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CONTENTSNOÖ [14]RONTSPACEFP RESENTS 4P ICTURES 10TRUTH Nicholas LockyerP ROSE12P OETRY 28B ACKSPACE46“Deathbound” © Nicholas Lockyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Editor’s Note . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Vouched Books Laura Straub . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jensen Beach’s For Out of the Heart Proceed Scott Daughtridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cynthia Arrieu-King’s People Are Tiny In Paintings of China Laura Straub . . . . . .Daniel Bailey’s Hallelujah Giant Space Wolf Erin McNellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Evan Glasson’s Vital Pursuits Tyler Gobble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sara Levine’s Short Dark Oracles Laura Straub . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Good Books: A Reading Journal of 2012 Mike Young . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .We Penetrated Deeper and Deeper Into the Heart of Darkness Nicholas LockyerGreyhound Meagan Cass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .The Body Julianna Spallholz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Junk Movements Nalini Abhiraman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Diary of Hunter Green: #7 & #9 Jeremy Bauer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Windows/Screens Ben Segal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Women Guess & Other Women Ashley Farmer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Land Blood Bank & Turmeric Elizabeth Mikesch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Neon God From the Top Turnbuckle Gene Kwak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .P ICTURES 26Fail You Back Kelly SchirmannTundra Kelly Schirmann. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Poem Morgan Parker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28Car on Fire in the Snow Mike Krutel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29from Everything I Destroyed Was Bad Lisa Ciccarello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30We Are Both Sure to Die Wendy Xu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31Self-Portrait With New Weapons Systems Hai-Dang Phan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32I Shall Play Unapologetically Russell Jaffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33Conversations in a Pool Rachael Katz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34Creepshots Anne Boyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35Poem Composed Entirely With Last Lines in Katha Pollitt Poems James Valvis 36Yes, I Will Go Meghan Privitello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37Not Quite Mean or Nice But Okay Marit Ericson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38A Vacuum Is Used But Never Used Up Joe Kmiecik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39The Abyss Has No Biographer Chris Toll . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40Utterance Emily Toder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41FDR Gets Up From the Table With His Hands Over His Ears Elizabeth J. Colen . . 42Stock-Still Katie Jean Shinkle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Behind the Times Tony Mancus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44And Afterward Then Parabolic Apple Breath Ron Winkler tr. by Rodney Nelson . . . . . . 45Contributors’ Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46Acknowledgment Billboard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47Excerpts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 481234566778101112131416182022242627Copyright © 2013 NOÖ Journal, All Rights Reserved. ISSN 1939-4802. For submission guidelines and contact information, please visit www.noojournal.com.

NOÖ [14]Editor’s NoteMike Young — EditorTyler Gobble — Associate EditorMike Young | mike@noojournal.comLET’S, UH. Focus on the high? 2012, guys. 2012. How about it. A whole bunch of things went down—or up insmoke—and for the first year since we started, we didn’t put out an issue of NOÖ. But I like the idea of treatingthirteen as lucky because race car drivers like to say it isn’t, so we’re back and puffier than ever here in 2013.There are lots of developments here at NOÖ. Frisbee golfer and beard-on-fire enthusiast of stoking stokedom TylerGobble has come onboard as an Associate Editor. Welcome, Tyler! I’ve already breathed a lot less raggedly thanks toTyler’s whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm and smarts and help. Case in point: he was instrumental in bringingVouched Books in as a partner for our NOÖ Presents section. This is pretty great because it means you’ll get to readabout even more snazzy indie and small press work, all presented by people who make you go “Oh, they know whatthey’re doing.” In an effort to account for 2012 before we shun it entirely, I’ve also written up an account of twenty goodbooks I read. So many books! So many heads bent earnestly over blankness to make language exist between us all.More envelopments: after years of twitching and weeping into my electrolyte-fortified bottled water, I’ve broughton some eagle folks to help me read submissions for NOÖ. Much thanks and those paper trumpet things to: CharlesHale, Dave K, Madison Langston, Ella Longpre, Erin McNellis, Mark Seidl, Logan Ryan Smith, Nick Sturm, and PatrickTrotti. Y’all it’s really like I’m finally the leader of the Power Rangers y’all. So much khop-kun-krahp to them, which isthank you in Thai if you’re a dude and you’re me trying to spell it phonetically.One of the people who invented the essay was a Sumerian flood survivor. In 2012 on Ko Phi Phi with CarolynZaikowski, I ate massaman curry made by a former Muay Thai boxer. Even butter tasted like coconut. I got somemosquito bites and freaked out about them for no reason. We saw monkeys on Monkey Island, and some jerks fed theminstant coffee. We asked the manager of the guest house where we were staying if he ever got tired of how beautiful KoPhi Phi is, and he said “Yes.” We met a Norwegian lumber speculator who asked me if, being from California, I’dmemorized anything precise about redwoods. Elsewhere in Thailand, we saw a three story golden Buddha, andsomebody sat in the Buddha’s lap, which you’re not supposed to do. One sunset, we saw a bridge light up in a disco way,even though hundreds/thousands of prisoners of war died to make it. Just one of those things. A toothless dog gummedmy ankle. I ate fried bamboo. I drank a kiwi shake made by a woman Carolyn accidentally called beautiful even thoughshe was trying to call the town beautiful. The woman demurred and said “Oh no you are beautiful.”My favorite part of Thailand was the crazy WWII museum in Kanchanaburi, but I should shut up and give you aNOÖ [14] preview, so I am going to pretend the museum and this issue are the same thing. Some ceilings have illustratedproverbs by Morgan Parker. Some walls have cutouts from fashion magazines designed by Nicholas Lockyer. One wallhas a bunch of equipment from Katie Jean Shinkle’s kitchen. Elsewhere there are a million of Rachael Katz’s swordsunder a glass case. A Korean War soldier corpse in one room. One hallway features very unrealistic wax statues of keyWWII players like Lisa Ciccarello. In the middle of the “courtyard square” is a 1970s looking space age Buddha templecapsule built by Hai-Dang Phan. At one point there is a train engine with an old Rolls Royce on top of it, driven by MikeKrutel and Gene Kwak. In a basement room, a placard explains that the museum is protected from earthquakes by thespecific mysticism of Emily Toder. There are a lot of signs with hilarious English translations written by Tony Mancusand Elizabeth Mikesch. One of the outside areas just has some clothes drying. One of the inside murals is of fightingelephant gods.In sad 2012 news, we lost Chris Toll, a visionary Baltimore poet and collage maker. This issue is dedicated to him. Iremember the enormous book of conspiracy theories Chris gave me for my birthday: “the real stuff about the universe,”he said. And I remember him giving me rides home in his VW bug, explaining about the aliens you could see if youwatched the right videos. Start by watching yourself reading NOÖ [14]. And let’s uh. Let’s keep on with the light in.3

NOÖ andTHE OLDEST EMAIL in my inbox withthe word “vouched” in it is from apoet who needed people to writeletters to a judge vouching for hischaracter after he got a little out ofhis mind and hit someone with aWET FLOOR sign. (I did it! He’s agreat guy!)Then, in 2010, we hit someemails about Vouched Books, anamazing project for sharing andpromoting independent literature started by Christopher Newgent inIndianapolis. I met Christopher in Denver, and we ate burgers andblueberries together, which doesn’t make sense, which is why Iremember it. He is one of the kindest and most hardworking people Iknow. There is no one more sincere and burly when it comes tostraight up spreading the love about work put out by small presses.Which is why I am very excited to announce that NOÖ will fromnow on be teaming up with Vouched Books on this here section. AllPresentNOÖ [14]along I wanted this section to be about presenting books and projectsthat people could, yes, vouch for—in eloquent and entertaining ways.So this pairing makes a lot of sense both spiritually and lexically.Here’s how it will work: in addition to our regular content, we willbe running special expanded reviews, interviews, and other features bythe Vouched Books team. The idea is you might read a review youreally like here in NOÖ, then visit vouchedbooks.com to see what elsethat reviewer has vouched for. Or you might see a snippet about abook on vouchedbooks.com and visit NOÖ to read an expandedfeature. Either way, you’ll get to find about excellent literature thatflies—with shimmering duct-taped wings—under the radar. Thanks toour new Associate Editor, Tyler Gobble, for putting this in motion. Icould not be more stoked! Now I’m going to let Laura Straub, kingpinof Vouched ATL, tell you a little bit more about how Vouched Booksstarted and why it’s so amazing. — MikeP.S. Do not hit anyone with a WET FLOOR sign and expect me tobail you out. That was a one time deal for a special hermit. Puteverything back where you found it.VWHAT: Vouched BooksBY: Christopher Newgent & Laura Straub & more!IS: Indie lit spotlightsSAYS: You know—at like craft fairs and shit.AT: www.vouchedbooks.comPRESENTED BY: Laura StraubOUCHED BOOKS was birthed in October of 2009 inIndianapolis, in the brain of my best friend: ChristopherNewgent. He was dissatisfied with the lack of small pressrepresentation in bookstores around Indy, so he decided to dosomething about it. Our Gchat conversation about the idea wentsomething like this:(This is a reenactment. Christopher would be portrayed as alarge-armed Paul Schneider. I would be a highly caffeinated c-lister.)Christopher: So I’ve been bummed lately at how hard it is tofind small press books in Indianapolis. I mean, you’ve read thesebooks. They’re so freaking awesome. People need to read them.Laura: Yeah, that’s a total bummer.Christopher: I’m thinking of setting up a guerrilla bookstore ofsmall press books I’ve read and loved. You know—at like craftfairs and shit.Laura: DO IT!Laura: DO IT! DO IT! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!Christopher took action. He contacted a bunch of small presseswho had published books he had read and loved, purchased booksas a bookseller, and set up the first Vouched Books “guerrillabookstore.” Soon after, he launched the Vouched Presents readingseries in Indianapolis.Then, in June 2010, a website was launched, where contributorsVouched for literature published online, interviewed authors,reviewed titles, and so on. It was all great fun. Our contributorshave included (and currently include) some real fireworks of thesmall press world: Troy Urquart, Roxane Gay, Amber Sparks, TylerGobble, Ashley Ford, Abby Koski, Kyle Winkler, Layne Ransom,Aaron Gilbreath, Andrew Sims, and Scott Daughtridge. Theirenthusiasm is what makes the website so effective. Roxane Gay hadthis to say about the Vouched Books table on HTMLGIANT:“That intimacy makes it easy to get on board with taking a chance onwriters we’re not familiar with, and I’ve enjoyed learning about booksI wouldn’t ordinarily come across.”In June of 2011, Vouched Books spawned a table in Atlanta. Iwanted to get involved in the city and to do so with WORDS. Manypeople had approached Christopher about “franchising” Vouchedin different cities, but he wasn’t sure how the process would work.Our Gchat conversation went something like this:(This is a reenactment. Christopher would be portrayed as a muscularand serious Peter Sarsgaard. I would be an over-enthusiastic c-lister.)Christopher: So a lot of people have been contacting me askingabout Vouched franchising, and wanting to set up their owntable in other cities.Laura: Dude, what an amazing idea. You should makethat happen!Christopher: Yeah I just have no idea how that would work,you know?Laura: Sounds like you need a guinea pig, best friend.Christopher: …Laura: …? Oh. Hey! I could do it!Laura: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!4

NOÖ [14]Soon Vouched Atlanta was launched. The ATL has been stuckwith me ever since.Running the tables, we’ve encountered more than our fair shareof people who can’t wrap their head around the heart of ourmission. Why we would do such a thing? Questions asked of usrange from: “Wait, so where is your bookstore actually located?” to“But who is PAYING you to do this?” or the often understated,oversimplified “…Why?”The thing is, Vouched Books (Atlanta + Indianapolis + online)exists because there’s a segment of literature from small andindependent presses who are taking risks and publishing reallyinnovative words by up-and-coming authors we really believe in.We saw a void in the industry and are trying to help fill it. Most ofthese presses are comprised of one or a few people, and they don’thave the funding or manpower to get a large amount of distributionor promotional help. They’re doing great work and Vouched wantsto shine a spotlight on them. The stories being told, the poems beingwritten—they are phenomenal and deserve to be read. We’re here tohelp facilitate that.We do this because we love it.Some of the Vouched team at AWP Chicago in 2012. From left to right:Christopher Newgent, Amber Sparks, Ashley Cassandra Ford, TylerGobble, and Laura Straub. I actually can’t tell because of Laura’s hairwhether she is to the left or right of Tyler, but I feel like you can figureout who is Tyler and who is Laura.JWHAT: For Out of the Heart ProceedBY: Jensen BeachIS: Debut story collectionFROM: Dzanc Books / Dark Sky BooksSAYS: Sadness thick as a riverAT: www.jensenwbeach.comPRESENTED BY: Scott DaughtridgeENSEN BEACH’S debut story collection is introduced by aBible passage, Matthew 15:18-19: “But those things whichproceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defilethe man. For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders,adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies.” Withthis passage we become acquainted with the tone of the collection.Beach’s stories are about death, parenthood, family conflict, and thefight against the darkness that, at times, threatens to envelope us.Through his characters, Beach is showing us the various wayspeople cope with life’s harsh circumstances.Some take strange actions, like the man in “Priest Lake, Idaho”who sets fire to his tool shed in hopes of building something newafter his wife dies. In my favorite piece, “We Cannot Cross theRiver,” a group of men are inexplicably stranded in a cabin andcannot escape by crossing the river until it is frozen:Sadness thick as a river, and night you can write upon, forcesMolineux to succumb. He grinds a rock into his throat andchokes a horrid, slow death. Suarez buries him in the soft dirt.Winslow whispers prayers. Bekker’s jealous spit hits thetilled earth.Other stay calm and speak plainly. In “How It Was When a CarCaught Fire on the Street Outside My House Last Night,” a manargues with his wife after they awake to a burning car on theirstreet. She is in tears, and he sums up their problems like this:The fire was out. The firemen left. The police arrived andwrapped the car’s skeleton in yellow warning tape. I explainedthis to my wife. She said she was too tired to argue. Clearly shehadn’t been listening. That’s the major problem with us. We justtalk. We never listen.In equally plain language, a man imparts wisdom on his son in“The Dark is What.” The two go to the flea market to buy a puzzleand find that the table they normally visit has been replaced by apurse vendor. The son is upset and the father reminds him “thatnothing lasts, which is both good and bad because it means you willnever feel anything for very long.”Whether the response to their plight is to stay calm or start afight, these characters ask for sympathy and understanding. Thecards have been stacked against them and they are doing their best.This is not a collection for readers looking for comic relief or anescape into fantasy. The characters are in a world of shadows, facingthe evils stated in the epigraph, but they show moments of strengthand determination.If it’s from our own mouths and our own hearts that darknesscomes, then the battle we are waging is with ourselves, our ownnature. At times, external circumstances exacerbate the struggle,but they nevertheless provide us with good stories from which lightcan be gathered.In “Their Future Looks Brighter the Closer It Gets to the Sun,” acouple sew a large kite they use to fly them away from theirdomestic lives. Neighbors gather to watch them take off. Afternearly failing, they are lifted from the ground:Below them, the park and the neighbors and everything theylonged to be rid of grew smaller. And when they could no longersee anything that reminded them not to, they shared a smilebetween them.5

NOÖ [14]AWHAT: People Are Tiny in Paintings of ChinaBY: Cynthia Arrieu-KingIS: Book of poemsFROM: Octopus BooksSAYS: Our survival depended on my ability / to float upto ceilings and stick quietlyAT: www.octopusbooks.netPRESENTED BY: Laura StraubVIEW-MASTER full of wonders of light, color, andcircumstance—these poems uproot you and force you to see.Every page reveals a new bouquet of lilacs, or a fat man in awheelchair, pints of blood, or prime numbers. People presume totell Arrieu-King what she is and what she isn’t. So many times hername has changed:My grandfather was a Chinese ambassador to Belgium. Hechanged the last name to King while there. He didn’t want to gothere and be Mr. Chien, anybody’s Mr. Dog. I’m not surethis is true.Arrieu-King’s mourning process is resplendent, careful anddelicate with detail. She works through the consequences of herfather’s death. Her brother leaves for war and returns scathed. Anancestor’s ashes are abandoned in an unmarked grave. Constantlyconfronted by the contrast of her heritage within her culture,Arrieu-King juggles her identity as it is volleyed between contexts.These are not easy journeys to make, but she tackles them withgreat intention and poise:I was born dreaming our family was fugitive—diamonds flung atop China cabinets.A joker shrank and entered the hall,menaced the front door of my dollhouse.Our survival depended on my abilityto float up to ceilings and stick quietly.It is impossible not to admire her strength and cognition. Iremember the first time a prism was set on my desk in the sunlight,how much it shook me to see the sun broken into tangible parts.IWHAT: Hallelujah Giant Space WolfBY: Daniel BaileyIS: Book of poemsFROM: Mammoth EditionsSAYS: I want to raise dinosaurs / from birth to death with youAT: www.mammoth-editions.comPRESENTED BY: Erin McNellisKNEW FROM the first page of Hallelujah Giant Space Wolf thatDaniel Bailey was singing the traditional song of my people.Until I picked up the book, I didn’t even know that “my people”were a thing, or that we had a distinctive vernacular that had beenin search of its poet, but with these lines I felt something stir in methat must have stirred in the first Italians to read Dante’s Infernoseven hundred years ago:eventually, I grew bored of my godliness,so I became Nicolas Cage, which was awesomeexcept for the whole being a dad thingbeing a dad got in the way of all the shitI would rather have been doinglike making love to my hot wifeor simply rollicking in the unstoppable glory of my Nicolas Cagewithout the constraints of fatherhoodI knew, instantly, that a poet who could write a line like“rollicking in the unstoppable glory of my Nicolas Cage” was deeplyin touch with my values and priorities. Cage is a perfect patron saintfor this book: he burns with crazy-eyed intensity whether he ispunching a woman in a bear costume or donning an Elvis jumpsuitand hurling himself out of a plane. Hallelujah Giant Space Wolfachieves a similar blend of urgency and absurdity, taking readersfrom the bathroom of a church to a knock-down-drag-out fightwith a gorilla to the beginning and/or end of the universe astridethe titular cosmic vulpine.There is also real, sincere heart in these poems—this is not justhipster pastiche. After the speaker of “Geronimo Boredom Prayer,”the book’s first poem, is finished being God and Nicolas Cage, hegoes through a number of other transformations and eventuallyends up as a mist that evaporates into the sky:where I became rain but I did not rainI fucking flew at the earth and smashed hard into the dirtcrying “Geronimo,” wetting the dirt with my faceand all of my love, all of itand I said “amen,” as I fell asleep inside the earthMost of these poems tell relatively coherent stories, and manyare even love poems, expressing tender sentiments as remarkable as“I want to raise dinosaurs / from birth to death with you” and asbanal as “please tell me I’m not an idiot. please tell me we’ll be ok.”Bailey’s previous book, The Drunk Sonnets, left me radicallyunsure of whether and how much he was ever being sincere—whichwas an interesting effect—but this book makes me quite sure that hemeans what he says, even when he is punching Jesus with brassknuckles from the back of his giant space wolf. In that scene, forexample, the speaker’s rage and love and connection to the cosmosring true, even if the setting and situation are absurd. While therestrictions of the sonnet form lent some structure and focus toBailey’s visions, they are no less intense for being allowed to bemore expansive.If The Drunk Sonnets were moments alone under a fluorescentlight with a bottle of Jack, a rabbit-eared TV set, and a blog, SpaceWolf’s poems are headlong runs, hand-in-hand, through the emptyMidwest night and out into the terrifying weirdness of the cosmos.It’s a journey worth taking.6

NOÖ [14]IWHAT: Vital PursuitsBY: Evan GlassonIS: Book-length poemFROM: H_NGM_N BooksSAYS: Sea World is one of those places / you shoulddream of but never goAT: www.h-ngm-n.comPRESENTED BY: Tyler GobbleN VITAL PURSUITS—a book-length long poem out now fromH_NGM_N Books—Evan Glasson flips through the catalog ofhis self to point at the moments and images that toss us beyond thebig equal sign displaying the true shape of the speaker today. Or ashe puts it early on in the book:Into the suggestion box,I dropped everythingI’ve ever beenhoping to be chosen, held, readaloud by someone elsein such an order as toformulate a more accuratecurrent self.This is prime, right here, a little spot marking the larger whole,Glasson’s remarkable ability to both create the catalog and wave itaround. This book-length poem trickles out in sections, each set inthis reflective, contemplative spin—an appreciation of toucans thatspirals into a myriad of thoughts regarding identity andaccomplishment, a snippet of science that leads to an admission of apersonal misunderstanding. These sections refuse to slow down,they pull everything out of the drawer, and in the end of each, wesee a new glimmer to the outline of this person, rising up out of theepiphanies and declarations, confessions and dents.This is a book noticing the spin of life, but also, mostimportantly, about acknowledging that spin, the impact it has, theswirly head it creates. Glasson’s combination of experiences andknowledge, of language and emotion, performs spectacular feats inframing the life exposed, these vital pursuits. This work goesbeyond packing pieces of life into life; it points at the pieces as theycome down the line. Again and again, Glasson puts on theImportant hat, knowing “[i]f I didn’t shorten the leash, / he wouldwaste the whole day / looking for the best place to go.” Take forinstance this part from the end of the book:Today the whole world is surpriseda killer whale killed its trainer.He turned over and over for herfor years before turning on her.What should we make of it? Many of uswon’t get in the tank but hope the splashreaches our row. I thinkSea World is one of those placesyou should dream of but never go.The buildup and the letdown.Here, we get pushed through the news, the personal reflection,the categorization, and at the end, we look back, bit by bit, sectionby section, and it truly is colossal, to see a self render this widely.Yes, absolutely, this is a book that matters, as it proves theimportance of documentation, for the purpose to prove, to the selfand others, all the things, good and bad, ugly and beautiful, thatwe’ve done, endured, spit back up. This book has re-enlivened inme a belief that doing is the true vital pursuit, a piece of me to turn,stretch, and change, for longer, more enjoyable distances than Icould ever imagine. There’s always the next thing as in “[w]hen thisgame is over / they will pick up the floor / and lay down ice inits place.”Want more reviews? See Nate Logan’s reviewof Michael Earl Craig’s Jombang Jet atwww.noojournal.com/14TWHAT: Short Dark OraclesBY: Sara LevineIS: Book of storiesFROM: CaketrainSAYS: There is a woman who will dieAT: www.caketrain.orgPRESENTED BY: Laura StraubHIS BOOK is like that new girl you saw on campus years agoand still dream of: witty, fresh, and smarter than you. How canstories cut and charm so equally—a smile with sharp incisors? Thisis a collection where every mother’s heart is “rat-sized” and wherewe are coached to gaze upon the “feral hair” on an estranged friend’schin. Uncompromising and alluring, Levine’s sentences willprompt a laugh followed by an abrupt pause:Upon seeing my mother pass proudly through the street in oneof her capes, her prominent baldness gleaming in the afternoonsun, I remarked to myself, “There is a woman who will die—notof breast cancer, but of skin cancer, at the age of sixty-five,because she has failed to screen her head.”It is a guilty feeling: unleashing the things we are allowed tothink but never say. This is not a book for gloved hands ortea-parties. If you are looking for polite conversation and delicate,flowered metaphors then you will not find them here. If you wouldlike a challenge, or a laugh, or a snide remark uttered under baitedbreath, then this is just the thing. The girl from campus—rememberhow she seemed so brave? So sure? If she had given you theopportunity to see beneath her surface, you would have uncoveredthe compromising gulf between beauty and truth.7

NOÖ [14]TWENTY BOOKS from 2012 I remember because I remember where Iwas when I read them: the buses, the micey bedrooms, the greenporch couches. Not counting other good books I’d already read or I’mstill trying to write longer things about or interviews I conducted inCajun restaurants during a snowstorm.These twenty books are two things: first, a reading journal of anapology for not putting out an issue of NOÖ in 2012. And second, my2 0 G O O D B O O KSa ReadiNGJOURNALOF 2012celebration of Vouched joining up with us. These are twenty booksfrom my 2012 that did something to my lenses. They are inchronological reading order. Some were published in 2012; someweren’t. French boyfriends, the history of information, hydroplanes,pubic hairs in jam jars, bolo ties, flowering malls, nerves knit togetherinto furious anthems, and happiness, which is—as Osip Mandelstamreminds us—a golden hoop guided by someone else. — MikeThe Little Girl Who Was Too Fond of MatchesGaétan SoucyRead this with mice in my walls in Baltimore. Eventually you’llmake friends with anything that makes a sound you recognize.In this book, a father on the outskirts of a village commitssuicide, and his two children—a brother and a sister who havenever really met anyone but themselves, and even that isquestionable—venture out to buy a coffin and be like “Heyguys?” This book does things with the slow drip of revelationthat are actually surprising and inspiring. You know that thingwhere you’re buying a pomegranate and realize you’ve beencalling the wrong thing a pomegranate your whole life? Nowimagine it’s a throwing star. Now imagine it’s yelling at you.The State of KansasJulianna SpallholzRead this after Julianna gave a reading in Baltimore. The key tothis tight collection of fictions is the revelation of repetition andthe way all autobiography really means is repeating ourselvesuntil we become selves. Our routines have no mercy for us. Theworld has palo verde beetles for us. Vampire boyfriends. M&Msor water. The repetition in this book made me feel like a real lifehuman is made of layers and layers of masking tape wrappedaround what you’re really hoping is a glow.Together We Can Bury ItKathy FishRead this on a train back to Baltimore. On the train were peoplein McDonalds uniforms making loud and beautiful jokesbecause they’d stolen a bunch of mayonnaise. If inside a jar ofstolen mayonnaise you found a tiny Nina Simone singing hercover of “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” and you get to the partwhere she goes “Well that’s it folks, that’s it,” you would actuallybe getting to the sad and wan stories in this collection. And thenthis book sneaks the mayo back to where it stole it from, but itlistens to Nina Simone on its off-brand MP3 player whiledrinking ginger ale at the mall, just wandering and wanderingand remembering and trying not to regret anything.Goat in the SnowEmily PettitRead this in Baltimore and talked about it at a book club wherethere was a giant tub of generic cheese puffs. In these poems,there are twists on sound and thought and though and how. Fullof aphorism and burrowing. During the book club discussion, Iwas very enthusiastic about the relevance of this book’simagination, and I still am. Read this if you remember how somepizzas in the 90s used to come with those little white table thingsin the middle of them, which I guess are called pizza savers andare intended to prevent the cardboard of the box from collapsingand ruining the cheese, but they were always exciting to mebecause I could make them endtables in dollhouses.After ClaudeIris OwensRead this on the bus past regal mid-Atlantic trees in Baltimoreand also past pockmarked row houses. This is a novel about awoman in New York who has a French boyfriend who getsexasperated. The woman is the one talking the whole time. Hername is Harriet. She ends up in the Chelsea Hotel. You start outthinking she’s annoying and lovable and you end up walkingaround in her clothes while she’s in a cab outside, still talking toyou over a walkie-talkie but also somehow asleep. Made merealize the narrative potential of denying the entire world,relentlessly and off key.Baby GeishaTrinie DaltonRead this mostly waiting for buses in Baltimore. A man came upand said he was going to vomit. I told him there was a hospital upthe street. He said “Yeah, there’s a CVS too and a motherfuckingbaseball stadi—” and then he vomited. Reading Baby Geisha islike meeting two people in bathing suits high on peyote at anIn-And-Burger in Laurel Canyon, and you become best friendswith them for one night until you realize they’ve been lying toyou the whole time. These stories flip a panel under the worldand adjust the RGB levels. I can’t tell the difference between theway reading “Scarlet Gilia” feels (“If it doesn’t hurt, I’m lost”) andthe way it feels to learn to sing exactly like someone you love.The Black ForestChristopher DeWeeseRead this after losing a lot to the artificial intelligence in a tennisvideo game my friend Mark bought me for my birthday. This isa book of poems that will talk openly with you about fear andanxiety while running very fast between lots of trees. The forestis full of nouns and full of hair flicks and full of taut whispers andfull of beardy jokes and full of sad abruptness. Reminded me ofan underbrush that is made of all the different kinds of cerealever, which I know is weird, I’m not saying it isn’t.HydroplaneSusan SteinbergRead this while my lamp sat on a cardboard box in Baltimore.You know how when you clip your fingernails, each individualfingernail suggests both history and connection with not onlyevery other fingernail in the sink but every other fingernail ever,and this suggestion works by way of the underlying fact thatfingernails are dead material and so many bodily things are deadmaterial but also things we put on our body are sometimes dead,like toothpaste made out of ground up bones? That’s what thisbook—a collection of fictions, sure—is.8

NOÖ [14]The Information: a History, a Theory, a FloodJames GleickStarted this waiting to be let into brunch at a restaurant themedafter rocketships and finished this on a porch in Baltimorehaving amazing and exciting conversations with CarolynZaikowski while Johns Hopkins students walked by sleepilybelow with biscuit sandwiches. This book is one of the mostinteresting and provocative pop science books I’ve ever read. Ithas telegraphs and quantum physics and search engines anddictionaries and ambiguity in it. I have told more people aboutthis book than maybe any other book from 2012. I have like 85%of the pages dog-eared.AutoportraitEdouard LevéRead this while many different men were fixing a small roofoutside my apartment in Northampton, MA. Imagine if yourfriend most obsessed with shrugs and haircuts were to take youinto his basement photography studio, where he’s beendeveloping pictures he’s been taking of himself for years, except(this is a book of strung together I-statements that you can’treally call confessions without them sneaking away from theparty) without himself noticing. This is self-voyeurism is all I’mtrying to say. It’s one of those books you reflexively beginchanging your life to imitate for a few weeks until you find outthe author killed himself. Le sigh.The Latehomecomer: A Hmong Family MemoirKao Kalia YangRead this after listening to a controversial Radiolab episode. KaoKalia Yang’s memoir is her account of her family’s journeyfleeing Laos, trying for dignity and survival in Thai refugeecamps, and finally making it—units and couples and cousins at atime—to California and Minnesota. I came into this book full ofpolitical vigor (basically Radiolab whitewashed Kao Kalia Yangand her uncle, Eng Yang, and told them they didn’t know whattheir own story was all about) but I left with a folkloreunseparate from life because it lures love along, and howgrandmothers keep their eyes open while they try to holdeverything together, seeing toward togetherness yet to come.Because It Is: Poems and DrawingsKenneth PatchenRead this walking around eating delicious Trinidadian food inCharles Village in Baltimore. In a Craigslist ad for a subletter, Italked about swoony light and flower colors against row houses,all in a mood I think I stole from Kenneth Patchen. If you haven’tdevoured everything by Kenneth Patchen I have to admit I willnever trust you when you sing along at high volume to a sad songwith a trumpet in it. My stupid outdated blog is topped with aquote from this book that is more aspiration than honesty: “Oh,the kind of angel I’m on the side of / Won’t ever try to hide fromthe terrible responsibilities of love!”China CowboyKim Gek Lin ShortRead this on buses to and back from New York. It should’vebeen raining cowboy spurs. This is the story of a country singernamed La La kidnapped from her Hong Kong home by anAmerican soybean artist named Ren. La La eats soapy lumps, herdad stabs typhoon-stranded tourists, her mom’s burnt headshows up in a Froot Loops box—I love them all. There are jamjars with pubic hairs in them, and Ren says we’re all made ofslime and beans. Listen: the fried heartache of a country yodelboth contains and cooks the gooey yolk of the heart.That’s Not a FeelingDan JosefsonRead this in an apartment that has carpet in the kitchen. It’s anovel about a psychotherapy boarding school/cult. Its firstperson narration is mystically sneaky. You can touch all thecharacters’ knees under the table. The headmaster has aheartbreaking dream about his first wife. The plot gets dark andsmart. Read this if once on the a bus you saw a glum young manin a camouflage jacket and orange cargo pants carefully holdingwhat looked, to you, like a tinfoil-covered pie. Except a littlehead popped out of the tinfoil. And it looked exactly like theglum young man, except the head was wearing glasses and tryingnot to cry, whereas the young man had obviously given up.ScienceEmily ToderRead this while waiting for toast in my apartment overlookingthe radio station parking lot in Northampton. This is a book ofpoems, except it’s really a book of patient lectures on how to fixthe lasagna you’re bringing to a friend’s dinner party so it doesn’tlook like you already ate half of it, weeping, by yourself. EmilyToder’s poems do this thing where they walk a tightrope ofplainspoken candor while wearing a headdress made of artificialfeathers the colors and shapes of the geometry in 1980s NewWave videos. Toder’s poems will explain the world better thanthe world does, which is to say more frankly re: pain.Strange Cowboy: Lincoln Dahl Turns FiveSam MichelRead this in the dark in my apartment, except I shouldn’t saydark because I could see the lights from the parking garage. Butthey weren’t lights like what falls down a Nevada canyon orseethes through creosote bush, which is light this novel knows alot about. Also demanding mothers and mute sons and visionarywives. Remember Beckett? Then here you go: Beckett on therange, cowboy Beckett, dandy bolo tie Beckett, and some of themost beautiful desert river sentences and heart silt I have setupon in a good long while. If I could afford to buy all of myfriends new boots, I would put a copy of this novel in each pair.Swim for the Little One FirstNoy HollandRead this before falling asleep a lot, which was perfect for themelting latticework of Holland’s stories. I want to talk about thesentences in terms of Latinate school subject words—theirgeography, their anthropology, their topography—but I know Ican’t because these sentences sew their tricks from much morelived-in registers. Bought this after I watched Holland read thestory “Milk River” and it made me cry. The story is about twogirls with brothers at war and fathers sick-headed and dogsdogged and mothers dead. This book is about mixing the dust ofthe plains and the dust of the desert and how sometimes youcan’t hear what’s flown.Flowering MallBrandon BrownRead this on a bus from NYC to Massachusetts. Bought it fromUnnameable Books in Brooklyn because the cover reminded meof trying to make my own 8-bit RPG in junior high. Instead oftalking about the flowers of evil or faux-translation, I will saythese poems grill all the glitchy nouns of our moment (fromKanye to Occupy to Ciroc to das kapital gains tax) intosomething bloody—and manage a fair salting of self-scrutinyabout polo shorts. They don’t flinch when it comes to crawlingthrough the instinctual douchbaggery of late capitalism. Theywould make the quickest and sharpest joke about someoneaccidentally mustaching themselves with a highlighter pen.9

NOÖ [14]Hold Tight: The Truck Darling PoemsJeni OlinRead this sometimes while drinking coffee but always felt like Iwas drinking coffee. Except the coffee was also Kool-Aid andPercocet and wine coolers and a recovery smoothie. Sort offlabbergasted this isn’t the most popular book of poetry ever andthat no one’s spun it off into its own insanely successful brand ofPop Rocks yet. Sometimes I just mutter “Oh my trashola heart”which is from these poems. From these poems: “Pimples are sexyand funerals are neat.” Or: “I suppose you black out after youtake in / a fairly small amount of love.” Or: “Feral grace, to workout or own tiny salvations / by fear and trembling.” Or, finally:“Sometimes / I think I am horny when I just need to go to thebathroom. / Sometimes I just need to go to the bathroom & staythere / on days it is so hard to shout myself away from death.”The Selected Poems of Osip Mandelstamtr. by Clarence Brown and W.S. MerwinRead a lot of this on a bus in the fog and drizzle of a deeplyenwintered Massachusetts. Osip Mandelstam was a Russianthrough the busy times: the Revolution, Stalinism, wars. He diedin a gulag. You can tell he knew the dirt and the wine bothwithout lying. You can tell he liked clapping until his cheeksturned red. You can tell he liked weeping enspooned with abeautiful woman as they both lay on a frozen lake and withstoodthe wind that was keeping the ice below them from giving way.You can tell he liked whispering to bears instead of riding them.I finished this book exhausted on a train, and everything Idog-eared was because it named a feeling I’d felt namelesslybefore, like: “After midnight the heart picks the locked silence /right out of your hands.” To bring it full around: “After midnightthe heart has its banquet, / gnawing on a silvery mouse.”F I N D T H E F U L L 9 2 B O O K 2 0 1 2 l i s t AT W W W . N O O J O U R N A L . C O M / 1 4 . S o r ry n i c h o l as f o r N U D G I N G i n t o YO U R c o l l a g e s . 1 8 G o o D B O O KS S o u n d s t o o w e i r d . n i c h o l as d i d t h e c o v e r a rt t O O . G o o d s t u f f , r i g h t ?TRUTHNicholas10

NOÖ [14]We Penetrated Deeper and Deeper Into the Heart of DarknessLockyerSee more of Nicholas Lockyer’s collages atwww.noojournal.com/1411

NOÖ [14]GREYMeagan CassHE MEANT IT as a nice gesture. It was summer and sheseemed lonely—their oldest, their girl, gone off tocollege early—and the breed made a kind of biographicalsense. When was the last time she’d put on her track shoes?He imagined woman and dog coursing the trails of FDRPark in the blue-back mornings, her coming home flushed,downing a glass of orange juice, making them bacon andeggs. Then they’d make love. She’d laugh at his jokes. She’dstop losing weight. Maybe she’d forgive him.He did all the legwork, had the yard fenced, took theboys to Caldor for fake rabbits, a fishing rod for a pole lure,a chain link crate like the kind she would have lived in backat the track. “Name her,” he said. His wife refused. Beforehe could press her, the boys said “Roadie, like the RoadRunner, beep, beep,” and it stuck.But all through the fall the dog didn’t take, flittedthrough the house at night, ghost grey, pissing in cleanlaundry baskets, nosing the walls for cracks. Days she keptto her crate, to her bleached white bones. His wife kept toher old moccasins, to her sea of dandelions in thebackyard, pulled the hairy bodies up, tearing her shouldercome October.“Take it easy,” he told her.“Who else will pull them?” she asked. Nights she came tobed with ice packs, cold, wet fists thrust between them.He decided he would show her how to love a hound.“Run her,” he instructed the boys, a camcorder balanced onhis shoulder. “Let’s see what she can do.” She opened up,whisked through the burnt grass. And it was beautiful,though after a while she seemed to limp a little, to wincewhen her feet touched ground.“Give her a rest,” his wife said, looking up from herweeds. “You’re hurting her.”Then she was coating golden capsules of Omega 3 inpeanut butter, baking homemade dog treats using theChristmas cookie cutters, calling, “Here, girla, girla.” Atdinner she talked osteo-arthritis, the damages of racing.On the couch in the evenings, reading her AA book, shetraced the curves of Roadie’s ribs, gently, with herfingertips, as if she were a violin. “My sweet girla.”Yet when the dog’s hips went, three years later, he wasthe one who dreamed of those big eyes in that thin, skullface, who woke weeping, who stood in themiddle of the kitchen, in the middle of thenight, eating a bacony Christmas tree,wondering if he had run her too hard.12© 2013 LisaKostrzynski

NOÖ [14]the bodyTHE BODY IS NOT PERFECT but it could be. The body remembers boys on theschool bus making fun of its nose and teeth. The body knows not to smokebut it smokes anyway. The body scratches its head too hard and gets bloodbeneath its fingernails. The body has long legs but notices spider veins. The bodyspent some time not eating and then some time in baggy clothes. The body isvegetarian but likes the smell of ham. The body does not like to run. The bodydrinks too much. The body gets headaches often and earaches in the spring. Thebody has been told that it is tense. The body has been told that it is tall. The bodyhas been told that it is graceful but also that it moves like some strange animal.The body didn’t know how to take that. The body is scarred where its moles havebeen taken. The body has never broken a bone or been stung by a bee. The bodymay be allergic to bees, it doesn’t know. The body suffers from some of its ownlikes. The body sleeps too much or not enough. The body once fell down stonestairs in wooden shoes. The body once sat too long in the sun and becameblistered. The body picks its nose. The body once slipped with a knife and almostlost its pinky. The body used to fall asleep in the Volvo and be carried in. The bodyhas odd visions of sharp things in its eyes and of jumping when it shouldn’t jump.The body’s toenails need to be cut and re-painted. The body shivers whensomeone plays with its hair. The body has memorized smells. The body does notknow how to really play an instrument but recalls the flute a little. It sings. Thebody did not orgasm until it was twenty years old. The body has experienced avariety of sex and some of it was bad and some very good, and some the bodythought was good was bad and vice versa. The body responds well to yellow. Thebody cries and also laughs quite easily and in both cases, the body’s face getsrather pink. The body took its time growing breasts but it managed. The bodyused to like swings and probably still does. The body likes to put its fingers intocontainers that hold a lot of the same thing, like M&Ms or water. The bodyimagines doing things it does not actually do, like screaming and being upsidedown. The body does not like to lie still unless it is allowed to go to sleep. Thebody gets ravenously hungry and feels as if it will faint. The body has fainted forreal three times, two of the times as a game, one of the times by not eating. Beingscared by something real or by something imagined makes the body dizzy.Julianna Spallholz13

NOÖ [14]junkmovementsNalini AbhiramanLOVE IT before it leaves. This limited-edition pizza features a variety of toppingsincluding grilled white meat chicken, tomatoes, spinach, bacon and a three cheeseblend with a creamy sauce on a thin and crispy crust for the perfect crunch. This uniquepizza flavor is perfect for lunch, dinner, or as an appetizer.Slice is a violent, limited word. You eat one for lunch every day. You arechained, your food and you. You are including food. You cuff a soda to yourself asan appetizer, a unique soda, with a doctorate in benzoates. The liquid tastes like ahive when held in the mouth. A variety of drones feast on the slice grilled in yourstomach. They empty parts of themselves into their fat queen. Spinach, chicken,plum tomatoes, mozzarella flavor. Collapse. Love it before it leaves.Pizza comes from a sad place. There are splendid old gutters choked with rats,dozens of them, their eyes glittering purple. They test their boundaries. One, thenthree, then all, clamber out in daylight to sniff the ever-heaped piles of garbage.This garbage has matured into its own regenerative sediment, the rotting andunrotting toppings of it sobbing and sighing, burping sulfurous sauce and shitinto everyone’s lives. Blue and gray buildings. Peeling mosaic. Styrofoam crunchin the piazza. Sooty thumbprint smeared across the sun. At a wedding a little girlsings, her round cheeks trembling to the organ. The little girl is dressed like abirthday cake. The bride is dressed like a little girl. Her father hands the little girl’sfather a thin shock of banknotes wrapped in creamy white lambskin. The padrinonods at them to leave. His features blend together and crust over. They shut thedoor behind themselves, twisting the knob quietly as the real guests pile meatonto their plates and smear sugar under their noses. Father digs into his otherpocket, drops dirty coins into an oily jar. Under the eave across the highway fromtheir home, he tears a roughly cut slice, folds it into a crispy rosemary-scentedpocket shedding perfect slurries of cheese and fatted bacon. The little girl eatsdinner, careful to wipe the bright trickle of tomato from her pale gray cheek. It’sall anyone can do, try to eat neatly. Love it before it leaves.14

NOÖ [14]DORITOS ® brand tortilla chips deliver a powerful crunch that unlocks the bold and unique flavors youcrave. The DORITOS ® brand is constantly creating new ways to give you immersive and memorableexperiences, to put you in control of the things you love most. Check out Snack Strong Productionsat Doritos.com.Control unlocks you to deliver the things you love most. There’s no team in powerful.Productions of power are bold, squat things, aimed for the crotch. These days it doesn’t matterwhose. It’s office politics is all, a thousand vinegars sprung from a single mother, gelatinous diskgathering everything to itself. The young are the underclass. They cluster in the shadows of theoffice—in all the places the young usually cluster, mailroom and break room and the handicappedstall in the restroom—and exchange clues constantly. Or cry. The old are the underclass. Theypause, hands atremble above the new keyboard, and peer down for the mouse, now a red aphidembedded between the G and the H. The world is constantly creating new ways and things towrest things and ways from them. Their confusion is strong and immersive, as experiences go.And you? You crave what’s memorable. What’s unique. This draws you up and out of the bedeach day, enables you to watch in the mirror as you clean your teeth, the toothbrush head winkingbrightly from the pocket of your cheek. Give it a spit. Check it out. Brand it yours. You’ll eatDoritos for breakfast, each tortilla chip triangle its own fretwork of smaller triangles. Crunchthem into flavors, feel them crust in your molars. Snack that. Put that in your mouth. VisitDoritos.com for productions and reproductions. One day you’ll reproduce, at the right time, yourhand on the wheel, your eye locked and dry on what’s next.Whether it’s freshly steamed dinners, savory Asian-style cuisine, or hearty comfort food, we have adelicious solution for every craving. There are over 120 varieties to choose from, so you're sure to find morethan one favorite. And with over 90 varieties with no preservatives, you can have your delicious and eatit too.Dinner is the opposite of breakfast. Breakfast for dinner is what sits on your plate. Whether isthe opposite of whether, or not. Freshly steamed is the opposite of boneless chunks. Which wouldyou rather? Once upon a time, there was no savory Asian-style cuisine. There was only savoryPangean-style cuisine, or as it was called at the time, Ur-kontinental cuisine. Loin of plesiosaur,splintered sinew of pterodactyl. Kale so tall you could punch it in the face. What face? Face it, it’salways been a delicious solution. Swiffer your liver with it. Get rid of that Henry VIII feeling.There are over 120 varieties of ways in which you’re not measuring up to choose from, so you’resure to find more than one favorite. We have. It’s called hearty comfort food with over 90 percentpreservatives. And you can have it. Have you? Have you had your delicious? Have you a deliciousto eat? What are you craving? Every craving is a symbol, and every symbol a displacement, so bythe transitive property, cravings are the original biofuel. Cravings are the opposite of original.Opposite is what you crave.15

NOÖ [14] #7 & #9Jeremy Bauer ,WHAT A WEEK! Monday my tie felt hot. Hotttt. Icouldn’t stop rubbing it. It was maroon andreminded me of how much I loved Dr. Pepper when Iwas nine. I saw a dog Wednesday and trusted it with mylove I remembered again. He licked me, but he looked inmy eyes like we knew each other and liked each otheronce when maybe he wasn’t a dog … and maybe I wasn’ta man. I don’t know. I didn’t mind his breath and he likedme and I walked him to where the grass was and he ranoff. He wasn’t my dog, but he had tags, so I’m notworried. I slipped a cheese danish into this girl at work’sdesk. I watched her take it out, but I snuck it in really fastand it got mushed up and was by the stapler and popped,and so there was shit everywhere. I felt bad. I felt like amother bird that just couldn’t puke into its baby’s mouthright, like it kept catching the wind or something. I got arotisserie chicken Tuesday and ate it with my wholehands. I like my fingers greasy. I don’t like when I touchmy remote after I eat chickens though. I was bleedingfrom my foot one of the days this week, but I was happybecause I had Neosporin and I met the love of my lifewhen I stepped on the knife. I don’t know who droppedthe knife, but they didn’t have my mother because shewould have threatened to get them with a rubber hose orthrow their pet lizards in the van’s engine and start ithard. The love of my life has a name called Angie. She haslight hair and cool earrings every day. When I met her thefirst thing that popped in my head was her funeral bycancer or motorcycle accident, and that’s how I knew shewas the 1. She isn’t any kind of Asian like I wanted, butshe has this sweater that smells like dogs and garlicbread, and they are EASILY my favorite 2 things. I didn’ttalk to her, but I love her. I guess this happens a lotthough, but if I think about it I don’t have a reason not tolove her. Her eyes were the color of dirt. Brown dirt.That’s the nice kind of dirt. My foot was bleeding and itstung real bad like it was filling up with pus every time Ipushed on it. Like sweat bees were in my foot and theykept getting real mad. I have a lot of plans for thisweekend. I know I’m going to food out, but I want tothink nice things. Maybe I’ll plant strawberries. Mymother used to do that. I wonder if my mother wouldlike the suits I wear to work now. I was going to get a newone this weekend, but I spent a lot on pizza and pay perview and karaoke CDs so I think I will have to wait 2 or3 weeks, and I think I’m going to watch Angie to try andfigure out her favorite color and then I can get a suit thatcolor. That sounds nice. I want to smile at her in a suit inher favorite color. No matter what dumb or bad thingshappen there is always nice good hope that feels like mygrandma’s hugs. Or my mother’s hugs. It feels like whenI could eat cookies right when they came out of the oven.Or the first time I won something and felt good for me. Iwill talk to you later, Diary. As always, you are mygreatest friend I will ever have and if you were a womanI’d be nice to you and buy us candy and stuff. Sorry to getweird again, Diary.Your friend,Hunter GreenP.S. Do you think crabs know what we do with them? Iwould run.16

NOÖ [14]couldn’t take a pet that’s constantly working to show meits asshole). They renew their stupid vows every year andinvited me again, like they do every year, but I’d ratherput my face in boiling shit than go to Vegas with him. Iaccidentally said that to Mom and she looked prettypeeved. I asked why me and her never go on trips andsort of renew our mother/son vows, and she said I wastoo old for that sort of thing. I told her she was too old forVegas and drove home and ate, like, 5 microwaveburritos and a whole gallon bag of tater tots. Anyway, Ialmost asked Sharon out today. I was really gonna do it,but I saw her talking to the UPS guy at work and justdecided to forget the whole thing. Benjamin Franklinlived alone till he was dead and he invented electricity,the xylophone, and milking turkeys, so it must not be sobad. I guess you get used to it like anything. That’skinda hopeful.Your friend,Hunter Green“Frankie” © 2013 Fabio SassiP.S. Dale told me about this thing called Oraboris that’spretty weird. It’s some snake that eats his own buttforever. I thought, God, that’s just asking for gingivitis.What a crummy animal. ,Sometimes I think love is a gorilla waiting in the dark tobox your ears. Or maybe it’s like that fish that swims upyour pee hole and porcupines your penis so you wish youcould die. I’d like to think it’s like the baby deer I sawsleeping by Lake James when I was 8. Just this sweet littlething you wanna pick up and hold and keep safe.Something abandoned you wanna take in and feed likesome kind of hobo orphan. The deer turned out to bedead. That was the year they found an alligator in thelake, and I guess when they lifted the deer up all its gutsand blood fell out. But still, when I thought it wassleeping, it looked … hopeful. I thought about buying adog so I wouldn’t be lonely. Mom has a cat and she neverseems lonely, but she also has that buttface Roger (and I17

NOÖ [14]Windows /Ben SegalABUILDING EXISTS also in language. This one, builtunder ground, all glass and black metal struts, itconjures terms like cantilevered. As in: why can’t he leave her?It doesn’t seem impossible. The windows still swing open,the doors are all in working order.On the other hand, there are the trappings of modernplumbing: flush toilets and hot showers, sprinkler systems.All kinds of watery enticement.Mostly there is a jut of ceiling glass, exposed to the skybut level with the earth and so placed as to be a glass panelin an otherwise concrete sidewalk. He watches the obviousthings from under—skirt openings, sneaker treads. Helikes especially when a bird sets down or shits on the panefrom above. He likes the backlit splatter.And what of the stayed-with her? She is mostly anexcuse he furnishes, a projected obstruction to explain hisstaying in. I.e. She’s not just my ball and chain, she’s got myballs enchained. In fact, she’s got more concern for thetelevision. She has and wears a brown wool hood, anex-presidential mask, calfskin gloves. She and the otherswork under the sign of the Dutch boot, nightly saboteursof broadcast towers.He has fallen in love deeply with a massage chair but hesometimes cheats with his bidet.Years back, he kept pigeons on a high roof. He met withfriends to be in their company. His interest in his wifeextended beyond agoraphobic utility.“Religion as a social institution” from Chapter 22 of Society Today (1971) © Karl Nicholason18He is this evening in the leather massage chair,undressed, watching the spread of dog-piss on his sidewalkskylight. It goes in tentacles. He likes liquid things. His wifehas telephoned already, sweetly, to inform him that she’llnot be home until after he goes to sleep.Other telephone calls come from former friends. It’s anight they would once have gathered on. The ex-friendsstill do. They would like him to come. He is, they agree, thebest kind of talker, classically handsome, oddly goodcompany. He begs off for various marital priorities: sinkleak repair, promised fine dinner, irrational demandsstemming from a certain time of the month.His former friends wonder if “time of the month” isreally a euphemism or just a conveniently vague truth, astime is always, in fact, encased in one month or another.

NOÖ [14]His wife, with two partners and a driver, has justknocked out the signal from the local NBC station of themiddling, hill-bound community nearby. They struckduring the weather. Viewers thought maybe they wereexperiencing an eclipse. The wife and her fellow saboteurschange clothes in the back of their escaping van. They puton matching sweat suits, casual off-yellow drapings ofnew-money suede and terrycloth, and then pile into achain-diner for celebratory dessert.Some three dogs are peeing with regularity on the roofof the house. The man of the house has been enjoying theterritorial competition. It’s a kind of endless, victorlesssport. He has the massage chair set to percussion and isjolting contentedly beneath the urine spread.He does leave the house sometimes; that’s a necessaryminimum for employment and he’s in need of a salary.A house like his requires payments. The Sharper Imageis a far cry from a charity shop.In lieu of a more desirable sinecure, he has securedhimself a position as a functionary. Mostly he assesses andsorts, though there is also the occasional bout of filing. Theoffice others are aware of his smile, of his many charmingteeth. One such other, a managerial figure, some nominallyhigher-up, at nights re-chews the man’s discardedwhitening gum.The re-chewer doesn’t realize that the plucked gumwads leave residue ghosts on the garbage bin’s sides, thatthe man’s trashcan has become a surveillance device.The man’s wife engages also in slow and office-basedusefulness. Because she is a radical or terrorist, she is verygood at her job.She plans to be at her office in the morning, poorlyrested but with a bright perfected face, a face caked smoothwith fine and beautifying powder. Now she is sharing pieand vanilla ice cream. She and the others are laughing. Thedriver keeps asking their waitress to change the channel toNBC, to just try again. He keeps saying his show is on. Thefour companions watch the television’s blackness. Dead airis all there is; there isn’t even a test pattern.At home, her husband has switched from percussion torolling pressure. At night the darkness makes his ceilingwindow hard to watch. There’s not usually anything to seeanyway. Nights in this neighborhood tend to be empty.Once a woman, a friend of his wife’s, had stoodspread-legged above his sidewalk window and shotstraight down at his face below. This was a birthdaypresent. The glass is bulletproof, though the bullets wereplenty real. The sound of it was loud, he remembered, andthrilling. The woman’s leg had been gouged by thericocheting rounds and she’d dropped blood on the glasspane and then down along the sidewalk.This night he is staring up, watching for somethingstriking, an instant of a chase maybe, or some act ofviolence in mid-commission. He would like to be swept upinto something terrifying and totally beyond him. He findsa romance in the thought of bearing witness. Tonight hesees nothing. The street above his head is calm and theshadows are without portent.His wife comes home just after three. She folds up herhood and gloves and slips her mask back into the costumedrawer. She can hear the massage chair droning its steadywork. Her husband is sunken into it, sleeping. He is havinga wonderful dream about affixing dollar bills to the clearunderside of a sidewalk. The dreamed hands of dreamedchildren slam into the glass. Rebuffed and confused, thechildren gather to dig for the bills with hopeless vigor. Theglass doesn’t suffer a scratch.His wife unplugs the chair and coaxes his now onlymostly-sleeping body into bed. They lie, apart, beside eachother, yards deep in the earth. Tomorrow is a school day.They’ll be woken too early by the footsteps of real childrenoverhead.19

Women GuessNOÖ [14]AshleyLOOK, I’m a timepiece. I’m dynamic. Look, I’m premium stunning. I’m amber,freesia, Muguet, musk. Silver, gold, waterproof, rhinestones. Please pack mein a pink transparent box. Please pack me a bottle, pack me deodorant, pack metactics, rain boots, and a global average man who tells three lies a day compared towomen who tell only one. Please spare me a rainy day. Today? Guess this forthose who only ever. For Venus and Mars, for analog, chronograph, crystals.Time left : time left. Look, please spare me. I’m not available to lie for the wait, towait for the lie, not guaranteed to stun and stun in the rain.20

NOÖ [14]OtherWomenFarmerAFEW YEARS ago my claws came out.I sat at a lovely emergency wedding reception. I wanted to share the heartand truth amongst ambiguous connections. Two guests, seemingly strangers,become entangled in a sexually charged battle of wits. She did “what womendo best.”But I have been with my boyfriend for over a year and I do not understand whyhe won’t stop rattling other girls, surrounding them. I give him everything heneeds: stylish romantic drama, song lyrics, lonely sons. Is it my imagination or isthis all my imagination? A study asks: How can you stop him?We’ve seen her depicted time and time again: she tends to stare, to decide onother women’s body parts. Not “others” but difficult others. Countless, sheimplored. Wives and girlfriends.We want to share but do not want to share this affair. After all, what your clawsdo best is spontaneous. Is basically lonely, is only, is ugly. Is survive.21“Justice” from “Jeu de Massacre”(Game of destruction)ca. 1928 © Fred Carasso

NOÖ [14]Land Blood ankIElizabeth MikeschWAS GOING to tell you that I loved you and inform you of the wedding thathad taken place in your sleep. Between whatever you wanted to wear,something you would wear to work, whatever you wanted because I want youcomfortable, or maybe this costume change, maybe what you are to be donningare sweats. I know about you from what I have seen of you. In the glisten ofvaluable information overheard at blood banks, you choose to wear slacksbecause of the weather. That sludge out there. Sometimes I am vindictive, small,so as to be shapeless, puttering around the sidewalks, walking the same pattern,the same of the same. The big plan was to take as many supplements as you are oldand lay for you to discover your donor. You stomach-pump the bride. When theyrealize the value of these nutrients, they will insist on extracting them. I have notslept since the first day I read your name, decided to take it for mine. I have notslept one iota since so. I have even taped my married name over the name of mygrandfather on the bag. The mailperson asked when approaching the iron creakof the opening why? This is the echo you don’t correct. I was to make a donation.“Candyland” © 2013 Michael Parsons & John Kolbek22

NOÖ [14]IMET A MAN at a barbeque with no sense of smell. We talked about howneither of us could. It tasted rank in my mouth when he got done. Every timelike mustard and onion.He told my name to me when we did it. He dosed holding my hand. Then, theroom sighed blue. I swatted under the bed for my license.I popped zits on his shoulders, tried to read his tattoos. They were in cursive orsome language. The pus sat in beads, splurred my thumbs.I haven’t turned thirty, I said.He told me, Good.What kind of man falls asleep before you? I’ve never been with a man whoreeks of me. I cook because I get nervous. The man I cheat gives me stomachaches.He shouldn’t have let me know he likes the way I smell.My mom has a friend who’s psychic. She finds lost kids. On dates, men wouldtake her to the theater. She was tiny like a child. I swear I’ve seen coats topple herover. They couldn’t stay hooked.I always hoped I could bring someone down.Elizabeth Mikeschurmeric23

NOÖ [14]NEON GODFROM THE TOPTURNBUCKLEGene KwakPRETTY SURE those hangers don’t mean they’reanti-fashion. The stick-thin girls with bony hips andchest-wide hand-painted signs. Slogan hounds of doggerelcamped on the Dodge overpass. I walk up to where grassmeets granite. In-between stairs that lead to the overpassand flatland; in-between chanters and those who countercall. I’m beside this girl, Bessie, who has goaded me intothis anti-anti-hanger squad. Bessie is the leader of a herd ofwhite shirts with starched collars: Christ kids who viewthe choice crew as demons. Or, even worse, humans withtheir fair say.Bessie and company are pro-agony, seems to me, as thesounds they let loose are somewhere between flagellationof the ear and the Holy Spirit barely curtailed by theirbodies. Eyes roll back in heads, people sink to knees, whiteknuckles grasp grass and rip tufts free as if they held anearth-aimed grudge. The songs and sermons they shouthave all the typical Biblical buzzwords, and I fish lip along,no sound out but for a quick lip quiver or two to mockmovement. They know the words by heart, but I never gotthe liner notes. One of them twitches and tweaks, a frothedmouth away from being considered for a binding whitecoat. Another unfurls a sign with an aborted fetus on it, thething pink and wet looking and vaguely membranous.I’m here because I’m impressionable to pretty-eyed girlswho pay me any heed and I wanted to witness the shitshow. Truth is, I’m more an enemy than the no hangerssign-holders. My mother had an abortion, and so, had shenot made that decision seven years prior to my welcoming,I probably wouldn’t have been born. Butterflies begottsunamis begot me standing on the sidewalk, able to chantdown the cause of my own being.When I was a young runt of seven or eight, my fatherbent my ear, told me, boy don’t lay your bone in anywoman you can’t foresee a future with. Either he was fullof shit or he owned a lot of crystal balls.I tried to distract myself from his sage advice with thefurious dealings of Macho Man Randy Savage off the topturnbuckle on TV.If there was a God, I imagined him as the sequined,bespectacled Randy Poffo. Macho Man seemed no meremortal: chiseled and well-oiled, he looked ever the idealspecimen God would fashion in his image. Macho Manbeing the 80s icon of male virility. Funny that his peacockcostumery would later be so hand-in-dick representativeof stereotypes of homosexual men. This man was a paragonof flight. No long-limbed leg-drop like the slow Hogan. Heand Ricky Steamboat brought wrestling above the fracas ofthe mat. Ushered in a new era of ropewalks and flyingelbows. Not to mention his coke-fueled interviews wherehe dropped such gems as: Nothing means nothing. Or: Inmy moment of glory, I’m living in a nightmare. Or, mypersonal favorite, uttered to Mean Gene Okerlund asSavage deftly pulls coffee creamers from a secret spot likesome milk magician: I’m the cream of the crop. And creamrises. Oh, yeah.They say your idea of God stems from your father. Myfather left two years after the psychic woman babble. Popswas no God. My On High and Divine was a flying dynamo24

NOÖ [14]who snapped into meat sticks, colored fringe aflutter. Hisvoice the gravel rasp of a man who lunched on light bulbs.A neon God who existed in the air space between theheavens and hearts of believers.Later, in Bessie’s dorm room, we go at it with a fury thatonly strangers can muster. Buttons are undone, zippersunzipped. She disrobes with a proficiency and ease thatmakes me, in hindsight, question her vows, her high andholies, but at the time, I’m in no mood to ponder a stance.I’m witness to this milk-white body that’s so arresting ablind man groping a pencil drawing of it would stillbe awed.The room smells like sage and Palmolive. Posters of popstars show no creases. My fingers find her folds, crookedto hear her croon. Sweat beads on brows and backs as shesoft moans her approval. You might expect I wouldmention how she maligned the name of her Savior in thethroes of passion, but no, most she soiled my surname withher sex-fueled brays.My surname, Jacobi, being what most know me by.And if there was ever an opposite of God, some nomight, non-maker barely able to get by on this spinningmorass, it would be me. In keeping with my non-deitystatus, I fumble around for protection. Check sockdrawers, jean pockets, inside book spines—find none. Giveher the “what now” shoulder shrug. Pull out. Just makesure you pull out, she says, breathily.I think, should we go through with this? Could I be themaker of another me? Another glance in Bessie’s directionconfirms it. I want to run my tongue around the twodimples below the small of her back like licking the last ofsomething sweet from the inside of a spoon. I want toconnect a small constellation of moles one shy of the BigDipper on her upper thigh with a dark marker. She makesthe eyes. Nods me along. After some quick fumbling andclose slide bys, I slip in and she latches on. Feelingnotwithstanding, I believe.Not in some cosmic white-bearded robe-wearer, but inthe idea that there is so much joy and beauty and, equally,sheer shit in the world that sometimes we, skin sacks ofbarely gelled limbs, make mistakes. And sometimes, deepin the furrows of said mistake, at the point whereeverything falls away, blurs against better judgment, youpull yourself free. Like a drowning man able to breach theplane between sky and sea taking a breath. Come backyoung stalwart son! Come hither and gather yourself. Fillthose lungs. Live on. The cream rises.I pull out. Finish on her divan. Say a prayer to the NeonGod for a close call. We are all trying for flight.25

NOÖ [14]Fail You BackKelly Schirmann26

NOÖ [14]TundraSee more of Kelly Schirmann’s broadsides atwww.noojournal.com/1427

NOÖ [14]POEMMorgan ParkerWe’re already behind schedule so I wait undera ledge and watch the first snow of the monthit lasts approximately three minuteswhen the bus finally pulls in the driver tells methe turnpike is at a dead stop and when I saydead he says I mean faces are made upof pulled clay rodents drift from wire rafters in thisbus its arched back tunneling found objectsthat have nothing to do with Hartford CT andeverything to do with learning to count womenlike Sappho cream cheese and black music inthe trees tonight it’s all radio and they’re all bareI’m afraid to fall asleep drooling on the red carpetseat so I crane my neck to watch the other carsbundled tiny and safe crawling on repeatfound by Superbomba Lucy Diamond Phillips28

NOÖ [14]Mike KrutelCarFireinSnowIt doesn’t go if doubly sunkor does it? Freeway strung with lights and yetnot one of them a guide. Today we lostthe moon and sun. The best advice: be hot.Be passage against the bellowed wince.A kind of circus rambles onbetween our stitches. Weather comes and weare buried under snow but always fullof love—a giant breath and violinsamong what fills our blood.29

fromEverythingI Destroyed Was BadNOÖ [13] no wait [14]Lisa CiccarelloThe screen is a scroll & the scroll tells youyou have lost your heart. Your preciousheart that was a gift from your mother & father.The scroll is a map in another screen. On themap there are the tops of trees that may beshrubs. On the map there are trees & shrubs toburn, but you must find the candle first. There isa cave & between two fires you will find thecandle & it will stay lit as long as you carry it. Onthe map are marked caves & unmarked tops oftrees or shrubs that you must burn. In the burntout places there are caves or stairs or someonewho wants to give you money. You cannot refusethe money & this is good, because you must buya sword. There is no way to get your heart backfrom the map of trees without a sword. There isno way to get on from here without the burning.30“The Legend of Zelda - Overworld (Quest 1)” © 2013 Rick N. Bruns

NOÖ [14]WE AREBOTHDIEWendy XuIn a way that the birds find lessthan compelling. Build a nest and growbetter feathers. I was sailing in a ship that came acrossanother ship in an ocean humbledby sunlight. It was amazing. It was an actualevent that amazed me and affectedmy physical body. Kissing is like steeringwith purpose. But kissing is also like confusionat the supermarket if you really love to spend timeat the supermarket. Which I do. Which whythe hell do we eat birds? Which when you havea birthday why do you tell me? EverythingI said yesterday was a lie. I don’t actually loveany city better than the next, except when youare a city growing tired of internalconflict which is broadcast on the evening news.Then I am terribly aware of being just oneperson with a body. Then I draw up quietlysome charts and at the very top misspellyour honest name.31“Death and Burialof Poor Cock Robin”c. 1865 Henry LouisStephens

NOÖ [14]SELF-PORTRAITHai-Dang PhanWITH NEWWEAPONS SYSTEMSYou used to be thirty, now you’re something.Treat Yo Self! Cloths, fragrances, massages,Mimosas, and fine leather goods. This year let’s tryNot to kill our plants again. My voicemailCalled to tell me I am running out of memory.At the scene of Qaddafi’s capture, a Yankees cap.I reserve the right to unlike this. On a scale of 1 to 10…Her blouse forgets nothing. A text declares i’m here!Yesterday is my alibi. The sky five minutes before midnight.Suddenly everyone wants to talk about unicorns.At least you share a birthday with Snoop Dogg.That recent post on drones was a real downer.Your morals will be supported. The new hummingbirdsWill buzz into rooms, drop a payload, and leave.A scar invited a touch. Apply gentle pressureWhen braking. Do something painful each day,Like brushing your teeth. Air the night collectedCools these rooms. The brass is already talkingAbout future engagements. I am a little bit happierThan I was a moment ago. Hold steadyWhile I take the temperature of your voice.You cannot doubt the lemon cake. The EurozoneIs really just Sarkozy and Merkel. Sometimes, CameronWill throw his two cents in. We talk of our livesAs if we were others. With an ear to the airThe birds have organized. Considerable cloudinessWith occasional rain showers. When I say tomorrowI mean an expression of regret. Today is nothingLike 1980. Let’s put the future behind us.I’ll walk you just as far as this thought.32

NOÖ [14]Russell JaffeI Shall PlayUnapologeticallyIcould just be going crazy.the dome of the earth like clouds so you won’t go crazy. They hang up. It could also just be the planets. They paint(adjective) (noun)(color)(noun, arcade décor)blinking lights so you don’t feel bad to be among your kind. And you can always win tickets. Youcan’t take your tickets to the afterlife. They encourage you to paint portraits so you won’t feel likejust a little nothing adrift in the ultimate anti-playzone: the universe, AKA your day. You pushthrough the mesh enclosure until you’re face to face with the portrait and then you say: “Hello. Thisis a condition.” Your parent supervises from behind the crossword. When I asked to write a poemabout you, I felt . When you said ok it was all rocket. But the wayyou said it was(feeling you get in a ball pit)(crazy person noises)(childhood Nintendo game long lost to the annals of time)and. Sigh. Another toy chest memoryexcursion. Another sweet nothing on the back of a straight-to-DVD case. Another dead world.Another portrait of something destroyed. Another. What is the universe nowto us but a playzone that can’t pay the space rental fee? What is this sweet work with if thou kiss menot? As I collapse into colored balls I shall destroy. Whoa!(exclamation)! Here we go! This town willburn upon atmospheric reentry. I shall take the core of this town and rip it. Onto a DVD. Get yourbest underwear and dance. These are love poems to the world of direct-to-DVD. You were born tothis condition. That’s the best lie from your third eye. It’s nurture, all nurture. We learned thecalligraphy of the ball pit.(exclamation)! This condition is for the direct-to-DVD market in you.33

NOÖ [14]CONVERSATIONSIN POOLRachael KatzBen will you flip me underthe zipper seams of clouds?Here comes that Pepsimachine we voted for andall of the men with theirbeards as disguises, beardsas birds, beards as feelingsabout god. Tell me dustand what it’s bad for. I lovedew and what it does. Ben Ihate the fence and the brokenslide and the tarp across the moon.Look at these trees like slaw forksalive in the mud. Your momis a haunted house and yourdad kills the wasps in her walls.You just give me back my flashlightand I’ll tell you what your deer does.found by Superbomba Lucy Diamond Phillips34

R/NOÖ [14]REEPHOTa poem for violentacrezAnne Boyeraphoto which, when masturbated to, makes a man’s dick fall offa photo which, when looked at, makes a man’s dick fall offa body which, when looked at, makes a man’s dick fall offa photo which explodes like a grenadea body which explodes like a grenadeany manner of weaponized bodies, both self-destructing and self-preservative, like abody like a poison garment, like a body like a collapsing shipa body like a landmine which requires only a little treading-on to triggera girl or a woman like a landmine who requires only a little treading-on to triggera girl or a woman who requires only a little photographing to triggera photo which, when masturbated to, will make a man go blinda photo which, when masturbated to, will both make a man go blind and put in theplace of his sight a grim and hellish inner visiona photo which when circulated on the internet has some code in it and the code is“whoever circulates this image will be cursed like Job”a series of techno-temporal-biological viruses which open the guts so that thewarmth of human viscera can serve as incubation space for some now-still-embryonic futurea series of viruses which creates any productive use for the viscera including moreminor ones, like growing orangesa computer screen filter which filters arousal, replacing it with fear, shame,amusement, confusion, or regreta computer screen filter which filters arousal, leaving only the impulse to vacuumthe floor35

NOÖ [14]POEM COMPOSED ENTIRELY WITHLAST LINES INPOEMSJames ValvisIf you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home now.Miraculously, down its own street, homeis the effort of not seeing, of not hearing.My death was mine. It had nothing to do with you.When your storm comesI would not keep you. I would let you go,not return your call.My fallen life:a troubled house. So long as it’s well litGod, it appears, is everywhere, even here—but we do not ask each otherwhat life would have to be for us to have chosen it.36

NOÖ [14]YES, I WILLGOMeghan PrivitelloThe old man in the street fell down he is trying to fold his thoughtsinto a pile of sweaters.Not his dog or wife understandshis mouth. Remember when you used to drag yourself, like a dog, across thebedroom carpet. Remember when your veins were so bright I called youestuary. With binoculars you can see the man praying for snow.He believes in cave paintings the brown necks of horses.As a boy, he traced his hand on the thigh of a dog and feltprimitive. Remember when you told me my naked body was the truth.Remember when you assaulted the clouds for blackening. The man is fallingin love with everything he can name.He calls love dictionary.He calls himself dwindling. Remember when we could mean nothingand it didn’t hurt.Remember when the weather was empirical proofthat we were separate from the sky. The man’s wife is always restlesshe calls her earthquake. His dog is always hungry he calls himuseless. If you could trace the shape of the dying man’s mouthon paper you could call it O orange world. Rememberwhen we started running out of time. Remember when love was a simplerecipe. The man prays his wife and dog would get a rashwhose welts spoke of his missing. They are in the kitchen eatingstreusel their warm mouths hypothetical merely.from Jugend c. 1905 Albert Weisgerber37

NOÖ [14]Marit EricsonHope you sell that brainpainting. Hope you too makea million friends. Pray foeskeep you on your toes. Ifyou break three digits, savetwo for the apocalypse.Sense of humor, sense ofcumin: make a dish of it!A casserole, literally saucy.Be your own pet. If not,you’ll be someone else’sinnuendo. Play all parts, plusprivate eye. (Just in case.) Hey.You’re teasing these threads,doll. In ghosts, behind yourface. You’re quite welcome, too.Murayama Tomoyoshifrom Mr. Cat and the Golden Shoes c. 194738

NOÖ [14]Let’s chart the economy’s healthin terms of bees. In grade school,during springtime fire drills,we had to stand still while the swingsswung and bees landedon our shoulders. It was like seeingred sirens in your rearview mirrorwhiz past you. Whiz is perfectonomatopoeia about half the time.This is my first poem about poems.You can believe me because I’m being believable.Lately, poetry has been like what I assumefly fishing is, which I’ve never tried.I hook a fly, toss it out, and if nothing bitesyank it back in a parabola, which isthe patron shape of manic depressives.That fat bear my honey comes inis trustworthy for no reason other thanthat he trusts no one. Cell phones,on the other hand, are wholly unreliable.Like when my dad calledand told me that my grandmawas going to die or elseoutlive all of us. She had an apple treein her backyard, which attracteda lot of bees. They cut it downaround the time she forgot who I was.I guess if you can’t remember your grandchildrenthen you shouldn’t be collecting apples.We gave her a box of coupons from the mailand she would run her fingers over themlike she did to my cheekswhen I was in grade school.She’s still alive and might even rememberwho I am now, but I’ll never knowbecause she only speaks in a wordless mumble.It sounds like a child learning a languageyou don’t understand. Like a beeover your shoulder. Or a vacuum.A VacuumIs Usedbut NeverUsed UpJoe Kmiecik39

NOÖ [14] is for ChrisThe Abyss Has No BiographerChris Toll (b. Goodbye, d. Hello)The rain,heart in ruins,staggers out of town.My Saintof Wrong Prepositionsbuttons her black skyscraper.Who pays the rentin incoherent?My Soul is a scrap of lightning.My poems are thunderboltlaid below thunderbolt.How long can I stayat the inn in innocent?Love is so hardand it’s all we came to do.40found by Superbomba Lucy Diamond Phillips

NOÖ [14]UTERANCEEmilyToderThe followingutterance about addictionis about everything:rain in a puddlewill make the puddle only rumbleThe puddle’ll dance andit will sputterlike a bad machineBut it will not growtired of itIt will neverhave enoughThere’s no overflowing, this dipin the road is not likethe atmosphereNone of it is out of its boundsand it cannot be pushed,It coheres out of its owntoppling and spreadsand if you have sleptand if you have woken upthis rocked puddlemight even haunt youAnd the knowledge you knowcould console you until you dreamAnd until you dreamyou could continue to talkyou could be talkingthis entire timeand consoling yourselfwith your knowledge,41yes, crappily.

NOÖ [14]Elizabeth J. ColenPearl HarborWhen I heard “break squelch” I thought “smear the queer.”The games the boys would play.Admiral stared across the water, never played hopscotch as a boy, never played cricket.Air dense with cloud from water to endless.Did you know he would do this? my mother asked, handling the officer’s card.Three broken windows in the bitch’s yellow house. He never learned to play nice.Sunset over the Pacific, but we were riding out of it.The days grew shorter with speed.Cards in a footlocker, 51, plus jokers.Sailor searched the floor for that diamond four, not worth much, but still.What did they knowand when did they know it?My brother drew a picture of her severed head.We didn’t tell the cops.Frank rolled back. Said he didn’t want to know.Or did he? Evidence shows we could decipher code.Evidence shows we couldn’t. Endthe war. My brother put his fist through his bedroom wall.42

NOÖ [14]Stock-StillWe step into the rain like a film, gallons of iceas if we are athletesor coaches of athletes finishing an important gamewe are the important game,you and I, our gain in this film stillwhen all is dead and quietwhen I dreg up these types of tearsin order to make weather happen.Katie Jean ShinkleSomething before or against, for or against, the shiftof body weightwhen dead. How the eyes either close or remain open—even afteryou’ve shoved them down. Even after, they comeback up, like when you try to drownanything, it may float, the bricks might not work.This is how the boys get rid of the evidence. This is howthe girls put their hands up each others skirtswhen the boys are gonetake too long, or whatever, the girls say.When really, they find their fists fit better once insidethis frame than that.“Unterwelt” c. 1951 Walter Schnackenberg43

NOÖ [14]Behind TheTimesTony MancusIwill die in a fort of strapture, fit with laughingin a fit of strapture, a fortlike structure, fit with laughterI will die without punctuations or monetary curbs, cures, curvesin an unctuous nation without monastery crabsI will die in a town named afterI will die a thousand times a sparrow, but only once a corvusI will die with my love bound up, books in handI will die with my hand bloated and dipped in inkI will die in the eyes of my wife’s fast blinkingI will die in the throat of my schoolchild as she learns her alphabets© 2013 Claudio ParentelaI will die in the band sounds stilled beneath the metal bleachersI will die in the keys of the janitor as he presses the pedals of the uptight pianoI will die on a midwinter’s day and on the afterpolice shot of summer—walking onto the moving grassI will curl up into smoke and Dramamine and the goats will eat their cans and chew the grasssprigs from my socketsI will die with my family’s crest—a series of spaces between the waves, called lonelinessI will die in the cornucopia of a faltering nation, identified by its apathyI will die tomorrow and tomorrow and the rest of the hem will come undone and wrap you up in bedI will die in the manner of campfireI will die on the off-ramp of an odd numbered highway, salt still frosting the linesI will die of my wife’s fear—dropping out of the sky as my own fear finds another me inside these dreams I’ve signedI will die of long-in-the-tooth, of rickety-rails, or choose-your-own-adventure and plaid patterns for adultsI will die sweating inside a handshake, the palm gone fishlikeI will die in every curtain of lakewater interpreted as a walkable ice-way44

NOÖ [14]Ron Winklertranslated from the Germanby Rodney Nelsonafterwardthen parabolicapplebreathspäter dannParaboläpfel amAtemthe garden below. the specialtywoods. the infinite π of sun above.and beauty as earlier lack of significance.wherefore clouds. clouds to an extent.the damnation fruit in between. thedamnation fruit.weren’t Kodiak hare in there too?weren’t they there too? at the hedge?and jungle-bone diceclamoring birdwise down to earth?someone’s offkey Smith &Wesson rasp intruded onto this allveryroad-weary atmosphere. not mine.it came from another focusgroup.unten der Garten. der spezialisierteWald. oben das endlose π der Sonne.und Schönheit als eher Unscheinbarkeit.also Wolken. insofern Wolken.dazwischen das infernalische Obst. dasinfernalische Obst.waren dort nicht auch Grizzlyhasen?nicht auch dort? am Zaun?und dschungelartige Würfelwie zu Boden geschrieene Vögel?jemand drückte in diese sehr, sehrverreiste Stimmung hinein die Räuspertasteseiner Heckler & Koch. das war nicht ich.das gehörte einer anderen Intensitätsgruppean.45

NALINI ABHIRAMAN was born and raised inStone Mountain, GA. Her work appears inGigantic, Anomalous Press, and Fringe, whoseinaugural Flash Fiction Contest she won in2012. She lives in New York, inside a 1BRbag of popcorn, and at freerangenalini.com.JARMLESMAEREMY BAUER exists as an ant colony in abooze can near the Greatest Lake, with hiswife of the burning quanta. His work hasappeared in PANK, Everyday Genius, andNew Wave Vomit, among others. He can beheard at ohbabyohman.blogspot.com.NNE BOYER is the author of The Romance ofHappy Workers, Anne Boyer’s GoodApocalypse, Selected Dreams with a note onphrenology, My Common Heart, The 2000s,and Art is War. Recent work has appearedin The New Inquiry, Joyland Poetry, andRethinking Marxism. She lives on the edgeof Kansas and is a professor at the KansasCity Art Institute.ICK BRUNS makes screenshot maps ofNintendo and Super Nintendo games for aliving and sells posters of his maps on hiswebsite nintendomaps.com. He got his firstNintendo system back in 1986 and has beenhooked ever since!EAGAN CASS’S stories have appeared innumerous literary journals, includingHayden’s Ferry Review, Puerto Del Sol, andPANK. She holds a Ph.D. in English fromthe University of Louisiana Lafayette, andis an Assistant Professor of English at theUniversity of Illinois Springfield.ISA CICCARELLO is the author of thechapbooks At night, the dead; Sometimes thereare travails; and the forthcoming (the shorein parts). Her poems have appeared inHandsome, Tin House, Denver Quarterly, andCorduroy Mtn., among others.LIZABETH J. COLEN is the author of Moneyfor Sunsets (Steel Toe Books, 2010), DearMother Monster, Dear Daughter Mistake(Rose Metal Press, 2011), and Waiting Up forthe End of the World: Conspiracies (Jaded IbisPress, 2012). She lives in Seattle.COTT DAUGHTRIDGE is an emerging writerfrom Atlanta, Georgia. Most recently, hiswork was featured on Storychord. He iscurrently working on a chapbook.ARIT ERICSON is from New England.Marit’s work has appeared in severalvenues, including Segue, Emprise Review,and Rougarou.SHLEY FARMER is the author of thechapbook Farm Town (Rust Belt Bindery)RRJJLMKGNTCONTRIBUTORS’ NOTESand her first collection is forthcoming fromTiny Hardcore Press this year. She writesand teaches in Southern CA. Say hello atashleymfarmer.com.USSELL JAFFE lives in Iowa City and is theeditor and curator of Strange Cage, achapbook poetry press with a readingseries. He is the author of one book, ThisSuper Doom I Aver (Poets Democracy, ‘13),and a few chapbooks. He collects 8-tracks.ACHAEL KATZ is somewhere in NewEngland right now. Her work has recentlyappeared in Paper Darts, iO, and Jellyfish.Her interests include the expanded genre,marginalia, radical pedagogy, polymathicjellyfish, and the book as art object.OE KMIECIK has previously published workin journals such as Redivider, Loose Change,and others. He lives in Columbus,Nebraska, with his wife Nora andson Jacek.OHN KOLBEK’S art can be found atjohnkolbek.com.ISA KOSTRZYNSKI, Pop Dog Designs artist,digitally creates pop art style portraits ofpets. Her inspiration comes from her loveof greyhounds and bright pop art from the60s. Find her art at www.etsy.com/shop/PopDogDesigns.IKE KRUTEL is from Akron, Ohio, where heis a poetry editor for Barn Owl Review and aco-curator of The Big Big Mess ReadingSeries. His poems have appeared or areforthcoming in H_NGM_N, ILK, iO,Jellyfish, and Big Lucks.EMILY KTODERK is the author of Science(Coconut Books, 2012) and the chapbooksBrushes With (Tarpaulin Sky, 2010) and IHear a Boat (Duets, 2012). She lives inMassachusetts, where she freelance translatesSpanish and Catalan literature andworks in a university archives.ENE KWAK is from Omaha, Nebraska.ICHOLAS LOCKYER is a collage artist livingin London. Find his work online atnicholaslockyer.tumblr.com.ONY MANCUS is the author of threechapbooks: Bye Land (Greying GhostPress), Bye Sea (Tree Light Books), andDiplomancy (Horse Less Press). He isco-founder of Flying Guillotine Press andhe works as a quality assurance specialistand writing instructor. He lives in Virginiawith his wife, Shannon, and their two cats.46EERCMMHMFNOÖ [14]RIN MCNELLIS is the author of ImpossibleLoves: Essays. She earned a Ph.D. in Englishfrom U.C. Irvine. Find her online atuncomplicatedly.wordpress.com.LIZABETH MIKESCH has appeared in TheCollagist, Unsaid, The Literarian, andMoonshot. Her work will come forth inSleepingfish. She is working on acollaborative book object about life in anoffice, whose pages comprise of dead shit,rubber cement, and ledgers.ODNEY NELSON is the author of the novelVilly Sadness and the poetry collection InWait. He lives in Fargo, North Dakota.LAUDIO PARENTELA has been active manyyears in the international underground artscene. During the 1999 he was a guest of theBreak 21 Festival in Ljubliana, Slovenja. Hisworks are shown in many galleries in theendless web and in the real world too. Findhim online at www.claudioparentela.net.ORGAN PARKER received her MFA inpoetry from NYU. Her work has beenfeatured or is forthcoming in Painted BrideQuarterly, PANK, Forklift, Ohio, CoconutPoetry, Handsome, Vinyl Poetry, ILK, and theanthology Why I Am Not A Painter,published by Argos Books. A Cave Canemfellow, she lives in Brooklyn with herdog Braeburn.ICHAEL ROBERT PARSONS sometimespaints from dreams, sometimes frommovies, but mostly from his love for theunusual. Find his work online atfineartamerica.com/profiles/3-michaelparsons.html.AI-DANG PHAN studied poetry, leaning andloafing at the University of Florida inGainesville. His poems have appeared inLana Turner, DIAGRAM, Barrow Street,Everyday Genius, and other journals. Hecurrently lives in Iowa and teaches atGrinnell College.EGHAN PRIVITELLO’S first book, A NewLanguage for Falling Out of Love, hasrecently been a finalist for Alice James’Kinereth Gensler Award and Persea’s LexiRudnitsky Prize. Her work has appeared oris forthcoming in Sixth Finch, Redivider,Columbia Poetry Review, Best New Poets 2012and elsewhere. You can follow her onTwitter (@meghanpriv) or visit her blogmeghanprivitello.blogspot.com.ABIO SASSI makes acrylics with the stenciltechnique on board, canvas, or other media.He lives and works in Bologna, Italy. Viewhis work at fabiosassi.foliohd.com.

NOÖ [14]KBKELLY SCHIRMANN is from rural NorthernCalifornia. She likes forests and dogs. Herpoems have appeared at Spork, MudLuscious, Metazen, Illuminati Girl Gang, andelsewhere. She makes music with Sam Pinkas Young Family and experiments withbroadsides at mythixtape.tumblr.com. Shelives in Portland, Oregon.EN SEGAL is the author of 78 Stories (NoRecord Press) and co-editor of The OfficialCatalog of the Library of Potential Literature(Lit Pub Books). His chapbooks ScienceFiction Pornography and Weather Days werepublished by Publishing Genius and MudLuscious Press. His short fiction hasappeared in Tin House, Tarpaulin Sky,Gigantic, The Collagist, and elsewhere.ATIE JEAN SHINKLE’S novel, Our PrayersAfter the Fire, is forthcoming from BlueSquare Press. She lives in Denver, CO mostof the time.JLCULIANNA SPALLHOLZ’S short and veryshort fictions have appeared in Caketrain,Denver Quarterly, Gargoyle, and elsewhere.Her first book, The State of Kansas, waspublished by GenPop Books. She has livedin several places, and lives now in theBerkshire mountains of western Massachusetts.AURA STRAUB is a writer and musician inAtlanta, GA. Her work has previouslyappeared in Paste and Indiana Insight. Hershort-form fiction has been recognized bythe Missouri Writer’s Guild. You can findher running the Vouched ATL colony atAtlanta area festivals, readings, art walks,and more!HRIS TOLL was a poet and collage-maker.He lived in Baltimore. His books includeThe Pilgrim’s Process, Love Everyone, Be Light,The Disinformation Phase and Life On Earth.JRWAMES VAVLIS is the author of How to SayGoodbye (Aortic Books). His poems orstories have appeared in Anderbo, Arts &Letters, Barrow Street, Gargoyle, and manyothers. His work has been featured in VerseDaily, the Best American Poetry website,and 2013 Sundress Best of the Net. A formerUS Army soldier, he lives near Seattle.ON WINKLER is a German poet andtranslator, living and working in Berlin andJena. His recent books include FrenetischeStille and Torp. Winkler has translated thework of several younger American poets.ENDY XU is the author of You Are Not Dead(Cleveland State University Poetry Center)and two chapbooks. Poems appear or areforthcoming in The Best American Poetry2013, Gulf Coast, Columbia Poetry Review,and elsewhere. She lives in Northamptonand co-edits/publishes iO: A Journal of NewAmerican Poetry / iO Books.M A N Y T H A N K S T O T H E W A R M O F H E A R TChristopher AndersonArtichoke HaircutBaltimore friendsClay BanesBarrelhouseMaggie BeauvaisDan BradyBrown UniversityBlake ButlerJimmy ChenChristopher CheneyChester College (RIP)Jack ChristianThe Cinnamon UrnsBryan CoffeltJackie CorelyMark CuginiBarbara DeCesareGabe and Liz DurhamFlying ObjectRachel B. GlaserTyler GobbleElliot and Erin HarmonCharles HaleBen and Vanessa HerseyDave HousleyHTMLGIANTLindsay HunterJamie IredellJubilat/Jones Reading SeriesPeter JurmuDave K.Patrick KingMichael KimballMike KitchellMadison LangstonAlicia LaRosaLorian LongElla LongpreLina MakdisiKendra Grant MaloneChelsea MartinMolly McGuireJen MichalksiJenn MonroeGene MorganOmaha, NER.M. O’BrienJonathan PapasParadise CopiesEmily PettitGuy PettitPioneer Valley friendsLayne RansomRyan RidgeAdam RobinsonKit SchluterMark SeidlLogan Ryan SmithLaura SpencerJordan StemplemanBrooks SterrittNick SturmTire Fire Reading SeriesChris TollPatrick TrottiDara WierJohn, Susan, and Holly YoungCarolyn ZaikowskiAll our distributors!(www.noojournal.com/where.htm)All our fellow literary zines!(www.noojournal.blogspot.com)47

18NOÖ Journal [14]FREE / $$$ neveR weeps44Read Back Issueswww.noojournal.comInsideNOÖ[14]Hallelujah Giant Space Wolf achieves a similar blend ofurgency and absurdity, taking readers from the bathroomof a church to a knock-down-drag-out fight with a gorillato the beginning and/or end of the universe astride thetitular cosmic vulpine.NOÖ Presents: Daniel Bailey’s Hallelujah Giant Space WolfErin McNellis | 6The body may be allergic to bees, it doesn’t know. The bodysuffers from some of its own likes. The body sleeps too muchor not enough. The body once fell down stone stairs inwooden shoes.The BodyJulianna Spallholz | 13And if there was ever an opposite of God, some no might,non-maker barely able to get by on this spinning morass, itwould be me.Neon God From the Top TurnbuckleGene Kwak | 24But kissing is also like confusionat the supermarket if you really love to spend timeat the supermarket.We Are Both Sure to DieWendy Xu | 31Love is so hardand it’s all we came to doThe Abyss Has No BiographerChris Toll | 40®Copyright © 2013 NOÖ Journal | All Rights Reserved | ISSN 1939-4802 | www.noojournal.com