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There Will Be Sharks 01
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* There Will Be Sharks *
* v1, issue 1 *
* *
* Do the Funky Kierkegaard *
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me to play.
contents:
sOren = simplification Minerva122
door smashes fingers slanted
Falling Off the Edge
of the World: Homody
of a Love Song Epcot Fitzgerald
Wetland David Getzin
March 18 kaia
Annasi Breathing Matt Boyd
Tropical Fruit Report kaia
Mondnacht David Getzin
No Way Out Rendered Heartless
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s0ren = simplicity Minerva122
"I have only one principle, and it is not even my starting point--I do not
start out from my principle, for were I to do so, I would regret it. If I
were not to start out from it, I would also regret it."
These oh-so-existential words of Kierkegaard come to mind whenever I find
myself beginning to write, and even more pertinently now as I try to write
about him. Nowhere does this dilemma of his make itself more apparent than
it does in writing. And having made that statement, I already regret it.
Maybe it's fear of the bogeyman, maybe it's psychotic perfectionism--or
maybe it's, as Kierkegaard goes on to suggest in An Ecstatic Lecture,
philosophy's only impetus and mankind's initial predicament.
It makes sense. To do (for instance, to state by writing) is to annihilate
the potentiality that was the future by making it now, and all too
quickly, the past. Right? And what could be more terrifying? What is more
terrible than freedom? What is more paralyzing than a blank document in
Word? These are the parallel situations in which I find myself. So why is
this sounding so much like an attempt at self-justification?
Since Kierkegaard and I never start, we can always stop, since our eternal
starting is our eternal stopping. There is the solace: never start and
you'll never fuck-up. Write your retraction into your statement and you're
above reproach. Shop at Old Navy only if you make merciless fun of it all
the while.
Yup- absurdity. That's my principle.
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door smashes fingers slanted
on january 3, 2001 19 year old sarah flemming was arrested for the murder
of her upwardly mobile parents, amanda and bernard flemming, bernie and
mandy to their friends. on the night in question, a night when sarah was
sleeping in her old room (home for winter break from Coe college) and her
brother was sleeping at a friend's house, bernie and mandy flemming were
each shot repeatedly point blank in the head with a pistol bernie kept in
his top desk drawer in his study. police believed signs of forced entry
and robbery to have been staged by sarah and possible (never named)
accomplices. at first sarah's neighbourhood, her suburb, her city and the
nation proclaimed her innocence--she was a pretty tallish blonde girl who
read good books and listened to pretty songs and liked boys and art.
during the course of the investigation, as the media and the police
burrowed deeper into her past and her college life, the sentiments began
to change. no particularly damning evidence was unearthed--she had tried
smoking a few times, had been drunk a few week ends, may have frequently
been unfaithful to boyfriends, but none of this was out of the ordinary
for a college girl. for whatever reason, though, the more time passed the
more sarah's guilt was taken for granted. there were spirited debates
about whether the parents deserved it, whether they had been abusive, and
what the whole mess said about society in general--but her guilt was
widely assumed to be a fact as incontrovertible as evolution.
through the whole thing sarah had an air of mostly ambivalence. on a few
occasions she broke down and cried and yelled about her innocence, but she
was mostly uncommunicative in a pleasant way. george will observed he had
seen mafia dons less cool and calm in the face of media scrutiny. and so
it was that sarah was well liked. and so it was that people were happy
for her (though a little disappointed at having lost such a great and
sinister bit of folklore) when, in april of 2001 a drifter arrested for
murder in omaha confessed to having been the one who broke into sarah's
parents' house and murdered the couple, stealing some money and a bit of
jewelry which of course the police hadn't known was in the house and so
couldn't have noticed was missing. the man said he would have raped sarah
too, surprising her while she slept, but he got nervous that somebody had
heard the shots and so he ran away. so sarah was released a few weeks
before her trial would have started. that night she checked her
e-mail--through all of it she had managed to keep the address for the
account she preferred to use more or less a secret avoiding most crank
letters/marriage proposals/offers to save her soul. though she did
receive porno spam at the account...but she supposed that was unavoidable.
an odd message caught her eye.
to: NoCatNoCradle@uss.net
from: YouthfulOffender@hotmail.com
subject: the trial's over the weapon's found
you did in the open what we have done in secrecy and you got away with it.
surely you must feel that you are alone, isolated, that nobody else your
age has done what you have done, has taken that terrible burden on their
shoulders....but you are not alone. far from it. we too have had to
offer libations to our Youths in blood, we have found it necessary to
stain a little bit those places of vapid affluence where we were forced to
walk day after day. we are the sons and daughters of blood. but enough
bullshit--i don't want to sound like a pretenders song. you're not
alone--there are many of us, more than a score, who have felt the
compunction to kill in our youths. we were more careful than you and by
being so baldfaced and still walking away, you have become greater than
us.
nobody would believe that drifter, who obviously has a hardon for you, if
they did not want to believe him so badly. because we were even a little
subtil, nobody even considered us when friends, enemies, rivals, parents,
teachers or hallway acquaintances turned up dead. the real reason is that
the young, pleasant and pretty can do as we please, but they don't want to
admit that. so they find excuses to call us "innocent". but the more
preposterous those pretexts, the closer we come to the Truth, that things
have changed, shifted, and what was unforgivable in mayberry may be
excusable in affluentia 2000. you are not alone. many of us sit in
basement rooms and dorm lounges and in our cars conversing for a few
minutes before getting out to go to the movies and we salute you.
regards.
there was no signature or signature file.
sarah read the message twice. "twisted" she said.
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Falling off the Edge of the World:
Homody of a Love Song Epcot Fitzgerald
Falling Off The Edge Of The World
The streets are safely lined
With low hanging trees and fluid brush.
Their branches sway, embracing the wind
Like lovers in a rush
To play their hopeless love
Into the dying of a week.
Flinging stones drearily into a forest creek
And muttering under baited breath
About the dying of the weak.
I sit alone and watch
The posies play hopscotch.
Here the Dancers spin around me, two by two
With the buckle hanging loosely from my shoe,
O, how the tears fall softly from my brow to my lapel!
Trampled underfoot beneath the bound of the gazelle
Whose pelting hooves upon the trodden earth leave stain,
So the sea drips from my eye. (Or is it rain?)
For what gloom must I harbor such disdain?
Take a brief moment to imagine,
Take a brief moment to care.
Take, take a heathen from his brethren,
Take him home, if you so dare.
Have a lover, have a foe, have a taste of bitter woe.
Find your maiden, sweet and fair,
Kiss the perfume of her hair,
Watch, as I watch, watch a fire cease to glow
Watch it skipping blindly into the warm winter air.
I lie alone and dream
Of lilies wading through a stream.
Here the Faeries flit around me, three by three
>From my dreams my scalding worries fail to flee.
O, how the tears fall softly from my brow to my lapel!
O, how I long but for the ringing of a tiny silver bell!
Whose minute voice my weary heart can often hear
O'er the bustle of crowds, dangling my feet down from the pier,
Staring at the ocean I have cried, waiting for the moon to reappear.
So the sun resumes its race
With humankind to the horizon.
Seeking, as I seek, as you seek
A requiem, for no more rising
Will take place, we must abandon time and space.
For someday, someday, the meek
Will rule the world, in all its bleak
Revitalizing lack of splendor,
And the Earth will be as one within the dying of a
week.
I kneel alone and hold
My breath as God creates the world.
Here my Arms fall flaccid to my sides, one by one
As my hands reveal the sordid works that they have done.
O, how the tears fall softly from my brow to my lapel!
Again I err; I've forgotten to remember, "all is well..."
Another weak man stirs, coming, unenthusiastic, to my aid.
Another yet to stop and smell the roses in the nearest glade
Forever in distraction, forever faltering to ebb, and fade.
Alone, I linger in the streets, no longer safely lined with trees
And the fruits of all my labors rush to leave me,
In ones
And twos
And threes.
I stand, alone, and say
That tomorrow will be better than today.
~fin.
1 February, 2000
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The Wetland David Getzin
_The Wetland_
In the beginning all was ONE
God was one and was of the ONE
The ONE sang God and God sang ONE
They both flew and flew, mixing
and being in two as one.
In infinite mass and place
they were one, ONE and God;
infinite out and infinite in
For they were ALL
And the two that were ones who
were ALL met and mingled,
shooting out ALL in every
direction, known and unknown in all
place known and unknown
Thus was Detail created and
named his home Space
And with space was time always
She kept him keep her always always.
And thus of them through and with
ONE was born land sea and air a
all together
They moved as ONE separately
into three:
LANDWATERAIR
And of them withall life was
begotten existing with
and of ONE
And life was with ONE
and they were.
Life Fragmented divided
with and through ONE
thus to speak fragment to
fragment was speech.
And it spoke:
"look into the void"
(who is now known as zero)
And the Fragments saw void
All and void were of ONE
yet apart and set sacred
Life stared into void
Fascinating anew
but it was not of ONE
And thusly void opened their
eyes, loving and hating
wanting and having
living and dying
making , destroying
They stepped up to God
But God burnt them and
froze them, lovingly laughing and
weeping for they were
merely Fragments called life
Thusly grew life and fragmented
Itself loving and hating
wanting and having
living and dying
making , destroying
Fragments further
fell through void
Elliptically turning with tine
burnt with God's glory each time
they stood up, freezing each time
sitting down
Through Space mountains formed in Time;
Land with sea
shores, seabed, lakes
all of Land scaping outwards
Therein dwelled life as it
grew while it burnt thawed and
froze as it drew from the void
Life swelled, and shrunk, growing
ever further yet closer to
God.
And God blessed life saying
unto them:
"Fear not, I am with you
and in you, without and
withall
There will come a hub
in which you shall fly.
A reversing in vortexes pulled
by my grace ever nearer to me
And so it passed and the hub-midpoint came
bringing blends of life's knowledge unknown.
Life saw both ONE and the Void as together
in all drifting back to a union of
Past
Thus they felt God and were moved
in a being much closer to ALL
Fragments came together as A and Not-A
Life and Not-life as they swung
ever closer with God.
And they sang as all singing.
ONE of the void and void of the ONE
All knowledge suspended, extended
compressed and expanded
And life was of ALL in the void and
without as a twilight of
LANDSEA and ALL was of ONE
as in ending beginning in song ALL with
ONE sang the Fragments together
now fused and all healed.
Thusly then was ONE ALL
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March 18 kaia
i had the opportunity to speak with mogel before he became famous, fat,
rich, and surrounded by gorgeous, shallow women.
it was june of '99 in 30th street station
i was lamenting how much i hated pretzels
as i offered the passerby free samples.
nasty, butter soaked tidbits
on lustrous silver platters
traveling to their next destination,
that's how i imagined the businessmen
in their tweed suits and black dress shoes.
the underworld, abuzz with clickety clack.
italian leather, patent leather, dead cows
stretched over hard frames and stern heels
pushing through, stepping on each other's toes.
a flash of fur and i spotted the king of the jungle
kings, i should say, in dual majesty, charging through
the tweed tree trunks with such purpose as i have
never seen,
parting the glossy black waters, eliciting stares of
reverence
and confusion
and they were coming straight at me.
i looked up.
"can i help you?"
"ummm, can i have a lemonade?"
"size?"
"actually, make that.. an iced tea. large."
"what's with the shoes?"
"they're slippers."
"lions?"
"bears."
"And They're Hungry," his companion with
eggplant-colored hair said,
"they
want
pretzels."
i laughed. no one else was laughing....
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Annasi Breathing Matt Boyd
Anansi Breathing
Matt Boyd
I've bitten off more than just my fingertips
because
I've bitten off more than just my fingertips
on this one
Who's the spider on his back?
Who's the spider on his back this time?
my brain's cracked terra-cotta
I got 8 eighs
fingers where my mouth should be
(this is it)
What is it when we're lying like this, side by side?
just one more week and I could do this forever
the broken pottery rattling in my skull-
consent to forks on flatware one more time
music from a distant room
on a day a lot like spring
I don't care if anyone ever understands me again
"The Word is Deed."
Here is the world where what we all say matters.
We don't take turns
kissing me
understand
I am jealous
and the reward is dry
cracked red pottery
dust traces of gourds
my brain
rattles
'your confessions don't touch me'
kissing me is reading a book
when I remember it is not reverie, but archaeology
There's no more time to reproach myself.
What is this-
the spider lies on his back
his delicate legs boil
waving
blades of grass grown in stop-motion photography
(black earth heaves aside)
All this dancing
'I'm trying to breathe'
The spider lies on his back
'I can see you'
'I see the pillow'
'I see the wall'
'I see the ceiling'
even as the spider curls
(never need to be shown how to make a fist)
the spider prepares to make a fist
I only want to lie here fo-evah
I only want to lie here fo-evah
I could do this forever.
breathe and see
and never blink
born forever
'I insist,' you reiterate,
'on the validity of the moment'
you insist
'on that which I percieve'
all tha's really important
is passing
and (can you dig it?)
DIG.
everything that's really important is mine
"These fragments I have shored against my ruins..."
dragged red clay tied in a satchel
behind me up the tree
'Anansi'
whisperinmyearyoudon'thavetotouchme
'anansi...'
don'tyougetanyfurtheraway
voices come and they echo
(they go)
isn't that the way?
When I was 10 I woke up but my brother was asleep
Grandma's house was quiet
I heard Grandpa speak to me
and I tried to cover my head
When I was 19
a voice whispered in me ear
she said, "bereft"
and then she left
and I sat up hinged in the middle like Dracula
'a ansi...'
dontyougetanyfurtheraway
'I see stars that are already dead'
'I can still taste you.'
Mr. Anansi
the bunch you picked
has just been picked
you're on the banana boat, now
you're on the banana boat, now
you're on the banana boat, now
'I have what I have, you know?'
it's what he said to those he could gather,
waved his hat at the receding shore and listened
'a n i'
whisperinmyear
The spider lay on his back
his legs wave like smoke signals
'I'm trying to breathe'
'I see you.'
'I see the covers'
'I see a terracotta desert. It's baked surface rings
like it's being
danced on in tap shoes.'
forks on flatware
and Ben Vereen in a terracotta desert
the fingers where his mouth should be sign a message
'send word'
'send word'
send me word in America
and I'll send word from America
who's the spider on his back?
who's the spider on his back this time?
The silk thread hummed Morse code
'I could lie here fo-evah'
'I could lie here fo-evah'
brain red bag of broken dishes
spider hobo
The spider lies on his back, waves his legs at the
ceiling and listens
...
ANANSI
(no, no, something whispered)
"That's all we've got."
That's all I remember
legs toward the ceiling
something whispered
MY moment
that's all I remember
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Tropical Fruit Report kaia
subject: cherimaya
origin: pacific beach, california. locally grown.
physical description: the shape of your kidney. green. pockmarked. the
size of a -very large avacado- (TFR vol.1, no.2, in press)
price: $1.99 or so.
review: my friend alan and i tried the alien fruit. halving it lenghwise
revealed honeydew-colored flesh, dense with crater pockets, each
containing a hard black seed the size of a parking token in ljubljana,
slovenia. the fruit was pear-textured (spoon-scoopable), and tasted like
a mixture between a pear, guava, and pineaplpe. not quite like, as the
farmer's market vendor suggested, pineapple sherbet; it was less tart,
more sweet, stronger essential "tropical" flavour (as in guava, papaya
avacado, passionfruit), especially at the onset (alan called
this..'bitter').
alan didn't like it. i found it pleasant and unusual but not unusually
delicious.
further investigation may involve tracing the viability of cherimaya in
newark, de. boy do they produce a lot of seeds.
rating: 5/10 STARFRUITS
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Mondnacht David Getzin
I dreampt a shadow Moon illuminated
dancing by a cloud
Uncertian fear struck deep the sound
My darkness milk black shroud
An Irish seeming take of scenes
flit past the pressue rising
And moved I on past
Fences frozen breath
Stuck in The snow
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No Way Out Rendered Heartless
The wind coming off the Badlands was frigid and dry enough to "freeze
the snot in your nostrils", as Gran Kate would say. Gabe hunkered down
into his jean jacket and shoved his hands further down into the pockets of
his ragged Levi's. He had let his hair grow since his arrival and it had
gotten about shoulder length now and was almost enough to keep his ears
and neck warm if the wind weren't blowing so hard. Gusts of cold air
licked up his skin, chafing and chilling him to the bone, cutting through
his denims like knives.
He increased his pace toward the dilapidated barn standing alone on a
stretch of prairie, dry sage rattled in the wind as he hurried across the
rocky ground. He looked out over the expanse and snorted a thought through
his brain, "Farm THIS shit, Mr. Government subsidy man!" The ground,
rocky and unyielding, had scoffed at the Lakota people for many
generations, draining them of strength and demanding more mechanization
and fertilization than they were capable of accessing.
He and a kid named Red Pony had harvested sage last year for pocket
money. A couple of Lakotas Red Pony was related to back east sold it in
/ethnic" centers for "spiritual healing and well-being". Pony's relatives
were the sort of people who dug running a scam on the rich for their lack
of sense and research. He laughed at the thought of all the Saunas now
being blessed as sweat lodges by prairie sage. He imagined rich, fat
executives sweating their way to red man's spiritual nirvana, swearing
they'd experienced eagle and wolf visitations and adopting totems as weird
white 'wannabes' had the tendency to do.
Dark against the sunlight, the barn still seemed a mile away at best
and Gabe cursed having wrecked his uncle's old dirt bike, forcing him to
hoof it whenever he couldn't hitch a ride with someone.
Walking left him too much time to think, walking and boredom. He
hated thinking about his life since coming here to the "rez"; the poorest
county in the entire United States of America, the capital of desolation,
despair and want. Not that he mourned his father, the old man had been a
drunk and heavy-handed and cruel. No, the old man could rot painfully in
his own filth. It was the city Gabe missed the city where he knew he could
score food, smokes, and sex. The city, which was always a living thing to
him, where, from the time he could run, he'd, learned to use, manipulate,
and work. Days of hunger were few to a good-looking little kid with a lot
of wit, and, as Gabe grew, money from lonely women lined his pockets. So
much so that he felt rich some weeks. Money he hid from his old man, money
he spent on clothes and books.
Then the old man had to go and get killed, throwing Gabe's world into
a tailspin. His first thought when the cop had come to the door to tell
him that his old man was laying on a slab down at the precinct morgue was
that he was finally free. Such was not the case. Suddenly he was giving
the option from the juvenile court to either become a ward of the court or
go to live with his maternal grandmother out in South Dakota.
Gabe had never known his mother or her family so was more than a
little surprised when the caseworker told him that his Gran Kate had said
that she would welcome the boy into her home. This from a total stranger
to him, living nearly a continent away! Before he even realized what was
happening, he was on a bus to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, in
southwest South Dakota.
Gran Kate had a decent little mobile home, clean and warm if not
fancy, but a damn site nicer than the rat-ridden apartment he's shared
with his father. He could adjust to that. The fact remained that Gran
Kate was a total stranger to him, all the relatives he was being forced to
meet were total strangers and he was thrown into a culture he had no idea
existed.
The old man had contempt for the life on the reservation and, if he
mentioned it at all, mentioned it only long enough to curse it and act
like he'd taken Gabe's mom from that life and given her a better one. Fact
was, he'd made her life no better than he'd made Gabe's and sh'd died
strung out on heroin, shortly after giving birth to Gabe. Gabe spent more
time in foster homes than with his dad growing up and could hardly have
conceived the idea of "family". His looks had been his ticket and he�d
learned to cultivate the fact that women seemed to think his "EYEtalian"
background attractive. He felt no need to correct them for the mileage he
got out of it.
He nearly stumbled over a skeleton on the ground and looked down to
see what might have been a dog or a coyote grinning a white and wicked
toothy grimace up at him. He kicked the head, sending it in an arch up and
over the dried sage. He grinned, wondering what fierce and strict tribal
taboo he might have broken with that action. He looked up to see how close
he�d gotten to the barn and cursed himself for doing so, it still seemed
miles away.
A year! A stinking, fucking YEAR in this hellhole with people pushing
and pulling him to "embrace his identity", "put his feet on the red road",
"learn the voices speaking down to him through his blood" and all that
other bullshit he heard on a daily basis. If not at Gran Kate's, at the
'rez' school and at gatherings, he had to listen to the fact that he owed
his people to learn of his past.
He laughed out loud at his Gran's forlorn face when he refused to
call her by her Oglala name, "Bird Woman". But DAMN, the picture that it
put in his head was so funny he couldn't help but crack up every time he
tried.
He'd about given up on ever fitting in when he met Pete. Pete was
not much older than Gabe but was a guidance counselor at the school and a
helluva nice guy. He seemed to REALLY understand the anger in Gabe, not
just give lip service to being able to relate. Pete was also no hypocrite,
he made it well known that he partied, rolled his own blend of pot, was
wild with the women but he was good at counseling the kids at the school
and was a valued member of the staff. It seemed no one was capable of
disliking him!
His first session with Pete was almost fun. They ended up laughing
and talking about things that Gabe could not BELIEVE he'd told an
authority figure. Gabe even liked the way Pete dressed, making no bones
about the fact that he was red he donned waist-long straight hair, he even
had a wild purple horsehair roach he often wore to make the little kids
laugh. He wore none of the fake-looking southwestern accouterments the
tourists seemed to come to expect of every tribe but dressed simply, he
even had a soft doeskin shirt his girlfriend, Crystal, had made him and
Gabe surprised even himself by coveting it.
Since meeting Pete, his world had opened up for him. Pete had taken
him and a couple other "rez" boys to Wounded Knee and told them the story
of that day, his voice so choked with emotion, Crystal had taken his hand
and kissed it and wet it with her tears.
They'd gone to the Crazy Horse monument with some sage for the gift
shop and had watched the white tourists scrambling over the sacred Black
Hills. Another time they went down to see the mustangs in Nebraska and
dreamed of a time when the ground rumbled with the sound of a sea of
buffalo and the plainsmen had pursued, their legs wrapped around the
spotted ponies as they hunted for food. He'd taken them over to see the
White Buffalo and talked to them of the ghost dance.
And Pete had burst into tears when he'd taken them to see the
atrocity called the Homestake cyanide heap leach gold mine near Lead.
There, Crystal had burned the sacred tobacco and cried over what greed had
done to the beautiful landscape, poisoning lakes and streams and valleys
for miles around.
Pete had given him his new Oglala name and Gabe grinned at the name
he could hardly go home and tell Gran about. Pete called him Coyote Shit,
and his friend, Nathan, Buffalo Dung.
Since meeting Pete, Crystal and Nathan, life on the reservation was
almost bearable. Pete had introduced him to many of the wise and
weathered elders and had teased him unmercifully when a professor of about
forty years of age had shown more than a passing interest in Gabe,
especially when it became obvious that she'd had more than academics in
mind.
His fingers felt like ice as he pushed the door of the barn wide to
open it. It was unusual for him to be the first to arrive at this popular
party place for his or her peers but it seemed that no one else had yet
gotten here. He went over to the little pot-bellied stove in the tack
room to build a fire to warm him and to make the small room more
comfortable for the others when they arrived.
After getting a fire going, and warming his hands, he checked his
watch in the firelight. Somebody should be here by now, damn, there were
about twenty of them who met here in different combinations each and every
day at this time. Where the hell was everybody?
Remembering that there might still be several six-packs cooling in
the stream, Gabe decided to have a beer and sit back and wait. As he left
the tack room, he noticed movement in the far corner of the barn. He
grinned to see Mouse, one of the youngest of their group, a likable kid,
skinny and dirty and silent but always ready to laugh at a joke. Mouse
looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, his arms around his
legs, rocking back and forth slowly. Gabe's hand froze in the motion of
raising it in greeting when he noticed the tracks of tears shining through
the grime on Mouse's cheeks. Puzzled, he stared and then watched as Mouse
caught his eye and then slowly looked up. Gabe's eyes followed in slow
motion.
Hanging from a high beam in the loft of the barn, clad in a soft
doeskin leather shirt, his shining black hair hanging straight down at a
crazy angle, the rope creaking against the wood that held it as it swung
slightly to and fro, was Pete.
"FUCK!" Gabe groaned as the sound of thousands of hooves beat
deafeningly in his ears, the scream of the eagle fading into the distance.
The "red road" came up to hit him in the face.
==================================================
fin.
it's just us against the industry
Notes:
send love, hate or submissions to gybberish@yahoo.com.
if you submitted and were not printed it doesn't mean you sucked. i was
more concerned with the cohesion of the whole than making sure everybody
got to play, and always will be. i'll run an issue with 5 pieces each by
2 writers, if i think that is how it works best. if you submit and it's
good we'll run it eventually and if it isn't, we'll make suggestions to
make it good.
4/14/2000
