Blackout
by Charles Clayton
I know, I know: there are people in the world living on less than a dollar a day, literally crapping out their life force due to a lack of clean water and various third world diseases, but that doesn't mean that I'm not allowed to bitch about how backwards things sometimes are here in New Mexico.
Bad schools and drug addled parents, shady dealings and nepotism at all levels of local governance, the stoopid gang culture, and how the POWER ALWAYS GOES OUT around here during big events like the opening day of baseball season.
IT'S OPENING DAY FOR CHRISSAKES! Spring is in the air, beer is chilling in the fridge, the rabbit ears are getting some decent reception, the Sox are looking good this year...and then some obese stoned mother with a tattoo on her neck and a piercing in her eyebrow is driving too fast and yapping on her cell phone or slapping one of her seatbeltless brood in the back of the mini-van and fails to notice the curve in the road. Dry road. Fine weather. Middle of the goddamn day. Right into the power pole.
Wreckoning
by Gary Feuerman
This could have been me. I’m writing because this could have been me. Many times. But not usually in the light, although who knows what can happen? The pole got knocked off its base and still stands. The car rests on its side. Both wrenched and beaten, bent and splintered. I can’t get too poetic here, not on purpose. It’s now. It’s pelting cold rain on my house in the early dark of late October. The road, dusty for weeks, is now a sloppy horse track. I’m sneezing virulently, all day, by myself. I don’t know if it’s a cold, allergies or if the house is sick from dust or silica, or something in the air. I’ve sneezed so hard that my head hurts, and a cough has developed, still dry, but wheezy and fluttery in the chest. I’ve sneezed so loud that the windows rattled. I had some good thoughts earlier, but now I feel achy, sick and alone. Now I remember the first smell of moisture in the morning, one that gave me an old sadness of Long Island in November. A sweetness in it, a loamy, earthy, mulchy sweetness that feels like funerals, or waiting out arguments on the porch at Thanksgiving. Some days it would remind me of falling face first in the grass after scoring a touchdown in a schoolyard or backyard football game, but not today. It spelled an ending. I fought it and worked at the desk here at my house – no office to go to anymore. And I did ok, got through deadlines, closed a substantial private loan for the brewery, banged out some emails, saw the Facebook news and messages. This made me feel far removed from whatever it is that is happening out there. I’m not grasping it, although I feel dangerous when I see and hear clips of violence; not “in danger” but dangerous. Dangerous to myself, and to others knowing there is a seed in me that can grow a violent protester, or a martyr which can be just as violent. I don’t know about this 1% and 99%. My gut says that’s too easy. But I don’t have the capacity to think of ways to “fight” the power, whatever that is. Maybe the idea is to turn back to where you are and live in community, tribally, feed and feed alike. Trips to the farmers markets this summer and fall have felt abundant. There’s always food left, tons of food. What is it we’re worried about? Why can’t we build our own schools and teach the way we want? Why can’t being in a beautiful place with endless playgrounds, and rich varieties of heart opened people with all the stories of the world be enough? We could take in travelers from other tribes, an oasis in the desert, and send them off with our art, our love, our food, and the spark that they brought us enlivened? And they can do for us the same. Why do we have to worry about Wall Street, or the far right, far left, far flung? We already have the under layer of a barter economy. We have the skills and resources to live sustainably. We have accessible riches of art and culture to keep our myths evolving, and our child’s eyes forever awake and dreaming. We can live on little money and be secure. We can ignore Wall St. I know we can. I’d need some guidance from others, and in a circle I can guide in some ways. I’m willing to work the fields and clean the dishes. I’m willing to break down my barriers and help. I’m lonely as fuck right now in my house, listening to the rain, checking Facebook in the hope that I’ll get a personal message from someone, the new form of looking in the mailbox for a letter, but much more cruel and need-soaked because you can look every 30 seconds (less!) like a tic and you might not get what you need “out there.” I’d be happy to crack this solo habit and commune (as long as there’s some private space ) . I believe it’s part of what I’m doing with the brewery. Wall Street certainly did not help us, hell, our own village leaders and “community” banks did not help us (that’s frigging euphemistic!). We’ve gone bankless, lo these 5 years, but I’ve become brothers with my partners and we scraped and scrounged for our initial investments (leveraging houses built by hand – thank you mortgage mania, frugality of saving pennies, and for me going to a fanatical believer for some – thanks Mom!) and with steady fervor convinced others to join the circus. Am I angry that we don’t have the burden of a $500,000 loan from US Bank and the tightrope walk that goes with that? You can answer that question. People have bought into the business. People have built with us for years for some equity and some beer. Yes, they think we’ll make some money. Yes, we think we’ll make some money. We’re not down on money, although if things go barter and fully communal, what a great place the Rock Garden will be! Who will care at that point as we quaff heavenly beer, play volleyball in the sun and listen to killer music? Alright, yes, I’ve been selling this place a lot lately, so maybe some of that has spilled over. You don’t have to buy a share, no worries. So, I don’t know. I was just in a play in Taos, the lead in a fucking play, an original play. Where else can some shmo from Long Island be the lead in an original, surreal romantic tragicomedy with wacked clowns, burlesque and a grandpa 5 years older than him? No, we’re not doing anymore shows, so I’m not promoting here. I’m just saying. You want to be in a play, just be in it. You want to grow food, grow it. You want to spit poetry, spit it. You want to share your skills and live heart, share them. You can wreck any time whether you deserve it or not, so I say, fuck worrying about Wall St., let’s have a coffee or a beer and dream a dream of here/and now.
Done Chrysalis
by Johanna DeBiase
She should have known to slow down when the tires slipped going under the overpass. She might have pulled over for the night, but she had an irrational need to get to the Corn Palace before putting the road to bed. The soft rain had just begun, winter dark just fallen. She must have been doing seventy when the tires slipped again. The Jeep spun a one-eighty and rolled onto the roof of the passenger side where her buddy Jim was shielding his head. The roll continued onto her side, tossing them around in a state of blank suspension. Glass shattered in her hair. Somehow, it landed on all fours, on the other side of the gully, perpendicular to on-coming traffic.
To her right, headlights stared her down. She could not open her door. Her left hand was fucked up. She felt for her left pinky, bent back from the top knuckle and grabbing it, snapped it back into place with painless adrenaline. Jim managed to get his door open and she crawled out his side. He was cradling his right arm to hold in the bone jutting out of his elbow.
The first responders found them there in the ditch, in the rain, broken and huddled close. She kept asking them to check her hair for glass as they covered them with blankets. When the paramedics finally arrived, they wrapped her neck in foam and strapped her into the gurney. Sirens preceded their arrival. She was half-way to the hospital in an ambulance swerving and sliding along the icy back roads when she was struck with a moment of clarity. Shit, she thought to herself, I'm really fucking high.
Untitled
by Robin Powlesland
