UTTERno. 2

no. 2

send forth the voiceutter

Cover ArtLine and Circle on BlueFabio Sassi

Copyright © 2013 by Utter

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MASTHEADP. J. Williams

Co­founder, Lead EditorKir Jordan

Co­founder, Editor

CONTENTSpoetry

Allison LeighO Dear

Eszter TakacsDear Cow

OHIO LAND:Tattooed, Unemployed,Working in Healthcare

or Had surgery before 1992Becoming the Girl About Football

or Becoming a Girl of Lesser MeansBirthday Party

For Anyone TwiceMaggie Graber

Moonrise RitualOde to the Weather Channel

Kori HensellIteration

Scott OwensReader ResponseMichael Lambert

[I'm thirteen years old & sleeping­in duringsummer break on the top bunk of my shared

room.][I'm thirteen years old & standing on stage

in the Platteville Middle School gymnasium.][I'm twenty­one years old & standing with

my brother on a beach somewhere in Iowa.]

fictionErin Lyndal MartinNeutron StarMagdalena WazHenry

nonfictionKelly MartineauCooley's Law of GravityT. C. PorterSounds Like Gary Clark Jr.

art & photographyFabio SassiTracks on BlueHanging Around on BlueClimate ChangesCirclesHarvey SlaterUntitledSheri L. WrightMapping OrionThe Boxer

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poetry by ALLISON LEIGHO DearI can neverwrite you letters and youcan’t write me.I can’t stack and saveyours like glowwormsin paper boxes—no brown string bows orenvelopes crinkledwith old wet.No expense,no evidence.No generation born curiousfor history to come.What history to come.No stationary—what history isstationary—no legacybut the legacy born by keyboard,born by bored.There is no proof of us.No memory of decay,no watching the linesin your handturn clearer in the cold.No being retold.I can never write you letters.You understand. I can neverwalk barefoot through the suburbs.You understand? This is sincere:we can never make love in the streetif we’re near a dead end.

LEIGH · 1

2 · WRIGHT

Mapping OrionSHERI L. WRIGHT

fiction by ERIN LYNDAL MARTINNeutron StarOnce upon a time, a supernova collapsed.Once upon a time, a girl was in love with a boy. The girl was a mermaid and the boy was a human, but henever noticed the difference.Once upon a time the moon controlled the tides.When the supernova collapsed, a neutron star was left.Neutron stars have the highest known gravitational pull in the universe.When a supernova's crust receives a certain adjustment, it shakes and gives off gamma rays. The boy waseating curry and wearing a sweater with a big beige collar. She was looking at him. She knew he had been ascience prodigy as a child, and he was politely embarrassed to talk about it. They compared an album theyhad both heard recently. He said it was the work of a child at a science fair project, twiddling all the knobs atthe last minute. She liked this comparison very much.They left the restaurant, filling their hands with candied anise, crossing the street to the coffeehouse that usedto be a gas station.The way the supernova shakes is called a starquake.He was talking about John Singer Sargent. He was talking about Kandinsky. He was talking aboutsynesthesia, which he and Kandinsky shared. She worried about using the wrong words, about saying anordinary word, only to have it taste acrid to him. She wondered if there were good words too, words likewhite-hot wax dripped over his skin.He ordered hot chocolate.Neutron stars are usually found in binary pairs, often orbiting a normal star.To be fair, he had noticed she was a mermaid, but it was not that he found her lovely or not.To be fair, she had noticed his hair was red and his pants were worn from drumming on his thighs.She went home and dreamed that he had shattered into many, many pieces and all of them were floatingdown the river. So she had to float down the river with him (what there was of him), with him saying thewhole time Don't leave me all alone.In the morning, she put him together again. He was smiling, he was wearing a windbreaker, he was in achurchyard, etc.The neutron cycle is but a short phase in the life cycle of a star.Neutron stars set many records in extremities.

MARTIN · 3

4 · SASSI

Tracks on BlueFABIO SASSI

FABIO SASSIHanging Around on Blue

SASSI · 5

poetry by ESZTER TAKACSDear Cow,Today I am swimming in flat soda.My grandmother called to say I should bringcomfortable footwear to walk among tombs.Quietly, I consider the implicationsof being the war.Tomorrow I will build a Wal-Martinside of a Wal-Mart inside of a Wal-Mart.I will begin living disingenuously among the living,among Plato’s naysayers inside the caveinside my apartment which is inside of my heart.I consider the implications of leaving you,of walking past yellow churches withoutpoetry in mind, of walking aloneand holding disparaging fruit.Cow, last night I had an epiphany aboutbeing in the wrong place all of the time,like how children don’t know that treesdon’t make the wind and so theywatch the leaves for signs of weatherand forget what the television is for,forget what life is all about.Cow, I have decided to stay here after allto watch the great green trees turn greywhile working hard to not recognizeyour face among their lazy drunken leaves.Tomorrow I will chase a tornadoacross the Badlands and I will write youabout the most beautiful things.I wish you wild wishes.Goodbye, Cow.Write me soon!Love,Monster

6 · TAKACS

OHIO LAND:Tattooed, Unemployed,Working in Healthcareor Had surgery before 1992When Ohio was first builtit was brown. It was borntwice and could breathunder water. It had a differentname then. Children sleptinside the soft blowing folds ofits skin to keep from freezing.Plush snow covered it inblinding whiteness. Winterbecame Ohio. Winter wasOhio’s first name. Whenyou are so popular you sitin plastic and white chairsmarked beautiful in gold.You sit back in thesurrealist winter, actinglike a country of your own,pretending to be bewilderedby occupants of your hands.Drinks are flavored bytypes of death signals:ventricle delineation,no breath, no breathing,no heart. You are everybody.You are the friend often ghosts and the entirepopulation of ghosts. Youare a new poet, a diagnosisof beautiful diseases, yetunnamed but perfectfor casual conversations.Online, you are friends witheveryone. We know almost nothingcan happen in this stillnessand I become you. I talk fasterin the rain. I know you.I am Ohio in the wilderness.I am Ohio on vacation without shoesor courage. I am your wishbone,cracked up the middle and benign.

TAKACS · 7

8 · TAKACS

Becoming the Girl About Footballor Becoming a Girl of Lesser MeansTry to be more like me and less like you.In the ten ways I have done.I forget so easily the here of being herein the faraway chocolate of noon.In this doorway. In your arms.In your bed. In your living room.In the movie 300 nothing seemed to be happeningin the place that never took place. Perhaps in New Yorkon a sidewalk before then. Perhaps time travel.Perhaps it was because this town is small.As I have done, you have done.As I have gone, you have gone.Who the fuck are you, really?You emailed me to say “Good pick!”and I fainted on the pillow. Mine. Just mine.Like a rose, like a wilted thing, like nothing.Eastern trends point to the middle ofyour ribcage because ribs are the thingeverybody wants to see. They are likelittle pianos. Little fucking pianos.In the empty driveway, I am breathinghard. I take to doing more with my hair.These days, my brain might trick meinto believing there is a chance.I bought eggs yesterday. Half dozen,stupid and white. I called you.I thought maybe you werestill alive. I am not willingto let go this fast. I start wearingmy hair like it’s a coat. Like it’ssome really great beginning.It might be the greatest beginning.I talk faster in the rain. I know you.

TAKACS · 9

Birthday PartyWe are often inside one another,bones waging war, slitheringhands and wet hair. Like timeand language, we are carriersof time and language. We repeatsongs. Play songs over and over.The certain moments whenthe night air settles into the seamsof our pants, the fire leaving quietlyand too quickly. An armful ofknowing where we will end upnight after night, thin-celledand delicate. We sleep in pairslike young animals wild with need,soft with curiosity and will.

10 · TAKACS

For Anyone TwiceIt is less desperate to appear desperate.It is like being the lesser day upon theclearing, umber and daylight beyondyour dark hand and ten eyes. A kite sailsbetween the planks and moons, a footsails between the rocks, the shoals ofthe river and your too big crater-headweighs on me like a million planetssleeping in disguise. We are asleepand your mouth lays open like ajilted fish, comatose and drunk.For me, it is time to forgive the Earthfor appearing beneath my feeton days like these, allowing meto walk in any direction withoutfirst looking. Wet grass is everywhereand there are too many fires to put out.

nonfiction by KELLY MARTINEAUCooley’s Law of Gravity

The singer, legs astride stage left, was all gaunt angle—square chin, bony shoulders, even his whiteflying V guitar. But his music, while pointed and direct, tumbled out in a rounded twang to a bumblingbeat. From the moment Mike Cooley began singing, backed by his band the Drive-By Truckers, I strainedto catch every word, like his girl waking up “sunny side down,” the narrator “too proud to flip her over.”As the pedal steel swirled among the lyrics, I felt in my limbs that curious blend of calm and energy when asong sounds exactly as it should.The Drive-By Truckers rocked and rambled through the three-minute song during a short set forthe 2006 South by Southwest (SXSW) festival. While his band mates bobbed and wheeled around the stage,Cooley stood nearly still.Mike Cooley is one of two founding members of the Drive-By Truckers, along with fellow Alabamanative Patterson Hood. DBT plays a particularly diesel blend of rock and country, exploring the myths andmisconceptions of the South. Cooley and Hood both write and sing lead for the band, which boasts aprolific discography, including eleven studio albums since 1999.Patterson Hood’s music originally kindled my interest in the Drive-By Truckers. His sprawlingnarratives, delivered in a molasses drawl, stir empathy for his downtrodden, blue-collar narrators. Manymusic writers refer to Hood as the front man of DBT despite Cooley’s prominent role, but that’s just becauseHood is a talker. He seems comfortable in the spotlight, taking the lead in interviews and onstage. He alsorevels in the details of DBT’s sound, often contributing a song-by-song explanation to the album liner notes.I myself mistook Patterson Hood for the front man at the SXSW show. Introducing the band anddelivering the onstage banter, Hood bookended the set with his songs, including “A World of Hurt,” whichexplores the idea that anything worthwhile can cause pain. Like most of his music, the song resonated withme; I recognized Hood’s need to moderate excess emotion, to shape it into something meaningful. Hood’ssongs won my heart that day, but it was Cooley’s “Gravity’s Gone” that engaged my mind.The song rocked with a resigned melancholy, echoed in the chorus, “But I’ve been falling so long it’slike gravity’s gone and I’m just floating.” Emphasizing the rhyme of fall, long, and gone, Cooley drove themeter so that the final word hung in the air. The guitars and pedal steel echoed that lilting fall.“Gravity’s Gone” replayed in my head for days, the chorus repeating that clever sonic tumble. Ibegan listening exclusively to Cooley’s songs.As writers, Hood and Cooley both explore the underbelly in their music—outlaws, excess, and thechallenge of living in the “dirty South.” In contrast to Hood’s candid and impassioned style, Cooley writeswith more restraint, employing clever twists of language that shine a light on characters who usually stick tothe shadows.Such phrases snag my mind, forcing me to listen closely. In “Cottonseed” on The Dirty South,Cooley takes on the persona of a once powerful crime boss. He owns his crimes with taut phrases like, “Iput more lawmen in the ground than Alabama put cottonseed.” This man feels no remorse, only pride in his

MARTINEAU · 11

12 · MARTINEAU

past, and his view of the world is as clear as his conscience. The music is equally as spare, just Cooley’shaunting voice over his acoustic guitar.Such detailed listening offers pieces of the puzzle, but the fascination remains. And I’m not the onlyfan hooked on Cooley’s sound. Reviewer Dennis Cook describes the music as “intoxicating,” a potent andpotentially addictive substance. Whether the effect comes on slow or slams into your head like a series ofshots, the music is a force that invites repetition.Writer and self-proclaimed music enthusiast Nick Hornby recognizes this addictive quality, writingin Songbook of his “narcotic need” to listen repeatedly to one song. Hornby argues, however, that the urgecan be satisfied by listening to the song enough times, that “a three-minute pop song can only withhold itsmysteries for so long.”I wonder if Hornby’s claim is true, if my narcotic need to hear Cooley’s songs can be met byindulging in the habit. The 2008 album, Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, provides several strong shots withwhich to test the theory. With a driving rhythm and warm mix of guitars and organ, “3 Dimes Down,” ismy immediate favorite. Cooley claims he was trying to write a Tom T. Hall song, and critics point to Facesand Sticky Fingers-era Rolling Stones for the sound. These styles mix into a unique sonic cocktail of soul-influenced rock with slurred lyrics packed against a strong rhythm section. Describing two girls in hisspeeding car, Cooley’s narrator drawls, “one out the window and the other on the other end / One belt loopaway from Sunday night’s news.“ The alliterative “o” sounds effectively mimic the loose tongue ofintoxication while we imagine the passengers careening out the window. And the delightfully disgustingline, “chicken wing puke eats the candy apple red off his Corvette,” captures the consequences of such awild night.Cooley’s knack for striking imagery is key to the track, “Ghost to Most.” The chorus opens withthe jittery admission, “Baby every bone in my body’s gone to jumping / like they’re gonna come through myskin.” Rather than offering the circumstances, Cooley further probes the idea, considering the plight of askeleton in the real world, “nowhere to stick their money / nobody makes britches that size.” Closing inresignation, the chorus shifts the conceit to metaphor: “besides you’re a ghost to most before they notice /that you ever had a hair or a hide.” The unexpected image of a skeleton in oversized britches exposes thevulnerability of the character echoed in the chorus.Cooley’s song evokes the work of science fiction writer Ray Bradbury. The narrator of his story“Skeleton” is so plagued by the discovery of bones beneath his skin that he allows a doctor to remove hisspine. Describing the composition later in Zen and the Art of Writing, Bradbury states that he simply turneda “perfectly obvious concept” into a story. Of course, the process of transforming a known fact intosomething revelatory is the act of creativity. Like Bradbury, Cooley views the world aslant, crafting hisunique songs from that perspective.Unlike Patterson Hood, who often discusses the real-life events or feelings that inspired his music,Cooley rarely discloses the origin of a song. When interviewed about songwriting, he tends to sidestepquestions about the source or meaning, sticking instead to process. Cooley’s reticence makes his music moreenticing; by not revealing himself, he summons the listener into the song.Cooley maintains a distance with fictional narrators. However, he offers a rare glimpse at himself inmy favorite song, “Zip City,” which is, according to Patterson Hood, “at least 90%” autobiographical. (It isalso Hood’s favorite track on the sprawling twenty-song Southern Rock Opera.) As unapologetic as thehardened crime boss of “Cottonseed,” the seventeen year-old narrator is going nowhere but back and forthalong the highway to visit his girlfriend, the fifteen year-old daughter of a disapproving deacon. The voice istaut and cool when he informs her: “Keep your drawers on, girl, it ain’t worth the fight / By the time you

MARTINEAU · 13

drop them I’ll be gone / And you’ll be right where they fall the rest of your life.” Neither does he sparehimself, closing the song by admitting, “I ain’t got no good intentions.” Cooley’s voice turns flat suddenlyon the last note, the only crack in the cool resolve of his character.It’s no surprise that a man capable of such smart and spare lyrics was the kind of teenager whoconsidered his girlfriend, “just a destination, a place for me to go / A way to keep from having to deal withmy seventeen-year-old mind all alone.” The genius of the song is that he captures the outer and inner worldof a teenage male: both the swagger—the image he’s working to project—but also the restless energy forwhich he finds no suitable outlet.Cooley’s onstage stance is as much a clue to his characters as anything he might let slip in aninterview. Concert reviews often note his cool presence, how his cigarette ash collects on the tip,undisturbed by his focused attention on the guitar. Recalling the 2006 show, I picture him: his long limbsrooted to one spot. While his music filled the room, his movements were barely discernible.The secret of that sound is that Cooley has learned to harness the edginess that plagued his youth, toforce the energy through the sieve of time into song. His skill at turning a phrase is evident in the wry graceof lines like, “Don’t ever let them make you feel like saying what you want is unbecoming / If you weresupposed to watch your mouth all the time I doubt your eyes would be above it.” Cooley is certainly notafraid to speak his mind. He just isn’t going to say anything without taking the time to say it right.The same is true of Cooley’s characters. For four minutes, he brings them to life in the tight phrasesand taut guitar work. He lets each speak his piece. Like Cooley, they compel attention not merely fortalking but because they have something to say.Of course, good writing always leaves us wanting more. Even after studying Cooley and his music, Istill feel my body hum when I hear the opening strums of “Zip City.” I know every lyric, but I love to listento him deliver each detail as he builds the story. Cooley’s music just doesn’t seem to give up its secrets likethe standard three-minute pop song.I think Hornby’s wrong; some popular music can remain a pleasurable enigma. I’m with Hornby’scontemporary Sarah Vowell, who has since renounced her adolescent notion that she could “figure … out”songs by Louis Armstrong and other great musicians. In a 2005 interview on the Powell’s Books blog, shecalls that notion “ridiculous,” arguing that, “The whole point of Louis Armstrong is that no one can reallyfigure him out.” It is precisely the puzzling nature of an artist’s sound that keeps us to returning to the music.Cooley himself argues that the writing process is inherently mysterious. In a rare moment of candor,Cooley admits in a 2007 interview for Durham’s Independent Weekly, “A lot of times, it takes me a few yearsafter I write something … before I really know what I’m talking about.” And he argues that the writing isbetter because of it: “You would probably say it bad, if you knew exactly what it was. You wouldn’t benearly as clever…” The value of looking at something askew, from an odd perspective, is that you see theangles that most people don’t. A stretch of highway as the key to a teenager’s sanity. The vulnerability of askeleton so jittery it has jumped its human shell. A man who has erred so many times that he’s beyond thereach of gravity.When it comes to Mike Cooley’s music, I don’t want to be subjected to dogmatic truth, to thequantifiable forces of the world. I can tell you why the songs are great, hopefully in a way that awakens anarcotic need to listen, but I don’t want to figure everything out. I just want to keep falling.

HARVEY SLATERUntitled

14 · SLATER

GRABER · 15

poetry by MAGGIE GRABERMoonrise RitualFill a tub with salt waterand soak your feet for three hours.While soaking your feet,write an apology to the dinosaurson behalf of outer space. Breathethrough a harmonica. Imagineliving in a village of sand-houses.Today a bird perched on a rainbow.A satellite photographed the 37th secondof a pie-eating contest.There is still time to paintyour nails the color of fire or grass.The guitar could have been paper.If folded correctly, paper turns into lotus.When the three hours are finished,smell your feet for traces of ocean.Do not dry off with a towel.Run to the nearest school or bankand string a bed sheet to the flagpole.Pulling the rope toward you, raisethis new banner to the wind—mudbetween your toes, fabric of sleeprippling like waves, your heartdrumming beneath the hushof your hand—and pledge allegianceto the yoga of the tides.

16 · GRABER

Ode to the Weather ChannelIt is more than the local on the 8s, the jazz musicin winter and salsa on July mornings.It is the map of a nation covered in cloud,countless acres filled with rainwater, saturatedwith something you could call love—if you want.Because today at 5:17, the Doppler showed meall of Indiana was green, meaning, it rained. Notover Ohio or Illinois, but for at least one secondonly Indiana and its flag of blueand yellow stars. And outside, the air felt thickand the dirt became 75% water, which meanswe are more alike than I thoughtand another warm front arrived from the Westwhich may have something to dowith the 311 tornadoes already this springand tomorrow that number will riselike the floodwaters in Missouri and Arkansas.But at least there is some warmthin that I know it is 76 degrees right nowin Madrid, where I have a friendwho I imagine is happier todaythan he was yesterday when it was 52.And yes: I am aware that this heat stretching the globeis not desired completely. I am aware of thisas I place my feet into sandals. InsteadI like to remember the giant globe spinningon the ground floor of the largest building from my college campusthat rotates so quickly, you can stand stilland watch one day pass in 15 minutes, and if you wantyou can even pretend you’re the sunalthough you should be aware

GRABER · 17

you will burn out in about four billion yearsso yes: this life will not last,but thank goodness for the buttonon the wall next to this earthand its sign which reads:Press ButtonTo HesitateRevolutionso for once, we can stopwhere we are, stillin this space, and listen to the raintap the window like static, and not worrythat there are still dishes to clean,food to eat, and clothes to change.I’d like to tell someone this: the next personwalking by perhaps with a song in his ears—I want to get his attention and watch his fingerpress the pause button in the middle of some refrainso I can show him this sign and wait for the momenton his face that says I understand.I want to do this—and then watchhow that same finger presses that same buttonto start everything magicalmoving once again.

18 · WAZ

fiction by MAGDALENA WAZHenry

Henry arrives at a woman's house, and I'll later know she's Mary. They look at each other unevenly,at odds, and when Mary says something, Henry doesn't react because her house was just steaming. And themother doesn't care for the intruder on the squeaky side of the couch. So when Bill, the father, enters theroom, he provides what we think at first will be comic relief, but the words he speaks become nonsensical,unrelated to his facial expressions. He is angry. No, he isn't. The train, though, it's angry as it thunders pastthe house, rattles the pipes, stirs up a barking dog, the one nursing squealing pups.When the dogs barked outside, were they barking at me? Henry asks himself. When the steam

steamed something strange through the window, what did it obscure?No one notices that the stove is on an angle, and they put poor grandma behind it. And they didn'tlet poor grandma out. But Henry doesn't know that. All he knows are the baby chickens in front of him thatspew dark fluid and wag their naked wings on a bare plate.Long shot, half-empty table. Bill's got a smile on his face you can see from where I'm standing. Bill'sgoing to do something weird. Or really, he'll just freeze as Mary cries behind him. He'll raise his eyebrowsjust a tiny bit higher. Maybe this is the time for Henry to leave. The electricity's going, and Mary can't talk.And her mom is somewhere. No one knows where. Probably behind the pipes.She's asking about sex. She wants to know what they should do with Mary's baby. Mary says theydon't know if it's a baby, but they kept it at the hospital anyway.I'm not sure if the baby chickens were really baby chickens. Or if Mary's mom meant it when shestarted gnawing on Henry's neck. Maybe she wanted a non-baby of her own. Maybe she just wanted tosmell him.And now Henry's nose is bleeding, or leaking the same stuff the chickens were. But no, he doesn'tmind getting married. Doesn't mind at all.

WRIGHT · 19

The BoxerSHERI L. WRIGHT

20 · HENSELL

poetry by KORI HENSELLIterationHungry is a swelling mother.Say behold. I’ll lift my eyesAnd find you draped in singing powerLines, electric wreaths of supposition,Hair sparkling with the breathOf a hundred collapsing stars.Say stay and I won’t. Your bosom soIneffectual, such terrible silenceWithin the cloak of the sun.You love me and more and most andI believe you. You plod elephantine,Trailblazing the shivering fragments ofMy thorax—a long way to go for no reckoning.There is nowhere at spine’s end.Ants carry their queensOn leaves of zealotry, build citiesFor their Mater Dei and findBut half-filled plates of staleLight. An embrace is a crumb.Hungry is a swelling, mother.

SASSI · 21

Climate ChangesFABIO SASSI

22 · PORTER

nonfiction by T. C. PORTERSounds Like Gary Clark Jr.

What are you listening to?Huh?Ear buds! Take out your ear buds.She said, “What are you listening to?”Gary Clark Jr.I saw him on Leno!Let me listen.I’ve known him since forever. I saw him on YouTube playing at the White House last year.I heard this at Starbucks. (Dramatically over-singing, out of key:) “Ain't nobody else like mearound.”Nobody like him around? (Sarcastically.) Right. Except Robert Cray.And Black Keys.And Albert King. And Muddy Waters. And –The Blues Brothers.Bro, they're dead.My point exactly.The Fabulous Thunderbirds.For real, guys.He's a SRV knockoff.Robert Cray? Who’s that?Serious. Watch this YouTube video of Alicia Keys having an orgasm all over the microphone andthen backing him up on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Whoever can shred like that on guitar and singFalsetto is a capital-g God!You said fellatio.Hey, while you’re up, get me an iced mocha venti chip soy latte. And one of those free songdownload cards for Bret Michaels.He’s like the bully at school. (Reading track one lyrics on Spotify free trial TuneWiki app on iPad.)“You're gonna know my name.”Only insecure people announce how great they are.Dude, it's a song—Hey guys!—not a psych evaluation. And the chorus says, “Bright lights big city.” That was a novel.Whatcha talkin about?A novel! He’s so deep!Gary Clark—Jr! Love that guy!Finally. One other sane person at this table.You mean, everyone here has not bowed to His Royal Highness?The man is a copier of copycats—Treason!—a photocopy of Lenny Kravitz, who was a very cheap photocopy of Prince, who ripped offHendrix and Lionel Richie's baby—A jpg scan of Little Richard! (High fives.)(Spitting out drink.) I wanted skim milk in this mocha.You said soy.Little Who?You told her soy. I heard it.

PORTER · 23

Little Richard. Do you have no sense of history?Don’t blame Gary Clark Jr. if you people aren’t sophisticated enough to recognize a guitar soloistvirtuoso.Foo fooey.I have never heard those three words strung together in the same sentence.I think he means the blues has become fine art. It’s dated and specialized.It’s boring!Funny you mention Kravitz. I’m watching a Hulu of GCJ on ABC News, and I swear his drummeris Kravitz’s lead guitarist. Look at the hair!Let me see that.I said skim. I didn’t say soy. I wouldn’t say that. If I did, I would have known it.You can’t do that. That’s almost racist. Follicle-profiling.The guitar solo on “Bright Lights” is pure bottled liquid emotion. It’s a human soul crying in thedesert, building to a crescendo. A heartfelt, bleeding—He has a point, there. It’s not right to stereotype people for their hair.You’re likening a sound to a liquid, something you can bottle. That’s a mixed metaphor.You’re a follicist! You dirty rotten scoundrel.It’s like a serenade to God, sung on guitar, with Gary’s fingertips. His fingers are little tonguespetitioning to the heavens, crying out for something much deeper than words. Crying for mercy. Beckoningfor a miracle, a rapture, an orgasmic apocalypse.An orgasmalypse!Skim and soy are not very similar. Skkk. Ssss. Maybe a little similarity at the beginning of the words.But then -oooy… -iiim. How could you not hear what I said? Skkkiiiiim.During an orgasmalypse, would all but the follicists be raptured?I lie on the floor and listen to that solo and loop it, over and over. It makes my spirit yearn for thereconciliation of all peoples.And I guarantee you: not a one of you haters has even listened to a nanosecond of “The Life.” For ifyou had, you would be sitting there in NYC on the set of Good Morning America, stage-side, next to thatMILF holding her baby.Peoples. That’s just a dumb word. Say, “people.” You don’t need the s.Groovin’ to the movin’ with Mr. Prez and his lovely wife.But she heard the same thing as me. Soy! You said, “soy.”MILF. Please. Enough of that one already.I don’t write the dictionary. I don’t make the rules. But it’s peoples. With the s. That is who we arecrying out for here. Gary Clark Jr., crying on behalf of all peoples. But not Gary Clark Jr.’s voice – hisfingers.But don’t forget – brother can sing!And I can assure you that at some point in 2013, “The Life” will be a ubiquitous radio smash.Everywhere you go, children singing in the streets, women dancing, men hugging while lip-syncing in arms.(Badly, off key.) “I can’t go on like this, knowing that I’m just getting by.”Must we always say the Junior? It’s just too many syllables. I think three syllables is about the max onrecording artists. Gary Clark, period. Six syllables is at least three too many.I’m noticing how many ad spots there are on the ABC performance.Which is to say nothing of the whip cream on the top. What the fuck! Did I ask for whipped cream?No. Can you confirm this, Miss Witness? Whipped cream? Not.Junior is two syllables. Like, june-yer. So his name is only five syllables. You said six.So what if he sounds like, say, Billy Gibbons? I’d give a nut to sound like that.As for copycatting – all music is copycatting. It’s all seven notes. That's all music is, every song you'veever heard. Blues progression. It’s language man. A-B-C-D-E-F-G. Nothing new under the sun. What doyou want?Everyone’s a copy cat except Elvis. Chuck Berry. How far back shall we go?Do you think Obama really likes GCJ. Or was this a political ploy, him playing at the White House?Best Buy. Levi’s. Fender.

And do we all agree, his name is just Obama now? Like he’s fully enshrined into the single nameclub? Listen to his solos for two weeks. You’ll be singing them. Ba dah dat da da bop wha. That’s the markof a great guitar player, that you feel compelled to sing his solos.Barack.You said ubiquitous. What’s that?What’s radio?June-i-yer. Could be three syllables. Just too many, either way. That’s what I’m saying. You’re anartist, you have to come up with a three syllable name. Five or six is too many.Not to mention the iPhones that are placed frikin everywhere on the set. Like, does Apple need tobrand themselves, ever again?Jun-yer is two syllables. Look it up.The Fender thing isn’t an add spot. It’s a logo on the guitar amps. And I’m pretty sure that’s a BestBuy store across the street. You’re just ubra-sensitive to marketing. Get over it, bro. We live in the capitalistempire of America.I think everyone has a little Apple tattoo on their ass. Pretty sure. And if you don’t have it, you’re acommie. Or an illegal.I’m glad you brought that up. Because I’m feeling manipulated into liking Cary Marks Jr.Make sure to check out track eleven. It’s an arena rock instrumental merged with bombastic powerballad. A hidden gem. I hope he opens his set with it. I so hope.What’s the problem with marketing? Would you have discovered Lady Gaga if she wasn’t shoveddown your throat? No. You need highly compensated, perk-laden professionals to bring you her brilliance.Cream rises to the top, man. The good musicians will be known. We don’t need these bigmegajigacorporations imposing mediocre copycats on us.You watch. He’ll be playing the Super Bowl before Tony Romo.My point exactly.The corporations have you hypnotized. They’re your puppet master and you don’t even feel thestrings. It’s like the publishing industry. They’ll tell you we need four big companies finding talent for us.And the big newspapers owned by the four big media companies, who are also the four big entertainmentcompanies, and own the four big book publishers, they’ll tell you that the reason their reviews are all FSG isthat, well, all the good writers are at FSG.You did say fellatio earlier, didn’t you?FSG?Cream. I heard you say cream. Twice.We’re the New York Times. We only review books from big presses, because all the good writersare at these four publishers. Bar none. And it works the same way in music. Here is your blues musician. Wehave chosen him for you. Now buy him from us, but we still own him, and you will like what he comes upwith next.Not cream. I asked for skim. Big difference.Farrar, Straus and Giroux. (Badly butchering Giroux.) Not everyone gets all your literary references,bro. Nobody’s mentioned “Travis County.” I think that will be his most enduring hit.Totally. It will go down with “Tuff Enuff,” on the blues pantheon of hits, for sure.I’m going to get this drink replaced. I’ll talk to the manager if I have to.Is there a redemptive message here? Is there anything to say? Or is it just bubble gum?You have not been listening.What’s wrong with bubble gum?I’m okay with maybe even the Robert Cray insinuation. But you really have to stop comparing himto the Fabulous Thunderbirds. It’s insulting, and a low blow.He’s actually talking to the manager. Look. About his drink. He’s complaining to the manager aboutthe soy.Like comparing Carl’s Jr. to Hardees.GCJ has been around a long time, you know. This ABC thing says Blak and Blu is his debut album.24 · PORTER

PORTER · 25

But he’s had several albums back to 2004. This is only his major label debut.Presto! Which is precisely my point.Which is?The whole thing’s a sham!So it’s like he was at the small press, but now he’s made it to Random House.Now you can buy him!Dude, this is not Hunger Games. You are not living in one of the districts.Carl’s Jr. is Hardees. They just have different names in different regions. Look at the star logo. Thesame. They’re the same thing.Again: My point exactly. GCJ is SRV is Robert Cray is ZZ Top.The manager is looking over here.… is FSG is Macmillian is McGraw-Hill.Which is a privately held publishing company. You make it sound like they are owned by Disney orsomething.Don’t mess with ZZ Top.This is the Games, baby! These are the Hunger Games and we are the players and we’re all going todie except one of us.I just want to listen to the very end of “Numb” all day long. The ringing of the guitar’s distortion. Iwant to put my ear up to that Fender cabinet on the ABC News set and let it bleed all over the GoodMorning America viewers.“She’s got legs. She knows how to use them.”Leno is so old.Isn’t he Fallon’s grandpa?They so screwed Conan O’Brien.Who are they?The Capitol!I’m not buying it. They’re cramming this vanilla blues-soul player down my throat. No one with hispedestrian talent can debut at No. 6 unless all the corporations are conspiring as one to create a cash cowwhile making us all fat patrons of the cruise ship on WALL-E. And since they own him, he’ll never be ableto make an artistic statement. He will only be able to pump up our base instincts of sex, coffee, and plasticApple accessories, made in China, shoved into our ears.You sound like Jonathan Franzen.Guys, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.Do you want us to turn down our music?No, I don’t mind. I actually like Robert Cray. I have to ask you to leave because—Not Robert Cray. It’s Gary Clark Jr. You’re gonna know his name.“And you know what I'm talkin' about. Just let me know if you wanna go … to that home out onthe range. (As aside:) They gotta lotta nice girls, ah. (Pantomimes drums, then guitar.)”Franzen shares this in common with Clark: They’re both distributed by mega conglomerates.But again, FSG is privately held.See that sign? We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. Your friend isthreatening me because he says one of my baristas gave him the wrong milk in his beverage. And I was aboutto offer him a new drink. But I don’t appreciate being called Bret Michaels. I might perm and frost my hair,but I am not a David Lee Roth wannabe.Here. Take a listen. Seriously.You’re wooing him with a copy of a copy of a copy of Nile Rodgers?Speaking of conglomerates. Which café are we at, again? Joe’s Java, locally owned and operated since’04? I think it’s more like Empire Coffee! One world, one café – a billion coffee slaves!(Under her voice:) This manager is kind of hot.“Cuz every girl crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”He’ll like it. Just watch. Everybody likes Gary Clark Jr.: Paul McCartney. Eric Clapton. DaveMatthews. Alicia Keys. Sheryl Crow. Rolling Stone Magazine. The Fabulous Thunderbirds. Obama. ThePope. Jesus. Plato. E.L. James. Ron Burgundy.

Very nice. Sounds like Maroon 5.No!Nothing like Maroon 5!Well then like John Mayer.No. Not even close.Fabulous Thunderbirds.I would like to leave now.You can’t leave. I’m kicking you out. Now, leave. All of you.“I got a girl, she lives on the hill. She won't do it but her sister will. When she boogie (air guitar), shedo the tube snake boogie.”You can’t kick me out. I already left!He sounds nothing like any of those artists. He is purely original.His fingers bleed!We will leave. And we will never come back. None of us. Not to any of your stores.Yeah. And we’ll never listen to any of your music. We’ll never download any of your free singlesagain, or so much as stream a single audio file from any musical artist ever pushed by a single one of yourstores. Or drink your coffee – your responsibly grown, ethically sourced beans – we will never consumehere again.Your responsible purchasing practices … your farmer loans and forest conservation programs … youcan have them! We don’t want them!None of us will ever come here again.Not even with disguises.I will.Yes, me too.But none of the rest of us.Except me. And could I still have that Bret Michaels download?

26 · PORTER

poetry by SCOTT OWENSReader ResponseI wrote an essay onceregretting all the things I’d saidabout my dad becausehe’d left my mom twice,thinking, perhaps, like Robert Hayden,what did I know of love’saustere and lonely offices.I mean he seemed to have grownconsiderably more humanafter his heart attackand triple bypass surgery.He walked, he cooked, he laughed,he hugged, he kept himselfin shape, he told us how proudhe was of what we hadbecome as if his lifeand ours really mattered now.He even seemed to appreciatemy mom. But then, after shespent years nursing him backto health and his humanity,after she talked usinto forgiving and caring,after I wrote and publishedthe essay comparing my fatherto the misunderstood father,the one everyone thinksmight have been mean or abusive,and comparing myself to the misunderstandingson who learns to appreciatehis father’s sacrificesdespite apparent roughness,after it was too lateto call the essay backand just say Never mind,my father left my motherfor the third time.

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CirclesFABIO SASSI

28 · SASSI

poetry by MICHAEL LAMBERT

[I'm thirteen years old & sleeping-in duringsummer break on the top bunk of my sharedroom.]I'm thirteen years old & sleeping-in during summer break on thetop bunk of my shared room. Brett wakes me up with the soundof his sneaks. He tells me he's figured it all out, just like before.Im so bored at public school that my mind has drifted into obscuretopics: locksmithing, birds of prey, samurai knowledge. I dig untilmy fingers bleed. I can pick the lock to my mother's van & start it.Peregrine falcons are my favorite bird. When Brett returns fromthe house I unlocked, he's holding money. We buy blowguns,cheeseburgers. Tip the Wal-Mart cashiers. I bet I can slingshotthat bird­feeder first, he says. When I hit it, he hands me two-hundred dollars in $20's. Much later, at the truck stop dinerwhere I worked, I met the two old men whose money we'd beenstealing.

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[I'm thirteen years old & standing on stage in thePlatteville Middle School gymnasium.]I'm thirteen years old & standing on stage in the Platteville MiddleSchool gymnasium. It's my first basketball practice at the newschool. In one week, I'll have acquired both braces & glasses &lost my girlfriend of twice that time. One kid pokes me until acaterpillar crawls out of my mouth. He tries to punch me in thelocker room & I shrink until nobody can see me. My head feelshard. I shrink until I disappear completely.

30 · LAMBERT

[I'm twenty-one years old & standing with mybrother on a beach somewhere in Iowa.]I'm twenty-one years old & standing with my brother on a beachsomewhere in Iowa. The sand is wet & the boats are drunk & thestorm is fast approaching. We pitch a tent in the chaparral, dragour canoe from the water. Rain breaks from the monolith cloud.He leaves the tent, returns mostly naked & shaking, hands me abar of soap. The storm is a monster waiting to play. Slow at first,I walk to the water, push the rags to my ankles. This is the realestdream I've ever had. My legs take to running. My body leavesthe ground.

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Maggie Graber grew up in Valparaiso, Indiana, a city 45 minutes southeast of Chicago. She is lifelongfriends with Lake Michigan, the avocado, and pop-up books. Her work has been featured or is forthcomingin Avatar Review, Black Lantern Publishing, Black Heart Magazine, and Yes, Poetry. She is currentlypursuing her MFA at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.Kori Hensell is a graduate of the University of Alabama. Her poetry and essays have been published inDewpoint, Big Lucks, Tuscaloosa Runs This, and 300 Reviews.

Michael Lambert is currently living in California. His work has appeared in Mixed Fruit, Hobo CampReview, Symmetry Pebbles, Red River Review and elsewhere. In 2011 he was selected as a finalist in UW-Madison’s Lit Fest, and in 2012 received the Thomas Hickey Creative Writing Award at the University ofWisconsin-Platteville.Allison Leigh thinks and makes art and writes poems and pop music and was born in Bakersfield in 1989.She won an Academy of American Poets Prize in 2010 and is publisher and editor of Orange Quarterly. Herown poems have appeared in Evergreen Review, The Collagist, Michigan Quarterly Review, RedLightbulbs, Burner Magazine, Dunes Review and elsewhere. With a BA in English from the University ofMichigan, Leigh now lives in Traverse City, where she works in the public schools. She volunteers for theNational Writers Series and the Traverse City Film Festival, and she teaches poetry and blogging workshopsat Northwestern Michigan College.Erin Lyndal Martin is a poet, fiction writer, and music journalist in Madison, WI. Her work has appearedrecently in Gulf Coast, Bat City Review, dislocate, and Peripheral Surveys, and is forthcoming in WhiskeyIsland and Used Furniture Review.

Kelly Martineau holds an MFA from Spalding University. Her work has appeared in The Licking RiverReview, Barely South Review, and Quiddity. She lives in Seattle with her husband and two daughters. Moreinformation is available at www.kellymartineau.com.Scott Owens' tenth collection of poetry, Shadows Trail Them Home, is due out from Clemson UniversityPress this fall. His prior work has received awards from the Academy of American Poets, the Pushcart PrizeAnthology, the NC Writers Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. His poemshave been in Georgia Review, North American Review, Chattahoochee Review, Southern Poetry Review,and Poetry East among others. He is the founder of Poetry Hickory, editor of Wild Goose Poetry Reviewand 234, and vice president of the Poetry Council of NC. Born and raised in Greenwood, SC, he teaches atCatawba Valley Community College in Hickory, NC.T.C. Porter's flash fiction, “The Last View of Earth,” appeared in The Speculative Edge and won theSeptember 2012 reader's choice award. He writes a monthly blog for San Diego Writers, Ink, where he alsohosts a weekly event called Room to Write. His as-yet-unpublished novel is everything he lives for, besideshis wife and kids.Fabio Sassi has had several experiences in music, photography and writing. He has been a visual artist since1990, making acrylics using the stenciling technique on canvas, board, old vinyl records and other media. HeCONTRIBUTORS

uses logos, icons, tiny objects, discarded stuff and shades. He often puts a quirky twist to his subjects to givethem an unusual perspective. He lives in Bologna, Italy. More of his work can be found atwww.fabiosassi.foliohd.com.Harvey Slater has been traveling since he graduated college. His photos and prose have been published in afew magazines. His blog is inbetweensubtleties.tumblr.com.Eszter Takacs is a first year MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. Her poems haveappeared in elimae, Full of Crow, Mixed Fruit, The Dirty Napkin, ILK and Birdfeast. She also has poemsforthcoming in Barn Owl Review, Phoebe, Burntdistrict and DIAGRAM. She plays the flute and has a photoblog at ethula.tumblr.com.Magdalena Waz is a graduate student at Miami University. She never stopped writing fan fiction.Pushcart Prize and Kentucky Poet Laureate nominee, Sheri L. Wright is the author of six books of poetry,including the most recent, The Feast of Erasure. Wright’s visual work has appeared in numerous journals,including Blood Orange Review, The Single Hound , THIS Literary Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, BloodLotus Journal and Subliminal Interiors. In 2012, Ms. Wright was a contributer to the the Sister CitiesProject Lvlds: Creatively Linking Leeds and Louisville. Her photography has been shown across the OhioValley Region.

CONTRIBUTORS

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