Muster Magazine #4

8/9/2019 Muster Magazine #4

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MUSTER MAGAZINE

ISSUE NO. 4


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Table of Contents

2 This is the Way We Communicate John Harkins

3 The Story of Alex by the Sea Elan Holdorf

5 Untitled Kevin Belew

6 Vaulting Horse, Part One M.E. Brown

10 Substitute Manuel Arredondo

12Hungover Sunday Zach Costa

17Haikus Kate Burke18 Craving Barbara ONeal

19Road Doggie Chronicles, Pt.1 John Harkins

20 One is the Only Number Barbara ONeal

21 Untitled Barbara ONeal

22 To The People Ashley Owen

23 Two Layovers Chris Gould

24Dark Matter Energy John Harkins25 Untitled Kyle Enright

26 A Note from the Editor Chris Gould


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This is the Way We Communicate John Harkins

This is the way we communicate

When its hot we greet one another with a heavy smug sighIts a hot one, huh?

When its raining we glance to our neighbors and passerbys

How bout this rain, eh?

When its cold we all grimace against the ice

Give each other a look of mutual pain

When theres wind we all run after each others umbrellas and hats

Lean into the gail

To return windfall accouterments with communal concernEveryones hat or papers or tent is going to blow away someday

So we run after the free oaters and nd the owners

We all have a common oppression or solace

When theres nothing to say we can always talk of the newest breeze

Cresting the horizon

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The Story of Alex by the Sea Elan Holdorf

There once was a man named Alex Johnson. He lived on the beach in a cabin

he had built himself. He owned a red jeep which he used to get to and fromhis house. He also owned and operated a plant on his property. It made badstuff and fucked up the environment and no one knew about it but him. Thenone year at a town banquet, Alex surprised everyone with something he hadmade in his factory. He pulled what looked like a cross between a chipmunkand a pig out of his coat pocket casually while he was sitting at the bar, andinitially everyone was scared to death, but over the course of the evening,Alex took every last one of them under his wing. Life on the coast was hard,and everyone in Alexs town had always been kind of in their own world.They took drugs, had sex in groups, and didnt care about anythign outside of

their little town. So as months and years went by, Alex was able to do somecrazy stuff in his factory, and the locals were okay with it, because they wereable to reap the benets. The girls Alex fucked always died within a monthor two after fucking him, but no one gave a shit because his factory made somuch cool stuff. Alex began giving his friends things like fridges that keptfood fresh forever, pills that made you never get hurt, and one year, he evencame up with a tool that offered all of the towns hopeless weed addicts away to nally scrape their lungs free of resin.Everyone in Alexs town was happy in their own way and would never

leave. One reason for this was that the sunsets on that part of the coast werespectacular. One day, as Alex sat naked on the sand, beneath the most lovelysky hed ever seen, something crazy happened. There was a woman on hiscock. She slid up and down gracefully, nearing orgasm, and when she came,she died. Alex dumped her body in the sea, then cooked himself a veganmeal, and ate it while watching a lm on television. Sitting in his black ofcechair in his cabin, with his feet propped up on his favorite table, starign at histelevision, eating vegan food, is how he rolled.

Things were great in town, until one year, when Alexs garden went bad. The

weather turned, and people started to get sick, the cure for aids that he hadbeen working on hadnt worked, cause he was still sick with it, and every-thign else in his factory was turning out wrong also. Then one day, rightaround sunset, as the sky lled with the most luscious colors of orange andblue and pink and red, a group of the towns men got together and drove upto Alexs cabin in their trucks. Reeking of cigarettes and booze, they brokedown the door to his house, only to nd that he had ew the coop. They racedalong the dirt road up to his factory, stunned by its ominous presence atopthe hill behind his house, its stark gray walls, and the gargantuan plume ofblood red smoke billowing out of its smokepipes, and arrived to nd the

front door open just a crack, with eerie red light shining out from inside.Alex!, they roared, but they were too late. His naked body lay sprawled outon the oor before them, He had died from hsi meddloing with things bestleft to no man, and now they would all feel his wrath. Within days, the smallAlaskan town was riddled with wet, bloody corpses, draped over easy chairs,laying peacefully on the sand, or frozen in the artful pose of making love onelast time.

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The CDC arrived on the scene, and the towns only two survivors where

airlifted to a secret location, where they were kept and tested for almost twoweeks before they were ejected, mentally and physically traumatized, fromheh back of a white Ford van into the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot inReno. Their names were Tim Mackey and Eric Harris.

The two men never spoke and split up. Tim bought himself a new pair ofshoes in Wal-Mart, then walked downtown, spent his last forty ve bucks ona cheap whore, fucked her mercilessly in an alley without a condom, and thenthrew himself in front of a train and was killed instantly. Eric took a bus tothe nearest motel, checked himself into a room, and was hard asleep on the

foul smelling bed within seconds. He dozed peacefully for the rst time inmonths, and upon waking, broke into screaming yells and tful dance whenthe shocking realization of what he had survived swept through him. He soondiscovered also that enjoying the fruits of long life with a genius madmanand a bunch of pale skinned, overweight pudgy faced hedonists could notcompare to the bittersweet experience of again with everyone else, but till theend of his days, he could not hold back tears, when he gazed across the wavesat the setting sun, and remembered The Story of Alex by The Sea.....


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Untitled Kevin Belew

painting has been my main focus lately.

it is very similar to poetryor writing in general.

painting and writingtwo of the most imaginative things to come from humans,remain two of the most unique things about us.

the ability to contort the word,in a manner anyone likes,remains something to be envied.

and a man with a paint brush,that can use it,is a genius.

some would die to livethrough what someof the greatest writers have survived.

others would tear there eyes outto be able

to imagine what great artists have put down.

the two arelinked to insanitywhich also makes them very attractive as well.

i made that last part upbut very believable.or maybe only i believe it.

either way it is a tortured saga.the starving artist,drowning in paint,the rogue writer,on the move ready to report the latest opportunitythat could lead to the eternal line.neither gets a dollar,for the passion that lives through them,so that they can live.

i would not encourage many,to sacrice what some may call a life,to be a painter or a writer.

but many a painters and writers lives have been remembered well.

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Vaulting Horse, Part One M.E. Brown

1987

In Lawrence, Kansas, my father was transgendered. So, I ran away to NewYork City, New York.I was alone in the streets. My sts melted into open palms, wet like bloodiedfangsthey were sweating. The city segued motionlessly into irradiatingrurality, even here I nd estrangement. I was looking though, through book-shelves, tunnels, and peoples faces, to the back of their minds where I sawmirrors. I was scared, scared of seeing myself, like reections on the subway.Lights ill and waning bat strobe-lit across the trains windows, that whichis uorescent cowers above me like rogue halos. I ran awkward steps to thecorner, bearing angrily both legs in a cacophony of intonations.

Lawrence, KS:I wasnt a boy for long, only sheepish like a girl deigning praise from her fa-thergranting dowry to a rst cousin and inheriting a drinking problem fromboth her paternal and maternal sides. I wanted to nd a new home where thehouses werent painted in lipsticks and where sharks couldnt be found wad-ing in the standing water of the tub carousing tyrannically about the wast-epipe. My high school, St. Anthonys, was across the street.Stop going out during the day, Dad. He would go in his shoes, and in thosemake-ups and the wigs, his tousled dresses tugging at his round belly andfalling at his chest where above the collar his dark hairs would esh.

New York, NY:My ankles felt as though they were bleeding, like I was a horse ridden onasphalt to a hard, very hard gallop. The giant in my head and I were both inneed of soil, the equine blundered in the gray mass of the cerebral, geldedand unsaddled, his brawn drifted beneath the sable tufts. That of breadth andstrength need the occulent yawing of seedlings; for magnitude is mostly thefaintest of delicacies. For both the colt and I.I went to catch my breath. I want you to meet me right here! I cannot stop

screaming, I cannot stop and Icannot. Where was my father then? I wasfourteen. Was he hacking again at his penis, sinewy particles of the eeting,rosy as weathered cheeks, his parts ruining his party dresses? I would alwaysapologize for his body, speaking as the intruder I would, as his lips makeamends in deep breaths, catching dry sockets in the gums below broken teethand sometimes his eyes crying, he would wrap an arm around me as I lookedup at him, frame large, recently shaven he would say, Son, Christopher,Thank you. Then he would prowl the dining room table until he found apack of cigarettes, hed open it and light one for us to share. Good night, Iwould say. Good night.

I found myself near a fountain. I found myself under the street lights. I foundmyself. I began to write a letter, I began to remember.

I am under a tree, near a building, the ground is friendly, ballast strewn aboutthe trunk, I crimp my ngers like arcing blades of grass, the tiny rocks holdmy hands the way handlebars on my bike do, curling immovable like newlygrown limbs. The rocks idled between my palms while I held them as though

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they were a tress of hair from a lover, surprised when they held back withthe secret muscle of a mast. Like an angry snap of lightning I let go, they fell

striking like the quick rap of an eyelash, still silent as ne hairs and lightningwhich swims in electric air.

Girls walked by, I wrote down what I thought their names were. I was dis-gusted. Everything was too absolute for me. I pretended to be a garbage canin an alley way. I was statuesque, the wind shrinking and palsied as static cur-tailed around, I was elbowed softly and unapologetically felt in its moveablecaress. I am kicking myself. I am coughing through the interludes of laughter.I dont think I have lungs. My mother once called me a sh. I wonder wheremy father is. Maybe I can spy on the girls. I ran around the corner. I could

hear them like wind chimes, like something occasionally annoying. I crawledacross the sidewalk of names. Animal verses boy who is betrayed by his re-ection. She walked over. I told her I was in love with someone who had themost beautiful three names in the whole world. Although I was not. I madeup the names instead. For in Lawrence I knew no one expect my father.I know this: she wants to point me in the direction of home but her ngersare numb locked inside the pockets of her pants, maybe grasping for words,ngers grasping for words picking letter by letter forming sentences. Ifeveryone was like you, Virginia, we wouldnt need names. So, I named her.My father was in Lawrence; did he nd my things missing? I had never met

my mother. But, only then in her absence was she able to speak to me. And Iran off down the dark street past Virginias friends, past puddles and rail-roads. I wanted shelter, not from rain cold with militants, not from criminalsbut from self, the self that stole everything from earth and syntax (The selfthat is criminal, the self that is as destitute as an abandoning storm).The building was steep; each oor was narrow. The walls were encouragingbecause I knew that structure stood as long as man did not deem to destroy itfor the world meant no harm. I felt proud for a moment at my mortality andmy ability to create circumstance. I wanted to nd a garden somewhere. LaterI would nd a garden on someones patio or balcony. I would plant them

something and return every night to water it. I found my shelter in the steephallway of the building. Being so awaketrashing all spineless benevo-lenceand being so alonending space within space with windows thatdidnt lie. I sat high above the street in the window sill. My legs hung overinto the air like deformed parachutes stuck on the wing of a plane. There was

joy, joy because I saw youth (without the manipulation of an artists impres-sion). Because my hands could climb and my feet could dance like volatilewooden pegs, and everything I wanted could be kissed with my lips, it wasthat near, near enough that my mouth became dry as I pursed them in wait.I felt resistance in the loneliest parts of my body, resistance that spared the

simple nobilities of my celerity. Now I would nd my pen and write down thehour of this thought so that I could give it to my children. One day I wouldsay of this hour.

This is how authors lie with text and clarity: how songwriters base emotionon composition and vocalists taunt us with sounds through the throat, thesame voices of disease and functionality and high school theorem. I wouldnt


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base my weight on such a presumption. Stop signs are informative but theydo not deter a crash unless obeyed. Rules like yardsticks and crossing guards.

We kept to these auguries. I kept to these thinking about my father.

TamingThe sounds on the cement steps echoed like whispers into a porcelain tub;shrill percussions of foretoken reveries. I turned around like I was going tobe handed roses on a special occasion; instead I was safely hidden betweena shadow and the wall. My breath had caught up to me and air eased u-ently passing in and out of my lungs like it ows through the passage of opendoorways. I was silenced by my own repose, revering the sudden occupation

of those below that with the benumbed stomping of feet anesthetized theabandoned building. I heard footsteps rst then murmurs. I always imaginedit the other way around, like clamoring angels pattering their wings andchirping into the darkness until I hear the sonance of their mighty feet. I sawsilhouettes, and I felt presence commencing my childhood ghosts, both fright-ening like when I was in infancy under covers, with hands between my legs.I sat on the landing of the staircase. They approached as innocent the cradlethough purring through the chest were wicked hearts ready to tell stories thattruth alone relied on.

I am scared of dialogue. I wanted to be the period at the end of the sentence.I wasnt alone. Now I wasnt alone. I wrote down the time and date that Iwasnt alone.

Are you drawing the street, are you drawing down there, on your paper, kid,you wasting time like the kids who want to be free, like oppression is less indiameter than that window. Right, kid?

I saw the night sky and listened to him. Like lexicon or lecture to be deliber-ated, like the warnings on bathroom stall: that brilliance in subversion.

Hey kid, maybe youre writing a book. Can I be the hero of your book? Iwanna be what I wanted to be.

They all laughed about being. I was mad because I didnt know how to dothat.

No, I said. I am writing down the hour and minute of right now or whatwas now 30 seconds ago.

I got hand prints for you, hand prints that talk like they got limes in theirmouths, like the taste you can smell, no, no. The smell you can taste

I was allergic to it. I was allergic, like the phobia was a promise, a promise tokeep me inside.

You got handprints that I can have or hand prints that I can buy?


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As a TransientI wanted to see more of his face I wanted to take a walk with him in themorning I wanted him to read me a book. I wanted him. She stood next tohim like an orchestra, like the back drop to a play. The way a mans bankaccount reects him. Being out numbered made me feel like the last checkerto be king.

Youre a boy, she said. You got your shirt off I bet the only place exposedthat is warm is the only place that isnt exposed and thats your underarms.She had the voice of magnicence, like god calling out at the time of rapture,

you could hear her voice like trumpets in the sky, like the dream you justhad was real and heroin was just a thing of the past, something your bloodthirsted for.

I smiled. I felt tender in adolescence. I felt like I wanted her to be alone withme. I wanted to take off the rest of my clothes and jump out the window, Iwanted her to stop me and I wanted her to talk every second, every second onthe way down.

Were going up to the roof, Adonis. You can follow us like youre the sad

boy you are or you can continue drawing the street below us.Sadness or semiotics? I tilted my pen.

They continued up the stairs chastely, feet guarded with the care of politic, asthough there were a baby sleeping amongst us; maybe it was I.I looked down; I had been drawing the street all along. I wanted a promisewithout absence. I wanted to run from the arrows that were shot from thetops of trees. I wanted to out run them. I was on the street. The church bell

rang. I saw an ambulance carry the sun away, tied down on its back to astretcher. And I waved. All was gone until the morning came.


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Substitute Manuel Arredondo

It is dark and I am drunk when the phone rings. I reach for the handset and abottle is knocked to the ground, clanging emptily on the dusty hardwood oors.

With my ear to the phone, I hear the automated message. For a second, I forgetmy employee number. I remember it and punch it in the keypad. The automatedvoice tells me to report to Liberty Alternative High School by 7:00 AM.

There is vomit, mouthwash, shower, socks. I look in the mirror and try toconvince myself I look like a respectable substitute teacher. I went to sleep twohours ago. My mental comparison to teachers I had as a kid is unfavorable. I n-ish a can of tecate, then brush my teeth.

The sun is slowly seeping into the dark San Francisco sky as I pile into my 95

Sentra. I sift through empty packs of Marlboros and greasy Jack-in-the-boxwrappers on the oor of the car, until I nd my San Francisco Unied SchoolDistrict Substitute Teacher campus map. I look at the clock at it says 7:19.

I drive in a blur, suppress the gag reexes that intermittently climb from mystomach to my throat. I remember theres a half-full bottle of Jim Beam in mybackseat so I stop at a market and buy some cans of coke.

Its after 8:00 when I pull up to the school parking lot. I kind of gasp when Irealize that Im at the wrong school, and this gasp is almost enough to erupt this

mornings High Life from my twisted stomach. I look at the map again. I fol-lowed the goddamn instructions.

A school security guard approaches the vehicle and raps loudly on my windowwith a ashlight. The sound is so abrupt and irritating that I prepare to snap.I compose myself and explain that I am looking for Liberty. The guard pointsacross the parking lot, passed a browning athletic eld, to a portable trailer sit-ting in isolation. I park my car.

A principal, middle-aged and androgynous, greets me coldly by pointing out the

time. She hands me a manila envelope containing a teaching plan. As she pushesme out the door, she explains that Liberty is separate from the main High Schoolbecause the students have all been expelled for behavioral problems.

I walk across the eld to the trailer. A handful of Mexican teenagers loiteroutside smoking cigarettes. I walk by them without making eye contact, hearingsmirks and chuckles, half Spanish half Englis. I enter the trailer and throw theenvelope on a desk in the corner, sighing gratefully when I nd a coffee makerand some instant coffee.

The bell rings, but none of the kids come inside. I open the envelope. There isa booklet entitled Managing Troubled Classrooms. There is also a video thatsays Topics in Biology: Headaches. My attention returns to the pounding in myown skull as I read the title. I sip my coffee.

Twenty minutes, maybe more passes. A skinny kid with a pencil mustache leanshis head inside the doorway. I sigh loudly.

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The kids le in, maybe 25 of them. It is crowded in this room. They are bleary-

eyed and surly. I like that. I hate working schools in rich nieghborhoods--thekids are so fucking upbeat. I explain my name and my goal of playing this video.The kids dont seem to listen.

Another bell rings and a volunteer shows up with a cart of trays. The kids areeach given a plastic tray lled with brownish liquid and a piece of bread. Pan-cakes and syrup, they explain. They eat the food with the video on. I turn downthe lights and think of sleep.

Within twenty minutes, the class is going batshit. Those pancakes, at 8 in the

morning, are like fucking speed to these kids. The room is apocalpyse; shit isying everywhere, the kids are yelling at each other, someones playing macdre, and kids are beat boxing and wrestling. Im sitting there, half horried andamused.

A ght breaks out in one corner and I convince myself to go to break it up. But itwas just a ploy. I look back at the teachers desk and 5 or 6 kids are rummagingthrough it savagely.

I look at my watch: 9:23. I go out to have a cigarette, cursing that my whiskey

is all the way across the athletic eld. Im smoking, picturing making the trip tomy car, when in the distance I can see the principal approaching. For a secondIm tempted to run inside, shut the kids up, keep my job. The smoke is deliciousthough.


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Hungover Sunday Zacharia Costa

12

The phone rang and I answered. Not because I wanted to, but because it startled

me out of my sleep and it was at arms length, making it easy to grope for thereceiver. The turning of my head red up two big Makita drills with Bob Vila atthe helm, and he was remodeling my temples.

Hello, I managed to muster, sounding like I had been gargling withbarbwire and everclear.Jesus, she said. Good thing Im not your probation ofcer, hed have youpissing in a cup before you could even get out of bed.

You know I cant piss when someones looking at me.Except for me, I guess thats why you make me feel so special, she

said with a giggle.

I wish things were so special with my p.o. then I wouldnt have to worry aboutbeing taken away from you.Four and a half years with only my vibrator to keep me company was quiteenough, and your not going anywhere, so why are you talking like you got aguilty conscience.I was just out at Nates last night barbequing and having some beers with theguys.

You got out of control last night didnt you? I know how you andyour friends get. Some beers are never on the agenda. You guys just sit aroundand bullshit about the old days and get rip-roaring drunk.

Relax, I stayed out of trouble and besides it aint that far of a walk.Not that far away huh? Do you even remember how you got home?Your gone for one night and you think Im getting loose all over town.Stop pretending to be offended. You know I love you. I just dont want to loseyou over something stupid.Yeah, yeah I know. I love you too.Since Nates isnt that far away do you think you could stop by there and pickme up a little something for tonight?Oh I see how it is, youll risk me going back just for a little bit of weed, butwhen I want to have a good time you want me to tone it down just so you dont

have to buy more rechargeable batteries.Stop being a smart ass.Smart ass? Sorry but the truth hurts.Now your just being an asshole, but well see how that changes tonight. Ishould be home around 8 so Ill see you then alright?Yeah Ill see you then.I love you.I love you too.I sat up against my best instincts and dragged myself out of bed. Today was go-ing to be a long, unproductive and hungover Sunday. I still felt a little drunk and

I resisted the urge to grab a beer from the fridge. That kind of hangover reliefwould just put it off until tomorrow, and having to work at 5am on Monday wasa feat the most functional alcoholic would have a hard time tackling. Plus thefact Jenny would be pissed to come home and nd me tossed, made me ditchthat idea. My stomach was too queasy to eat and I was still wearing yesterdaysclothes so I downed some water and a handful of IB Pron. Doing anythingwhile hungover is a chore, but I had nothing else to do besides lay in bed and


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feel like a pile of shit so I walked out the door, lit a cigarette and started the fewmile trek to my buddys house

Keeping a pace that would accommodate my intense alcohol induced suffer-ing, it took me well over an hour to zigzag through the rundown residential areathat was my neighborhood. Out of habit I avoided the main streets and the fewbig intersections comprised of liquor stores and few businesses. I could havewalked straight to his house in half the time but years of habit and my sense ofself preservation kept me on the alleys and side streets where I would be lesslikely to meet anyone with interests that conicted with my own.Ive known Nate since we were in junior high and for those 12 years or so he hasalways been the go to guy. Being related to some big time dealer had its perks,and being an old friend of Nates has its perks as well. He sells mainly to old

friends, and I being one of them, I get the deals to make prot as a middleman.Although this put me on probation in the rst place, I have no trouble existingon the fringe of the scene, just enough to make a few extra bucks and have goodtimes with old friends.Shit man, you look like you slept in the gutter last night, he said with achuckle.

Nate stood there smiling opening the door welcoming me in. The ever-present odor of Northern Californias most potent chronic wafted out into myface.

Not quite, just my own humble abode, I replied, stepping inside.

I was worried about you man, you know we want to see you stick around,but staggering off into the night whiskey bent isnt the best way to keep a lowprole.

You know me man, I need one poison or the other. I cant even eatpoppy seeds but I can sure as hell buy liquor and drink myself into oblivion. Itsbeen awhile since I drank that much though, Im fucking hurting.

Thats why I keep telling you just gotta burn, like the old days, keep-ing you mellow and out of real trouble. You and the booze man you just dontknow when to stop Shit you still reek like a brewery.

You know I want to, but one dirty test I do need an eighth for Jenny

though.Ha! Your gonna come over here and ask me for weed and then not

smoke any. Thats fucking ridiculous. Did you know I got those detox drinksfrom High Times, comes with a triple money back guarantee? They worked forme for my job, and shit you know me Im about as sober as a hippie at Wood-stock. And besides you look like you need it, your eyes are already bloodshot,and the only hangover cure better than more booze is a few bong hits. Shit,when was the last time you smoked anyways?

Its been awhile butI try not to think about that stuff anymore manlike it doesnt exist for me.

Dude look what your saying, your over here picking up a sack foryour girl and now it doesnt exist, you sound high already.

The pain in my head had receded into a dull but consistent throbbing,and the lingering effects of the alcohol were affecting my decision making. Abong hit did sound damn tempting and it had been quite awhile.

So if I smoke are you gonna give some of those drinks? I asked.Shit man, take as many as you want, but dont get tempted by any of


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that other shit.Give me more credit than that man, I feel sketchy enough smoking

weed. You only need one of those drinks but take a couple anyways, followthe directions and youll be ne, Nate said while stufng the bowl of his four-footer. Your going big right?

I might as well, I said as Nate handed me the bong.Some bullshitting and a fat choker later, I was walking back home with

some stuffed pockets and a more positive outlook on the day. It had been a fewyears since I last smoked and I could tell right away that I was fucking ripped.The sun seemed a bit brighter, the colors around me more vibrant, my thoughtslifted and varied. I felt like some of the rst times I got high back in junior high

school. Remembering the good old days simultaneously looking forward to myfuture with Jenny, everything felt pretty damn good. I was zoning out just think-ing about the city, the clouds, my family, and all the rest of the good stuff. I hadbeen walking a little while and I was feeling a little hungry so I started towardthe nearest corner store to pick up some munchies. I wasnt even paying atten-tion as I crossed the street, completely absorbed in my thoughts I stepped rightin front of an oncoming patrol car.

When I heard the brakes squeal and the cop stop right in front of meI almost pissed my pants, one minute feeling great, the next instant thrust intothe completely opposite spectrum of paranoia and fear. I stopped in my tracks,

completely unprepared to deal with this situation. The cop hadnt even got outof his car and I was already freaking out. My mind was racing but I just stoodthere staring at him.

He rolled down his window. You feeling alright today, son. I couldhave just killed you, you know.I didnt know what to say to him I just felt my sweaty palms and the beads ofperspiration rolling down my brow. I stared at him for what seemed like min-utes struggling so say something coherent.Why dont you take a seat on the curb there, he said in his most stern soundingvoice.

If I wasnt high I probably would have taken a seat, being too hungover toprotest, accepting whatever fate the cop was going to drop on me, but it was be-ing stoned that got me into the position in the rst place. He would most likelyrun my name and thats all it would take. The cops right to search any felonstopped for any reason was one that dissuaded me from risky activities before,and now a possession charge would put me back in a cell. The pots inuencemade me fear jail more than my hardened regular self, and I was no longer soaccepting of being locked up. A thousand horrible thoughts were coming backto me. The twenty-three hour daily cell connement, the night terrors, my visitsto the wards psychiatrist. I was living it all over again and as I saw it I was

already in jail, so I had no other options.I started toward the curb and I turned slightly to look at the cruiser.

The cop stepped out slowly and I caught a glimpse of his large frame and slightportliness. I half turned to face him to acknowledge my temporary compliance,and then I waited for the door to slam and for him to take a few steps around thecar toward me and then I ran.

I sprinted as fast as I could diagonally away from the cop in the same


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direction I had been headed. I heard him follow for a little while but I was stillin good shape and he knew I could outrun him. I knew pigs got off on people

running, just watching an episode of Cops you can see they dont like peoplegetting away and they take it personally when you try to escape, so I had to beone of those guys you never see on the show because he made those muther-fuckers look too bad.

Surprised at my own coherent thoughts, I was even more invigoratedas I heard the cruiser start up and speed after me. I was running through a fewfront yards and I made a hard left and easily scaled a six-foot wood fence intosomeones backyard. I could only think of getting back home and I continuedmy diagonal route out of the yard and through two others and then back out ontothe street, which is where I didnt want to be, especially as I heard tires squeal-

ing around the corner. My arms burned and I couldnt say my cardio was doingmuch better so I crouched behind a bush in someones front yard and watchedas the cruiser turned onto the street in front of me and slowed down into a slowcreep surveying the street. I was struggling to catch my breath and I was sweat-ing profusely. I hesitated for a minute and then slinked out headed toward myhouse.

I took off my sweater to cool down and change my appearance and Iran two blocks south toward the freeway, and then I made a sharp right and thena left, putting me back on the street I was originally walking down. There wasno sign of more cruisers and I knew the area pretty well so I felt like I had a

chance. I could see the overpass and I slowed to a quick walk to give my lungsa break. The adrenaline from the initial encounter was starting to wear off and Iknew I couldnt keep the pace up much longer. I could see the freeway ahead ofme and I quickened my pace. As I approached the shadows from the overpass Iheard the sirens. I contemplated giving up as they drew nearer. I saw one com-ing from behind and then another turning onto the street ahead of me coming inmy direction. They were zeroing in on me and dashing my hopes of escape andany chance I had at salvaging myself from an institutionalized hell.

I was going to be trapped and I was desperate. I darted straight aheadon the sidewalk toward the oncoming patrol car and then I made a hard right

toward the freeway off ramp, hoping to dissuade the patrol cars. As I was scur-rying up the ramp cars were laying on their horns as they passed precariouslyclose to my right side. I heard the slams of the car doors as the cops got out andbegan to pursue on foot. I wouldnt have much time on the freeway before morepigs came from both directions. I continued on with burning lungs westboundagainst trafc trying to put some distance between me and the cops. Unfor-tunately I was slowing and the distance between us was getting smaller andsmaller. There were four lanes to cross until the median, and I stepped into therst, waiting for the others to clear, as I prayed no one would change lanes andkill me. I only looked toward the oncoming trafc, trying to time it just right. It

seemed like it took forever to get across to the median and over the barrier to theother side. When I looked back I saw the cop that instigated the chase straightacross from me, looking westbound with similar goals in mind. The other onewas closer to the ramp running toward him. It was then that the larger onestepped into the rst lane and then the second, right into the path of a minivan.He was airborne before the van even hit the breaks bouncing up and off thewindshield with a sickening thud, cart wheeling in the air like some dummy,


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ailing his limbs in the most unnatural way before slamming into the asphalt.I was still standing there in shock as other cars began slowing down

and I knew that poor fucker was dead before he even hit the ground. Now Iwasnt just running from another drug case, I helped kill a cop and short of be-ing a serial killer there wasnt much worse you could do. I thought of a newsstory I heard about a fucking police dog that got hit while chasing a guy, andhe was crucied by the police for being a killer. It didnt matter it was his ownfault, if they got me I would be skinned alive, and to come this far and give upwas not even a question, so I did like I had before and hop scotched across thelanes praying I would get across. Luckily the eastbound lanes were starting torubberneck and slow down so it was much easier to get through. Not wantingto draw more attention to myself by running down the freeway into some now

merciless cops, I climbed on top of a call box and jumped to the top of the eightfoot concrete wall and jumped down the embankment on the other side.My lack of caution caught up with me as I tumbled down the rocky hill

bruising and bloodying myself in the process. At the bottom I found myself in ahalf built housing block. Dirty, disheveled and bleeding, with a sprained ankleI knew wouldnt last a minute on the street, and with multiple witnesses and thedeath of a cop, choppers would be out in no time scouring the area for me, and

just like those cop shows on television once the chopper nds you. its over.I had one last hope of escape; something I had thought about in jail

while scheming about the direst situations. I prayed it would turn out for the

best. I scoured the half built foundations for a suitable tool, and after a few mo-ments I found one. I then limped to the street area that had been freshly pavedand found my divine means of escape. Freshly placed, devoid of years of rustand grime that might otherwise hold in place, I maneuvered the four foot pieceof rebar into a lever and pushed the manhole up enough so I could push it asideallowing room to enter the sewer. It took all of my strength to move it in therst place, and then a second, or by this time third or fourth wind, came fromGod knows where, and helped me muscle it back into place with the rebar as Ihung from the ladder underneath. The darkness engulfed me as I descended theladder and I took a seat on the grimy oor, resigned to my 25 to life commitment

to what freedom I had left.


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Haikus Kate Burke

17

You moved me like a

new language. Your room purple.Before sex and signs.

Missing you is likereaching for an itch I canteven bare to scratch.

Greatest being loss.

A dialog of ideas,Pain and suffering.


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Craving Barbara ONeal

A new way to approach the day.

Slightly centered interpretation of the wayYoure looking at me.Release from black and white diluted thinking.Courage to be alone;Surrender to not knowing.

Anticipation and never regretting.Sorrow churns to bitter sweet hope.Lust and fulllment coupled with entitled woe and denial.

How did I not see this coming?I craved shelter from misfortune, comfort from a piles of nails I dugdeep into your chest. I pressed my body against yours to complete theyearning.

Never before and never again is a promise I spoke.

Over and over again a promise spoken broke.

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Road Doggie Chronicles Part One John Harkins

Queasy evacuation of the belly, as we glide down the atlantic coast.

We arrive in DC bearing romanesco and cauliower; they nd companionshipwith coco curry back yard basil and familiar garlic cloves.We all spend a nostalgic morning on the stoop soaking in atmospheric change.The southern magnolia smiled magnicent, its adorned arms of succulenceshone deep, green in the brisk morning sunshine. The rst emerald jewel ofbroad leaved arboreal endurance weve seen for weeks.The journey began plucking frozen apples from stoic branches in Vermont.Steadfast sleeping trees, still, entangled in a blazing orange sanctuary; timehonored biological logic.Only three weeks before, all green leaves had disclosed timid neighbors. Bril-

liant splashes of red, induced by cosmic tilt; the beautiful resigned supercialdeath, specked the hillsides. Premonitions of the apex ending, entirely expectedyet manic in its momentum.Those fall afternoons the apples had dripped from the branches, melting intobuckets of bounty and pies.Now all was stiff with cold, the long nights left suspended apples scattered be-neath yellow ice fringed leaves. The cold was here, old winter envelope.We catapult south along rivers and sounds, salt marsh collections of life, scaffoldand excrement- porous membranes leaking unlocked fertility back to the land.The harbors of warm security are a ight with ocks of life.

Heat trapped in the water, the humid vapor saved the cell membranes in theplacid leaves; we continued south.From this rainy morning we slide down the corridor of the Appalachian channel.We turn the beast to the sunset, bionic pilgrim frontier, westerly and its carnalhumanity.Inland the leaves have just now fallen, a few still cling to their bud wood; sum-mer orgy memories, surface tension lovelorn static cling.All the way through Atlanta then onto Montgomery; nally the earthly happen-stance harmonized perpetual growth-Gulf coast safe haven, water logged electricity.

Here at the waters edge we quiet combustion and take refuge on a long dock.Gentle lapping against the nest sands toes have ever touched.The live oaks spill their persistent perilous arms at miraculous angles overhead.Lichen clothing drapes down into the road. Harmonica spells induce jumpingsh from the warm shallow depths.The mushrooms had expelled the demons somewhere in Carolina. Pulsing pukeat 75 spattered repressed mind monsters along the side window.Emerging on the other side the Mississippi peace whispered promises. Likethis delta and the mouth of the old miss, all the latent poisons and neurotoxinssteadily pulsed from my thickened veins.

May my body be as resilient as this great river. Let me run out courses of de-ance, I spit my sickness into the oxygenated life giving recycler.Be brave bacteria.

19

Chasing Green Leaves Through Dark Days


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One is the Only Number Barbara ONeal

So Im single

And Im expected to mingleIve been threw all that beforeHad my heart simply begging for moreNow Im crawling towards that doorOf loveIts closed, doesnt want me no more.

Where am I supposed to go,What am I supposed to feel?

A moments heart beat buried under the pressured heat.Never been bitten like this before,I still want more.How much time has it been love?Fill me up with your strong promises of another sip,Dont leave me waiting in this haste.Broken tomorrows.I never was one to borrow.Now I live vicariously through others joys.Yup, she might be having a boy.

A baby, born unto this earth with no knowledge of the pain and torment.All dispersed when you hold me near.I can almost hearYoure rushing through my senses.

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Untitled Barbara ONeal

Such sad silly walks down this overly traversed path towards no where

clear my dear I wish of better days yet satised within my ear I hearanother meaningless hope and continue wondering where there is only

depth beneath this sea of frustration awaiting yet another penetration

amidst this hollowed shell craves shelter from the breathe of

forgotten deliverance and so for today I have no choice but to say ok

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23/28

To The People Ashley Owen

The small thin catarata, waterfall of Las Minas,El Salvador

one of the only peaceful places in the pequito villagewithout bullet holes or scars.Children swim into the echoing cavernand stand on slipperyslimywet rocksto catch their breathsand relax their skinny armsexhausted from diving and swimming in the cool water.The older boys stand nearby

posing for the cameralike muscular giants at a photo shoot for Time magazinea rare opportunity in their small village.These boy-giants families fought and lived through hungerwar, diseaseand deathall in two decades.

As a small wide-eyed boystepsout of the waterhe is greeted by a nasty hordeof black antshormigasready to defend their nestslike a thousand overprotected crowsdefending their newly hatched chicks from a bloodthirsty hawk.The ants dig their powerful jaws into the young eshcreating hundreds of tiny red bite marksalmost looking like a bad case of chicken poxthat itch and burn.

The boyface distorted in discomfortrubs his legsEn la noche, while he sleepshe will dream of poison ivycrawlingcreeping up his legs.

An old man glances at his worn watchand calls to the childrenwho groan and scramble up the small, rugged trail.The waterfall remainsWater rushes down the rocksgrinning down at the little childrenwho swim in its watersand who jump off its rocks.La catarata de las Minas

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24/28

Two Layovers Chris Gould

23

Daves Tavern is a bar behind the Port Authority in New York. Looking to kill

six hours on my way down to Little Rock, I walked back to this road the bustook into the terminal. Cause when you go out the front door of that place,youre right in front of Times Square -Intersection of the World(? I think itscalled)- which is just no fun, expensive, and distracting. But right around thecorner, this handsome little pub is just chillin quietly with regulars. They sellthree-dollar 16-ounce cans of pbr. Everything else is a rip-off; six dollar shotsof wild turkey is as low as that goes. And right -directly across the street fromthere is a shitty pizza spot that sells dollar slices of cheese. Like, a dollar -at.Brilliant. On the way out the second time, we spotted a beer chest lled withpeanuts - what!? The rst time, I got two beers in me and started rambling to the

bartender about my broke-ass trip. I think I had $40 to my name and was alreadyin for twelve bucks or so. She bought me three beers. This dude rolled in andsat next to me. A bike messenger who said he found the spot the same way; ona layover at greyhound from Cleveland. Told me that when I pass through theterminal there, to look for a dude wholl be asking for rolling papers. If youdont have papers, hell ask you for a cigarette. Tell him I said hello. Will heknow you? Well,..no..._

Where you headed? Crooked grim, slurred speech and gentle hand motion

towards the horizon, this, here, is my home. Ok, ok. ...I come down here tobum cigarettes, almost an exclamation, letting the words hang, offering thestatement, curious to my acceptance. Ok-shit, Id do the same thing. Uprori-ous, ah HA HA HA! After a moment and with another gesture, his eyes likeashlights showing me the landscape in the dark, What do you think? Itspretty. Yeah? Yeah, with a nice clean coat of fresh snow, its beautiful.Well sometime Ill show you around. I told him I was off to DC to see the in-auguration. He gave me a glance I saw six hours prior while I was talking to twowomen in a truck stop diner. It was a smile but it was skeptical. Gretchen usedto give me the same look when I would get excited about some particular thing

that seemed foreign or overzealous or ridiculous. The guy from the smoking sec-tion of the Cincinnati bus station gave me the same look as I awaited his words.Youll make it...yup. -you got a ticket? Yeah. Youll make it. Thank you.Thank you. Thank you.


25/28

Dark Matter Energy John Harkins

Time space continuity

Dark matter energyMitochondrial memoryBig bang philosophyGreat metro mysteryHominid earth factoryLaughing conspiracyHot ocean topographyGreat continental geographyMirth epic odysseySingle celled ecology

Bacterial symmetryVirginal mysteryMuck raking barleyBack braking rhapsodySettled domestic societyMega fauna anthropologyLand sea air life geometryNanotechnologyCrystal menagerieMuse priestless poetry

24


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Untitled Kyle Enright

the subsurvient man

now trained and brokenlike a once wild horsehis head hung lowaimlessly wanderinga discontented corralthe blinders are off nowbut he does not want to seethat once againhe could be

so wild and free

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A Note From the Editor Chris Gould

This is issue four of muster. And that means that the issue ve is right around

the corner. Please drop me a line, or bug a writer and get some writing inhere! The only caveat is that you have to put up with my bullshit. Come-on...everyones doing it...

[email protected]

We also have the issues up on Scribd.com. Just search for it.

Big thanks to Amy Goodman, Bill Moyers, homies on the interweb sharingthe wealth like good little commies, Larry David, and Matt and Kim. But

especially Matt and Kim. I think we should all really try to regard how thesepeople have been out there working hard for you and yours for years. For Idont know how many years. House shows to small venues all over Americaand probably some other countries. Theyre out there trying to give peoplea good time. Trying to make them shake and shout and feel alive. Smile andsweat and bump into other people. And you know, they dont ask for ourthanks. Or demand to be recognized, given a platform, a fancy hat or bigmoneys. No, they just want you to rock. And have a good time. And make adonation for their gas. So the next time youre feeling sad or lonely or boredor worthless, I want you to remember that they are out there doing there part

to make the world a better place to live for all of us.

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Muster Magazine #4

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