not kidding. Not at all. I’m dead serious. Not only that, but I don’t think it would be so unbearable if she died. It would be a lot of work. But you know – everyone likes a fresh start now and then. And I think I’m due.
