tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24681592647877946292024-03-13T18:50:22.179-05:00Shoots and Vinesshootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-63086460567682373402009-02-16T07:24:00.002-06:002009-02-16T07:31:49.786-06:00Editor's Note - Shoots and Vines is MovingIt's been a wonderful two and a half months since S&V first began, a thought I had while washing dishes. :)<br /><br />S&V has grown so quickly: sixty-four contributors in the online zine alone since inception.<br /><br />Beginning today, S&V's new home will be at www.shootsandvines.com. Many thanks to Lynn Alexander for helping through the beginning stages of setting up the new site. I couldn't have done it without her. <br /><br />New submissions addy: submissions@shootsandvines.com<br />New info addy: info@shootsandvines.com<br /><br />New site: www.shootsandvines.com.<br /><br />On the drop down bar of the new site is a list of all the contributors. Each piece of work has its own page. I hope everyone enjoys the new look, still dark and disparing. :)<br /><br />Take care and check out the new site. Bookmark it, tell your friends, and keep submitting!<br /><br />Thanks to everyone for making this such a huge success. I never would have dreamed this zine would hit over 5800 views in less than three months, but I also didn't have any idea how many great writers were still hiding in the underground.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-46563144596849925342009-02-15T06:46:00.002-06:002009-02-15T07:01:00.260-06:00Featured Writer: Julie Buffaloe-Yoder Day 3<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Buster Peacock & The House of Many Colors</span></span><br /><br />When the city of Freeville<br /><br />widened the highway,<br /><br />they didn’t plow down<br /><br />a single shingle in <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Foxcroft<br /><br />White Pointe<br /><br />Golf Crossing. </span><br /><br />Instead, they took<br /><br />Buster Peacock’s land.<br /><br />A blind old black man<br /><br />in a felt blue hat<br /><br />with a sagging shack<br /><br />on twenty acres of<br /><br />scrub pine and sand. <br /><br />That house was old<br /><br />even in Jim Crow’s day<br /><br />when Buster carried<br /><br />his sweet Veleetha<br /><br />over the threshhold,<br /><br />felt the angles of her face<br /><br />the curve of her hips,<br /><br />a perfect place for babies: <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Buster Jr.<br /><br />Scoochie<br /><br />Little Toot. </span><br /><br />Buster Peacock could feel the color<br /><br />of four rooms with his fingers, the tips<br /><br />of his toes—the brown creak and sigh<br /><br />from tired floorboards at night.<br /><br />The way the feather bed felt<br /><br />like cool water blue when<br /><br />the breeze blew gauze curtains<br /><br />over Veleetha’s sleeping face. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />That little red place in the doorway<br /><br />where Scoochie bumped his head<br /><br />when he got so tall, the gold notches<br /><br />where Buster Jr. carved his name,<br /><br />the yellow dip in the hallway where<br /><br />Toot liked to slide in socks. <br /><br />The silver click of the cuckoo clock<br /><br />exactly eight steps from a gray hum<br /><br />from the refrigerator, the green smell<br /><br />of the breadbox on a hot June day. <br /><br />The city could not understand<br /><br />why Buster cried so hard<br /><br />over a broke down shack.<br /><br />They gave fair market value. <br /><br />But they didn’t care that<br /><br />you can’t place market value<br /><br />on a breadbox or children<br /><br />grown or a wife passed on. <br /><br />The day they moved him<br /><br />to a retirement home,<br /><br />the dozer crushed<br /><br />through his front door.<br /><br />Buster could feel color<br /><br />all over again. <br />_________________________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Waiting For Mother</span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Waiting for mother was easier<br /><br />before autumn crackled in<br /><br />and ate the days up early.<br /><br />It was my job to never cry<br /><br />and light the living room fire.</span><br /><br />I was six and alone with wood<br /><br />and the sharp clear bark of cold. <br /><br />The wind tip-tapped<br /><br />the spider crack windows<br /><br />looking for a place inside<br /><br />to build its nest.<br /><br />I knew Mother would come,<br /><br />she would come home and see<br /><br />me in the big of the dark,<br /><br />clumsy with wood and the room<br /><br />closing its teeth around me--<br /><br />the naughty buds of fire<br /><br />refusing to open and grow. <br /><br />The room smiled pumpkin warm<br /><br />when I coaxed the fire to raise<br /><br />its broken, bloody wings.<br /><br />The branches fluttered shadows<br /><br />like long lashes on the walls.<br /><br />Those nights were yellow glad;<br /><br />I could play and wait, listen<br /><br />to the purr of wind against the sky. <br /><br />I liked to watch the moon<br /><br />scrape across the window.<br /><br />I liked to tell stories to my dolls,<br /><br />hold them close to the fire,<br /><br />watch their smiling faces melt. <br /><br />And the moon held me.<br /><br />And the smoke held me.<br /><br />And the long curly hair<br /><br />of the shadows held me.<br /><br />And the moon made me full.<br /><br />And the fire ate my fever.<br /><br />And the rise and fall of flames<br /><br />sang me softly to sleep. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />Sometimes when I woke,<br /><br />the fire left burning sores<br /><br />on tangled legs of branches.<br /><br />Sometimes when I woke,<br /><br />the moon rattled at the window.<br /><br />The cold was thorny<br /><br />up and down my back.<br /><br />The knots in the wood<br /><br />stared like bad baby eyes,<br /><br />and the clock was click click<br /><br />clicking its high heels<br /><br />in the crying midnight room. <br /><br />I knew when Mother came home,<br /><br />she would come, singing red shoes,<br /><br />the pretty side of her face<br /><br />an orange fire glow.<br /><br />She would turn off the bad baby eyes<br /><br />and the meanness of the moon.<br /><br />She would listen to the falling leaves<br /><br />and hear the angel wings with me.<br /><br />She would fall asleep, and I<br /><br />would rub her small, soft feet.<br /><br />I would smell her lemon hair.<br /><br />I would find her missing slipper.<br /><br />I would kiss her warming temple,<br /><br />never ever burn. <br /><br />Waiting for Mother was easier<br /><br />before the greedy winter came<br /><br />and chewed up all the wood.<br /><br />One night, the wind slapped hard.<br /><br />I only found the skinny twigs.<br /><br />One night, through the click of cold,<br /><br />I filled the fireplace with dolls<br /><br />and books, pennies, chairs,<br /><br />stale dry blankets, <br /><br />And I let the room catch on fire. <br /><br />Upstairs, on my mattress,<br /><br />I waited for Mother<br /><br />to creep up the wooden steps<br /><br />and tuck me in. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />She would come quickly.<br /><br />She would come warmly.<br /><br />I knew she would come home<br /><br />and I would not be alone.<br /><br />And together we would listen<br /><br />to the broken goodnight moon,<br /><br />the glowing wind, and babies <br /><br />falling from the sky.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-91276106238415541342009-02-14T08:28:00.003-06:002009-02-14T08:30:42.873-06:00Featured Writer: Julie Buffaloe-Yoder Day 2<span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Shaqueena, Big and Tall</span></span><br /><br />Shaqueena had the biggest tits<br /><br />I’ve ever seen, I mean each<br /><br />of those puppies was the size<br /><br />of a Rottweiler’s head.<br /><br />Even us straight girls<br /><br />couldn’t help but stare<br /><br />at them in gym class.<br /><br />Soapy globes in the shower,<br /><br />suntanned worlds unknown,<br /><br />Shaqueena had the power<br /><br />of a woman in eighth grade.<br /><br />Those glamorous glands<br /><br />didn’t slow Shaqueena down.<br /><br />She didn’t try to stop them<br /><br />with eighteen-hour harnesses<br /><br />or hide them behind books.<br /><br />She put them out there, honey,<br /><br />for all the small girls to see.<br /><br />Goddess of the braless,<br /><br />large dark nipples peeking<br /><br />through thin white lace.<br /><br />Bouncing on the playground,<br /><br />they’d hit us in the face.<br /><br />We memorized her mammaries,<br /><br />worshipped her jiggling temples,<br /><br />wrote poems about them,<br /><br />gave both of them names.<br /><br />We were jealous as hell.<br /><br />Shaqueena, Queen of Meat.<br /><br />Sturdy, curvy, proud, loud.<br /><br />When God was passing out<br /><br />boobs in the lunch room,<br /><br />Shaqueena took all the trays<br /><br />and ran away, laughing.<br />__________________________________________________________<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Washing Away<br /></span></span><br />That old shell of a building used to be<br /><br />where Jeeter Davis picked the blues,<br /><br />while us girls picked the sweet meat<br /><br />of blue crabs to sell for market price.<br /><br />We worked with red bandanas<br /><br />on our heads, and boys on our minds.<br /><br />Our squeaking rubber gloves<br /><br />on warm, wet wood kept time.<br /><br />The mockingbirds sounded<br /><br />like little boats chewing foam.<br /><br />The shush of shovels in crushed ice<br /><br />meant supper would be on the table<br /><br />for at least another season.<br /><br />Our fathers were worn out<br /><br />after a good night’s catch,<br /><br />their boats heavy with a living.<br /><br />But they kept us full<br /><br />of their stories, <span style="font-style:italic;">oh Lord</span>, that day<br /><br />Jeeter Davis sang the one about<br /><br />the cheating wife and the clam bed,<br /><br />we thought we would die laughing.<br /><br />Now there’s a big, black boot,<br /><br />some old net that needs mending,<br /><br />and an upside down crab pot<br /><br />floating in the tide.<br /><br />There’s a rotten crate<br /><br />with SHRIMP stenciled<br /><br />on its side, the letters R, M, P<br /><br />almost faded away.<br /><br />There’s a mossy brown stump<br /><br />where the oyster bed was,<br /><br />the handle of a shovel,<br /><br />and two rusty pennies, heads up,<br /><br />lying in the mud.<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br />There’s our old crab house<br /><br />creaking in the breeze, and inside,<br /><br />the briny smell still echoes<br /><br />like Jeeter Davis’ cold, steel blues<br /><br />sliding off the walls.<br /><br />There’s glass that snaps underfoot,<br /><br />three rubber gloves, a pink hair brush,<br /><br />a radio that might still work,<br /><br />and a guitar pick crusted with scales<br /><br />stuck in a crack in the ice room door.<br /><br />There’s half a receipt book,<br /><br />and compliments<br /><br />of Bell-Munden Funeral Home,<br /><br />there’s an unmarked calendar<br /><br />still opened to the year<br /><br />when we lost our soul.<br /><br />Across the bay,<br /><br />there’s a healthy row<br /><br />of condominiums growing.<br /><br />They call it <span style="font-style:italic;">Fisherman’s Ridge.</span><br /><br />There’s a billboard that has<br /><br />a happy family on it.<br /><br />They’re not from around here.<br /><br />There’s a cartoon picture<br /><br />of a boat and a shrimper<br /><br />hauling in his heavy nets.<br /><br />He’s bathed in light and way<br /><br />too clean to be working.<br /><br />They tell us maybe<br /><br />we can get big tips over there<br /><br />if we entertain the tourists<br /><br />with our watermen’s accents<br /><br />or serve imported crabs<br /><br />in the restaurant<br /><br />or mop their pretty floors.<br /><br />So shiny, so bright,<br /><br />like the Whore of Babylon<br /><br />like a brand new bay.<br /><br />God help us.<br /><br />We’re all washing<br /><br />We’re all washing away.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-47800007159207204122009-02-13T07:22:00.004-06:002009-02-13T15:00:45.120-06:00Featured Writer: Julie Buffaloe-Yoder Day 1<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Aunt Aggie and The Alligators<br /></span></span><br />Aunt Aggie never had babies. <br />She had alligators <br />that floated under leaf wet logs. <br />She had a mud brushed shack <br />beside a slow moving river <br />downwind of Ocketawna Swamp. <br />She had boxes of fossils <br />on her kitchen counters. <br />Six foot long rattlesnake skins <br />hung as decorations <br />on her front porch.<br /><br />Half Cherokee, half Irish, <br />Aunt Aggie had one brown eye <br />and one blue; she had two <br />bright silver braids that swung <br />past her ass when she danced. <br />Aunt Aggie smelled like cypress, <br />muddy boots and fresh mint tea. <br />Her hands were as loving tough <br />as summer collard leaves.<br /><br />Aunt Aggie had no neighbors. <br />She had a Smith and Wesson <br />and ninety six root thick acres. <br />She had record breaking reptiles <br />who turned over her trash barrel <br />in the lapping heat <br />of those thick cricket nights. <br />She had the faded yellow skies <br />of August hurricanes, <br />not too many water bugs, <br />mildewed faces growing <br />on her window screens, <br />and every knick knack <br />Woolworth’s ever sold. <br /> <br /><br />Each spring at dawn on the edge <br />of the riverbank, Aunt Aggie threw <br />leftovers, buckets of fish guts, <br />and rotten fruit in mossy holes <br />where the gators waited <br />for her to call them by name: <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Miss Eula Belle! <br />Matthew-Mark-Luke and John! <br />Josiah Ezekiel Twain! <br />Old Slow Moon! <br />Little Bitty!</span><br /><br />During mating season she crouched <br />waist deep in swamp to watch <br />the big ones make the water dance; <br />kept a two-by-four held tight in case <br />the young ones should try to get fresh. <br /><br />Aunt Aggie had a fit that stormy day <br />when relatives explained the papers <br />that came in the mail from The State: <br />Eminent Domain.<br /><br />They said maybe she should take <br />the money they offered. <br />Find a nice retirement home.<br /><br />Everybody thought Aunt Aggie <br />would shoot the lawyers <br />and the politicians <br />and the real estate developers <br />and the police in their fat heads. <br />Instead, she cut all her silver hair <br />and let it float down the river <br />with the moon of the green corn.<br /><br />They found Aunt Aggie the next week <br />curled up and brown on her porch. <br />The biggest gator next to her, eating <br />fish heads, bread and moldy cheese. <br />Aunt Aggie’s last supper <br />before her babies were put to sleep.<br />__________________________________________________________________________________<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Snake Handling</span><br /></span><br />They call him Rattlesnake,<br /><br />a row of diamonds<br /><br />sliced across his back<br /><br />in a bar room brawl.<br /><br />All the girls say he is<br /><br />the best thing to curl up<br /><br />on their hot back porches<br /><br />since before the devil’s fall. <br /><br />They say he’s so pretty<br /><br />like slant-eyed danger<br /><br />wrapped in gold-brown skin,<br /><br />muscles the size of sin—<br /><br />he smells like a <span style="font-style:italic;">man</span>, damnit. <br /><br />This laying on of hands<br /><br />fathers do not understand,<br /><br />this power to tread through<br /><br />tall grass, groping under<br /><br />the dark side of logs,<br /><br />searching for an answer. <br /><br />When they dare to hold him,<br /><br />they shed their old souls<br /><br />and are born again<br /><br />beneath a thrill of stars,<br /><br />dancing to the rhythm<br /><br />of the rock of ages. <br /><br />Speaking unknown tongues,<br /><br />that ticking crescendo<br /><br />of dry pinestraw is alive<br /><br />like tambourines of fire.<br /><br />Like strychnine shooting<br /><br />through a country girl’s veins. <br /><br />The sting might not kill<br /><br />but it makes them feel<br /><br />like it will, and even if<br /><br />they swell, they don’t<br /><br />give a damn—they say<br /><br />it’s better than Heaven.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I've had work published in Side of Grits, storySouth, Clapboard House, The Wilmington Review, A Carolina Literary Companion, Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, Calyx: A Journal of Art and Literature by Women, Grain, and Pemmican. </span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-79367347203081305022009-02-12T08:00:00.002-06:002009-02-12T08:00:03.046-06:00When the Wolves Came Down the Mountain by Jason MichelWhen the wolves came down the mountain, we rang the bells and took turns throwing rocks at the damned wild hounds. All teeth and eyes. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to it all, ‘cept they wanted our blood split from open wounds onto the female earth’s holy gash.<br />And we damn well wanted theirs.<br /><br />An aged Scotsman stood next to me, the one we called Ancient Mac Cock on account of his obsession with his withered mediocre genitalia, and launched a large stone that misfired and smashed the dull stained glass window that showed Christ’s crucifixion on the grim, hunched-over Presbyterian church. When the realization of the consequences of his wayward action hit him, he turned to me and whispered, “Might wake th’ ol’ bastard up fer once, hey lad …”<br /><br />As I brought down a rock and cracked open the skull of one of the beautiful creatures, watching its pale blue eyes become shot with spilled scarlet ink and its grey purple cerebral mass seep through its ears, I noticed a little girl squatting over the dismembered stomach of a lupe and pissing all over its entrails, washing the blood away. Then I knew I was nothing more than a cell in a gigantic beast that went on forever and forever. The question was whether I was a virus or part of the immune system. As I looked around at the carnage and the numbers of the dead on both sides, I glimpsed the answer and prepared for tomorrow.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jason Michel has been turned on, tripped up and stumbled over all around the world on an eleven year(so far)self imposed exile. He now lives in France.<br />He has recently published his first novel “Confessions of a Black Dog” at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">lulu.com </a>and has had work published in various print and online magazines.<br />His work can be seen at <a href="http://beatendog.blogspot.com/">http://beatendog.blogspot.com/</a><br /></span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-83310180026397851902009-02-11T08:00:00.002-06:002009-02-11T08:00:01.156-06:00Todd Among the Nightingales by Mikael CoveyTodd meanders down the street, scrawny, pot-bellied; I see he’s lost most of his hair now. Comes over to the guys outside the half-way house with a big smile on his face. They’re sitting there smoking cigarettes watching the grass grow, whatever. Friends of his, I guess. <br /><br />I’m making a delivery, dropping off a package. “He was one of the Chicago Seven” I tell ‘em. Todd smiles, starts recounting the names “Abby Hoffman, Jerry Rubin...” Yeah, and Todd Obermeyer. <br /><br />We used to talk about it, back when I was his caseworker, as if that’s all there was. Paging through the high school yearbook, pictures in black and white. Pretty girls in pep club outfits, Pierpoint Rustlerettes 1967. <br /><br />Todd looks at the pictures objectively, distantly; tells me how shy and dysfunctional he was in school; even though his folks had money. A scrawny little mouse with droopy eyes and big ears, short hair cut. Like none of that ever mattered anyway. “I’m forty-eight years old y’know.” <br /><br />Then in college, somehow in a fraternity, in with the bright young going somewhere crowd. The cusp of future leaders. Chicago ’68, when he had the breakdown. They brought him back from Canada, put him in the hospital for twenty years. Ten more after that on the outside, still that’s all there ever was. <br /><br />Lives alone in a spotlessly clean apartment, government funded. Everything neat and orderly, very nice. “I got no food” he says, objectively, not that it matters. Just something to talk about, making conversation. We have to meet, we have to talk. What else is there to say. <br /><br />First of the month his check comes in. The vultures swoop down and take it away. Tougher needier mental patients who prey on the weaker ones. Borrow things, like your money. “They talk me into it” he says “what can I do? He says he’ll pay me back, and he never does. Next time I’m gonna just tell him no.” <br /><br />Aint gonna happen. I’d like to see Todd get really angry about it, just to see how far he’d go before he’d back down. Like a couple of pomeranians fighting each other. Or maybe that’s how we all are when you think about it. <br /><br />Take him to the food pantry where people donate food so that others who don’t have any can come get some. Todd’s very picky. “Do you have...” this, that, the other, like we’re at the supermarket, anything you want. I’m embarrassed. This is free food Todd, just take what the lady gives you, okay? Asks if he can come back every month, his problems would all be solved. <br /><br />I like Todd, he’s so different from what you’d think a schizophrenic would be. So quiet calm peaceful. That slight smile, like things are amusing to him, or beyond his control. Always so friendly, gentle, dignified in his own way. A pleasure to visit with him, to escape from the constant tension and stress of the job. Just to sit here in this spotlessly clean apartment, reminisce about old days. <br /><br />When I get to know him better, he confides in me a bit. The color coded signals God uses to tell him things. He saw a man on tv wearing a blue suit. Blue means royalty, that was a good man. Something yellow in a magazine would be a warning. Don’t go out today. Orange is even more dangerous. <br /><br />That was years ago. I’m surprised he’s made it this far. But I like Todd, I’m happy to see him. Later run across him meandering down the street, big fleshy bulge on the side of his neck. “Todd, how you doing?” “Well...I got cancer. Of the lymph nodes, I guess. They’re giving me chemo... I’m fifty-eight years old, y’know.”shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-4779617554353729962009-02-10T07:25:00.001-06:002009-02-10T07:25:51.583-06:00Photography by Jeff CrouchRemains Day<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5sNm6TrxiwRNWz57LxKJvNEQDwHM2Uq2eAKl79itusxrCttf3ivLQ178344RfMW4RivdGqplU3XWo0eG4CJu-JVen6VIpDnyN-Q2IPA-AW_6JGemuhZgvGUoI6JlRFgjoUt6N-3Skeo/s1600-h/Remains+Day+-+Jeff.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5sNm6TrxiwRNWz57LxKJvNEQDwHM2Uq2eAKl79itusxrCttf3ivLQ178344RfMW4RivdGqplU3XWo0eG4CJu-JVen6VIpDnyN-Q2IPA-AW_6JGemuhZgvGUoI6JlRFgjoUt6N-3Skeo/s400/Remains+Day+-+Jeff.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301158718186316690" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sense of Play<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc6yoWMCSWZ1A8FNh2xK-R1NKo9en3F9vQR6SXomzX8Fi6cfnizGNamLbQt82i3U2Aq_r8OX8SbZLQ2U1P25O49S8kqfDLkNDqT_ibChVF6mRGIaFD-XF0uLDvCu5GDQ7kexbMkJbGyg/s1600-h/Sense+of+Play+-+Jeff.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc6yoWMCSWZ1A8FNh2xK-R1NKo9en3F9vQR6SXomzX8Fi6cfnizGNamLbQt82i3U2Aq_r8OX8SbZLQ2U1P25O49S8kqfDLkNDqT_ibChVF6mRGIaFD-XF0uLDvCu5GDQ7kexbMkJbGyg/s400/Sense+of+Play+-+Jeff.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301158404178017026" /></a><br /><br />Myopia<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhC4mU8R5HG95vbXt2uX-SfOJRg8HjbBpNx_7S21q7aHlbCal8MMU0oehxwyPlFhyphenhyphenNQNUY6vBZmwv2WPvS0A1R4JDw8wiQTnZe6aRspJFcbNpeF11W_e5-GSL-HcxPAmDvc_hHzKm7oSU/s1600-h/Jeff+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhC4mU8R5HG95vbXt2uX-SfOJRg8HjbBpNx_7S21q7aHlbCal8MMU0oehxwyPlFhyphenhyphenNQNUY6vBZmwv2WPvS0A1R4JDw8wiQTnZe6aRspJFcbNpeF11W_e5-GSL-HcxPAmDvc_hHzKm7oSU/s400/Jeff+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301158168507755874" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> Jeff Crouch is an internet artist in Grand Prairie, Texas. Google him.</span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-51272581260840430502009-02-09T08:00:00.005-06:002009-02-09T15:09:54.251-06:00Editor's NoteIt's been a great week. <br /><br />S&V Print Issue 1 is at Penny Lane Coffee House. <a href="http://www.pennylanecoffee.com/">Penny Lane Coffee House</a> is a locally owned and operated business in Evansville, IN. Local writers and musicians show up every month to read their work and play their music. Inside you'll find a reading area, fair-trade coffee, vegan muffins and soup, and great conversation. Religion and politics are not taboo here! If you are in the area, bypass Starbucks and hit this sweet spot that Heidi and Paul have nurtured into a breeding ground for underground art. <br /><br />Antony Hitchen has a new chapbook out this month. It's entitled 'The Holy Hermaphrodite' and consists of cut-up poetry and one prose piece. The poems chosen all concern the over-coming and resolution of dualities (sex, race, sexuality, religion etc, etc) unified in the body of the Hermaphrodite - a symbol or physical representation of all things unified and at peace.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.shadowarcherpress.com/chabooksportfolios.htm">Shadow Archer Press</a> has published other books by great S&V writers. Stop by to buy their books and keep an eye out for Antony's book. <br /> <br /><br />Coming soon, collaborations between David Oprava and myself, and Matt Finney and myself. We selected six word prompts and went from there. I'm excited to be working with two fantastic writers. Audrey Victoria is providing the art. You can see more work by David, Matt, and Audrey in S&V's print issue 1. Both zines will be available on open book and in print. I'll add links as soon as the work is completed. <br /><br />I really want to spread the word about another great place in southern Indiana which works very hard to bring quality goods to quality people. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.itsevansville.com/2007/04/12/interview-joe-smith-of-joes-records/">Joe's Records in Evansville, Indiana. </a><br /><br />I take the baby into Joe's a couple of times a month to pick up music or games. Just the other day, I was looking for Ingrid Lucia's album that has the song 'Down Home', and Joe found it for me. Although I could have just as easily ordered it from Amazon or some other store, there is something special about ordering music from a locally owned and operated record store, especially when the owner sold me my first Cocteau Twins CD when I was about thirteen. Joe carries a large selection of music by local artists. If you are in southern Indiana, stop by to see Joe and tell him Crystal sent you. He'll probably tell you all kinds of stories about me from back when I wore ripped up fishnets and combat boots. <br /><br />Comment, comment, comment! Let the writers and artists know when you like their work. Not only is it a good push to keep writing, but it gives us direction so we know when something works, when we connect to the reader. <br /><br />This week's lineup<br /><br />Tuesday: Jeff Crouch<br />Wednesday: Mikael Covey<br />Thursday: Jason Michel<br /><br />Featured Writer: Julie Buffaloe-Yoder<br /><br />Have a great week!<br />Crystal<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Calls for Submissions</span><br /><br />S&V will now be publishing a monthly zine on open book. Each month will have a different word prompt or topic. <br /><br />March - Darkening of the Night<br /><br />Send subs to shootsandvines@gmail.com and add March to the subject. <br /><br />Poetry<br />Prose<br />Art<br />Flash<br />Photographyshootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-55494989164951609652009-02-08T08:00:00.000-06:002009-02-08T13:38:46.278-06:00Featured Writer: Doug Draime Day 3Attending A Poetry Reading At The Local College<br /> <br /> <br /> What good does poetry do? Can it stop the<br /> wailing of the tormented? Can it end<br /> the continual political slaughter of<br /> millions from war, starvation,<br /> abortion, capital punishment, racial<br /> genocide, or territorial domination?<br /> <br /> Poets still sit in the coffeehouses and<br /> bars in America,<br /> talking like badass street fighters,<br /> though few<br /> have ever thrown a punch<br /> and probably wouldn’t know how to make a fist:<br /> publishing in the<br /> little mags only<br /> they read, and,<br /> to each other. They’re<br /> content like everyone<br /> to get drunk and<br /> talk shit.<br /> <br /> In other countries they lined poets up against the wall<br /> and shot them down<br /> like wooden ducks in a shooting gallery<br /> or imprisoned them like wild animals<br /> <br /> for speaking out against<br /> the State,<br /> for publishing poems of<br /> protest<br /> and dissension,<br /> for standing up<br /> for truth<br /> and human<br /> justice.<br /> <br /> Poets in America suck on the tit of academic,<br /> curdled lies, defending the “artistic freedom”<br /> of submerging an image<br /> of Christ in a bottle of urine.<br /> <br /> <br /><br />*Reprinted from Doug's book: Transmissions From The Underground<br />Watch for it at <a href="http://www.deadbeatpress.com/Home_Page.html">deadbeatpress</a> sometime in February 2009.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-63738373036448757742009-02-07T08:00:00.002-06:002009-02-07T08:00:00.685-06:00Featured Writer: Doug Draime Day 2Burning The Complete Works of Sylvia Plath<br /><br /> <br />The suicidal Muse ran up and<br />down my walls screaming for<br />Sylvia Plath. It wasn’t my<br />Muse; it came with her. She warned<br />me about something like this<br />happening if my writing<br />became too positive or<br />encouraging. So, I called her<br />up.<br />“Look,” I said, “it’s running up and<br />down my walls screaming for<br />Sylvia Plath.”<br /> <br />“Calm down,” she said, “just turn the typewriter<br />off and it’ll stop.”<br /> <br />“What?” I said.<br /> <br />“Turn the Corona off and it’ll stop.” she said<br /> <br />The Smith Corona was a gift from her when my ancient<br />Remington bit the dust. I told her to hold on a minute and<br />went over and turned off the machine. She was right, the<br />thing just disappeared with a puff of smoke. Back on the<br />phone, I told her it worked. She was silent for a moment.<br /> <br />“What are you going to do now,” she asked.<br /> <br />“What do you mean?” I said.<br /> <br />“Well, I mean, you got the thing stirred up<br />somehow and now every time you turn<br />the typewriter on the Muse is going to get<br />out and cause havoc. Each time it gets worse.”<br /> <br /> <br />“No shit?” I said, shocked.<br /> <br />“No shit!” she replied.<br /> <br />I thought for a moment. “Will burning the<br />Complete Works Of Sylvia Plath work?”<br /><br />She was thinking now. “Well, you could give that<br />a try, probably wouldn’t hurt to burn all the Ted<br />Hughes stuff while you’re at it.”<br /> <br />“Thanks I appreciate the help,” I said and hung up.<br /> <br />I didn’t have the Complete Works Of Sylvia Plath<br />and nothing by Hughes, so I went out and bought<br />them. When I got home I went outside, threw them<br />in an empty trash can and was about to torch them<br />when something like a spiritual revelation hit me.<br />I grabbed the Complete Works Of Sylvia<br />Plath out of the trash can and ran inside, turned on<br />my oven and baked her with the oven door open for<br />an hour. Then I gingerly took the smoldering books,<br />holding them with a pot holder, outside and threw them<br />in the trash can with her former old man, and torched<br />them good. I watched the books burn to ashes, then<br />emptied the ashes in my septic tank. I felt something<br />lifting from me and I knew it was over.<br /> <br />I went in and turned on the machine. It purred<br />like a kitten. I waited for a moment and then<br />typed my first line: <span style="font-style:italic;">The Suicidal Muse ran up<br />and down my walls screaming for Sylvia Plath.<br /> <br /></span><br /><br />*Reprinted from Doug's book: Transmissions From The Underground<br />Watch for it at <a href="http://www.deadbeatpress.com/Home_Page.html">deadbeatpress</a> sometime in February 2009.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-6648436791173528762009-02-06T08:00:00.006-06:002009-02-06T13:13:12.547-06:00Featured Writer: Doug Draime Day 1Someday I Will Write A Poem That Will Flood The World<br /><br /><br />And I will own all the<br />arks, boats, ships,<br />rafts, and canoes,<br />and tug boats, ferries,<br /> all forms of water transportation.<br /><br />People will have to come<br />to me for their means<br />of survival.<br /><br />The stubborn and destitute ones<br />will drown in my poem<br />sinking to the bottom,<br />screeching like anchors on<br />rusty<br />chains.<br /><br />The rest of humanity will plead<br />for cut-rate discounts. But fuck them,<br />I’ll make them pay out<br />the ass. No rainbows<br />this time. <br />________________________________________<br /><br />4 a.m. Reflection<br /><br /> If I say it was<br />torrid, what of love?<br />As my mind tosses<br />in memory like a<br />violent sea,<br />settling for the<br />pretentious<br />compromise of<br />poetry;<br />touching the stars<br />climbing the ladder<br />of lust. Meaning?<br />Love? What aches<br />in the heart? <br />Familiar images of<br />erotic passion<br />and the comfort of<br />someone being there. Knowing<br />the emptiness<br />and sting of<br />ambivalence. Why do we betray<br />the intimacy? <br />Why do we betray<br />the giving?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Doug Draime emerged as part of the underground literary movement in Los Angeles in the late 1960's. Most recent books: "Bones" (Kendra Steiner Editions) and "Los Angeles Terminal" (Covert Press). Forthcoming, "Transmissions From The Underground" (d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t/ press) and "Farrago Soup" (Coatlism Press). He moved Oregon in 1981, where he stills resides.</span><br /><br />Order Doug's book and support small press: <a href="http://www.deadbeatpress.com/Home_Page.html">d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press</a>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-23434470647639524522009-02-05T08:09:00.006-06:002009-02-07T12:08:33.329-06:00Belt loops by Crystal FolzWe go to a party at a friend's farm. The moon sits in the sky, as bright as the Skoal ring on the back pocket of my husband's blue jeans. I carry food into the house. He totes his guitar and cooler out to the weathered gray barn. <br /><br />Moths whirl in the spotlights set up around the table. Laughter stirs the tassels on the corn. They play Hank Sr., Waylon, and Kristofferson before meandering into that harmonic southern rock they quietly strummed in their rooms when learning to play the guitar.<br /><br />Sometimes on date night we take the pickup. Before we leave, my husband cleans out the truck. Tool belts and safety glasses and shotgun shells are placed inside the garage door. He gets a sheet from behind the seat, one that has holes cut for seat belt buckles, and tucks it in tight. I prop my foot up on the dash, and he lets me take control of the radio.<br /><br />I've always wanted men, not boys - gruff and greasy men who seem to have been born knowing how to weld, whittle, and eye which socket they need to loosen a bolt.<br /><br />There's little things I've stopped thinking about for a long time: the way he plays with the back pocket on my cutoff shorts when I sit in his lap; how he tucks the sheet between us on hot nights so we don't stick together; how he says my accent is sweet, secretly knowing I've spent years trying to shorten those long vowels and remember the 'g's at the end of my words; and those calloused hands, fingers that snag strands of hair when he brushes it over my shoulder. <br /><br />I lean up against the truck, fixing to grab him another beer, and wonder if he wants me to be hard enough to take care of myself, or soft enough to let him drag me back by my belt loop whenever I walk away without kissing him first.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-73159067983947038462009-02-04T08:00:00.000-06:002009-02-04T08:00:01.547-06:00What I Saw by D.C. Porderwhen it first happened<br />dad wasn’t really that blind.<br />what he saw were (in his words)<br />“black columns” on both sides<br />of his vision. each day<br />they encroached further<br />towards the center<br />of his blue eyes like curtains<br />across stained-glass.<br /><br />the day he lost his sight completely<br />we ate chocolate cake.<br />dad thought it would<br />be funny. then long strings<br />of tears rushed down<br />his cheeks. dad<br /><br />cried through the night.<br />his eyes were worthless<br />except for that.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">D.C. Porder studies writing at The New School. Read more at <a href="http://www.dcporder.blogspot.com/">www.dcporder.blogspot.com</a>.</span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-64448016204818775232009-02-03T08:00:00.003-06:002009-02-03T08:00:00.924-06:00Two Pieces by George AndersonOn the Seine<br /><br />it's raining in the<br />French Quarter as<br />we eat delicious<br /><br />skewers of prawns<br />& mussels smash our<br />greasy white plates in<br /><br />the fireplace later<br />sit under umbrellas<br />sipping Veure Clicquot<br /><br />Yellow Label from plastic<br />champaigne glasses & in<br />the dark follow the brightly<br /><br />lit tourists' boats trying to<br />forget Gaza where militants<br />fire make-shift rockets &<br /><br />where schools & hospitals<br />at this very minute are being<br />bombed by the Israeli Air Force<br /><br />the general election only three<br />weeks away our bottle dangerously<br />nearing the end of its usefulness.<br />_____________________________________<br /><br />Claire<br /><br />She was born<br />on that late Friday evening<br />without lips<br />without a nose<br /><br />her left foot attached<br />to her knee<br /><br />six toes on her right foot<br /><br />her heart & lungs<br />sweetly pumping<br /><br />the neon grey noon<br />collapsing<br />a slowly understood beauty<br />the handwriting describing this<br />barely legible<br /><br />god's attempts at perfection reconfigured,<br />her colostomy bag one day attuned<br />to life's tragic appendage?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">George Anderson lives in North Wollongong, Australia. Erbacce-press in July 2008 published a chapbook of his poems 'Dancing<br />On Thin Ice'. Check out his new blog:<br /><a href="http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/">http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com</a></span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-44139430096899697622009-02-02T08:00:00.003-06:002009-02-05T10:37:49.214-06:00Editor's NoteS&V Issue 1 has been well received. Copies will be floating around this week in Evansville, Indiana. Stop by Penny Lane Coffee House, and River City Food Co-op to pick up a copy - while supplies last. It will be printed and distributed until April, when the second issue prints. <br /><br />All contributors were sent copies last week. If you haven't received yours, it's because I don't have a snail mail addy for you. <br /><br />If readers would like a copy of the print, please contact me by email: shootsandvines@gmail.com. I ask for $1.00 to help pay for shipping. <br /><br />Coming this week, a printable Outsider Writers mini-zine which provides a mission statement and links to the group. Check out my blog on <a href="http://outsiderwriters.ning.com/profile/crys">Outsider Writers</a> later this week to print off a copy. <br /><br />Kristin Fouquet just interviewed me for the OW zine coming out this spring. Keep your eyes open for more information about S&V and why I love it. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Small Press Information:<br /></span><br />Andromache Books is a small, independent press publishing literary fiction and poetry of the highest quality. We are dedicated to the vital and delicate art of literature. We are not in it for the money. (What money?) We are in it for truth and beauty and all that. We are decidedly not the mainstream.<br /><br />Andromache Books is a cooperative, not-for-profit venture, run entirely by the authors themselves. We seek to bring only the best and the brightest to light. For further information about our books contact us at:andromachebooks@gmail.com <br /><br />We are:<br />Grace Andreacchi, managing editor<br />Nikesh Murali, poetry editor<br />Edward Hadas, business manager<br />Andy Scheuchzer, mascot<br /><br />Out titles so far include:<br />Mark Edwards, Clearout Sale<br />Grace Andreacchi, Scarabocchio, Poetry and Fear<br /><br />Coming soon: Poetry from Robin Ouzman Hislop, and our Contemporary Poets Series, edited by Nikesh Murali.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Call for Submissions: </span><br /><br />Shoots and Vines is looking for poetry, prose, flash fiction, art, and photography for the April 2009 print issue. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.downdirtyword.blogspot.com/">The Legendary</a>:<br />WE PRINT: DOWNDIRTY WORDS, UNFLINCHING REALISM, FORNICATING FANTASIES.<br /><br />Team - <br /><br />Jim Parks is a newsman, deckhand, farm hand, truck driver and ramblin' man. Keep him away from the fire water and don't mess with his food or his woman.<br /><br />Katie Moore is a mother, writer, and wife...in that order. Sorry, husband. She has been known to plan an orgy and occasionally she feels the need to dance like Kevin Bacon in Footloose.<br /><br />*Calls for Submissions and information about small presses are posted every Monday in the editor's note. If you'd like to submit your mag or press, please email shootsandvines@gmail.com. Add mag or press in the subject line. <br /><br />Have a great week!<br />Crystalshootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-73654076320773226552009-02-01T08:00:00.002-06:002009-02-01T08:00:09.925-06:00Featured Writer: Alan King Day 3Saturday Morning<br />Kingdom<br /><br />And the Boulevard wakes<br />like a child -- rubbing its eyes,<br />stretching to greet first light.<br />But you're wide-awake with<br /><br />the other silhouettes inside<br />a darkened theatre, and<br />all around you -- the loud<br />snapping of cellophane wrappers,<br /><br />cookie dough candy and gummy<br />bears sweetening the air.<br />"How come you're always by yourself,"<br />your father asked once. His mind<br /><br />so one-track women only exist<br />as cure-alls for everything, even<br />a work-week that pounds you<br />like a heavyweight.<br /><br />But how do you explain the rush<br />you get from conquering that near-empty<br />dark space -- the throne-sized seats,<br />and jesters on a screen fit for a king?<br />____________________________________________<br /><br />Proposition<br /><br />Fred picks at his batter-<br />fried onions, shakes his head:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">She said it would never work<br /><br />with me; that I know too many<br />women.</span> An ex told you the same thing<br />before demanding you either<br />cut your play sisters loose or lose her<br /><br />for good. And why does it always<br />come down to the final proposition,<br />as if life had a limit on possibilities?<br /><br />And what happens when neither party<br />stops fighting the forces of arbitration?<br />Maybe you end up dateless on a Saturday night,<br />sharing appetizers with your boys<br /><br />in a log cabin-style restaurant –<br />considering the symbolism<br />of a talking moose head on the wall.<br />__________________________________________________<br /><br />The Meek<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />…the angels fall from heaven<br />…the day the earth stands still</span><br /> -The System, "Don't Disturb This Groove"<br /><br /><br />like that night, skating around<br />a darkened rink with several<br />other silhouettes and Tanya<br />gripping my nervous hand<br /><br />her skin glowing from<br />the purple "Couples" sign<br />and popping Bubblicious<br />behind her thick pink lips<br />was all I knew of beauty<br /><br />and would probably be<br />the only time this chunky<br />12 year old would get<br />so close to divinity<br /><br />to think this moment<br />seemed impossible,<br />or would be the closest<br />thing to knowing a man's<br />frustration for obsessing<br />the unattainable<br /><br />but Tonya locking her<br />fingers with mine and smiling,<br />I'm convinced God grants<br />the meek a small taste<br />of their inheritance<br /><br />like your cool older<br />cousins along the rail,<br />watching – grinning<br />and nodding: <span style="font-style:italic;">Yeah <br />I see you, playa </span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-74924199624863967352009-01-31T08:00:00.003-06:002009-01-31T13:04:19.975-06:00Featured Writer: Alan King Day 23 a.m.<br /><br />An hour before, we were laying<br />in your bed -- your fingers trailing<br />my spine, finding the pool<br /><br />at the small of my back. I laughed<br />when you said we'd be a married<br />couple holding each other<br /><br />on a night like this -- rain drumming<br />your windows, the flash of thunder<br />shining our slippery bodies;<br /><br />my calf sore from a charley horse<br />pulled when we wrestled earlier.<br />The night breeze cooling<br /><br />our bodies. <span style="font-style:italic;">Will it always be<br />like this?</span> you wondered, as if<br />this is all it takes to keep you<br /><br />here before you lose interest<br />and move on. All I have is how<br />we indulged in one appetite<br /><br />after another -- the first a craving<br />between bodies, then the other<br />that's brought us to a near empty diner.<br /><br />Your smile, as I call this<br />a "late night caper," the only<br />lit spot on a darkened road.<br /><br />________________________________________<br /><br />Cosmic Girl<br /><br />even now, knowing<br />what you know,<br />you still can't shake her<br />from your head<br /><br />almost six years since<br />you've seen her curvy<br />imprint under a sundress<br /><br />when the breeze was a friend<br />lifting her hem and showing her<br />flexed calves ablaze in sunlight<br /><br />you ignored your friends'<br />warnings, even after the third<br />time she'd introduced herself<br />by another name<br /><br />now, she was Aurora Borealis –<br />a band of renegade stars<br />streaking the dark sky<br /><br />and what a way to sum up<br />this woman of light with fiery hair<br />and a glass-blown body<br /><br />a woman who, despite your<br />pleading, quit you cold turkey<br />and left you whimpering<br />in the arms of friends,<br /><br />recalling the obvious signs<br />of trouble, like her pointing<br />heavenward when asked<br />about her hometown<br /><br />and the fact her previous name<br />was a number reserved for God<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">3 a.m. and Cosmic Girl will be published in the inaugural issue of the San Pedro Poetry Review. </span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-60233395530237439222009-01-30T08:00:00.000-06:002009-01-30T08:00:02.694-06:00Featured Writer: Alan King Day 1Spin Cycle<br /><br />Warm clothes out of the dryer --<br />the scent hooking its aromatic<br />arms around my neck,<br /><br />like a college girlfriend<br />before a kiss in the laundromat.<br />And something, long-buried, rises<br /><br />like a serpent when Seduction<br />blows her snake charmer's flute.<br />Is this why the sight of a fresh<br /><br />line speedbags my heart,<br /><br />like that of a child's<br />before summer break,<br />or why the smell of detergent<br /><br />calls me like a lover into<br />the laundry room before<br />she pulled me between her<br /><br />open legs? Her lips --<br />warm and wet -- ready<br />to take my tongue.<br />_______________________________<br /><br />What It Is<br /><br />"Good Goodness" is what Derrick<br />calls it. Fred says it's "The Rub,"<br />how lovers work at each other –<br /><br />tensing in an arch, bracing for<br />a succession of tiny explosions.<br />Moist lips, interlocking legs,<br /><br />blood boiling and steaming<br />through skin. It's laying<br />the rod of God on non-<br /><br />believers, who switch faiths<br />after glimpsing nirvana in<br />a climax. The sore, slackened<br /><br />muscles – a reminder of Fred's<br />wisdom: <span style="font-style:italic;">All I'm sayin', yo. Is be ready<br />when she put the good thigh on you.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Alan King's fiction and poems have appeared in the Arabesques Review, Warpland, The Amistad, and Fingernails Across the Chalkboard: Poetry and Prose on HIV/AIDS, among others. A Cave Canem fellow and Vona<br />Alum, his work was also part of Anacostia Exposed, a collaborative<br />exhibit with Irish photographer Mervyn Smyth that showcases the life<br />and energy of Anacostia. </span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-39316888843860701092009-01-29T08:00:00.001-06:002009-01-29T08:00:00.667-06:00Two Pieces by D. Garcia-WahlThe Blind Girl<br /><br />She has blessed<br />all that has vanished into her evernight<br />and made forgiveness of eyes that have creased into surrender<br />gifting her, however,<br />with scraps of light and shadow.<br />By the cane of an arm, she stirs<br />and transfers patience. <br />By the dry weep<br />she gathers<br />the veils that make up her memory.<br />It is the release<br />of a beauty she’ll never know by mirror.<br />How exquisite, the gallery of shadows<br />museum’d in her head.<br />_______________________________________________<br /><br />Filmatic<br /><br />-for Jerry Tomlinson<br /><br />“Well, I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, doctor, and I'm<br />happy to state, I finally won out over it.”<br />-Elwood P. Dowd<br />“Harvey”<br /> <br /> <br />Life,<br />an archipelago of breaths<br />Reels –<br />movement<br />or years<br />purposed and propelled by memory.<br />The theatric boast of life the eyes parade,<br />a silent camera, ever behind, focusing.<br />In patchwork scenes: childhood, middle years, old age,<br />death – then birth<br />edited<br />played out<br />critiqued.<br /> <br />Nothing known at the fade in<br />will be felt in the fade out.<br /> <br />Leaving nothing to predictability,<br />except pardon,<br />the film is christened and ages<br />in sensitivity and texture. <br />The stir of the heart<br />scripts the direction of purity,<br />cleaving to what we cast off,<br />never playing tomorrow as the strains<br />of another day. <br /><br /><br />What of the actor? <br />His lines are his to forget<br />-his audience to recall.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">D. Garcia-Wahl is the author of ALL THAT DOES COME OF MADDEN’D DAYS and ASHES OF MID AUTUMN. His new collection of poetry, BECOMING is due out shortly. He is putting the finishing touches on three more novels, another collection of poetry, and a collection of short stories. He was recently interviewed for a new HBO documentary. He divides his time between America and Paris.</span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-74545575497736597862009-01-28T08:00:00.000-06:002009-01-28T08:00:01.892-06:00Six Month Check-Up by Constance StadlerFlashing enameled perfection<br /><br />in response to my whine<br /><br />crisply<br /><br />she lowers the light.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I hear them<br />honing their Lilliputian weaponry<br /><br />the sterile cabal<br /><br />plans a frontal assault --<br /> <br />I soil myself.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The coleus on the window sill<br /><br />is on its last legs --<br /><br /> <br />I take it personally.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Constance Stadler has been writing, publishing, and editing poetry from the 'prehistoric' epoch of print journals to modern e-times. She was formerly an editor for South and West and is currently a contributing editor to the e-zine Eviscerator Heaven. Her most recent work appears in such 'zines as ditch, ken*again, Pen Himalaya, Rain Over Bouville, Clockwise Cat, Hanging Moss, Neonbeam, and Gloom Cupboard. Her chapbook, 'Tinted Steam', will be published in 2009. As a political anthropologist specializing in North Africa and a violinist, her influences are multiform. Work in formative years with the late poet Gwendolyn Brooks was seminal, but no less so than Sufi Dervish dancers, and the challenges of mastering Bruch's first concerto.</span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-38394131834382689862009-01-26T08:00:00.001-06:002009-01-26T08:00:00.851-06:00Mama's Fancy Christmas Shoes by Misti Rainwater-Lites<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0HiM6Nu8PNCcrpvJQaxKM4vGAJAwuzGhLVnTi3MKeX4SKhtlIZmSftQeVfzughUnB7UjgNrc7uQ4Mv34DowZNq3MWw3B-HwxWQ76831GrVAZtpXwb5xftBiUXNZdFUkrvBsvxPo1e9w/s1600-h/Misti+Red+Shoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0HiM6Nu8PNCcrpvJQaxKM4vGAJAwuzGhLVnTi3MKeX4SKhtlIZmSftQeVfzughUnB7UjgNrc7uQ4Mv34DowZNq3MWw3B-HwxWQ76831GrVAZtpXwb5xftBiUXNZdFUkrvBsvxPo1e9w/s400/Misti+Red+Shoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293772360884679538" /></a><br /><br /><br />After the funeral I put on Mama's fancy Christmas shoes.<br /><br />They were black velvet decorated with bright symbols<br /><br />of that Christian holiday that had become so unabashedly<br /><br />commercialized and cheapened. Colorful glass balls.<br /><br />Candy canes. Cowardly yellow stars. Balls break,<br /><br />candy canes rot teeth, yellow stars portend nothing<br /><br />while pretending instant holiness. It's enough to<br /><br />make a cowgirl want to shoot out her horse's eyes<br /><br />and hang herself in plain view of the whole goddamn<br /><br />peanut munching corral. I put on the shoes, though,<br /><br />because I was naked otherwise. I put on the shoes<br /><br />because I wanted to feel closer to Mama who was<br /><br />gone to a place I would never see. I put them on<br /><br />and did a dance. <br /><br />I felt like tapping even though there were no taps<br /><br />on the soles of these shoes.<br /><br />Suddenly I wanted to cook breakfast<br /><br />for most of the world.<br /><br />I wanted to marry a man who would<br /><br />expect me to bring him peach cobbler<br /><br />and ice cream while he sat on his ass<br /><br />watching Westerns on the plasma television.<br /><br />I wanted to put blinders on and trot my way<br /><br />through the Valley of Denial.<br /><br />I was the most ambitious cheerleader<br /><br />since Eleanor Roosevelt.<br /><br />I took the shoes off.<br /><br />There was no one around to kiss the sores.<br /><br />"Family Tradition" was on the radio.<br /><br />I threw the shoes at the radio.<br /><br />I missed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Misti Rainwater-Lites is the poetry editor at decomP, the editor and publisher of Instant Pussy and the art editor at The Poetry Warrior. She has chapbooks available through Kendra Steiner Editions, Erbacce Press, Scintillating Publications and Deadbeat Press.<br /><br /><a href="http://ebulliencepress.blogspot.com/">Ebullience Press</a></span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-84073689327414979652009-01-25T20:00:00.003-06:002009-02-05T10:38:42.210-06:00Editor's NoteI hope everyone has enjoyed what they have read so far. This group of authors, writers, and artists have wonderful working spirits. <br /><br />The schedule is changing around here at S&V beginning in February. <br /><br />Monday: Editor's Note which will include call for subs at other publications, small press information, and updates on the S&V prints. <br /><br />Tuesday - Thursday: poetry, prose, flash, art, and photography<br />Friday - Sunday: Featured Writer/Artist/Photographer<br /><br />I was originally going to have a separate day for regular contributors but have decided to keep posting their work in the mix. Regular contributors will have a tag because there won't be a bio each time I post their work. <br /><br />I know some are questioning my decision to post calls for subs by other magazines, but I started this zine because I wanted to read more work by my favorite authors and find new authors I hadn't seen around, not necessarily become an editor. In keeping with that idea, I'm asking online and print magazines to send information about their publications to shootsandvines@gmail.com with mag info in the subject. <br /><br />I want to encourage others to utilize what small presses can offer: beautiful books and most importantly, control over your work. Small presses may send information to shootsandvines@gmail.com with small press in the subject. <br /><br />I want more work. I want poetry, prose, flash, art, and photography. Doesn't matter if you have submitted here before, be it yesterday, last week, or last month. My schedule runs in a way that I can keep posting you without it following something of yours I've already published. Send submissions to shootsandvines@gmail.com with online submission in the subject. <br /><br />Shoots and Vines print Issue 2 will be released in April. I plan to add more pages with the second print. Send poetry, prose, micro flash, art, and photography to shootsandvines@gmail.com with print zine in the subject. I'd like to use art this next time for the cover (must be able to be downsized to half of an 8" by 11" sheet of paper). The zine will also be available online in PDF and open book. <br /><br />Shoots and Vines Issue 1 will be ready for print this week. In next week's Editor's Note, I'll include a PDF which can be printed and distributed. Issue 1 will be on display and free for the taking at River City Food Co-op and Penny Lane Coffee House. If you want a print copy snail mailed to your door, please send an email to shootsandvines@gmail.com. I'll ask for $1.00 to cover cost of mailing. <br /><br />Issue One in PDF viewing: <br /><a href="https://share.acrobat.com/adc/document.do?docid=702050d2-b1c8-4758-aefa-4f8ff2a90613">PDF</a><br /><br />Issue One in Open Book: <br /><br /><div><embed src="http://static.issuu.com/webembed/viewers/style1/v1/IssuuViewer.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" quality="high" scale="noscale" salign="l" flashvars="mode=preview&previewLayout=white&username=shootsandvines&docName=shoots_and_vines_issuu&documentId=090126013951-92eadfec3abf4820963ddf7372d647dc&autoFlip=true&backgroundColor=ffffff&layout=grey" style="width:335px;height:230px" name="flashticker" align="middle"></embed><div style="width:335px;text-align:left;"><a href="http://issuu.com" target="_blank">Get your own</a> - <a href="http://issuu.com/shootsandvines/docs/shoots_and_vines_issuu?mode=embed&documentId=090126013951-92eadfec3abf4820963ddf7372d647dc&layout=grey" target="_blank">Open publication</a><a href="http://issuu.com/embed/guide?documentId=090126013951-92eadfec3abf4820963ddf7372d647dc&width=425&height=301" target="_blank"><img src="http://static.issuu.com/webembed/previewers/style1/v1/m3.gif" border="0" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br />And some of you have asked where my new writing has found a home. Truth is, I haven't written anything new since I began S&V. In the upcoming months, I'll be working on print collaborations with some S&V writers, and a print zine of my work. Keep an eye on S&V's <a href="http://issuu.com/shootsandvines">profile</a> at ISSUU to see this work. I'll update you in the Editor's Note when they become available in print. <br /><br />Thanks again for submitting and reading. Keep up the great work. <br /><br />Crystalshootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-66928107637016369862009-01-25T08:00:00.000-06:002009-01-25T08:00:00.779-06:00Featured Writer: Christian Ward Day 3Moth<br /><br />Landing on a photograph<br />of my father, it must have thought<br />the bulb of his scalp was a source<br />of light; just as for years I thought<br />the transmissions from his heart<br />was love.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-33639252169541157712009-01-24T08:00:00.001-06:002009-01-24T08:00:01.144-06:00Featured Writer: Christian Ward Day 2The Source<br /><br /><br />Now that grandfather’s tumors have started<br /><br />collapsing the timbers of his organs, his body<br /><br />has started to stink. Nurses hold their breaths<br /><br /> <br />when changing his sheets, giving him food<br /><br />and water. The daffodils in the vase by his<br /><br />windows have turned away, shut their petals.<br /><br /> <br />I ignore them when sitting down by his side<br /><br />to read him the newspaper, tell him of daily<br /><br />happenings. When it increases in intensity,<br /><br /> <br />I smile and remember reading how the ark,<br /><br />filled with putrid smells from 151 days<br /><br />of travelling, beached itself on the summit<br /><br /> <br />of a mountain and all known life crept out<br /><br />from that foul smelling source.shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2468159264787794629.post-7723385314394641562009-01-23T08:00:00.002-06:002009-01-23T08:00:01.985-06:00Featured Writer: Christian Ward Day 1Winter<br /><br /><br />You cannot dream of winter<br /><br />happening because it is always<br /><br />there in the background,<br /><br />whatever month it is. Walking<br /><br />along a pier in August you<br /><br />will hear it grinding against<br /><br />the iron legs, in the gulls’ mews.<br /><br />Sitting on the porch in April,<br /><br />you will feel it rubbing against<br /><br />your legs, turning your skin<br /><br />white as milk. Fake a surprise look<br /><br />in November when snow falls,<br /><br />ignore the glimpse of ice behind<br /><br />your parents’ eyes.<br />__________________________________________<br /><br />Fulton Street<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">After Walker Evans' 'Girl in Fulton Street'</span><br /><br /><br />This is not the city Frank<br />wrote about. There are no<br />hum coloured cabs or men<br />stopping for a cheeseburger<br />and malt shake. Lana Turner<br />has not died and the sky<br />has not worn its funeral coat.<br />This is the city made of glass<br />where people wear alien nouns<br />like Fedora and Cloche Hat<br />and sniff the air like gundogs,<br />eager for the scent of their identity.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Christian Ward is a 28 year old London based poet whose poetry<br />can be currently seen in journals such as Thieves Jargon and Origami<br />Condom. His chapbook, Bone Transmissions, will be released in March<br />courtesy of Maverick Duck Press. </span>shootsandvineshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17729467435633230029noreply@blogger.com0