tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2438802172751912962024-03-14T03:18:29.448-05:00Paraphernalia QuarterlyParaphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-64164470917160145132011-03-07T05:14:00.000-06:002011-03-07T05:15:13.444-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/3Cover.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 513px;" src="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/3Cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/notes-from-dealer.html">notes from the dealer</a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/matthew-kosinski.html"><span style="font-family:arial;">Butch Ferrari (And Michael was a Trucker) -</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > Matthew Kosinski</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/holly-day_07.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Candy - <span style="font-style: italic;">Holly Day</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/kyle-hemmings.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Absolute Zero - <span style="font-style: italic;">Kyle Hemmings</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_7180.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Pool Hall Raz - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/dan-provost.html">Tyson and Cobain - <span style="font-style: italic;">Dan Provost</span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/steven-purkey.html">Ragamuffin Chic - <span style="font-style: italic;">Steven Purkey</span></a><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_5661.html"><br />If You Don't Know How To Do It I'll Show You How To </a><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_5661.html">Walk The Dog - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/jade-bos.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >God Plays Chinese Checkers On Multiple Boards In<br />Multiple Dimensions - </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Jade Bos</span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/alex-cizak.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >A Moral Majority - <span style="font-style: italic;">Alec Cizak</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/william-doreski.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >A Little Crime Wave - <span style="font-style: italic;">William Doreski</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_07.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >The Day I Was Brainwashed By<br />The Rolling Stones Song Paint IT Black - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/diana-rose.html"><span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Karma Is A Bitch Named Alice - </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Diana Rose</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/pa-levy.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Clipped Wings - <span style="font-style: italic;">P.A. Levy</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris.html">New York City Digestion Blues</a><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris.html"> - Catfish McDaris</a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/beverly-heels.html">Body Damage - <span style="font-style: italic;">Beverly Heels</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/holly-day.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Dreaming - <span style="font-style: italic;">Holly Day</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/fake-dada.html">t told 'em i dropped it - <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fake Dada</span></span></a><br /><a style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/sarah-blakely.html"><br />lullabye, for crazy bastards and gypsy rogues - <span style="font-style: italic;">Sarah Blakely</span></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"></span><br /></div>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-49351289533748017932011-03-07T03:37:00.017-06:002011-03-07T05:13:55.142-06:00Paraphernalia Quarterly #3 Winter 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/3Cover.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 513px;" src="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/3Cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/notes-from-dealer.html">notes from the dealer</a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/matthew-kosinski.html"><span style="font-family:arial;">Butch Ferrari (And Michael was a Trucker) -</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > Matthew Kosinski</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/holly-day_07.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Candy - <span style="font-style: italic;">Holly Day</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/kyle-hemmings.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Absolute Zero - <span style="font-style: italic;">Kyle Hemmings</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_7180.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Pool Hall Raz - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/dan-provost.html">Tyson and Cobain - <span style="font-style: italic;">Dan Provost</span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/steven-purkey.html">Ragamuffin Chic - <span style="font-style: italic;">Steven Purkey</span></a><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_5661.html"><br />If You Don't Know How To Do It I'll Show You How To </a><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_5661.html">Walk The Dog - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/jade-bos.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >God Plays Chinese Checkers On Multiple Boards In<br />Multiple Dimensions - </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Jade Bos</span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/alex-cizak.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >A Moral Majority - <span style="font-style: italic;">Alec Cizak</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/william-doreski.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >A Little Crime Wave - <span style="font-style: italic;">William Doreski</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris_07.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >The Day I Was Brainwashed By<br />The Rolling Stones Song Paint IT Black - <span style="font-style: italic;">Catfish McDaris</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/diana-rose.html"><span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Karma Is A Bitch Named Alice - </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Diana Rose</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/pa-levy.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Clipped Wings - <span style="font-style: italic;">P.A. Levy</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris.html">New York City Digestion Blues</a><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/catfish-mcdaris.html"> - Catfish McDaris</a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/beverly-heels.html">Body Damage - <span style="font-style: italic;">Beverly Heels</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/holly-day.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-family:arial;" >Dreaming - <span style="font-style: italic;">Holly Day</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/fake-dada.html">t told 'em i dropped it - <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fake Dada</span></span></a><br /><a style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/sarah-blakely.html"><br />lullabye, for crazy bastards and gypsy rogues - <span style="font-style: italic;">Sarah Blakely</span></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"></span><br /></div>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-49755327454253395712011-03-07T03:36:00.003-06:002011-03-07T05:25:40.118-06:00notes from the dealer<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, it happened. The January 1st deadline came, and went. Then came the Jan. 15 deadline, and the Feb.1, Feb 15, and March 1. Who ever knew a dope man that showed up on time anyway. The snow's still melting & no 'shrooms are sprouting, so we're still calling this the winter issue. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Two words: Catfish McDaris. You'll find him popping up here & there throughout this issue. Consider that a warning. Catfish is one bad motherfucker, watch out for that poolstick. You can catch him over at his joint </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://catfishgringoriver.blogspot.com/?zx=bf8b8fee4002c5d">Catfish Gringo River </a><span style="font-family:arial;">where he's got a little pod of miscreants committing all manner of indiscretions. He has a chapbook </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://alt-current.com/pp/pp_item.html#making_love_to_the_rain">Making Love to the Rain</a><span style="font-family:arial;"> available on </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://alt-current.com/index.html">Propaganda Press</a><span style="font-family:arial;">.<br /><br />Our cover art this time around is by Josh "Moses" Griffin. Josh is a longtime hombre of the staff here at Paraphernalia. He's just completed a grand tour of the finer correctional facilities in the great state of Mississippi, and our cover "Possum Head Man" is his first completed piece since his recent release. We're proud to feature him on the cover, and damn glad to welcome him back to the world.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The next couple months are gonna be busy ones here at PQ. With the completion of issue #4 we'll be looking into the logistics of printing an anthology of the filth we've brought you here over the interwebs. We'll also be starting our Broadside Blasphemy project, with the intent of littering up light poles & bathroom stalls near you with broadside presentions of the best from past issues. We'll be keeping the cooler stocked and the bowls packed, & hoping the same for you. Enjoy issue #3, and we'll holler at ya when there's something to holler about.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-43506585705880222182011-03-07T03:35:00.002-06:002011-03-07T04:28:54.016-06:00Matthew Kosinski<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Butch Ferrari (And Michael was a Trucker)</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And of course the mechanic’s name</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">is Butch Ferrari. He’s built and bearded</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">like a degenerative Father Christmas.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My grandfather takes me into the garage.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He’s asking for beer.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He’s looking for a Corvette which used</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to be where the cardboard boxes and slit trash bags</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and steely indefinable artifacts are forming a collage,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">now, here, in the garage where the Frigidaire’s gone rusted shut</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as Frigidaires are prone to do</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in periods of long disuse.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The way Butch talks to him.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The way Butch hobbles</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and stops to hold his right knee</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">while sucking air in through</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">his ruined teeth.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And here the Frigidaire’s gone rusted shut</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as Frigidaires are prone to do</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in periods of long disuse.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They used to bury whispering men in Lakewood.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was this one time when my grandfather</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">didn’t know he was transporting someone’s personal arsenal.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was this other time my grandmother danced</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">with a murderer who was an agreeable man, by all accounts.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They don’t keep beer in the garage anymore</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">because the Frigidaire’s gone rusted shut</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as Frigidaires are prone to do</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in periods of long disuse.<br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-69431129066898009912011-03-07T03:33:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:29:41.800-06:00Holly Day<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Candy</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Get up and dance. False prophets of </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Amway ring too early to be </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">taken seriously, songs of </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">dynamite, perfumes first tested </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in Vietnam, marital aides </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">developed in Nazi death camps. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Shake your tight little ass to the </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">catchy new ceremonies of </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">hate, and love, sparkly testaments </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">inspired by Time Life Books and AIDS.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It ain’t Merry Christmas anymore—</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">it’s Happy Dahmer, it’s Yom Manson, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">it’s mine, it’s only Tuesday and </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I can’t go in to work, and neither </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">can you, not now, not with all your fake</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">empathy rocking the boat. Hello, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">dear. I’m in the middle of a </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">torrid romance with a man only </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I can hear, and I’m all tied up right </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">now. Literally. Speak in pain</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">speak in tongues, let your body do </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the talkin’. I can hear your blind </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">fingers tap on the other side </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of the locked trap door, and I have </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">too many good reasons to fake</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">my own death than get up and answer the door.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family: courier new; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-11572483448716121352011-03-07T03:27:00.006-06:002011-03-07T04:30:26.181-06:00Kyle Hemmings<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Absolute Zero</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Outside my window, a boy lies dead in the street. It’s morning. A grey winter without<br />snow. Cars pass, veer around him, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">as if he’s nothing more than a dead cat. I always<br />hate the sight of it: there's nothing less than something dead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Maybe in winter, nobody likes cats or wants to remember their first hit-and-run. I stand<br />at the window, butt-naked; </span><span style="font-family:arial;">she rolls back the sheets. Before I saw the boy, I thought I<br />wanted another tumbler of sex. Another jostle and a holler. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">She said she was too hung<br />over. But now I’m telling her there’s a boy dead in the street. I don’t know his name or<br />the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">exact contours of what I imagine is his disfigured face. How did she paraphrase<br />Freud? There’s an indiscernible line between </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the polymorphously perverse and the<br />polymorphously prurient.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Last night, I bought her three gin fizzes hoping she’d change from a state of dry ice to a<br />vapor with a purplish tinge. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Purple is how I define sex when it changes into something<br />else before a triple point and after a triple sec. Not love. But </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a ghost of it, a ghost with<br />sloppy table manners.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At the bar, misfits danced in the aisle, Mardi Gras smiles stole the air. I listened to her<br />mix and slosh her words, her </span><span style="font-family:arial;">stories of love in tailspins and tatters. I was reminded of<br />that old movie where a French general kept saying “Charge,” but </span><span style="font-family:arial;">his army was already<br />obliterated by a hollow-breasted Bertha. Clearly, neither of us ever chose or loved<br />wisely. We just </span><span style="font-family:arial;">couldn’t achieve that steady state or we skipped one. Her mother’s<br />voice hung in between her words like somebody’s finger in </span><span style="font-family:arial;">my drink. Mother's warnings<br />were Surgeon General severe and her laugh was ice chips and crackling glassware.<br />“Maybe for a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">night,“ her mother the ghost said with a sigh, “but he won’t last the season.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Her mother, she said, was dead. But the dead, I think, love to watch and give stale advice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Outside, the boy is no longer on the street. I thought he couldn't can’t get any dead-er,<br />but now inside the room, he floats </span><span style="font-family:arial;">between us. There's a chill that causes our tongues<br />to stay indoors; the thermostat's broke. Lord Kelvin invented the notion </span><span style="font-family:arial;">of Absolute<br />Zero in memory of his last mistress. She was a child-like woman who read him stories<br />at night, whose eyes turned </span><span style="font-family:arial;">upwards at his poems. When the temperature dropped,<br />she died of pneumonia. At absoute zero, even the polar bears are no longer </span><span style="font-family:arial;">white,<br />they're transparent. At absolute zero, we'll disappear.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-5882993846133134342011-03-07T03:24:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:31:11.069-06:00Catfish McDaris<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >Pool Hall Raz</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Navajo Ramon said, there's a shit</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">load of gay priests living on Chicken</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mountain, you could fuck anyone of</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">them in the face for $20 a pop</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I looked at his turquoise & bear claw</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">necklace, knowing that he'd killed</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the bear with a bow he'd made</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ramon was a bad motherfucker,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but I'd never been afraid of much,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I told him, why don't you bend over</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">this pool table & I'll see if I can part</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">your hair with this cue stick.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family: courier new; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-70092960349188118402011-03-07T03:21:00.002-06:002011-03-07T04:32:34.766-06:00Dan Provost<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Tyson and Cobain</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mike Tyson never believed that Cobain could ride on a moon beam.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He was just another brawler, ready to reap the awards of beating people up.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The intellectual stuff was for the computer geeks and butterfly collectors Tyson must</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">have thought,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As old Kurt flew to places only a young Rimbaud could fathom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mike wanted instant gratification; a wife to hit, a bar patron to punch—while Kurt craved cerebral…wanting to see the world with visceral eyes… Brooding about the search.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Blended colors, frightened children….afraid to live in the transient world of mind-speak.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tyson now has a tattoo on his face; strained to be remembered as a great fighter</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Cobain is dead… he’s buried somewhere in Seattle with a shotgun hole in his skull.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wonder if Mikey still thinks of Cobain…and the strange way each pursued nirvana.<br /><br />*****<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >previously published in </span><a style="font-family: georgia; font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://redfez.net/">Red Fez</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-36336831863329938042011-03-07T03:15:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:33:22.376-06:00Steven Purkey<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Ragamuffin Chic</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I shot dope by myself</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in her bathroom</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Long-sleeved, hiding tracks</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I loved her</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I smoked dope w/ her</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">one night, all night</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Playing guitar, singing gibberish</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fighting for some lost freedom</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And I loved her</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">All of her</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and I’d always get drunk</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and pass out on her porch</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">or nod out while speaking truths</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And awake sick</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">w/ or w/out shit</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to get me by another day</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I used her love</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and she used mine</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I found her wondering around one day</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">me, by myself</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">her, alone</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We walked around holding hands</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and talking</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and hiding from cops</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">got drunk in the graveyard</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She could take me or leave me,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but mostly she took me in</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and taught me the secrets of</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ragamuffin chic.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-65059023842071936722011-03-07T03:07:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:34:14.215-06:00Catfish McDaris<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">If You Don't Know How To Do It I'll Show You How To Walk The Dog</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Jenny loved it doggie style</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">or in a chair, me banging</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">her head against the wall</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the harder the better</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I preferred her sister, Becky,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">she was 4 years older & a</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">stone to the bone fox</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Going & playing G.I. Joe</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I came home on leave,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">muled a 100 grams of Afghan </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Drove a Catalina out to</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the airport, Becky & I</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">dropped some Sunshine</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Through clouds of hashish</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">it started raining & we were</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">naked watching for UFO's,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">jackalopes, or Kokopelli</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Dawn creeped pink scarlet</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">over the Llano Estacado</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I discovered the wide track</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Pontiac was up to its axles</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Becky was ready for more,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I turned her booty up &</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">started working & we heard</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a tap of wood against glass</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was a peace officer</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">disturbing our piece, he</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">looked extremely amused.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-2390801694383146752011-03-07T02:55:00.005-06:002011-03-07T04:37:39.838-06:00Jade Bos<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">God Plays Chinese Checkers On Multiple Boards In Multiple Dimensions</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">God plays Chinese checkers</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">on multiple boards</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in multiple dimensions</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">for God, time does not exist</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">so the margaritas are always 2 for 1</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Meanwhile the kings and queens</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of the Jersey Shore</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">tumble, head over heels</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">down infinite stairs</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The gold chains and self tanner</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">create a bright, noxious vortex</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and a new galaxy is born</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">if you listen close enough</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">there is a rhythm in all this</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">yer heart, like a black cricket</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in leaky Super Big Gulp cup</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">yer voice, whispering my name</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">like a goddamn wildfire</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/tumblr_l88sdkcdmg1qa8ibao1_r2_500.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 425px;" src="http://i728.photobucket.com/albums/ww285/yossarian_hunter/tumblr_l88sdkcdmg1qa8ibao1_r2_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family:courier new;">return to index</span></a>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-33094005948960009002011-03-07T02:52:00.003-06:002011-03-07T04:38:34.432-06:00Alec Cizak<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">A Moral Majority</span></span><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-family:arial;">Nicole answered the door in beige Capri pants and a tight, black t-shirt. “Pastor Hornung,” she said, “imagine this.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher had sweat through the coat of his fine brown suit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole stepped aside to let him in. “What’s going on?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “You have something to drink?” Harold paced the small, one room apartment. He stopped at the king-sized bed, looked at it funny, as though he had never been in it, and then continued until he came back to the bed and stared at it once more. “Good grief, Nikki,” he finally said. “This place is a mess.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> She ignored him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold noticed a full bottle of whiskey on one of two oak-stained dressers. “Are you going to offer me something to drink?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “You see that fifth of Jack Daniels.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher grabbed the bottle, spun the cap off and drained half a pint from it. Whiskey ran down his chin. “She’s done it,” he said, then again, “she’s done it, Nikki, she’s done it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole leaned her back against the door. She pulled a Lucky Strike from a pack she had rolled up in her sleeve. As she walked over to one of the dressers to find some matches, she asked, “Who’s done what, Harold?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Connie Moore. She let herself get pregnant. Says it’s mine.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Wally Moore’s daughter?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold nodded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole’s face twisted so much her mouth and her nose threatened to trade places. She found a box of matches and lit her cigarette. “She ain’t but fourteen.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold stopped moving. “What does that have to do with anything?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole laughed. “I s’pose them boys from the lodge who burn crosses out front is right. You Protestant folks is way superior to us Catholics.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold put the bottle back on the dresser and balled up his fists. “Nikki, I’ve got a situation and you’re the only in Haggard who’d know how to sweep it under the proverbial rug.” He calmed down and opened his hands. “No offense.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole rolled her eyes and spit when she exhaled. “None took, Pastor.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “So what’s your thinking on this? What would you do, you know, if you got pregnant from one of your clients?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “I’d do what I always do. A doctor in Chicago’ll reach in, grab that little monster and yank it while it’s still cooking.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Good grief.” The preacher scratched his head. “Are you talking about an abortion?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Pastor, please,” said Nicole. “You gon’ try an’ tell me you never had a girl scraped out?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “It’s not legal, Nikki. What would I say if my flock found out?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Well,” she said, “you can sit around and wait for the girl to give birth normal-wise.”</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie Moore climbed out of her bedroom window and raced across the lawn in front of her family’s tiny house on County Road 55. She was wearing her blue dress with big yellow roses on the shoulders, the same one she wore to church every Sunday.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> She ran to Harold’s Buick, ripped the passenger door open and jumped in. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek and squeezed his hand. “Thought I wouldn’t ever see you again,” she said. “I mean private like, like this, after what I told you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher pushed her away. “You weren’t lying to me, were you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie shook her head. “Ain’t bled in three months.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “OK,” said Harold. “We’ll take care of that problem tonight.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie looked confused.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “We’re going to Chicago. There’s a doctor there who will deliver the baby ahead of schedule.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie’s lower lip shook. All she could say was, “Chicago?” Harold suggested she find something to listen to on the radio. She tuned it to a station out of West Lafayette playing music Harold assumed had been recorded by the devil. He asked her who the singer was and she told him, “Pat Boone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Let’s try something else,” said the pastor. He pushed the dial to a gospel channel broadcasting from Crown Point. Hank Williams sang “When God Came and Gathered His Jewels.” Harold smiled.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie looked out her window. She twirled her dusty-blonde hair with one hand and pulled at the bubble gum she was working on with the other. Once, she actually told Harold she wanted to be an astronaut. It seemed crazy to him that she would entertain such a thought, even as a joke. He glanced over at Connie and saw that she was fighting tears. “What are you sniffling about?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I thought God was showing me how much you loved me. Like He showed Mary.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Mary was a virgin.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “So was I.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Look, I’m not God. You‘re not Mary.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie cried.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher put his right arm around her. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re going to meet a nice, young man someday and he’ll make you honest and you’ll forget all about our time.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie buried her nose into the side of his shirt. Harold patted her gently, like a small animal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> They passed Gary and East Chicago. The radio drifted into static. They cruised up the Dan Ryan Expressway. Harold turned off on 35th Street and idled near Comisky Park. He looked at the piece of paper with directions to the doctor Nicole had recommended. As he studied them, Connie sat up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Baby’s making my boobs bigger,” she said. She peaked down the top of her dress.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher followed her gaze. “I see that, sweetheart.” He put the instructions away and pulled into traffic. “We’re almost there, now.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> They wove through neighborhoods that folks back in Indiana would describe as “bad.” The houses had broken windows repaired with pieces of cardboard. The grass in the gardens out front grew as tall as the rusted fences surrounding them. Music coming from passing cars sounded foreign to Harold. While sitting at a stoplight, he asked Connie if she recognized the singer blasting out of a polished Cadillac next to them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Sam Cooke,” she told him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold turned onto Michigan Avenue and found the building he was looking for. He parked across the street. The doctor’s office was at the top of a three-story building. Nicole told him to have Connie climb the wooden steps on the side facing the alley. He pulled an envelop from his coat pocket. It was stuffed with cash he had taken from the collection box. After explaining to her where she was to go, he handed her the money. “Knock twice,” he said. “When the doctor answers the door, ask him what seven times seven is.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “That’s simple,” said Connie. “Forty-nine.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The preacher kept his cool. “Sweetheart,” he said, “it’s the password. It’s how he knows you’re not the police.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie got out of the car. Her shoulders jerked up and down as she walked. Harold assumed she was crying again. He felt bad for her. I can’t have any bastard babies, he remembered. In order to distract himself from his conscience, he tuned the radio, looking for another gospel station.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold fell asleep. A commotion coming from across the street woke him up. An orange AMC Rebel pulled into the alley. A woman in a skirt and thick sweater got out and ran up the stairs. When she reached the top, a man waiting there loaded her arms with two huge boxes. He shooed at her quickly and she walked back down and put the boxes on the ground while she opened the gate to the station wagon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The man from the top of the steps produced two more boxes from inside the office and hustled to the car without even shutting the door. Harold wondered if that was the doctor. He also wondered where Connie was. He watched the man get into the station wagon. The woman was driving and nearly tore the pavement up as she peeled out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Then the night was quiet, save Bill Monroe, on the radio, singing through a crackling, barely audible signal. Harold waited to see if Connie would follow them out the door. The office was dark. He finally said to himself, “That’s odd.” He killed the engine and got out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold climbed the old staircase. The wood was rotted and it creaked under his weight. He held tight to the railing. He got to the top and reached for the door. Then he stopped himself, thinking that touching anything would be a bad idea. He slipped inside the office and saw that it was just a small apartment with a kitchen and bathroom near the back. Aside from a table and three metal carts, the place was empty.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Connie was on the table, her upper-half covered with a blanket, her legs and midsection, bare. A streetlamp just beyond the window provided enough light for Harold to make out a pile of bloody fragments taken, he assumed, from inside of Connie, dripping down the edge of the table to the floor. Her thighs were covered in blood.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Connie?” he whispered.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> He walked carefully to the other end of the table. He wrapped his sleeve over his hand and removed the white sheet hiding Connie’s face. Her eyes were open. Frozen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Good grief,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> He left the apartment. Quickly, carefully, he walked down the steps, constantly looking around to make sure nobody was there to see him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Once he was on I-65, back in Indiana, he allowed himself to feel bad for Connie. She had been nothing more than a pretty girl who sat near the front in church and had introduced herself at an Easter mixer the year before.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold Hornung was asked to conduct the funeral service for Connie Moore. The doctor who killed her had been caught in St. Louis, trying to get to Mexico. He told the police the girl had shown up all by herself. Harold spoke at the church, before the town put Connie’s body in the ground, reading a sermon prepared by his wife:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “I can’t explain what this world is coming to; While our young men sacrifice themselves in Vietnam for the freedoms that make this country the greatest on the Earth, their peers at home sit down in streets and universities, frying their brains with the devil’s weed, claiming they know better than the president of the United States what is and is not moral.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> He wiped sweat from his forehead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “I can tell you what’s moral, brothers and sisters. Preserving the sanctity of life, both the lives of those who walk the Earth on their own and those carried in the wombs of God’s most delicate creation, woman. And when a woman denies that sanctity to herself and to the seed growing inside her, I do believe we have reached the saddest stage in the human adventure.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Wally Moore and his wife Elizabeth stared at the preacher with disgust. He ignored them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Connie Moore was possessed, at some point, to engage in activities reserved for a grown man and woman united in the bonds of matrimony.” He looked at a group of fourteen-year-old boys, classmates of Connie’s. “I don’t know who it was that planted the seed in Connie,” he said. “What I do know is that she felt the father was not worthy of seeing his own child open its precious eyes. While I’m sure Connie will be forgiven by our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I’m also sure she will be spending eternity with her child in heaven where, I pray, she can explain to the poor soul why she chose to engage in such a brutal act of matricide.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> He paused once more to scan the flock and wipe his forehead. “Let this be a lesson to us,” he said at last. “Murder will always be punished by God.”</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The Wednesday after Connie’s funeral, Harold paid his weekly visit to Nicole O’Brien. When she opened the door for him, she scowled. He asked her what her problem was. “Nothing,” she said. She walked to the bed, pulling her skirt down along the way.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “We’re not going to talk a little?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> She slapped her left cheek and said, “Let’s go, preacher.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> He stepped in and closed the door. “Don’t you want to finish your cigarette?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole laughed. “You got two seconds to get your tiny pecker over here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold unzipped his pants and moved in to position behind her. Nothing happened. “Good grief, Nikki,” he said. “You’ve got me distracted now.” He closed his pants and sat on the bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Nicole pulled her skirt up and plopped down in a wooden chair by the only window in the room. She smoked her cigarette and looked out at the concrete mixing plant across the street. “Klan torched another cross on the lawn tonight.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “I noticed.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “This country ain’t ever gonna’ accept us, is it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> The pastor asked her what she meant.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “Catholics. Me. Hell, anybody who ain’t Protestant and willing to lie straight through his teeth.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold laughed. “Well, Nikki, truth be told, this really isn’t your country. We tolerate you, and when we don’t need the entertainment you provide, we send you back home or lay you down with the worms.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> “But the kids is gon’ change all that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Harold Hornung smiled. “It won’t even take us ten years to turn this equal rights malarkey into an unpleasant memory.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-28383934409904095872011-03-07T02:49:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:39:21.204-06:00William Doreski<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">A Little Crime Wave</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A troop of punks on the stoop</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">cranks up a radio so loud</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">vinyl siding peels from the house.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I beg and threaten and finally</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">kick the radio into the street.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The punks rise as one. I slam</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the door on their Cyclops sneer</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and phone the cops. The address?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I can't recall the street because</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I don't live here. I'm the burglar,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">you see, and like to work in silence.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">With my sack of loot I escape</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">through the back yard and over</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the grape stake fence. The call traced,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the cops arrive in a huff and whack</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">with nightsticks the vandals ripping</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">flowerbeds and smashing front windows.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They'll bear blame for the burglary</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as well, their feral outlook improved</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">by their time in Baby Detention.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">From the overgrown railroad embankment</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">behind the house I watch the melee</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and counts the grunts as officers</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">swing their clubs and concuss the kids,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">whose obscenities float overhead</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">like the honk of migrating geese..</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Two laptops, hank of jewelry,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a coin collection. Not so bad</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a haul. I've parked my car a mile</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">away. The fading daylight</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">reminds me winter's closing in,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">every snowflake fraught with tremors</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">insistent as Original Sin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-45521620688151742722011-03-07T02:47:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:40:04.706-06:00Catfish McDaris<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">The Day I Was Brainwashed By The Rolling Stones' Song Paint IT Black</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She insisted I paint</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the table, I just felt</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">like chilling with a</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">cup of java & the paper</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I opened the black enamel</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">next to my coffee cup</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">20 minutes into the job</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I dunked the brush into</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the wrong container</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Just before taking a sip</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I noticed, that's when</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the idea hit me</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My lady had been dying</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">her hair for sometime</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I decided to surprise her,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I painted my penis black</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That night after making love</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">she asked if I got some</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">vitamins, I just smiled</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The next morning I heard</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a blood curdling scream</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">she was staring at my weenie</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I told her what happened</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I could see her thinking cap on</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I thought oh hell, she took me</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to a tattoo parlor & as she was</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">telling them what she wanted</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">done to me</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I found the backdoor</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">& escaped down the alley.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-69172463474840907482011-03-07T02:42:00.002-06:002011-03-07T04:40:48.694-06:00Diana Rose<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Karma is a Bitch Named Alice</span></span><br /><br />She is the shapeshifter in the black of night,<br />lurks in the shadows<br />three steps behind<br />oblivion<br /><br />She was there ...<br />in the corner of your nightmare<br />feasting on rotting flesh<br />from your skeleton frame<br />it went well with that Chianti<br />watching as you packed the pipe<br />watching time float through your fingertips<br />away..<br />she forced you to look in the mirror<br />Escape ..<br />you cant hide from Alice.<br /><br />She sat next to you as you crushed pills on the dash<br />was on top of the dumpster<br />as you heated the broken light bulb<br />the light of day<br />was just a memory<br />you tried to forget.<br /><br />She helped you rehearse every lie you told<br />never able to look her in the eye<br />Love is a four letter word for pussies and saints<br />and that church of all that is holy burned to<br />the ground<br />from your last rolled cigarette<br />butts you picked from the gutter<br />she helped you find.<br /><br />Karma is a bitch , Go ask Alice she'll settle the score.<br />She lives in this purgatory<br />near the corner of 5th st<br />she sold you that one way ticket to nowhere<br /><br />and is waiting for the ride to stop..<br />Waiting for it to all fall down.<br />And no one will be laughing then<br />Karma is a bitch named Alice<br />She has your number<br /><br />she's dialing.. don't answer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-48062377331912014842011-03-07T02:41:00.002-06:002011-03-07T04:41:28.468-06:00P.A. Levy<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Clipped Wings</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">thanks to the angels</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">it’s always spotless in heaven</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">they do the hoovering</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and washing-up put things in their </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">proper place</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">prepare the meals for when</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the saints come marching home</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as they dry the dishes </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the angels blaspheme</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">under their incense fragrant breath</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">they discuss </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">what the point of a virgin is</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">think</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">feather boas not wings</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">‘cos it amuses them to turn</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">virgins into scrubbers</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">for in their soul </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">they know</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">‘every whore was a virgin once’</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to prime them for their future life </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">as angels</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the virgins have to do the laundry </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">there’s no sin to wash away</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but sometimes there’s a shadow of doubt</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">that needs a damn good scrub<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family: courier new; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-74822374884983471912011-03-07T02:34:00.003-06:002011-03-07T04:45:18.766-06:00Catfish McDaris<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">New York City Digestion Blues</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After eating spaghetti and sausage in Little Italy, on the edge of Chinatown, my lady<br />wanted to shop. I waited </span><span style="font-family:arial;">outside while she looked at Buddha’s for her collection. I<br />watched the Bowery scene, the old brick architecture </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and the languages garbled<br />together like chicken bones clogging up a garbage disposal. In a shop window I saw </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />squirming eels, green yellow frogs, and sardines in soy sauce, next to a television<br />displaying someone getting </span><span style="font-family:arial;">a foot massage and acupuncture. My toes started feeling<br />like caterpillars frying in olive oil. A huge fat Italian </span><span style="font-family:arial;">moke with a turd looking cigar stuck<br />in his pie hole hogged up the sidewalk with his big bushy tailed red assholed </span><span style="font-family:arial;">dog. He<br />trudged and stomped like he was King motherfucking Kong, looking for a challenge.<br />A lithe little Chinaman, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Bruce Lee type with a tiny brown nondescript dog tried to avoid<br />any action, to no avail. The fight was on. The chink </span><span style="font-family:arial;">dog grabbed the wop dog by the<br />nuts and did some dog Kung Fu. It was thing of beauty, blood and fur flying high. I </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />saw lots of gleaming meat cleavers and long knives coming out. I called my woman<br />and said, let’s scram. She asked, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">what have you done now. I just laughed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-54286486800145252142011-03-07T02:32:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:46:17.305-06:00Beverly Heels<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Body Damage</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The bumper sticker says</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">chicks dig body damage</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and I run my fingers over</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">my busted knee cap and</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">think I would miss them</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">if they were gone and the</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">bubbled scars of my spongy</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">cancers boil to the top of</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">my skin and think it’s a</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">shame I don’t dig chicks</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">'cuz I got scars like a dictionary</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and they’re like men and</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">cigarettes sometimes</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I like to smoke them fast</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and choke but other times so</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">slow so it burns and still other</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">times not at all 'cuz I’m sick</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but most times I crave</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">cigarettes like men’s hands</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">across my busted knee cap</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but I can’t afford a pack 'cuz</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’m as broke as the car</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">on which I first spied the bumper</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">sticker<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family: courier new; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-3521078475592392542011-03-07T02:30:00.001-06:002011-03-07T04:47:13.587-06:00Holly Day<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dreaming</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">when I became pregnant</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I spent the first few weeks trying to kill it</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">stopped eating, slept</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">stomach down against the cold dirt</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">beat myself until it hurt. Then</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">other thoughts began to set in</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of what this child could be if it lived</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">how the nightmare of his or her conception</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">could unfold into a wonderful dream. Now</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I slept with my stomach to the ground</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to protect the child within</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">my body a shield against </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the wolves prowling outside my door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">when he raped me a second time I knew</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">he had killed our baby, the way</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">one knows that the sun has risen </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">even while still deep in sleep. By morning</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I knew I was completely alone.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: courier new;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html">return to index</a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-86771546404688774592011-03-07T02:25:00.003-06:002011-03-07T04:48:23.036-06:00Fake Dada<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">i told 'em i dropped it</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">legend has it, that i might have got drunk the night before. this claim </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">has yet to be verified.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">due to a mood that may or may not be associated with dancing at top </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">speed with bottom rung spirits, some shit may or may not have </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">happened.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the man in charge barked</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to do this & to do that</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">so i did just that</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but while doin' that</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">i could hear him in my head</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">sayin' stupid shit</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but then i realized</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">that he wasn't in my head</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">standin' next to me</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">he's tellin' me to do this & that with the little hand-held scanner we </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">used to check product in. the instructions were shit i knew all too </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">well, & the product in question was not my responsibility.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">all of this in combination seemed to be a little much for me at that </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">particular moment in time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">within 20 seconds of him turnin' the corner, to go back to his desk, i </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">had smashed the lcd screen of said hand-held scanner against the </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">corner of a wooden pallet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">the rest is history.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-family:courier new;" >return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-39790580377677168982011-03-07T02:12:00.004-06:002011-03-07T04:49:20.179-06:00Sarah Blakely<span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >lullabye, for crazy bastards and gypsy rogues...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">there fly, small</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">spells spinning the</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">air over carcass</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">scent and firelight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">passages softly lit,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">from somewhere</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">beneath our souls,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in sleepy flicker.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">i reached through</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">chaos, granted a wish</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">for calm'd love,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a peaceful doorway.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">this magic curl</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">upon parchment,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">resting these tired</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">running minds, hums.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">lullabye, babymine,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in your bloody</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ear, to soothe</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a monstor still.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">big sky stretching</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">canvas, bent for</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">morning brillance,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">a patient coax.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">bodies elegantly naked,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">for the mark of</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">rolling laughter,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">down secluded hill.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">intimate buzz,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">sailing for exotic,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">wearing electric coats</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of foreign colour</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">sweet detour, down</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">backroad freedom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">hold my hand, with</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">sunlight on our backs</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">crafting moments,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">guitar slung over</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">shoulder, tipsy</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">songs sung bright.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">smack of winged</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">things huge, our kind</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of holy, drawing </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">circles on evening.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">spider following,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">paisley brocade from</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">his gentle limbs,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">wraps the silence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">draped silken, candy</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">apple air leads</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">to a carnival nestled</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">beyond the forest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">blue & gold spinning</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">lights, happy</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">jack in the box</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ping ringing surprise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">walk the wind at</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">your heels, follow</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">me, climb the trees</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">over the carousel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">we throw copper</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">over ferris wheel,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">hit and miss, wishes</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">for wooden swings.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">its warm here,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">in afterglow of</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">youthful energy. it's</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">enough to remember.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post_07.html"><span style="font-family: courier new; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">return to index</span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-69914658606543540502010-10-31T22:49:00.018-05:002010-11-01T00:50:45.137-05:00Paraphernalia Quarterly #2 Fall 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6naaz80LJ0dM7cPD7wrtF0k_Xr3jlkRhc-vZyvuWplfieSMzZVOarGug6tn9yGdoWtC9LeaVK3On9nHgcqs2YjHu9zXPAvAy1FA1MyTFztOdgxkyaT7JRigMH2IqIYHBeu98F99_Sc-j/s1600/pq%232cover.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 512px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6naaz80LJ0dM7cPD7wrtF0k_Xr3jlkRhc-vZyvuWplfieSMzZVOarGug6tn9yGdoWtC9LeaVK3On9nHgcqs2YjHu9zXPAvAy1FA1MyTFztOdgxkyaT7JRigMH2IqIYHBeu98F99_Sc-j/s400/pq%232cover.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534429801588243170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/note-from-dealer.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">a note from the dealer</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/frankie-metro_31.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">plans for the new molecular structure of man</span> - <span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">frankie metro</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/tj-jude.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">in remembrance of</span> - <span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">tj jude</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/blaze-i-will-go-out-in-blaze-of-ugly.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">blaze</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">vic swan</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/keith-landrum.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">this guy</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">keith landrum</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/michael-grover.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">confessions of an american outlaw #23</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">michael grover</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/riip-redding.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">scrambled sunday slam-dance</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">riip redding</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/vic-swan_7019.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">fuck you</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">vic swan</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/ben-john-smith.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">leaking</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">ben john smith</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/murphy-clamrod.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">crosswiseness</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">murphy clamrod</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/normal-0-microsoftinternetexplorer4.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">father's day</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">vic swan</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/steve-huffman.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">tarantula ranch </span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">- <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">steve huffman</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/vic-swan_6361.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">gettin' short</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">vic swan</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/lara-konesky.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">heels </span>-<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">lara konesky</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/brian-le-lay.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">corned beef & cabbage</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">brian le lay</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/vic-swan_31.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">resurrection</span> -<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> vic swan</span></span></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/where-in-our-hero-comes-to-undeniable.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">where-in our hero comes to the undeniable conclusion </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">that he's had too much coffee</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">jason ryberg</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/si-philbrook.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">what will survive of us</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">si philbrook</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/vic-swan.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">love & unicorns </span>- <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">vic swan</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/nonsense-on-satanism-ive-never-really.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">nonsense on satanism</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">fake dada</span></span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/frankie-metro.html"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">of innocence and coffee.. of bugs and being..</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">of stares and horizons..</span> - <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">frankie metro</span></span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwRtzKK01Lq1I1XjlUV0Ooi1pUNnvzfUo3YATX0eZ21YE_NeDgxuxIfEPNYf8blI2nM15eA5e4E5cerXeCHAmXeDMDZEVjoiOxakz65rUXG9u11XDKYAG6oHUZ2KDrIZ4EFBNK3OWRtMz/s1600/martians+land.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 372px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwRtzKK01Lq1I1XjlUV0Ooi1pUNnvzfUo3YATX0eZ21YE_NeDgxuxIfEPNYf8blI2nM15eA5e4E5cerXeCHAmXeDMDZEVjoiOxakz65rUXG9u11XDKYAG6oHUZ2KDrIZ4EFBNK3OWRtMz/s400/martians+land.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534449415906805058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-429376477914176402010-10-31T22:48:00.007-05:002010-11-01T01:40:03.929-05:00A Note From The Dealer<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >"<span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">I confuse art with everything - life, death, walk, wake, sleep, not sleep, sex. It's all art to me. I could never draw a straight line, or separate consciousness from being.</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">"</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">~Bro. Vic Swan~</span><br /><br /></span><br />The first time I spoke with Vic Swan, I was hosting a shitty internet radio poetry show, & he called in to read a bit. He introduced himself as “Bro. Vic” & mentioned that he was packing everything he owned into the bed of his truck & hitting the road, taking the word to the street. Having spent most of a life in the south, I was immediately concerned. In my experience, anyone with the title “Bro." who is “taking the word to the street” usually wants to pass around a plate, or at least give me some shitty literature. I braced myself for the worst, & he read a poem about fucking a midget. Respect is seldom so easily earned.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >The last time I spoke with Vic, he was outside a dispensary somewhere around Denver. He hit me up, wanted an opinion on what varieties of medicinal marijuana I really enjoyed. After half an hour of ganja talk, we settled into a lengthy discussion on the merits and/or drawbacks of hairy pussies. Verdict: bring back the bush.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >In 1981, while working as a dj in Tallahassee, he experienced an unlucky morning on Friday the 13th, and duly refused to get out of bed. The station sent a truck, and Vic broadcast from his bed, on a trailer about town. This year, when confronted with his own mortality, Vic decided the hospital life was no life at all, & packed up his truck again, hitting open mics & beautiful spots on the American road. He died August 7 in Colorado, among friends. His life exemplifies what we stand for here at Paraphernalia Quarterly, & we are damn proud to have known him.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >You’ll find artwork & poetry by Bro. Vic scattered throughout this issue, and a bit more as well. Being a liquor-friendly establishment, Frankie Metro & Jason Ryberg both chime in on the dangers of that demon we call coffee. Steve Huffman brings us a yarn about cowpies, Coors beer & the unavoidable flying saucers that haunt parts of East Texas. tj jude has some advice on how to handle unruly veterans at yr next social function, & Fake Dada hosts our first Spirituality column, where he explains why the guy downstairs may just get a bad rap. There’s all manner of deviance inside, so roll up a joint & come join us. </span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtJxw2bUUluDEas7dJGlZEWdoCAc1EPXFibnkX-7OFH1ePLosAvOkH3trR6GBO-OVdYpViLjZaRTCKxIAM9wiFugbCvi8kCnuckHTzkjTZmxtNQugcxB_0hWez_vgr6doGmxNfX23BVgF/s1600/poetry+sucks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtJxw2bUUluDEas7dJGlZEWdoCAc1EPXFibnkX-7OFH1ePLosAvOkH3trR6GBO-OVdYpViLjZaRTCKxIAM9wiFugbCvi8kCnuckHTzkjTZmxtNQugcxB_0hWez_vgr6doGmxNfX23BVgF/s400/poetry+sucks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534464800648254626" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >"Poetry Sucks"</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Vic Swan</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/paraphernalia-quarterly-2-fall-2010.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Return To Index</span></span></a>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-47741893283366644592010-10-31T22:47:00.001-05:002010-10-31T23:19:55.518-05:00Frankie Metro<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">Plans for the New Molecular Structure of Man</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >Let's cut up some dead folk..Let's cut up some molecules..Let's come up with something and call it new and give it a name and make it walk and give it memories..<br /><br />Let's hope that it doesn't remember the truth...Let's keep it away from an identity..Let's make it crawl first..Let's never let it grow old..<br /><br />Let's tell it there's nothing we can do to stop the degenerate process..Let's make up a story about its birth..Let's say it never lived and placate its fantastic notions of existence..<br /><br />Let's give it a book..Let's watch it struggle to read..Let's play pretend that it sleeps and doesn't hover over our heads with snarled teeth and kitchen weaponry..<br /><br />Let's make a pact with it..Let's break the agreement..Let's incinerate the evidence and put it in an urn and find a depository for the remains..<br /><br />Let's search high and low for a place to rest it..Let's make plans to keep it from the Earth..Let's shoot it to the Moon while a fireball collides with Jupiter.. Let's convince it that even a planet can take one for the Universal Team...<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/paraphernalia-quarterly-2-fall-2010.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: georgia;">Return To Index</span></span></a><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" ></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243880217275191296.post-80842438006970372092010-10-31T22:44:00.002-05:002010-10-31T23:20:40.838-05:00tj jude<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">in remembrance of</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:arial;" >it’s a waste<br />of time<br />spent recollecting<br />for no one<br />cares to hear<br />but that’s not<br />why i do it<br />anyway<br />if i could<br />stop i would<br />stop but i can’t<br />stop even though<br />i know<br />i’ll never make<br />any short list<br />of must-reads<br />or change anything<br />or anyone<br />but here i go<br />again.<br /><br />eighteen at a party<br />of i don’t know who’s<br />and i don’t remember where<br />but there i was<br />doing my best<br />to get high<br />and drunk and forget<br />whatever it was<br />i didn’t want to<br />remember which<br />was the life i<br />was living<br />and i’d never seen<br />him before and<br />he didn’t know me<br />but there he was<br />sitting at the picnic<br />table in the backyard<br />doing his best<br />to get high<br />and drunk and forget<br />whatever it was<br />he didn’t want to<br />remember which<br />was the life he<br />had lived as a<br />soldier in nam<br />and he sat there<br />at the picnic<br />table in the backyard<br />saying kill maim<br />destroy kill maim<br />destroy that’s what<br />they taught us to do<br />and he kept saying<br />kill maim destroy<br />kill maim destroy<br />and started to cry<br />as he kept saying<br />kill maim destroy<br />and i moved away<br />with everyone else<br />whose mellow he<br />was harshing<br />into the kitchen<br />and we all left<br />him sitting at the<br />picnic table crying<br />and saying kill maim<br />destroy kill maim destroy<br />and i thought then<br />that he was a freak<br />and maybe he was<br />a freak but that’s<br />what they made him<br />by teaching him to<br />kill maim destroy<br />and not letting him<br />know how to live<br />with it afterwards<br />and i know now<br />just how much<br />of an asshole<br />i was then.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://paraphernaliaquarterly.blogspot.com/2010/10/paraphernalia-quarterly-2-fall-2010.html"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: georgia;">Return to Index</span></span></a><br /></span>Paraphernalia Quarterlyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15907825262063618917noreply@blogger.com1