SCF Venice — A Literary and Arts Magazine
It seems whenever we gain something
Something else is lost
Sometimes our loss is far greater
That what we gain
If something seems so good that we give ourselves to it
Embrace it
Why throw it away.
Only time can tell us if our sacrifice is worth it
If our gain is greater then our loss
As I lay in a filthy bed,
Weary head nodding…
I drift to and fro a bad dream.
Evils at work are steadily plotting,
And no help is at hand it would seem.
Tossing and turning I struggle against sleep,
Salty sweat forms of beat at every pore.
Often the distance a being tall and stout-
Moves ever slowly toward my door.
Through a wall with a stain – I can now hear it breathing…
And the knob on the door starts to turn…
I can feel the evil inside the beast seething,
Its intent was my soul to burn.
And as the door opened, time made its escape –
With every fiber of my being I lunge…
The first attack so sudden, on my side a deep scrape,
And the demon damns me with its evil twisted tongue.
Brought to my knees, I began to weep,
As I scoured hallowed halls for the strength that I keep.
And when it first came, I did not know…
It was the beast’s eyes that gave it away.
Then to my feet I suddenly rose,
Arms to the heavens in praise.
And without hesitation I destroyed the beast,
And control of my soul I regained…
Only to relinquish it kneeling at the feet,
Of my Savior in Heaven who reigns.
neutrally, our fresh hot teas both flushed light gold
hours previously. More recently we
clawed earnestly as lamsters from the heat, then
built up, or razed a few statues of trust
the components of which include vague sorts of zen.
It is an ignoble honor to know your nadir
and sap up your dulcetest moans as I can,
denying no natures which plague us. I penned
you a poem about Lovers, it was panned
by intoxication and indifference.
But you please me, I think, and when offered more drink
you accepted with slippery, rose gaucherie
Not bound by heuristic, nor wounded by pride
In this way, the mawkishly wideeyed entreat
Forget new leaf,
I’m constantly turning over a whole new forest.
In fact, being inconsistent
just may be the only thing
I’m consistent in.
I seem to lack the ability to solidify,
I’m just a liquid creation
filling the formation
of any mold I am poured into. Some may call me
fickle, the girl who doubles as a shape shifter.
I just call it rolling with the never-ending punches of life,
It’s a talent, you know, learning to make sweet lemonade
out of that mountain of lemons.
And like a shadow that shrinks and stretches with the sun,
Like the sun that rises and falls,
Like the fall that arrives in a slight chill before making way for winter,
I too am moving and morphing, keeping up with the changes around me.
The night beckons; even to me as Master of the night
She still calls to me.
I will watch and wait for the night to take me.
Throughout the lonely night, I Dance.
The Dance Macabre my cold dark life of the Night
A Requiem of Sorrows lit only by the moon.
The deep set of my eyes, now soulless and dead.
Useful now only to view the Dance of others,
My subjects in this long Night.
For within the night, fear prevails.
My subjects, my monsters thirst for their sustenance
For the warm rose colored blood of human prey
A blood red slash of teeth then the
Soft screams echo into the soul of the night.
I the master, they my monsters, all made to be feared
My Requiem continues thus into immortality.
The moon, the dark, cold fear and hot blood come together as no true love could
I shall dance my Dance Macabre
A Master of the Night
The fishing pole I used always held up
to whatever I would catch. Of course,
I always knew better than to
try and lift a bigger fish out of the water
than the rod could stand.
I would use the best reels,
the best fishing line and
I would oil that sucker every few
fishing trips unless it got
wet. Then I would oil it every time.
I guess I should have fished the lakes
of Kentucky when I lived
there. They were huge and so
inviting. Tournaments all the time
loaded with huge cash prizes.
Nancy was always good to me,
when we were dating.
We really loved each other,
at first.
I packed up and moved to be
with her, eight hundred miles from
my family.
She never wanted to go fishing
with me and the dogs.
I soon lost interest in fishing.
I told myself I just didn’t
have the time anymore.
The fights came, and then
the medical problems.
There was nothing worse than
being laid up and needing help
and not being able to get any.
Eventually, I healed and
my fishing rod got put away.
The thought of not fishing
anymore is still painful,
even though the catch just
wasn’t as good as I thought
it was originally.
I shot the greeter at Wal-Mart, just after he said “Hi, Welcome to Wal-Mart.” I figured if Wal-Mart could slash prices, I could slash lives. Besides, these employees had been reduced to slave-like labor, underpaid, and underappreciated. I was doing this guy a favor. He didn’t really want to “Welcome” me into Wal-Mart. He wanted his shift to end, so he could stop being ignored by mindless shopping drones. I was doing him a favor, ending his exploitative work-shift, indefinitely. Yeah, I know my killing this guy was drastic, but these are really tough economic times, and damn, I had to do something.
I got the idea to kill the Wal-Mart greeter yesterday, while I was shopping at Wal-Mart. The little yellow smiley face on the sale signs, which I believe is the same face, and honestly I don’t know how he travels between isles so fast, were mocking me as I perused every isle. This shitty yellow smiley face was laughing at me, telling me: You’re an idiot to pass this up, look how much money your saving! Buy it! I know you don’t need it, but this sales not going to last forever bud! I know it’s a piece-of-shit CHIA PET, made in Indonesia by underage, barely paid, sweaty hands. But MAN, it WAS $19.99, now ITS $10.99!
Fuck you, I said ripping the sale sign down, tearing out the yellow smiley face, and then stuffing him into my pocket. I left my shopping cart in the middle of the isle.On my way out, I stopped and watched the greeter. He smiled, welcoming each consumer drone. At least ten shoppers passed him, completely oblivious to the person,and voice merely saying “hello.”
This is just one big fucking trap, I thought to myself,walking past the greeter, I know how to get you noticed. I left Wal-Mart as a freeman, for the first and last time.
When I got home I opened my lockbox, and took out my Beretta. I was about to pick up the box of 9mm ammunition, but paused before my hand touched the box. I bought the ammo a few years ago, on sale…at Wal-Mart, before they stopped selling bullets.
It’s alright, I grabbed the box of bullets, it’s actually fitting. I loaded the clip, and then took out the yellow smiley face from my pocket. After taping it the muzzle of my Beretta, face pointing outward, I set the gun down.
When I walked into Wal-Mart the greeter smiled and said hello to me. I smiled back, pointing my smiling gun, and fired.
“You’re Welcome.” I said aloud.
While I ran from the store, before being obtained by the police, my mind was flooded with images. I pictured massesof people, rushing to Wal-Mart, simply to say hello, and thank you to the greeters; much like after nine eleven, when people garnished military service members with unconditional praise, recognition, and thanks. That didn’t happen. What did happen was a new uniform policy at Wal-Mart. All greeters were required to wear bullet-proof vests. The employees had to pay for them, which could be conveniently deducted from their pay-checks, in three lowinstallments.
I’m in prison now, and I don’t have to pay for anything. $10.99
Lost and found queen of veneer;
You look pretty, gorgeous
On the outside of your shell.
Your truth is a beautifulsnail.
You are slimy, and you leave a trail
Behind your steps.
Your reputation intrigues me, for
I share your pain.
You wake in the morn, shower and dress;
There are holes in your jeans: one in both knees
And one under a cheek.
You don a white tank under a black same
With a tear under your chest.
You sit on the corner of your bed,
Slip your Converse on
With permanentmarker writings on the white end.
Your makeup is black nail polish on the nails
And permanentmarker on the jeans.
You throw your hoodie on,
And stuff your c.d. player in your pocket.
Sticking the headphones over your ears,
And throwing the hood over your ‘phones,
You walk out the door, chin in chest
and bag over shoulder.
You sit in the back of the bus
Away from all the others
In the single-seat row.
You walk alone down the halls in school.
You eat lunch in solitude,
Whether you are with friends or not.
In gym class, you sit on the floor against the wall
With your bag between your bent knees,
And your music playing in your ears.
Those nights after school, you enter your room;
Throw off your hoodie, and black tank,
Whip off your pants and lie in your bed.
With the TV on and the headphones
Blaring in your ears;
The fight down the hall still finds it way
Into your broken soul.
You turn up the volume
And yet nothing is accomplished;
The fight still rages on.
You can hear the beer in his voice,
The liquor in her tone;
The baby crying, trying to know why
Mommy hates daddy
And daddy hits mommy.
You hear Baby’s tears weep, and scream,
They are not laughing,
This cannot be good.
You set your headphones down,
Throw open your door
And march down the hall.
You enter the kitchen, pick up Baby
Only to hear the screams behind the cigarettes,
“Where do you think you’re going with Baby?
Don’t you walk away from me, girl!”
The beer can slams on the counter;
The screams follow you down the hall,
“Get back here! You listen to me!
You wanna’ get smacked, girl?”
You shut your bedroom door behind you,
Rest on the bed with your hands
Over baby’s back and head.
You rock Baby back and forth,
Back and forth,
Eyes red and
Tears streaming down your face;
Baby wails in your ear,
The fight can still be heard.
You are at a loss;
Fifteen years you have heard such anger,
And no more can you take.
You make a crib of your dresser’s top drawer,
You lay Baby inside and wait for sleep
To befall the child.
When Baby’s eyes close, you put your
Black cargo pants on
With a studded belt.
The black hoodie is donned again,
With a black ski mask under the hood.
You stuff gloves inside your hoodie’s pocket;
Throw on ankle boots just before you leave
Through your bedroom’s window.
Tossing your hands into your sweatshirt’s pocket
You march down the street in the dark,
Hiding from people’s view.
You enter the grocery store with
Good intentions on your mind.
Picking up a bat from the sport’s good section,
You pull the mask over your face, gloves over
Your hands, and march to the clerk.
Slamming the bat on the counter you scream,
“Give me your money! All of it!”
The clerk begins to reach under the counter,
You shout, “Hands above the counter!
Open the register!” He obeys.
“Money! Give it to me!”
He opens the drawer and hands you the cash;
You stash it inside your pockets,
drop the bat, and run home.
Inside your room, you lay the dough before you.
5… 10… 15…
60… 65… 70…
125… 175… 220…
280… 335… 338…
Enough to last a few weeks.
Days go by; weeks go by;
Months go by,
And you do this over and over again.
A different store each time,
The same story every time.
Your father watches the television static,
Your mother sleeping at her
Mother’s on the weekends.
You and Baby left to fend alone.
You feed Baby, you bathe Baby,
You hold Baby, you change Baby,
You rock Baby, You love Baby!
What will turn the tide?
What will open everyone’s eyes?
When will this war end?
When will it end!?
Who can save you?
Who can take off your darkness?
Who can remove that mask?
Who will see the beauty deep within you?
Who will see your pain?
Who will feel your pain?
Who is willing to hold you?
Who is willing to love you?
Who will be the first to see
Your beautiful, permed hair?
Who will notice the color of your eyes?
Who will feel the gentle touch of your hand,
The tender hold in your hug,
Or the warmth of your lips?
What person is quick to run
Their fingers along your cheek
And through your hair?
It is I! It is I!
I will love you!
I will hold you when you cry,
I will be your reason not to say goodbye.
I will be there when you are in need.
So please, see my hand
Reaching out to rescue;
And notice the look in my eyes,
The teardrop crying for you,
And pupils screaming, “I am here,
If only you will let me!”
And listen to my voice
Whispering to you in the darkness,
“You are worth more than this.
You are worth fighting seas to discover new land,
You are worth trekking mountains, searching for gold,
You are worth wartime, to give you freedom,
You are worth dreaming over,
You are worth time,
You are worth a phone call,
You are worth a letter,
A song, a poem, a toast,
You are worth a hug, a kiss,
You are worth holding hands with,
You are worth all the love in the world,
You are worth walking Calvary over,
You are worth having a friend near…
Oh blessed Queen of Veneer.
P.J. German
5.15.07
8.22pm
After the shot the doughboy ripped off his baker’s hat
and ran to the dressing room holding his stomach
hoping his intestines would stay in place
before he got to the dressing room door he heard
max, the photographer
GREAT JOB DOUGHBOY
It’s Sam, not doughboy
After slamming and locking the dressing room door
Sam felt his stomach again
one more time one more time i’m gonna lose it
i can’t fake it anymore
Sam slipped out of his white costume
looking at his naked scarred body
five hernias and counting
Three hours after Sam entered his dressing room
the photographer knocked on the door
doughboy, you gotta get outta there
doughboy OPEN UP
Sam turned on the toaster oven, setting it to 450 degrees
won’t take long, maybe I should grease the pan
he looked in the mirror and poked his own stomach
no laugh, the pain was too much
another hernia
Another knock on Sam’s dressing room door
Doughboy, it’s Aunt Jemima and i’m PISSED
OPEN UP BEFORE I CALL THE FCC
is your stomach hurting again
The doughboy opened his door and let Aunt Jemima in
i can’t do it any more, the giggling
it hurts too much and i’m not getting paid enough
besides i hate cooking
one more person pokes me I’ll bite
You think you have it bad, Aunt Jemima pointed to her head
look at this damn perm
you think I wanted a perm Hell no i did it for
the people and the money
i miss my handkerchief this perms just not me
Well you don’t have tons of people jabbing you in the gut
i like the perm, makes you look modern
leave me alone I have to bake myself
Doughboy, you tried this last year, we don’t have a choice
we have to survive you know how many would miss us
if we were gone
besides i kinda like being famous
DOUGHBOY Aunt Jemima attempted to open the toaster oven
it was locked from the inside
all she could do was watch
damn he looks good enough to eat
Please not our alligators to molest
Please not our alligators to molest
Or else to feed our snakes is very bad
Or else to feed our snakes is very bad
To feed our very bad alligators is to
molest our snakes, please not–or else.
No catching for the fishes on our pond
No catching for the fishes on our pond
And no to touch the snapping turtle, we asking
And no to touch the snapping turtle, we asking
To touch not on our pond the snapping turtle
we asking, and no the fishes catching.
We like to have the visitors, yes
We like to have the visitors, yes
They come by foot and sadly go in box
They come by foot and sadly go in box
Yes, sadly, to box the visitors
come in by foot, we have like.
To feed the foot of visitors on our pond
in our bad alligators not very asking
or else to molest our snapping turtle box
by snakes, we catching like to touch
the fishes–come please!
We like to have the visitors, yes!