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Thomas Gardea
instagram.com/beerwineking
Jenny Qi’s piece “How Men Deal” first appeared in Atticus Review.
book design by j. brandon loberg
set in Absara
quietlightning.org
su bmit @ qui e tl i g h tn i n g . o r g
CONTENTS
curated by
Sandra Wassilie + Charles Kruger
featured artist
Thomas Gardea | instagram.com/beerwineking
1
In high school, it isn’t cool to like anything but doing
something is unavoidable. Play a sport and you’re a jock,
take theater and you’re a weirdo, do well in class and
you’re a brain. Every decision is a choose-your-own-
adventure book, but you can’t cheat and peek ahead
to see how it turns out. So, you try to float between
worlds, shape-shifting depending on who you’re
talking to. Yes, you like that band. Yes, you’ve seen that
movie. Yes, you skateboard. Yes, yes, yes. If you say yes
to everything, you believe you can be anyone. You’re a
chameleon that adapts to survive. No one dislikes you.
No one can say you aren’t a little like them.
2
EEEEEEEE
EEE E
TH ANK
S F OR THE ME M O R I E S
3
they’ll laugh, you thought I’d go away! Well I won’t,
not now and not ever, and hey what about that one
Monday in March when he said he didn’t need you,
when he said he didn’t want you?
You can put in some cameras, you can change all the
locks, you can hire a security team. But they’ll come,
oh they will come, they’ll find their subtle ways
back to you. They’ll dress up as the guy serving your
coffee, they’ll disguise themselves in the laugh of your
neighbor, they’ll turn themselves into the glasses on
the faces of strangers. And then they’ll vacation, for
just a month or so, and you’ll sigh, feel relief, and exhale
them free. Then you’ll put on a record and celebrate
them gone, but there you’ll find them hiding, in that
beat, those first notes, the 1,2,3,4. They’ll peek their
voices out from the chorus and say remember this part,
remember this song, remember how he used to dance
with you? Well if you didn’t before you surely do now,
and would you mind getting me a glass of wine?
4
NNNNNNN
N NNNN NN
N NN NN
P E T R IF IE D, F E A R L E SS
Rose sat up and reached for her ankle, but she wasn’t
flexible enough, so she lay back on her elbows.
7
Her husband stuck out a hand.
“Gentle, please.”
8
He said, “No wait,” but Rose slapped his arms away and
limped to the car, ginger on the right foot; her ankle
burned.
Her husband held the door open, said “Get in,” and
slammed the door, almost smacking Matthew on the
backside.
“Yes.”
Be nja mi n F i nat e ri 9
“You wanted my help?”
10
Matthew sat next to his mother, but remained
oblivious. Rose tried; she asked him, “What are you
thinking about?”
Be nja mi n F i nat e ri 11
“No, Father was being nice.”
Rose did what she had to and got to getting better. Her
faith and her prayers gave her strength. In two weeks,
she was done with the crutches. She spent another
12
two weeks in a walking boot, but in a month she was
on her own two feet again, and the ankle never gave
her any problems except on cold days, but even then it
was just a dull ache.
Be nja mi n F i nat e ri 13
BBBBBBBBBBB
BBB
N EVER T
HE CHAMEL E O N S
W E THINK
15
darkness, where i could not tell you the meaning of
a border, only that we’re quarreling over obsolete
boundaries, about which, no, no one gets a say. so, i
find my hope, when i find it at all, in the very thing
that eats it: destruction—my expectations a deflating
waffle, isn’t it funny?
16
JJJJJJJJJJ
JJJ
MY A
CROSS TH BOR
E ST R E E T N E I G H
T HE EX-MARINE
17
redneck who believes in might makes right instead of reason
and compromise. His second car is an old Ford pickup.
Why do these two cars bug me, frustrate me, and make
my blood go through the roof? Because his tank of a
Continental has been parked in front of our house for
the past month. The only time he moves it is for the
street cleaner truck that comes once a week. As soon as
the truck rumbles by every Monday afternoon at 1:20,
Doug is already in his car ready to park it in front of
our house again. I surely don’t own the parking space
in front of our house, but the guy isn’t using his head
when he parks there. Doesn’t he realize that parking
is at a premium in San Francisco? If he wanted, he
could easily park in front of his house, in his driveway,
or how about this, in his garage. But no, he parks it in
front of our house, as if it were his own designated
parking space.
18
street or around the corner every day. I’m about ready
to blow my top.
Do you see what I’m saying? The guy knows and loves
rifles. So how should I deal with this “Once A Marine
Always A Marine”?
Jose p h Su t t on 19
I had finally had it up to here with Doug hogging the
parking spaces on the street. I had to take a stand, not
only for myself but for the whole block. A few days
ago I decided to ring his doorbell. I wasn’t just a little
nervous, I was extremely nervous as I stood at his front
door. I heard a little stirring behind the bright yellow
door but no one opened it. Well, I thought, if he or his
wife won’t open the door, I’ll write a note and put it on one
of his windshields. I went back to my house, sat at my
desk, and composed a note with as much reason and as
little emotion as I could possibly muster so as not to
rile this former Marine.
Dear Doug,
Al Reno
2828 Sanchez
20
When I saw the note was still there the next day, I
grabbed it and dropped it in his mailbox. Another day
passed and there still wasn’t a response. If Doug had
read my note and wanted to argue his case, I was more
than ready to give my side of the story. But what if he
wanted to go further than that? What if he came at
me with a rifle or gun? What if he wanted to duke it
out? I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’m 65 and had
hip replacement surgery four months ago. Or maybe
he would ignore my note and let me stew in my hatred
of his stupidity. As you can see, I was both stumped
and filled with fear. Who wouldn’t be afraid of an
ex-Marine who hunts deer, listens to Rush Limbaugh,
digs out his front lawn and replaces it with stones
(maybe he did the same in his backyard), who paints
his house a bright yellow and leaves one side of his
chimney the old house color, or who thinks he has two
designated parking places on our street (actually three,
since his truck takes up two spaces)?
****
Jose p h Su t t on 21
format of Sunset Boulevard. What I’m saying is I’m still
alive!
22
LLLLLLLLLLLL
LLL
G O R O G U E W IT H M E
23
2017, the ringed planet has finally moved off Donald
Trump’s chart. And you know what that means.
Saturn—hello—principle of constraint. Meaning no
disrespect, sir, but, wake up and smell the rising sign!
And the actionable intelligence…
But don’t worry, sir, I’ve got one set of skills that needs
no translation. You see, in some circles I’m known
as a bit of a femme fatale, a Mata Hari if you will.
My powers over men are legendary and, of course,
classified. But I do have clearance to tell you that I lure
hostile agents into my boudoir and make them give
me full body massages until their hands cramp. Good
thing the Deep State gets to define torture, eh, sir?
24
my research. When you were a little boy in suburban
Maryland wasn’t there a grumpy old man trying to
keep you from playing on his perfect lawn? Well sir,
I’d like to be the Deep State’s grumpy old man. I’ll
keep the terrorists off our nation’s lawn, by God.
Li sa Ma rt i novi c 25
PPPPPPPPP
PPP
ART
27
And it’s possible that she would see my idea as rooted
in selfishness and be extra-bothered that I am already
dreaming up an alternative Installation instead of fully
appreciating the one she has gone to all the trouble to
install. Then she might get angry and want me more
interred than installed.
28
JJJJJJJJJ
JJJ
RALLYING CRY
29
to understand the appeal of terrorists, survivalists,
fascists, anti-fascists -
any rock to break the placid surface
of this glassy lake.
There are rumors of a new tribe,
Techies, leaving boring wintry climes,
And moving west, sacking churches,
tearing down public art.
Still, if you want a disruptive technology—
an axe is a disruptive technology.
But it’s the last month of the fiscal year—
so bring them on.
In the three hours I sleep,
I dream of real loss,
losses not measured in decimal points,
not losses on the books,
but the loss of books,
loss of limb, loss of life—
things that stir not coffee but blood,
things people should properly write poems about.
I awake in a cold sweat,
I tighten my tie by automatic memory.
It’s the last month of the fiscal year,
my vassals are waiting,
my lords are weighing my deeds.
These moments shall be cherished and long
remembered,
until next week,
the beginning of the new fiscal year.
30
EEEEEEEEE
EEE
1.
31
them. So I did. I’d swallow the vitamins and suck down
the juice and feel the life and feel the health and feel
okay. Feeling okay was good and important.
32
My hands were shaking and I was irritable. I would
snap at my co-workers and snap at myself and snap at
my life. But I got down to two coffees and I felt much
better.
Eddi e Wri gh t 33
2.
34
“What if I said that I had a friend who works at a bank
and knew a way to get a guy into that bank and out of
that bank without anybody knowing?”
3.
Eddi e Wri gh t 35
Johnny (Johnny’s friend Johnny, not my friend Johnny)
handed me an earpiece and told me to put it in my ear
so he and Johnny could speak with me. It’s the kind
of earpiece that I imagine newsmen like Randolph
Howard wear when they’re on location in dangerous
areas during wartimes or in bad weather or standing
near car crashes and flashing police lights. Johnny
(friend Johnny) opened the door and I climbed into
the machine and he closed the door. I saw nothing. It
was dark. It was black. Pitch black. I heard some noises
from outside the machine. It sounded like a whirring
and a bleep and a bloop and other sounds that I can’t
fully describe. I then heard Johnny (though I couldn’t
tell which Johnny it was) say, “When you get in, you’ll
know what to do.”
36
And I did. Straight ahead. On a console just like the
kind I use at work: three red buttons.
I’m pretty sure I knew which Johnny said that last part.
Eddi e Wri gh t 37
I sit in a room and I push buttons. I am no longer
irritable. I am happy. I am okay. Feeling okay is good
and important. I am perfect and smiling. I am not a
machine. I am not a cartoon cat or dog. I matter. I make
a difference. I am a good employee. I deserve donuts.
38
CCCCCCCCC
CCC
PLUCK
39
They buried us with service fleeting,
causing but a meager fuss,
while underground, her was I eating,
little worms were eating us.
40
- SET 2 -
MMMMMMMMMM
MMM M
WAITING
FO R THE TR AI N
Wherever I go
I hear it at night—
that solo horn
slowly fading away
like the wailing
of a lone coyote.
43
I’m alone.
My friends are
somewhere.
I hear
piano music
coming from
an open window
somewhere.
44
P PPPPPPPPPPP
P PP PP
H E R E, T H E R E IS A T H E R E
45
the poor undesirables yet
but I’ll be homesick there
for here
because in my time, Ms. Stein
there was a there there.
I was here and I swear:
it was there.
46
DDDDDDDDDD
DDD
T H E FIR ES
47
pressed into me as I lied awake those nights, listening
to sirens and gusts of wind and emergency text alerts.
And those electrical transformers exploding like
fireworks all over town. I needed to forget that the
city I love was burning down around us. You pulled my
hand into yours while passing cars splashed puddles
onto the sidewalk.
48
of us were brave enough to really follow. And then
there you were again with the fires.
O D E T O R O B ’S C L O S E T
51
castle then I was his Moat Monster!
My job: fart Rob out of nightmares!
Instead of failing to become my dad’s
52
every person I ever met that question but never you,
closet where I sobbed until your linoleum peeled
sympathetically, your floorboards waterlogged
that turn self-hate to more love every day since I moved out -
I’m in a room now with a window and doorknob
but I stay humble. I think about you: raised
Abe Be cke r 53
CCCCCCCCC
CCC
N I G H T THE D E VI L
55
Nights the devil’s in my closet and I hear HE/SHE/
THEM/IT I hear zim shift in place larger than a
thousand closets, single claw blocking out the world.
56
LLLLLLLLL
LLL
B R EA KIN
G O UT O F JAIL
She’d pay for the landline, only stop that damn ringing
because things were difficult enough; bad enough that
her son was in jail and was sure to do time. Her only
son, the boy she’d given birth to in her own home, the
boy who had placed his ear against a stereo speaker and
fallen asleep listening to music. But there was always
a question in the corner of his eyes. He carried
distance around his waist like a life preserver.
57
After his father had died, Charles had shattered into
pieces. His father had meant everything to him. His
favorite past time had been in discussing Gurdjieff’s
theories, giving professorial lectures to whoever would
listen. Their circle of friends dwindled as his collection
of esoteric books increased. On the weekends, he
trolled local bookstores for defunct publishers.
“Me. Philip.”
58
“I’m a friend. A good friend.”
Le nore We i ss 59
that she’d picked up over the years at flea markets, was
her husband, George, a lot thinner, but it was George
all right, a bald man with piercing green eyes and a
prominent nose that bespoke his Russian heritage.
“I don’t understand.”
“How come you’re in the same one? Your last one didn’t
hold up too well.”
“So you’d recognize me,” he said. “I did this for you. For
both of you.”
60
information resided, a place of microtubules. “Like
your backup device,” he said. “Sort of.” Anyway, he
was there to help break their son out of prison. And as
soon as he said that, both he and Janeen were standing
in front of the Columbia County Jail, a squat building
of yellow concrete with two pine trees growing at
either end of a parking lot. He explained that all they
had to do was to call the jail’s central number.
“That will open the doors. Don’t worry. Not all the
doors. Just his. We’re on the same frequency. Gee, it
will be great to see him again.”
The next month, she received a very large bill from the
telephone company.
Le nore We i ss 61
CCCCCCC
C CCCC CC
CC C
I N T H IS
GAME OF TH R O N ES
63
forcing your cellie
to pack his belongings
how the two of you
shed tears at parting.
Late in the night
you realized
that the man with the badge
and a grudge
didn’t even have the power
to do what he threatened.
You both fell into sleep
stood your ground,
where your guide found you
and I know now
they cannot break you.
64
JJJJJJJJ
H O W MEN DEA L
65
A AAAAAAAAAAAA
AA A
INTO THE DRIN K
67
He told me the car had been stolen,
but I figured he just put it in drive
at the river’s edge, disengaged
its handbrake, and watched it plunge
into the water to park forever
with a jumble of junked refrigerators,
shopping carts, steel beams, bicycles,
pines, and that rumored B25 bomber.
68
DDDDDDDDDDDD
INTO DD
T HE NE N G — BABY
BLU B U L A: A N O D E T O M Y B O
E — AN NE D
D A F U T U R E IM A G I N E D W H IL E ST O
69
we may start a family.
70
And maybe, just maybe
Baby Blue
They’ll open a box
and uncover you—
a message in a bottle
that has traveled the sea
from the shores of my youth
and washed up on their beach.
Davi d Ja cobson 71
ZZZZZ
Z ZZZZZ ZZ
ZZ Z
EXTRAVENOUS
My mother reminds me I’m a whenever I cut my hands
musician I picture my father offering me a
as though that makes it truth cigarette
bright as a song or a story your children won’t always want
what you want for your children their inheritance, a wound that
pulls in two different directions opens with the simplest blade.
Blood has some magic beyond the obvious necromancy,
that little sliver of red blood is a vein, but also a seam
connecting two halves in the body a thin ribbon of light
My mother, the singer, says that my father and I
we’re very much alike we battled fraternal sicknesses
we can both keep a tune and crack jokes about death
hum along to the past or the fluorescent hospital lights
maybe I do know a song or two my family, we know
a sad, shared verse, but not how to finish each other’s stories
completely. A musician? it would be pure alchemy to say
it’s the truth, if only because I’ve never heard the ending.
my parents have said it for years. I’ve been told it for so long that
it feels realer than fact or at some point I just became
the music itself another tongue for the lie
Now I’m starting to believe it all of us gathered into
my throat, the bell of a trumpet a syringe or a riverbed
there’s a single word for this It’s difficult for me to say
but it’s read in two different ways: tempo or trauma.
Artery or vessel Then again, maybe one thing can be
two things at once what kills me
can make me stronger and my father, both
a song and a son— wouldn’t that be an ending?
73
FFFFFFFFFF
FFF
INDOMITABLE
Your
truth
is
breathtaking.
76
the night
or when you disappear all
together
Sometimes we hold on to
too much pain.
Sometimes we just try to
forget.
But those Oak tree brown
eyes transport the truth,
just seems no one else has
had the courage to gaze
into your eyes for too long.
Medusa, your black girl
magik,
all that you’ve been
through petrifies them
78
Still so beautiful,
spreading a love that
provides reason for why
the moon shines.
Our essence runs deep and
resilient like Redwoods,
like the rose that grew
forth from the concrete,
always remember that you
too bloom.
Fat i ma Nasi y r 79
LLLLLLLL
LLL
R EMNA
N T S, J A N U A R Y 2 0 1 7
81
a rolling beach ball, a smaller ball, balanced on one finger.
82
AAAAA
AAAAA
SMALL DEATH
83
She’s like a bruise
You can’t stop poking at
I can’t stop touching her
Even though she’s all hot stoves
And cyclones
And me?
I fuck with the lights on
I’m terrified of things you can’t
see
I do everything so carefully
84
When she left me,
It was like lightening
Destroying a perfect sky
Like no clean water in a flood
Like falling on gravel,
Skinning your palms
Like choking on
Your own tongue
She says,
When it hits you,
After you’ve pulled the
Needle from your vein
Anna Alle n 85
She plays me like a piano
She throws me as far
As the eye can see
She loves as hard as a forty hour work week
She just doesn’t love me
And it’s like that
Sometimes
It’s like that.
86
EEEEEEEE
EEEE EE
EEE EE
EE TH E W ER
EW OLF IN L O V E
87
I’m in my monster groove.
88
just got fired from a haunted house. What can I give
the librarian, except to tell her that I’m absolutely and
totally enamored with her, and that I’ve never felt
like this about anyone but her, and knowing myself,
knowing how slow I am to act, if she goes away I
won’t feel this way again before I die. I know how that
sounds. Who only falls in love once, for the first time,
when they’re nearly fifty? Psychos, stalkers, losers and
creeps. No one falls in love like that, except people in
movies, and no one believes in movies anymore. But
how I feel about her is how I feel, so I throw back my
head and howl at the moon and run and run down the
streets of this stupid town.
90
BBBBBBBBBB
BBB
A TO Z
for Judi
91
- march 5, 2018 -