Issue #3 November/December 2007

MONKEY PUZZLE

Monkey Puzzle Press Boulder, CO

MONKEY PUZZLE

MONKEY PUZZLE #3, November/December 2007

EDITOR, DESIGNER, PUBLISHER

Nate Jordon

POETRY EDITOR Mittie Roger

MONKEY PUZZLE is currently published four times a year by Monkey Puzzle Press in Boulder, Colorado.

Copyright © 2008 Monkey Puzzle Press All rights revert to individual authors upon publication.

Monkey Puzzle accepts previously unpublished prose (2,500 words), poetry (1-5 pages), interviews, artwork, photography, and hybrids. Experimental work welcome. We accept elec-tronic and hardcopy submissions. All submissions must in-clude the writer’s contact information on the first page: name, address, phone number, and e-mail address. Include a SASE if you would like a reply.

Address all queries and submissions to: MONKEY PUZZLE PRESS

3161 Madison Ave. Ste. P-221 Boulder, CO 80303

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www.monkeypuzzleonline.com

ISSN 1937-9927

Editor’s Note…………………………….…………...vi from The Jungle Upton Sinclair.………..……………………....1 The Armillary Sphere Brandon Arthur….………………………..….3 Royalties for Parenthesis Meghann McCormick…………………..…….5 Consider Methods of Evaluation Daniel Dissinger.………………..………..…. 7 The Rod of Correction Cornelius………….……………………...….11 Molested Tim Inman…………………………………..14 When Petersburg Fell Brendan Hamilton.…………………………..15 from Family Album Lindsay Colahan…..……………………...….17 Saint Kaobawa, Fallen Angel Megan Fincher………………………….…...19

CONTENTS

Manifest Pantheism Travis Cebula………………………………...23 Holy Smokes Pete Laffin…………………………..…..…...25 Bacchus in Repose Justin M. Kulyk………………………….…...27 Ode to Snow or Hit Me in the Face with a Snowball, Baby Ryan Clark…………………………...….…...35 Bitch Slap Dana Burkhalter……………………...….…...37 Contributors………………..………………………....41 Acknowledgements……………………….….……….44 Submission Guidelines…………….………………….45 Contact Information………………….…….……...….47

Dear Reader, When the White House becomes a pulpit, we should be more than alarmed. We should be quaking in our boots. That’s exactly what the soldiers are doing in Iraq. They’re fighting the “evildoers” – robed boogie-men wearing beards and turbans for the Devil himself. Soldiers still in their teens are pulling triggers for reasons unknown while watching their friends die and never knowing when, or if, they’ll ever get home again. And we’ve allowed it. We’ve bought the propa-ganda hook, line, and sinker. How do you fight a war on terror? May as well declare a war on boogers. No matter what you do, no matter how much you clean your nostril, boogers will always show up one way or another. But that’s why it makes sense to fight a war on terror with terror, right? Like trying to win a war on obesity by eating ice cream. Why aren’t we fighting a war on pollution? Because of the rhetoric. We’re fighting the “evildoers.” We’ve been fed a quasi-Biblical line of rhetorical bullshit and we’ve believed it as fervently as Jerry Falwell’s pew polishers. Pay attention – the word “evildoers” appears twenty-nine times in the Good Book. The Bush Administration has been using biblical rhetoric to propagate their selfish agendas. Does this sound familiar? It should. Governments have been doing the same thing for millennia. It’s old hat. Ask Constantine. But maybe we can’t pay attention. Heard about the im-peachment proceedings for Dick Cheney? No? Oh. That has everything to do with the mass-media not reporting it, or not being allowed to. C-Span aired the live vote, pulled by Repub-licans, which passed: 218 (for) - 194 (against). Senator Dennis Kucinich, an Ohio Democrat, introduced the measure. De-mocrats voted to refer to the House Judiciary Committee while Republicans wanted an immediate vote. The irony is the Re-publicans are pushing the debate despite Democrats’ readiness to dismiss it.

EDITOR’S NOTE

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Photo by Mittie R

oger

And let’s not forget that Cheney has a 9% approval rating. Single digits, folks. Cheney is charged with misleading Con-gress and the American public into a war with Iraq and at-tempts to mislead lawmakers and voters into war with Iran. Representative Steny Hoyer was stunned by the GOP move, calling it, “a continuation of Republicans’ gotcha games that achieve nothing more than short-term entertainment for themselves.” The GOP leaders thought it would be embarrass-ing for Democrats if they voted for the debate. Hoyer contin-ued, “I am surprised that Republicans would treat an issue as important as the potential impeachment of the Vice President of the United States as a petty political game.” A game? Hmm. Well, when compared with imperialism and the acquisition of Middle Eastern oil fields, perhaps Ameri-can politics is a game. Let’s see…detainment lists, restrictions on speech and me-dia, a President coming up on term limit…it does sound famil-iar. Bush calls ‘term-limiting’ an undemocratic notion and seems pretty hell bent on dissolving it. In the meantime he pays Musharraf’s $1,000,000 monthly dictatorship fee, includ-ing the harboring of Al Qaeda and Bin Laden. We should give that money to Condoleeza for Broadway tickets and shoes. And why not? That’s what we’d do. Yeah. We’d much rather go see a play than deal with all this fear and loathing. Thanks Condoleeza, now we know how to fight the war on terror.

Hasta lasagna - don’t get any on ya, Nate & Mittie

The Evangelist was preaching “sin and redemption,” the infinite grace of God and His pardon for human frailty. He was very much in earnest, and he meant well, but Jurgis, as he listened, found his soul filled with hatred. What did he know about sin and suffering – with his smooth, black coat and his neatly starched collar, his body warm and his belly full, and money in his pocket – and lecturing men who were struggling for their lives, men at the death grapple with the demon pow-ers of hunger and cold! – This, of course, was unfair; but Jurgis felt that these men were out of touch with the life they dis-cussed, that they were unfitted to solve its problems; nay, that they themselves were part of the problem – they were part of the order established that was crushing men down and beating them! They were of the triumphant and insolent possessors; they had a hall, and a fire, and food and clothing and money, and so they might preach to hungry men, and the hungry men must be humble and listen! They were trying to save their souls – and who but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with their souls was that they had not been able to get a decent existence for their bodies?

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from The Jungle

UPT

ON

SIN

CLA

IR

Phot

o by

Nat

e Jo

rdon

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When earth loses all its moisture, Adaptation becomes restrictive: Though they dig down, Though they climb, They live on nothing but wind & the grapes they pick from thorn bushes Some of these were our fathers & our mothers They are all of them repeating & I hear it Sometime there will be a History of every one, All of our bodies composed By smaller particles & history will be the Repeating of the whole of them The irrigation of the veins from the belly A way that seems right But in the end it also leads to death The circuit of the whole, Being spherical, hems Them in & allows No space to remain empty So much for transformation

The Armillary Sphere

BRA

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ON

ART

HU

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Photo by Ethan Brown

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ME

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CCO

RMIC

Royalties for Parenthesis for Sacagrapas

Forgive my interludes Personal page breaks in sentences Instead of thinking linearly, I think in thick stratums separate echelons of assessment. I dress myself one sock at a time, yet very slowly with each garment. (Parenthetically escorting a phrase is, in a sense, procrastinating the next section of a sentence. As a literary device, parenthesis allow a sentence to linger – in life, parenthesis are the ‘Boondoggles of Dawdling’). Easily sidetracked, I use Pac-man as a sad distraction to (figuratively) defer my tasks to subsequent positions in syntax. I promise I’ll mow the lawn, right after several commas, a dash and quite possibly an inadvertent semi-colon. & after that, I’ll pay my debt to the person who invented the parenthesis – the devisor of these deviant lines I owe him much more than any other ‘Punctuation Progenitor’

I attribute my side-speak and lack of grammatical concentration to this inventor. I paraphrase myself with these elliptical hugs: what unfurls to me through renditions, to others, is covered in coagulated words. I puncture my life to find undulations in time – to breathe between the lines. Though they don’t serve their intended purpose: (clarification for strangers), it is the parenthesis I favor.

(

)

7

-texts- I am an imperfect line off-centered in the woven fabric to be authorized may be possible due to imperfections for the moment lowered my standards blood in my hair between fingers bare foot stresses & creases in the soft dust a breakdown cause & effect and this high ringing I’ve sat here listening to fondles the sensitive tops of the trees across the street -support- to verify the broken particles of everything cause a sound

Consider Methods of Evaluation

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-texts- I am an imperfect line off-centered in the woven fabric to be authorized may be possible due to imperfections for the moment lowered my standards blood in my hair between fingers bare foot stresses & creases in the soft dust a breakdown cause & effect and this high ringing I’ve sat here listening to fondles the sensitive tops of the trees across the street -support- to verify the broken particles of everything cause a sound that can be heard for miles excited silence of dreams I can smell the steel beams & clouds of crowded streets grit rubbing inside the nostrils bored with

the science of ticking clocks

as long as the pull is strong music can be built this soft ground -analytical leaps- if a city is trying to overcome the waving wet between the toes why fold up your questions for later ? if the beat is everything all day in your face the sun filled with cause hasn’t stopped

Photo by Jeremiah Johnson

The Rod of Correction

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Spare the rod, spoil the child. Goddamn if that wasn’t the one and only justification my God fearing mother needed to beat the shit out of me for eating a spoonful of peanut butter or forgetting to pick up a sock behind my toy box. Through-out my childhood I’d get blindsided backhands to the face for reasons so trivial I laugh when I think about it. And thank Buddha I can laugh about it. I’m thirty-three years old and flinch so hard at the slightest hand motion in my direction it’s difficult to get a haircut or even shave. Which is why I have long hair and a beard. According to the King James Version of the Holy Bible, below are the reasons why you should beat the hell out of your kid: • Proverb 13:24 He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. • Proverb 22:15 Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. • Proverb 23:13 Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. • Proverb 23:14 Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. • Proverb 29:15 Thy rod and reproof give wisdom, but a

child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.

CORN

ELI

US

None of this should come as a surprise. For Christ’s sake, God let his only begotten son get beaten to a blood dripping pulp and get crucified…all for conducting a few miracles and loving his neighbor. Maybe I got it easy. Maybe I should have been decapitated for the immortal sin of eating a cookie with-out asking first. By the time I was in second grade, my mother had been slapping me around so much she got tired. She had to con-vince my dad to do the beating. She used the Good Book on him too, telling him he’s the man of the house or whatever and therefore had to be the disciplinarian and in the meantime he’d better get out of the La-Z-Boy and stop slurping Raisin Bran on Sunday mornings and go to church. But he didn’t have the heart to beat me. He wasn’t evil and he wasn’t insane which is why he didn’t need to go get preached at in order to salve his own inner bullshit. He was just a guy who sold cars, watched sports on TV, and smoked too many Kent III’s. To keep from beating me, and keep my mother at bay, he saw a doctor who wrote him a note saying his palms were sensitive and frequent spankings would break the blood vessels in his hands. This he gave to my mother who, after reading it, smirked, sniffed through one dilated nostril, and quipped, “There’s always the belt.” The belt didn’t last long and neither did Dad. My mother had to find a husband who had no problems with righteous violence. So she found this psycho at church. Cordell was a 6’ 6” balding German weighing over 240 pounds with a mous-tache that looked like a thick plastic black comb scraping his upper lip, worked construction, and was a deacon at Christian Life Ministries. Shortly after moving into his rickety Houston home, I opened the garage door from the kitchen and saw Cor-dell kick his boot into my dog’s chops. I had been wondering why Ralph, a big male Doberman, was always quaking in fear. And there it was. Enough boots to the face will turn anything into a quivering milksop. I told my mother about this but she didn’t see the problem. Cordell was a man of God and therefore was in his right to do whatever he, or this so-called God, felt was correct. In Cordell, my mother not only found a man who enjoyed beating me, but

also enjoyed beating animals, and…whoops…had no problem beating her either. Which he did, frequently, for many years until that rainy night where he tackled my mother in the street and before slamming her face into the asphalt, heard my .410 shotgun cock. They found this to be good reason for divorce. The beatings stopped but I soon missed them. They taught me things. They taught me something about Jesus. Jesus got beat to shit and learned mankind is stupid and weak. I believe we can do better.

Photo by Nate Jordon

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Molested

TIM IN

MA

N

(After George Evans) What you are now because of me, sweetie, more than a wrong thing, surely, and when you’re sitting across from your therapist, when you’re telling him about tongue breaching sphincter, you’ll forget about it then, won’t you and won’t you, sweetie, and were you better off before, piddling along, math books and kickballs, and then you’ll forget, sweetie, you won’t recall how it felt, honey, and when you look back you’ll regret codifying roses and Froot Loops.

When Petersburg Fell

BRE

ND

AN

HA

MIL

TON

A trench is an excavation a shelter a division a shell-pocked ditch, is a home dug into the dirt,

is a long line to pass through. When Petersburg fell, we danced above the enemy’s trenches. Empty but for their dead. The siege was over. No need for the living to hide in the ground. When Petersburg fell, we peered into the enemy’s trenches,

perusing the damage we’d done. Down in the mud lay a dead boy, no older than sixteen. Some-one had taken his shoes. For a moment I thought he was sleeping there, in the shade of the high trench walls. His shirt was open, he had no gun. A trench is a cold embrace of earth and tears that held my vision, the boy, and always will.

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Photos by Nate Jordon

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from Family Album

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We walked to Mass on Christmas Eve. It was the only day of the year Mom and Dad came with us. Every Sunday, I was forced to go to confession and service. The neighbor-hood church was French. I sat in the back pew. Mass was in a language I would never understand. I took communion. I gave con-fession in a foreign tongue. If you stare into the light long enough, you see black splotches. There are the holes where my memory should be. I remember being called the Scragahans. I remember old clothes that were too big, too small.

I remember blood pudding and organ meat. Memories like patches. I used to dream that I was in a single engine airplane, spiraling towards the earth. I hated Christmas. There was no money for gifts. We were too poor. My brother always tried to make sure I got something. One year he brought me a train. I don’t know where he got it. I was never that excited again. We set it up. It didn’t work. After he died, I couldn’t sleep in our room. He was everywhere. I moved out to the liv-ing room. Soon, our apartment was too small. He was everywhere. I left home one day and never came back.

Saint Kaobawa, Fallen Angel

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ME

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Out glass at the white sky I think I cried the single word God We endeavor to become more and more virtuous scoffing at religion tearing eyes out feet blinded by sound Is every self-love vicious and inordinate? On the contrary, it is praiseworthy neither God nor I lie per se it’s beyond innocence

curiosity of eyes and nocturnal interviews internal torture and despair

unspeakable sadness and misery my song the only sad note in Heaven

What do we call this raising of bodies to life? A sort of political, interpersonal game that everyone plays beating a wife with a club demanding food, trade goods, favors loudly and passionately shouting

By now I was down to sneakers, shotgun, red loincloth

I saw the hairy goat legs move towards me and my hands clapped over my eyes

An ominous hush fell over the forest

my dry lips wouldn’t pucker whirling bits of black feathers marble queen’s bleeding eyes

Look at how hairy his legs are!

Isn’t his hair an unbelievable color? He is capable of language…

Is every self-love supernatural?

We kneel down, it is true

perpetually unfolding resolution impinging upon everyone else

clan slipping into the womb of clan

it’s beyond innocence

the hekura spirits dance out of the sky profuse sweating

flowers that were flowers because she is the Mother of God

running around wild-eyed they had to kill large trees

(vines drag the others down)

the entire congregation was in fact palpable, visible, interconnected their worm shall not die

shamans begin to sing louder and louder currents of souls all around us, ascending

St. Joseph and your patron saint guilty of blasphemous thoughts

Was it a moan?

A slurred or inaccurate statement? How do we sin by swearing?

Please. Don’t use any of the following:

Lucifer, Beelzebub, Azazel, Sammael, Marduk, Mephistopheles, et cetera

Carefully guard your senses as Simon, the Magician, intended to do

Cry out the single word God

Fissioning reflects solidarity: on one occasion, Kaobawa was preparing a feast The music had of course been tinged with something dark and gelatinous creatures were beginning to form Feasts of Our Lord, Feasts of the Saints time mingled with fear of God because He commands us to love Him (After the duel was over, Kaobawa coolly discussed the fight: yes; we may eat flesh and fish. Ash Wednesday, the Wednesdays, the Vigils of Pentecost) “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Now, we can truly begin.”

Photo by Nate Jordon

Manifest Pantheism

TRA

VIS

CE

BULA

all around us mountains sprout stone faces mind you faces growl creak moan loom get kissed get licked get fucked rocks babies rocks strewn with dew drips spit drips leaves caressing bushes shrubs elk strewn strong antlers ants bees beaver busy busy deer

me my god my yard my seeds everywhere the trees grow hands arms limbs thorns claws fingers claw clutch hug a tree back always eyes watch stare up down behind hawks wrens eagles owls bats look with ears and see bears know us our secrets our naming our garden theft of their parts in vivisection resection then cheap tin resurrection into organic erect- or sets bent sheet metal bent bolts little little nuts screw them hard into our own sterile greedy visage our very own drooling image even the damn wind sighs

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Photo by Jed Thomas

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Holy Smokes PETE

LA

FFIN

I was just smoking a joint with Jesus. He told me how much he wished they'd get up off their knees. If they knew what they were praising, they'd be living in the streets helping their brother out instead of concentrating on me. So, I said, "Jesus, it must be hard up in the sky. There's not much that you can do 'cept sit and pray and cry. But down here it's not much better trying to live the holy life, hoping your soul goes up to Heaven before the Devil knows you died." I was just smoking a joint with Jesus driving 'round my neighborhood. You wouldn't think it, but he believes us when we say we're trying to be good. You'd never imagine how much he laughs, how much he smiles when he's high. Cause it'll be alright. Jesus said I'll be alright. I was just smoking a joint with Jesus, and he said never believe that he's the only way to Heaven he loves the whole world equally. So, if you're gay, if you're black or white or red you'll find a way. Just love each other and you'll make it there someday.

I just smoked a joint with Jesus, and he's one fucking awesome guy. He said sometimes his Dad's a dick, but so is yours when you cross the line. And, try to remember that you are the only one who runs your life. And you'll be alright 'Cause Jesus said I'll be alright. Yeah, Jesus said I'll be alright...

The preceding lyrics are from Pete’s new album The Still Point of the Turning World - available from iTunes, cdbaby.com, and petelaffin.com

Bacchus in Repose

JUST

IN M

. KU

LYK

I A late summer night, Jones sat on a generic black plastic patio chair. A 1.5 Liter bottle of Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc dangled from his left hand. His other hand draped over the arm of the chair with a near-empty balloon stemware glass. He drank the last sip. Then filled the glass halfway from the bottle, before leaning forward and placing it down onto the fake turf of the terrace. Earlier that day, I was at Whole Foods attending to my “head cashier” duties. I had been back from my year in Prague trying to adjust to the way staunch capitalism worked. I was again familiar with supervising twenty cashiers and baggers. There were a few new faces and I was getting to know each of them better from day to day. Like any good general, I was on the front lines with the soldiers—in the trenches, so-to-speak. The detached cashier I bagged for lifted each item, examined every side, ran it over the scanner, and dropped it onto the moving belt with a limp wrist. He did this with every item, and sometimes would give me a “what is this, sheer hell?” look. I nodded to him. “You know in Prague,” I began every other sentence as such, “you had to deposit five crowns into every shopping cart. The only way to get your money back would be to return it to the corral, snap it into another cart, and it would pop out. It was great. Saved lots of labor.” “And I bet you had to pay for bags too,” the cashier said to me (boop, plop), “Don’t you think that would save our environment?” It was a voice that frogged from just behind his tongue, and came out with a lot of extended “eh” sounds. His

27

voice was effeminate. “Yeah,” I commented. “So, they tell me you were in Prague,” the cashier said, still taking his sweet time ringing up groceries. I noticed people getting in his line. It didn’t take them long before they moved over to Robbie’s line. Robbie rang up people like Shiva—four arms flailing. “How are you re-adjusting to it here?” He whipped his head to the left to get his feathery blonde hair off his brow after every customer. “I kind of feel like Krebs back from the war.” He paused in the middle of the order, oblivious of the befuddled expression of his customer, “A Soldier’s Home,” he looked at me with a slick smile, recognizing my Hemingway reference. “My name is Justin,” I said extending my hand. “Jones,” he said, shaking it. After weeks of cajoling, I managed to convince Jones to join Christopher and I in our nightly revels. Jones was reluc-tant because he was thirty-nine years old. He possessed a boy-ish look, yet his hard, angular jowl hinted his true age. A cleft poised on his chin, splitting it vertically into two. The three of us sat on the terrace. We smoked ciga-rettes and slaked our wine. I watched Jones lord over his Sauvi-gnon Blanc. I tried to pace him with my Montepulciano D’Abruzzo red. I held it up to the light. “So you like white wine?” Christopher asked him. “Yeah, man,” Jones sang in his breathless voice. He swigged again and slumped down in his chair. “There’s nothing more beautiful than a chilled ‘white’ on a summer night.” I slapped a mosquito. It sampled from a knuckle on my left hand. The cicadas and crickets squalled. It wasn’t long before we got into Christopher’s car and on the road toward the Jackpot. Christopher turned up the Allman Brothers in the car. He and Jones shared in singing every word. Jones extracted a flask from the inner pocket of his blazer. He turned to me in the back seat. He held the flask out. I took it and winced. Whiskey. In full-chorus, the crunching of gravel announced our arrival to the Jackpot. I discovered this bar and liked it for its noir appeal. It had dim lights and attracted the most desirable

undesirables in the industrial brick city of Raleigh. Lots of emo kids with their vintage sweaters and thick black-rimmed glasses frequented. At the Jackpot Christopher and I, like true writers, sweated over beverages. Now, with Jones, there was fuel for great conversation. That night, we talked hard on topics from philosophy to psychology and even touched on Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. Jones described the themes of Prince Mishkin’s ultimate inno-cence among the affluent popularity contest of the Russian 19th century’s aristocracy. What Jones was really talking about was our participation in today’s society being played out at the Jack-pot. Soon the pitchers of Pabst came every ten minutes. Jones’ cigarette intake increased with every mug. I found myself swal-lowed in a heat of names like Jean Genet and the mention of maggots. We brought books out on outings often. Jones held up his Genet book, “You gotta be ready for this shit, man. You gotta be ready. It’s not just for anybody. I mean, you gotta get your head straight to read this shit. Man, it will turn your stomach. It’s intense...” He trailed off before Christopher and I watched him disappear to the other side of the bar. Jones stumbled off into the crowd. “Wow!” Christopher commented. “Where’d you find this guy?” He knew, though—Christopher served at Whole Foods too. The night progressed. Christopher talked to a chunky woman about his travels, and it rounded 2:00am. He was teased for this. Since Jones left our table, we hadn’t seen him. The lights of the bar opened ten minutes after “last-call”. Eve-ryone squinted. This moment felt familiar. It punctuated all three of our feelings. A moment ending with nothing to show for it. Nothing but empty glasses and a yearning for more, when you really had enough. After prying Christopher from his conversation, we looked for Jones. We told everyone about an “after-party” at Christopher’s. “At the corner of Cutler and Cabarrus—after-party.” Jones was MIA. We departed without him. The drive back to Christopher’s flat was wild. We bounced and bellowed to The Doors, “The Blue Bus… is call-ing us! The Blue Bus… Driver where you taking us?” We were well-sauced. Twelve people came to the after-party. I didn’t know

a soul. I still had some of my ‘red’ left. I smoked on the terrace. The trees looked heavy. My head felt weighted and wet. The street light over Cabarrus flickered while under siege by a swarm of moths and gnats. The music inside sounded remote. I thought about Jones. I wondered what he had gotten into—where had he gone? Maybe he left for good. Maybe he decided to finally never come back. I knew he wanted to leave. A tattered man sauntered out from under the tree across the street. His bony shoulders swiveling to his drunken step. I was in disbelief. I yelled, “Jooooowwwnse!” I called down to him, “Man, where’ve you been?” “I’ll tell you when I get up.” Jones told us he left the Jackpot to go for a walk. He said he ended up going south through downtown into a dan-gerous area. He kept saying he “lost his bearings.” He said he came to a crossroads and a dark figure came out and told him, “Heh, white bwoy! Ga righ… ’coz, if yuh ga leff. Yuh gonna git hut.” He went right and found his way. His tale sounded Od-yssean. Now he resumed his seat at the throne. He held his head up with a fist, his shirt unbuttoned. He pressed the flask to his lips. I imagined him with a crooked crown and an angled scepter.

II I told Jones about a party at The Castle. The Castle was a home owned by a certain skanky co-worker. Neverthe-less, they put on great theme parties. If you didn’t dress up, you weren’t allowed inside. This was fine by Jones. When I arrived I sat on the porch. Jones was seated like an abstract sculpture on a wheelchair. It was comical to see him. He clutched his Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc. This time he hadn’t a glass. He pinned a look at me. We clinked bottles. Earlier that week Jones told me about a book, The Magus. He couldn’t stop praising it. “There’s this guy, his name is Nicholas Urfe, man. URFE! He is on this Greek Island, and this rich man named Conchis completely mind-fucks him. It’s great. You mention satyrs and shit like that. You’ll be amazed. I better shut up before telling you more. You just gotta read it, man. After you’re done, you’ll be saying, ‘What the fuck?’”

I had been reading it. At The Castle I debriefed him of my progress. He grilled me on my speculations, my predic-tions, all the time smiling with his calm countenance—nodding smoothly with squinted eyes. We both longed for our own Greek Isles. Something we could call our own. Somewhere far away. Far from Raleigh. Soon a couple more co-workers sat on the bench next to me. A sleek looking petite, Alexis, and her Electra-like best friend, Briana. They looked like the Wonder Twins. Yet one was much taller than the other. I learned that night that they were Jones’ neighbors. They teased him about being out. Jones excused himself, feline-like. I saw him turn the corner around the side of the house. I would have assumed not to see him again that night, if it wasn’t for the wine he left behind. After a couple minutes, I heard a crash. Jones had tried to climb onto the porch from the side and fell. His knee scraped the concrete. He smirked and slinked back into the wheelchair. “Perhaps I sat in this thing for a reason,” he slurred. We looked at his scraped knee. He poured some wine on it. “A little for the gods,” he said. Next thing I knew, he had Alexis in his lap, pleading for a kiss. She was creeped-out. I watched the comedy unfold. The air was crisp—a stroke of Fall on my nose. A roach pa-raded upon the lip of the porch. A joint found its way to my fingers. I dragged. Exhaled. Nocturne. Wine. Tight.

III It was my last day in Raleigh. I was moving to To-ronto. I called Jones to spend a final afternoon with him. Christopher was off to Vienna. Jones was in the throes of Christopher’s wake. “Thank goodness he’s gone. I was getting quite sick of him to be honest with you. He would always show up. And you know, now that I’m seeig Meredith and all…” Jones said. We sat outside The 3rd Place café. I had my copy of The Magus sitting out on the black waffle-patterned metal table. My hot cup of drip-coffee steamed, blurring Jones for a mo-ment. “I’m the type of person who cherishes my time.

I mean don’t get me wrong… we had some great conversation. It’s just he’s part of the reason for all the stuff in my life, man. I mean, all that’s happened this year. My father died, now this court thing,” he said. “I heard about that. I only heard Christopher’s side of it, though,” I said. “Well, it was a strange night. Christopher came over that evening and we listened to some vinyls and drank wine. I hadn’t had much to drink. It was getting late, and Christopher was going to be staying with Dave that night and he was really drunk, so he wanted a ride. I thought, no problem. So we went to Dave’s but we went this back way I wasn’t familiar with. Christopher was giving me directions, and told me to turn too late. By this time, I made a three point turn. Then I made the turn down the street Dave lived. Christopher told me to pull over. It was a couple houses down from Dave’s. As Christo-pher was about to get out, a cop came in behind me with his lights on. Next thing I know, I was taken to jail.” “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Something like this was bound to happen.” “No kidding,” he said. “Do you think any charges will come of it?” “My lawyer thinks they might drop the case, because the cop didn’t follow protocol which requires him to turn on the lights while I’m in the act of driving.” He took a long drag of his Marlboro Light. I took the last sip of my coffee. “I think the statistics are twisted. You hear about all the horrible things drunk driv-ers do. I’m not exonerating us for driving drunk, but do we ever hear the statistics about people driving while on cell-phones? Comparatively, I wager the cell-phonies kill more in-nocents. Why don’t we hear the politicians and celebrities de-crying those most heinous crimes?” “That’s a good point,” Jones said. “Well, Jones… it’s been a pleasure,” I said standing. “You sure you don’t want to head back to my flat and have some wine?” he asked. “Sure. I’ve never seen your place. I can’t leave for Toronto without knowing the treasures of your bookshelf,” I said. We drove the three minutes to his apartment. The

door opened to the living room. Books laid everywhere. There was only one armchair, a coffee table, and a stereo. I noticed the vinyl records and the paperback books stacked all over the place. He took me to the kitchen, which caught great light in the afternoon. His place was exactly as I imagined it. He poured me a glass of Woodbridge white, and we had a seat in his living room. He sat on the armchair, I on the floor. He packed us a bowl, we smoked. “So, you excited about graduate school?” he asked. “Of course. I need to sharpen up.” Jones never read anything I’D written. A spider crawled from under a copy of Hesse’s Steppenwolf. “Man, I’ve been thinking about just leaving this place, too. Thinking about you leaving and Christopher who travels and couch hops with his trust fund and all. I think it’s finally time. Meredith keeps talking about Portland. I hear it’s nice out there. I was thinking of maybe going back to school to do my Masters. There’s just nothing for me here. It’s time to move. I mean, I’m forty and stuck at Whole Foods. I don’t want to work there and end up like Robbie.” I could sympathize, “No kidding. It’s a trap. I’ve been there over five years, and I even have the store in Toronto lined up for me. Working so long at Whole Foods strips one of empathy. It’s not a job cut out for writers and thinkers.” We brooded over our wines. “So, you see a future with Meredith?” I asked. I personally had nothing against Meredith, whom I encouraged to pursue him. She was nine-teen, over twenty years younger than Jones. She had acne. They kept their relationship quiet because it might cause a scandal at work. “I don’t know, man. I mean, she’s so nice to me. For my birthday last week, she decorated my room in all sorts of Indian trinkets and fabrics. She had incense going and had this far-out sitar music playing. She even wore her turquoise sari she got this past summer in India. No one’s ever done some-thing like that for me. I was moved, man. She even had hash. I mean, how often do you come across hash in Raleigh?” “That sounds amazing.” I knew Jones and Meredith weren’t to last. Jones seldom entered relationships. Meredith was convenient.

I knew as I left Jones that evening I would never for-get him. There were times where I saw the hero in Jones. It was a tragic-hero. He existed in a self-imposed stagnation. He was stuck, and would always be stuck. And everyone who had the pleasure to be invited into his world comes away changed. I can’t pick up a glass of white wine without feeling the sunlight from that afternoon on my face. That afternoon I saw the raw-ness of his age, the weariness, and perhaps a portrait of myself. Jones lived outside time. He never had the ringer of his phone on, he never owned a TV, and he kept poetry to himself.

Photo by Nate Jordon

35

Ode to Snow or

Hit Me in the Face with a Snowball, Baby

RYA

N C

LARK

Hey snow, why don't you come flurry at my place? I own a snow-blower and we can use it. I love your whiteness, and your blackness intrigues me when I see you frozen clumped at the King Soopers parking lot. Maybe if you're into it we can see how you look in yellow. I don't mean to be suggestive, but we can make a video and project it onto your back, so smooth and white so smooth I bet you'd make a good snow cone if you'd let me scoop you. So how about when spring rolls around we head north and spend some time together, alone. I'll make a snowman out of you if you make one out of me.

Photo by Nate Jordon

37

Bitch Slap

DA

NA

BU

RKH

ALE

TER

It was my first date. I was in 9th grade, attending a new school when I decided to ask this guy, whom we referred to as “little circle glasses,” to dinner and the Sadie Hawkins football game. I was terribly nervous because we didn’t know each other in the slightest, just passed each other in the hall at school sometimes. I was determined to go with him. I made it happen, too, with a little help from my friends. I was ecstatic. Not only was I going with the subject of my crush, but I was making new acquaintances, meeting new people in my new school that were not part of the forced friendships that I had attained through classes and from being on the volleyball team. Jason was an animated type of person; at least, he seemed so, from the letters written to me after we agreed to go out together. I decided he must be leading a far more interesting life than myself and I made an excellent choice for a date. I looked forward to an evening filled with amusing conversation, which I had been feeling was a deficient characteristic of my life. As we settled into the game, I felt completely com-fortable. Dinner went famously, with no long lulls in conversa-tion and ended with management paying for our meal because we never received the appetizer. They even bought us dessert; each good sign made me less terrified and I came out of my shell more. I was finally able to participate in the conversation with great ease. We sat down on the bleachers with some mu-tual friends before I was pulled away. Julie, a friend of mine from eighth grade who trans-ferred schools the same time I did, came to where I was sitting to tell me someone needed to talk, as she pointed to the north end of the bleachers. Because I knew very few people in this

new public school, curiosity overtook me. I excused myself and went to solve the mystery. When my walk with Julie was over, I found one of my teammates from the volleyball team waiting for me, fuming. Dixie was a loud girl who used lots of cuss words, which wasn’t anything new to me, and I didn't find it the slight-est bit offensive. I liked my bad mouth with dirty words be-cause I felt they expressed my language with color, as well as my versatility, because I threw in large words to distract adults who told me I spoke like an uneducated bumpkin. Dixie had fried blonde hair from over-perming it and swimming in the pool too often. She was, obviously, a rough girl. I could tell by the language she used as she yelled at me that I would be the asshole to her, no matter what I decided to say. “How could you call me a bitch,” Dixie screamed. I could tell she wasn’t that upset about it. Really, it wasn’t that big of a deal. My head searched the memory file for something that explained what, exactly, she was talking about. I found myself standing next to her in the volleyball game we played the day before. I remembered calling her a stupid bitch; her lackadai-sical error cost our team some points. I was wrong and I knew it. It was my responsibility to explain I had taken the game too seriously because I’m very competitive, but I meant nothing personal by my remarks. I looked around and noticed people gathering around us, listening to our argument.

- WHACK - I felt the burn of her hand hit my face; I didn’t expect it. I looked at her and began to laugh. “That's your answer?” I asked in a huff. My ego screamed, PUSH HER. “You're going to hit me because of something stupid that happened on the volleyball court yester-day?” I tried to keep my voice as calm and steady as possible. I was not going to sink to her level. More people gathered and I started to fear Jason would see and become aware of what was happening. My eyes focused on her eyes and I searched my brain for something witty to say. Nothing came to mind, so I lectured her. “You think you've taught me a lesson? Do I look scared? Look at yourself, at this game just looking for trouble

because you have nothing better to do. You know damn well I didn’t mean anything I said, yet you persist. You're trashy. I mean that. Look at everyone standing behind me and look at you, here, by yourself, with one person behind you, who is also my friend. I won't fight you now, or ever. Get over me calling you a bitch because it probably won't be the last time.” I looked at her with a snarl then walked down the bleachers, away from the scene with my head held high - inside, I stifled the tears. I made it to the bathroom, which felt like walking a mile, but she never saw me cry. I never felt better, at that moment in my life, about leaving another situation regardless of whether or not I acted appropriately. The following year, Dixie had to drop out of school because she was pregnant. When she came back the following year, my mother was her teacher and she became a good ac-quaintance. I’ve always felt guilty about the fact I never apolo-gized for calling her a name because of a stupid game, and that it hurt her feelings, because her ego was probably more bruised than my own.

CONTRIBUTORS

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Upton Beall Sinclair, Jr. (September 20, 1878 – November 25, 1968), was a prolific American author who wrote over 90 books in many genres and was widely considered to be one of the best investigators advocating socialist views and supporting anarchist causes.

Brandon Arthur holds a BA in Creative Writing from the University of Colorado at Boulder. He is currently an MFA candidate in the Writing and Poetics program at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.

Meghann McCormick: aspiring poet/florist from Central New York. She is exceptional at untangling knots. She doesn't want to be an ant.

Daniel Dissinger – words that either become stanzas for poetry or paragraphs for stories. He enjoys staring at the sun and the calming sounds of lawnmowers. His favorite food is a chicken burrito with hot salsa, guac, lettuce, cheese, sour cream, and black olives. Yummy!

Dr. Cornelius is a chimpanzee archaeologist and histo-rian. He and his simian cohorts are planning a coup d’etat to take over the nation and send G.W. Bush back to La Planete des Singes. He’s also a big fan of Pearl Jam. IT’S EVOLUTION BABY!

Tim Inman is one sexy motherfucker.

Brendan Hamilton is a writer. Every day, in every way, he's getting better and better.

Megan Fincher Gustafson Poet Laureate of Skid Row (Bukowski's fuckin’ dead)

Travis Cebula is a classically-trained chef specializing in Irish cuisine and an aspiring poet. If anyone can think of any careers with less earning potential he’s open to suggestions.

Pete Laffin is a 24-year-old New York native in his first semester as a graduate student in the Writing and Poetics program at Naropa University. His new folk-pop record, The Still Point of the Turning World, is available on various websites, including myspace.com/petelaffin and iTunes.

Ethan Brown lives and works in the Grand Canyon. He’s an aspiring Navajo.

Justin M. Kulyk is a 30-year-old novel writer from Raleigh, NC. He currently lives in New Albany, OH, and is in the Low-Residency MFA for Creative Writing Program through Naropa University. He is currently formulating a theory of writing illustrating the characteris-tics of the Dionysian and Apollonian school of style.

Ryan Clark is an MFA candidate in poetry at Naropa University, although please let's not restrict him to verse. He's locked himself in a closet and he says he's not coming out until someone asks to read his short stories. He is quite the stubborn Stu.

Dana Burkhalter is a crusader for truth and justice in all facets of life and enjoys the journey of search-ing for every explanation imaginable. Although writing has never been depended on for her liveli-hood, she spends many hours in research and observation because records of most of her find-ings have always been an integral part of her exis-tence. Dana is a Chef and in the process of obtain-ing a Master's Degree in Library Science.

Jed Thomas is an architect from Bozeman, Montana. Though he didn’t make the cut for Jackass, he’s still good friends with Steve-O.

Jeremiah Johnson lives on Oahu.

He surfs.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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THE EDITORS WISH TO THANK: Our Contributors, Families and Friends. Nate Jordon wishes to thank—Jesus, Buddha, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Daniel Quinn, Robert Pirsig, Pearl Jam, Eddie Vedder, Rocky Balboa, Howard Zinn, Noam Chomsky, Mahatma Ghandi, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama, Michael Moore, George Carlin, Chris Rock, Betina Goettl, Jordon Mayfield, Jason Mesusan, Dr. James Walton, Ruth Jenkins, Tim Skeen, Anne Waldman, Junior Burke, Michael Hussey, The Bush Administration, everyone who votes, INS for constantly threatening to deport me, Yugen, Fact-Simile Editions, ShanghaiSMRadiator, Pistol Whip, Easy Rider, Wolf Man Jack, Captain Kangaroo, Looney Tunes, Family Guy, and Microsoft Windows Vista for being a very expensive package of rhinoceros shit compatible with nothing but Advil. Mittie Roger wishes to thank the people underneath her bed and in her closet, cabernet sauvignon, her dog Shakespeare, sacred geometry, San Miguel de Allende, and New Orleans; Lulu, Poodle, Jared Diamond, Mark Nowak, Paul Reps, Alan Watts, Dr. Charles Isbell, Peter Sutherland, Ina Fandrich, Tom Robbins and Stephen Chbosky. She would also like to thank the chimpanzee family that took her in, teaching her skills to facilitate bipedal motion and taking her out of the swamp.

Submit to:

MONKEY PUZZLE

Issue #4

FLASH FICTION CONTEST

$30 FIRST PRIZE $15 SECOND PRIZE $5 THIRD PRIZE

NO ENTRY FEE

45

Submission Guidelines:

Submit your piece of flash fiction (500-800 words) about, or that incorporates, apes -either literally, metaphorically, allegorically, or symbolically.

Guest Judge - James Kerley James is a member of the editorial board of Bombay Gin, an editor of Many Mountains Mov-ing, and has judged flash fiction contests for The Crucible. Monkey Puzzle appreciates work exhibiting intelligence and creativity, with a bit of socio-political awareness and humor. All submissions should include the writer’s contact information – name, address, phone number, and email address – on the first page.

MonkeyPuzzlePress@gmail.com

www.monkeypuzzleonline.com

DEADLINE December 31

47

MONKEY PUZZLE

EDITORS Nate Jordon Mittie Roger

For questions or comments, contact Nate at:

Monkey Puzzle Press 3161 Madison Ave.

Suite P-221 Boulder, CO 80303

MonkeyPuzzlePress@gmail.com

Cover Photo compliments of Jed Thomas

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Monkey Puzzle is printed on recycled paper.

Photo by Nate Jordon