The night had been cold. The heat was not working properly in the bedroom, and when Joe awoke he discovered that the comforter was on the floor and that his hands were missing. He looked down at where his hands had been for more than thirty years and instead saw two bloody stumps. At first, he thought that his two cats (who he had forgotten to feed for the past two days) sitting at the foot of the bed might have gnawed them off, but there wasn’t any blood on their fur or whiskers. He looked under the bed for his hands. He looked behind the busted-up, broken-down, rusted radiator. He even looked in the bathroom, for he remembered having relieved himself during the night, and they may have fallen in the toilet. He looked at the blinking, orange glow of the alarm clock. The forsaken thing had never been trustworthy. Over the past few months, Joe had been late to work more than a dozen times, and his supervisor told him that if there were one more infraction, his tardiness would be grounds for dismissal. He tried to remove his boxer shorts and undershirt only to no avail, then he jumped into the bathtub, but he could not properly regulate the water with his feet, scalding his chest.

(more…)

i can’t see the sun  my confidence is lacking
can i kiss you
no  my libido is vacationing with my confidence
can i hold your hand
no  your confidence is lacking
maybe i should go
maybe

little Jackie Kerouac is chasing the fellahin through the sierra madre mountains with tiny brown terrys left over from the contented western valleys of his american journey—roadside whorehouses wailing with loud bass lines beating through the countryside supply the landscape with an entire generation of green-eyed, blonde-haired happy marauders. [2]

(more…)

The woman who used to be our aunt
—Amid burning dust in Ciudad Juárez
Outside a cinderblock home
Where I had to use the busted toilet—

She & her friends cradled & cooed
Over a lifelike doll of the Christchild.

Inside, the faithful propped
Their relics on a card table,
Went to pray in the corrugated
Shade of the patio.
Came back to blood
Raised from the icons & rosaries.

The second miracle was the dancing sun
—If you stared into it
It would leap & zigzag.
Faith healers wired for sound call the truly

Infirm to rise, & they do.
Language adheres to itself only, yet shrouds
Our littlest gasp.
There are accounts of cousins
Getting laid before the funeral.

There’s our origin before oceans
& our brains that flesh
Out—sniff, peep, tongue, etcetera—

The only world amid
Odd relations & an unstable
Deep star, amid atmospheres
Of absolute dust.

The next miracle made the papers.

___________________________________________

Daniel Luévano’s work recently appeared online with Verse, and more poems will appear soon in The Shattered Wig Review and The Saint Ann’s Review. He lives in Fort Collins, CO, with his wife, daughter and son.

You remember not letting me in the house until I fought Jeremy Rowe? He’d followed me home from school, looking to avenge his sister’s good name. I’d insulted her after his 347th impersonation of my stutter. He’d perfected it over time, the way I looked up and bit my lip, how my eyes glossed over. Perfection led me to calling her a slutbucket.

Jeremy stood at the edge of our property, calling me “D-D-D-Danny,” yelling that I was a chickenshit. You locked the screen door, said get off the fucking patio and remember to jab.

At some point, I think after I had grass stuffed in my mouth, I glanced over at the front door. I didn’t see you.

When it was over, I whacked the screen door until you appeared. We stood there for at least a minute. You finally unlocked the door. Before going in I nearly said, “f-f-f-f-fuck you.” I think I wanted you to knock me out.

_____________________________________

David Erlewine’s fiction appears in FRiGG, the Los Angeles Review, Pedestal Magazine, and others. He is JMWW’s flash editor.

1. Farther up

You stop where two streets divide.
Down one path you see trees talking,
probably whispering. Their bark
is barely chatting, but the trees
are shaking their branches, dropping
little leaves, judging you.

2. Farther out

You see the other path, no trees
but all the dead relatives whose
names you cannot remember.
You think you see Gloria or Gina
or Georgia.

3. Farther in

The trees might have been a bad choice.
They are bringing up embarrassing past
events in your life. They know too much
and their branches are barking hurtful
things. Even the falling leaves sound
like laughter twirling to the ground.

4. Farther away

The trees become the past. You leave
your secrets to them, and hope they keep
quiet. You think about the old relatives
and wish you could remember their names.
You promise to remember their names.

5. Farther down

The earth begins to spew up seeds all around you.
Your relatives have found a way towards you
and begin to eat the seeds. Their skin blooms
and green splits from the top of their heads. Their
wrinkled feet seep into the ground and turn stiff.
Everything is changing and becoming coppice.
This is what you expected.

_____________________________________

Alexander York is a graduate student and writer living in Chicago. Alexander’s work can be found or will soon be appearing in Word Riot, Another Chicago Magazine, Oyez Review, The Madison Review, Strange Machine, and The Red Rock Review. When he’s not working on his thesis, he spends most of his time fiddling with his 8-track recorder, riding his bike, and scouring the city for delicious restaurants. His blog is www.thepinatacasket.blogspot.com.