I’m crying onto my tits thinking about the sound
of Frank’s bubbly gin mixed with Alka-Seltzer.
I’m crying naked over snot and a cold breeze and a documentary.
I suck on ice chips anyway, as
I’m the only one left to tell you about it.
I’ve stopped moving out of people’s way
and started masturbating to sunsets.
It’s fucked up to say “If you lived here,
you’d be home right now.”
I always picture it on a billboard in gray prairie,
but pictures are angry
this is not to speak highly of New York, but
to those too dedicated to The Game to poop at bars
an ode to the 9th street PATH station and killing yourself off in an opera,
tired people sitting in ugliness for so long
bloated over time like subway rail mice,
mean and ugly,
skin like old wet cake,
and yelling at young men trying to play the trumpet in peace.
I want to be covered in stars and eat bodega candies that
have been covered with deep snow all winter.
eaten up in floor-to-ceiling windows and
softly gumming at the night,
I pop a nerve in my wrist pulling at
the waistband of your jeans
write a sex scene:
intimately describe the lacerations on your hand:
a bruise as the name of a poem and
washed up seaweed on fields of cornflower,
that is, sad and confused
I’m my own babes in toyland.
I kiss the inside of a plum,
eat half of it and throw the rest away,
have premonitory dreams about menstruating,
worry about growth and lack of
I am at the front of the line for the bus,
reading Giovanni’s Room and
my eyes are wet.
Being in the front of the line for the bus
is like being queen of it!
I have a monthly pass, and
I am their queen.
I know when to stop sitting and reading
and start standing up and reading,
I know when the lights turn on and the door opens,
it means I beckon my people out
into the terminal lane.
I think someone on Gossip Girl was
reading Giovanni’s Room.
It feels like it should be Blair,
but apparently Chuck’s a reader.
I am usually not a reader on buses
I don’t know why I decided to read Giovanni’s Room
on the same day I became Queen.
Issue 6 of N/A Literary Magazine can now be purchased through our BigCartel for the low price of $4. All of the money raised through these issues go directly to the printing of issue 7, so buy one and support emerging writers and independent publishing!
The latest issue of N/A features work from:
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Stanley M. Noah
Cover art by Ghosttthead (ghosttthead.tumblr.com)
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I hope no one’s told you yet that you remind them of a long drink,
of Alan Lomax in a brown suit at a slow funeral
my face feels like soft carpet; I press
against my wrists in bed and think about you
and Nelson’s Hawaiians
my avocados are why the sink is clogged
sometimes I can be very beautiful
my eyes can be very wide
I want you to take a bath of hammers
getting drunk slowly without talking to each other
earthy groins filled with radishes
a warm skin sliced into space
what if I can really be so pretty this way
like slimy-lipped, wet eyed men
teeth the same color as their hair
I sit by the window and my shoulders are wet
I’m a hummingbird for garbage
a dirtiness felt between thighs
and cotton on cold sofas
David once told me not to die
and popped a bottle of craft beer like
you should with champagne
but shouldn’t with craft beer
I’m guess I’m getting really richly
Dark after all this and
you spill oil and onions all over the kitchen floor
and step gingerly through it
BLIND COLLABORATION WITH ZACH LP
cut a warm carcass open into space!
I thought this was a t-shirt store but I guess not
rough warm sweetness in the dark
all this red, white and blue is tacky
fingers pressed into warm salt
but I don’t want to talk about America anymore
you fogged up the mirrors months ago.
people die. what can you do?
fractured and fuzzy
Nixon got pardoned. Maybe there’s hope for me
soft like seaglass, tumbling.
BLIND COLLABORATION WITH Zachary LP
Portrait of a girl with hands covered in pollen, Act I
this is the meaning of the evening’s boring struggle
my mouth burns with the taste of it!
a musk of sorts, all over the pillows, behind the couch, in the rug
microscopic organisms don’t care about your jizz.
the sign on the door said open but
dirty tablecloths drape your ugly chairs as it is.
I’m worried about the friends who’ve just left
I run my tongue over my teeth.
like a whale singing in the sky––well, not really
saliva dribbles over rocks like seawater
in boot cut jeans and white loafers
dust stuck to the furniture like algae.
Sometimes I remember every part of my dreams
BLIND COLLABORATION WITH ZACHARY LP
I told Mother to “go fuck yourself. fuck Wanderlust.”
but I’ve heard brown liquor will kill you twice as fast
Jimmy and I raced out the door. “Leave the power crystal.”
watch! they are all going pink and ruddy in the face. The people here
lives are fast! short! Jimmy blew smoke in my hair.
a green star is rising over the state of Arkansas, a miserable ghost
the car crackled and groaned through the purple hills. Fast. Fast.
well what do you know? I was born a wolf, now I’m a camel
the radio whispered a balled up sports broadcast. I spit my gum out the window
their fancy cars go by and I couldn’t give a damn about the symbology
sweaty thick thighs make you forget
and Nabokov hated music, allegedly, the dweeb
grimy ankles on the dashboard and matches in the cupholders
what a curse! I’m on my ass again! Listen:
what the fuck did we do?
[this is an experimental piece based on found text, false translations of English, Icelandic, Old Norse, and Latin, and misheard language.]
you were born on Christmas Day, 1932
throughout the first half of the 20th century, you were involved
in the poultry industry,
you gave us a
a chicken in every pot and an old man
razed to the ground with his palace
Vineland, Millville and Bridgeton are the three principal New Jersey cities of the
Vineland-Millville-Bridgeton Primary Metropolitan Statistical Area, which encompasses
those three cities and all of Cumberland County for statistical purposes and had a population of 156,898 as of the 2010 Census;
but who dies a pauper at 104 years old?
A replacement is not available because the building,
called the Palace of Depression is no longer there in its original form
It was destroyed long ago by a fire
It is now nearly completely gone
a replacement can no longer be obtained.
And so the Palace of Depression is still an existing building
you changed your name in 1911.
George Daynor claims that he was guided to New Jersey by an angel
Pray to us to deduce the insular recitative
echoed by oceans:
”Quake!” dictates Vineland,
”for eons of lives spent sleeping,
under vinous celestial ferneries.”
giants used you as stepping stones
the tooth of time
I am not worth cities in front of you
the gout belt of the lower balkans
has a tub of cracked televisions in the back room
descriptions of insular aquilines
and photocopied material of every
ancient Danish king really account
for the burgeoning successes of coldwater boat tours
Did you know Alaska has an aquarius highway route
most people who know this are people who have been on cruises
I haven’t been on a cruise but most of these people had a good to mildly interesting time in Skagway.
They visited the gift shop
They visited a rock
most food is served cafeteria-style.
I know this because I was trying to find out if it was okay that linguists use the word Eskimo to describe the Eskimo-Aleut language family.
it pretty much is.
You went missing in 1962.
someone should have shot you at dawn.
I have a boyfriend who will google-image-search the Brazilian flag
and stare at a .jpeg of the Brazilian flag
that is how much he loves Roberto Unger
I could have tamed a worm-proof boat
where the waters of ocean flood in
and blend into a history of blight
worn my fingernails down through a polar ice cap
and into your scalp
“It is almost too simple, too conciliatory, to take from the start a name predicated on a negation, a simple opposition. Perhaps it were better to espouse full-throatedly a LUNCHISM by which one aims to negate by making disappear, a Yes whose movement supersedes the No we cannot not say in view of those abominable categories whose algebras we reject.
Propaganda as needed, which is both ways at once, doesn’t do much if it doesn’t push you out of the car to cure you of your journalism.”