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AQC Release for Tuesday, Novemeber 30, 2010

AQC Doppelgänger
$11 + Shipping (235 pp. 7x10)
ISBN 9781453892305

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:: Click Here to Preview the Doppelgänger Issue ::

Words: Kathryn Jackson, Asher Benatar, Dorothy Bendel, Emmanuel Sigauke, Matthew Denvir, Tony Rauch, Ty Gorton, Chipmunx, Jenn Gutierrez, Gavin Gale. Mike Riley, Justin Fenech, W.M. Mason, and David Mac.

Visuals: Horacio Bustos, Aaron Olshan, Leslie Ditto, STF, Cody Sevedge, Stephan Maich, Sean Madden, Jon Beinart, Cody Sevedge, Jessica Tehan, Abigail Larson, Paskua, Jeffrey Scott, Alice, Marcela Bolívar, Venus Raven, Robert L. Tyrnau, and Jessica Joslin.

Films:hypografia, In The Year of the Pig, BRONSON [part 1], Breathless trailer, and the Biography of Ho Chi Minh [part 1].

[ previews and content links below ]

 

Tuesday, November 30th, 2010

Works by Horacio Bustos, Aaron Olshan, Leslie Ditto, STF, and Cody Sevedge..

Right on Schedule

by Kathryn Jackson


I have been staring through this screen all day. I have been swinging this old door on its new hinges like a breeze wags the red flag in front of the bull-shit by which my life is fed up to here, by now you know. Sometimes, there’s nothing but the expectations.
         Every day at three o’clock, Corky slides like an ice block down three flights of stairs from her rented room to sit in her own sweat, on a street corner. She smiles sourly at --and sings with unwavering passion to-- the change in the open-faced guitar case she employs to butter her bread on both sides with the steak knife she keeps in her left sock.
         “I stole it from a crime scene. This black lab with short legs and shorter temper got shackled, and gagged, and carted away. For esperiments. To participate in ssperiments. These socks was a gift from a…called hisself a…a…humanitarian. As if there ain’t no minimum height requirement to operate an opinion. Ha!  He wore the nicest leather pants.”
         Every night at three o’clock, I sit very still and try to concentrate. I ride in Corky’s hip pocket and we glide --like an ice block-- down three flights of stairs to the doors that revolve, sucking and spitting pedestrians back and forth between porch swings and automatic tellers. If I sit very still, I can hear the neighbors’ motion detecting lights casting strobe shadows across corduroy lawns. Shadows testify to light, and to the same cowardly point of view from this porch over the last nine years.

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Cyclamen persicum

Asher Benatar


No fue por un sueño ni por misteriosas voces adheridas a las paredes. Simplemente una convicción que Gustavo recibió de repente, tal vez las hojas de su planta de interiores preferida reflejando una luz indecisa porque indeciso era el tiempo, que ahora sol brillante y más tarde un gris que llovía sobre los muebles de la sala como un polvo denso y de lento posarse. Se acercó al pedestal en el que se apoyaba la maceta y advirtió que las sombras se mecían ayudadas por la cortina blanca que también se mecía jugando con la luz. Supo que esa belleza que percibía se tornaba gozo y que ese gozo era casi insoportable. El mensaje estaba ahí, en el leve fucsia que anunciaba una flor. Algo que nace, algo que muere. Una tontería acuñada por la simpleza, pero  ya no fue posible eludir la certeza que comenzó a acosarlo: moriría cuando las últimas hojas de la planta atraparan el ocre que precede al olvido. Moriría cuando la planta muriera.

Desde ese momento se adhirió a ella (lástima no tener un libro de botánica, no saber su denominación científica), sintió milímetro a milímetro el fragor de su crecimiento, la sintió Gustavo, la cuidó cuidándose, bebió del cuenco con que él mismo volcaba el agua cotidiana, se alimentó con la luz del otoño, que a veces, en los días de tormenta, golpeaba las paredes con grises que le subían a la garganta como un sofoco. 

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Daniela otra vez

Asher Benatar


Lástima no  haber conseguido pasaje en avión. En los aeropuertos es distinto, uno sube por la escalerilla y se desentiende, pero ahora, Sergio, en este momento, estás sentado del lado de la ventana de un ómnibus de Onda mientras Natalia, empequeñecida por la despedida, te mira desde abajo, desde el borde de esta modesta plaza de Montevideo a la que los cristales fumé inventan un casi anochecer. Ya se han dicho casi todas las palabras que integran la ortodoxia de las despedidas, ya te has ubicado en tu asiento buscando esa distancia que te tranquiliza aunque no demasiado porque quedan las miradas desarrollando su peligrosa misión francotiradora, por momentos perdidas, por momentos encontrándose, acarreando la incomodidad de saber que en el fondo ustedes ya no están y sin embargo siguen ahí, con los labios ejercitando la fatigante gimnasia de la sonrisa, con la pequeña tregua que te regala aquel pasajero desorientado al preguntarte por el número de su asiento. Son menos cinco, Sergio, y el ómnibus tiene que salir a las tres en punto. Ya falta poco.

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Coming Up Next

by Dorothy Bendel


The man on television warned me about the dangers of summer. I stayed indoors and watched the ignorant ride their bicycles and imagined the sunny hilltop they aimed to reach. They didn't know that being so close to the sky made them targets, that it would open up and swallow them whole, leaving their muddy wheels to spin and squeal so loud that I could hear them through the Ambien. The ones that weren't eaten by the sky came screaming down the hill, burnt and covered in mosquitoes that bit them over and over until their heads swelled up and they let their children play in the front yard. Children like the ones we would have had if the figures worked out and meshed with our IRAs. I knew about the danger of dangers because I had my eyes and ears open while they were busy living like people did before the revolution.

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KENNEDY

by Emmanuel Sigauke


The entrance to Kubatana Beer Garden was dotted with scantily-dressed women and peanut vendors, a curious combination which made me shake my head as we entered the flood-lit bar.  Mukoma and Jakove, the regulars here, led the way, and turned every now and then to check if I was still following close behind. They acted as if they suspected that I would slip away, and I could not blame. This was the first time they had ever asked me to come with them to the bar. We were going to celebrate my upcoming trip to the United States. What I didn’t know was how they had planned the celebration. I knew we were not just going to sit and talk while drinking beer. That we could have done at home. I wanted to find out why they had asked me to come to the bar, what they had in store for me.
“Tonight you’ll see a side of me that will blow your mind away,” said Mukoma, who was leading the way.
           
“What your brother is saying is that he has something important to tell you,” said Jakove, Mukoma’s friend, whom I also called brother. The two’s friendship had been elevated to kinship since they had known each other for more than ten years, and Jakove came from a village not far from ours, so if one traced the two families’ histories closely, chances were that  we were related.  Jakove was the good kind of brother too, always ready to defend, elevate, explain, or even translate everything Mukoma said.

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Looking for Aliens

by Matthew Denvir
           

The fallen autumn foliage was up to Jimmy’s ankles.  As he walked through the woods, little bits of brown and red leaves stuck to the Velcro on his sneakers.  The trees were thin and tall, dull brown with few branches.  When Jimmy looked up he could see the tops swaying in the October wind.  They made creaking noises that echoed through the woods.  And though there were many trees, all around Jimmy and as far as he could see, there was enough room for him to walk easily through the forest.  He was deep in the woods; he was looking for aliens.
            He carried with him a bright yellow squirt gun.  It was filled with water, just in case the aliens were allergic.  He saw an alien on television once who was allergic to water, and he figured it was a good theory.  Around his neck he wore a blue and red scarf, to show whomever he came across that he was an American.  Under each of his big brown eyes were three lines of face paint.  Brown, green, and black.  The paint felt cool against his cheeks when he faced the wind.  He wore all green.  He felt he could blend into the forest, not be noticed, like a tiger in long grass.
            Jimmy checked the compass that hung from around his neck.  It was made of clear plastic, and the needle and markings were red.  He knew it pointed north, always.  His father taught him how to use it.  He twisted the compass so that the “N” and the needle were aligned, and he looked west.  West was where he wanted to go, deeper into the woods.

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the rabbits

by Tony Rauch


There is a panicked tapping at my window late at night. I turn and sit up, only to find a strange, shadowy figure outside my window. “Come on, man, let me in. Come on,” the stranger whispers urgently. “Please, please. Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them take me.” And then nothing.

I gaze up at the drizzly night, clouds swirling and folding and twisting and overlapping and merging - all slowly turning grays, all fluid and murky, like puddles in the sky.

I roll over and try to go back to sleep, but the tapping resumes after a moment. I sit up again and lift the pane to crack the window. And there in the mist of drizzle is a giant rabbit dressed in a green top hat and plaid vest. “Please,” he leans his head in and whispers. “The foxes . . the foxes are out,” then looks about frantically. “Please. Please. I-I will grant you two . . ah, three wishes.” It’s as if the rabbit is trying to determine an appropriate and fair amount. He is a big one, five-feet-six-inches at least. He begins to hop up and down anxiously.

“You’re a tall one,” I rub my eyes.

“Well, not really, I’m actually kind of short for where I come from. . . Now whadda ya say, kid, huh, how’s ‘bout lettin’ me in?”

“Has your relative ‘shortness’ affected you in any manner of a psychological nature?” I wonder out loud.

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The Egotistical Death March of Success

by Ty Gorton          

           
Saturday began as Saturdays begin, with a calm uncertainty draped over the morning hours.  I woke to the sound of squirrel chatter, that grating “Hrrrmm! Hrrrmm! Hrrrmm!”, how those first Model T’s must have sounded as men in Panama hats cranked away to get them started.  The realization that the hours ahead held no defined obligation sunk in slow and grand.  Those free hours stretched out to make the day feel gigantic, making oxygen sweeter for pulmonary capillaries, and did wonders to subtract the weight of the past five days.
            (drip.)
            “You awake?”  Her voice broke the free-fall sensation of nowhere to be. 
            “Maybe,” I said things like this, statements that could go either way.  As in, maybe I’m not entirely awake but anxious for it.  As in, maybe I’m half awake and wishing I weren’t.  The trick has always been letting the other person decide and formulating an appropriate strategy.  Divulging a minimum of information allows mystery to prevail, and from the grab bag of mystery, anything is possible.
            “I don’t see how you can sleep,” Desiree said this from the bathroom, mid beautification.
            (drip.)
            “Well, it is a prerequisite for life,” from the bathroom, she laughed.  It always amused her that I used words like “prerequisite” in everyday conversation.  The first time I became aware of this unintended comedy was a few years back.  Desiree had gotten blisters from a pair of high heels, and days later wore shoes that aggravated the healing wounds.  Of the shoes, I asked, “Did they exacerbate them?” to which she laughed out loud.  I realized such words sound odd rolling off the tongue on a lazy afternoon with no cameras rolling. 
            “I didn’t sleep for you,” she said, exiting the bathroom and sliding through the bedroom door.
            (drip.)

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Works by Stephan Maich, Sean Madden, Jon Beinart, Cody Sevedge, Jessica Tehan, and Abigail Larson.

comforted by taxpayer funded private incinerators

Chipmunx


Usurious bank-sharks have been mainlining loans to profligate Americans without fear of their default. Because of a deistic faith in mass consumerism, there is an adamant trust of a never ending supply of nascent consumer offspring reproduced at the poverty level for fellating the egregious usurer into purging more cash. When the debt collector arrives apace for his tranches, the debtor's parlance is spoken with a studious shrift denying any maladroit boondoggle. Unbeknownst to both actors, global megabank oligopolies have colluded with malfeasant politicians to subvert humanity grievously into foisted servitude. This ersatz cadre were voted to represent the citizenry's weal, but these politicians only deserve emblematic pillories and paltry sustenance. Without being exculpated, conniving politician’s impugnable cogency is on trial. Until they are fully adjudicated from espousing the sanguinary conflagration of humanity and environment, they must remain pilloried. To protect society from their further callous vilification, internecine partisanship, peevish scantness, their hideous actions must be monitored repetitiously. Left alone to deregulate and dismantle America, the taxpayers once again will have to resuscitate megabanks from endless debacles for fear of eviscerating humanity into imperturbable pauperdom.

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Works by Paskua, Jeffrey Scott, Alice, Marcela Bolívar, and Venus Raven.

The Undying Trust of One So Young
Jenn Gutierrez


Death clings to our home
these days.

Involuntary bug-animal slaughters
by innocent hands.

She yearns to learn them.
Crushes them to her understanding.
Our two black Labs her faithful minions.

First there was the garter,
slithering its need
for compassion into our hearts--
teeth marks clearly visible.

The squirrel we're unsure of,
but she found it first,
crouching low.

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Approaching Autonomy
Gavin Gale                                                                        

Delusions Divine those which lead to a centre false and never free
This home, your sanctuary bent on servitude..a house of a thousand rising lunacies crumbles faster still
Complexities complicate but rarely will these components amount to much beneath the Sun’s lashing raze..

Minerva, once a purported pinnacle of prosperities…illusions that never quite illuminate…
Masks, make up, never approaching magnificence..for yours is built upon manipulatory maneuvers
And, as each footprint wears down the one to follow, autonomy approaches…

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Prince of Light
Gavin Gale                                                                                          


Vindication observed… blinded pupils 
Vindication loses wars, seemingly conquering fields of rage and sorrow..
Vindication born of confusion, Lust, illusory self-assurances…
Wars decreed with shrieks of a deafening roar, can you hear the Lions become weak?
Strategies based upon self…
Rarely hold well under the shadow of cognition, razor sharp 
I know you hear and feel the cuts..wounded pride..simply this.. 
Run your circular Marathons..run the perimeters of your darkened, miserly mind 
Run well, Run hard 
Shatter the cyclical existence.. 

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Lizard Boy
Mike Riley

Life In Frames /Pixeled Dreams
Justin Fenech


(Fright)
(Frightening)
(Promising)
(Loving)
(Sensual)(Org - )

The bed sweats
On your eye-lids
Nothing exists
nd you can't wait
To find existence
as your eye-lashes
Pause for breath
Like stuffed bats.

Wishing the weightless waves
Return you to the right-hand side
Of sleep.

Nothing. It isn't fair.
The sheets are cobwebs.
Licence, licence,
The only poetic licence
Is for more dreams.

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Photograph's Radiation
Justin Fenech


"I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs 
that he may get used to the death he carries."

(Federico Garcia Lorca - Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias)


Now that I've walked past the photo
  (Matador)
  I have been knighted.
New trees take root in my sides - friends,
And here's what leaves blossom from their myths:

Flair lighting up the square in gestures,
The clothes of youth atop Parnassus, 
  Ralph Lauren silence,
  Pride of the ole;
I go for lunch, creamy and somehow Italian,
Permanently dazed
By the crowd's faith in my splendour
  Ready to feast
  Upon my fresh conquest.

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Turkey Buzzard
by W.M. Mason


I watch
from my sacred Box Elder
sister angel tree’s roots
into the earth
my sinking spine
connects in Mystery’s embrace
wormwood and yarrow dance
at my finger tips
Monarch caterpillars devour
bronze fennel
soaring red cedar caught
wings raised mid leap
straw strewn my bed
evening primrose 
by early morning breezes tickled
Newt the Nigerian pygmy goat
crops grass
as she grows her color
and patterns coming in
such blue
so clear
so clarified

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Somewhere the Sun
David Mac


Somewhere along the way
The gods ended and
The madmen took over everything

Somewhere along the way
The poets leapt like tigers
Or wanted to

And the clock faces smiled
The darkness was unexplainable
And the blues crept in
When your back was turned

But it’s no problem

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Plastic Cup Blues
David Mac


An empty plastic cup rattles down the street,
It’s looking for somewhere.
Me and old town eye it,
We are somewhere.

And people drip and flop out of taxis,
They are nowhere.
But they too are looking
For somewhere.

The sad sun falls down again.
It’s all over everywhere.
It’s all over.
Just get used to it.

read more...

Works by Robert L. Tyrnau and Jessica Joslin.

Showing: hypografia, In The Year of the Pig, BRONSON [part 1], Breathless trailer, and the Biography of Ho Chi Minh [part 1].

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