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The Stuff Left in Parking Lots

by 90s Meg Ryan

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1.
FRIDAY reading went well Lana did good too her friend was blonde and cute and maybe thirty. We went to Whirlaways the name of a horse I only half knew Frankie and none of the other people we went with. GiILLIAN came too for four hours we talked I sort of stood between her knees & there were other people obviously but in my mind so many sweet things happened. SAM told me Mcsweeney’s solicited but then didn’t take his piece after all his only option now he told me was to write something bigger and lay it in his right desk drawer with a note he could finally kill himself & get famous. NADIV didn’t have his passport he had to stand outside while we tried to get everyone Israelis to this pinball bar down the block. He had no one to stand with so I went outside was cold we were both freezing our asses Nadiv said Wyatt are you in love? It looks like I crept up into my old lines when I was drinking I would bang my hands down and say I have a blackness inside of a heart instead of a heart or one all bleak & juiced when it wasn’t right, true then I was in love, which would pass and regroup and so forth and so on as it does but I should have said something different I think or think that now that is. . . . . WYATT SPARKS lives in Chicago and is the author of Second Man On The Moon (Nap, 2013) and As We All Change (Love Symbol Press, 2013). . Moondog is the music behind the poem.
2.
BLUEBERRIES several years ago I went on exactly four dates with this guy whose name I can’t remember. for whatever reason I’ve stored some of our encounters in my mind, like how he brought me blueberries to work, at the counter where i was selling tickets during the day; and he asked me if I wanted to have sex with him over a text message. I think he heard voices because sometimes he’d stop and listen and look to the side where nobody was standing. we went to see a Coen Brothers movie, and I felt embarrassed because he laughed really loud the whole time. he met me at Kaldis where I seemed to offend him about something I never put together. (his nose was running) he rode his bike there, in the cold, i gave him a ride home, i was scared. Carol and Amber lived in the Roanoke on Ludlow before they decided to cool down, before they decided to break-up. it involved getting separate apartments; so Carol and I signed a lease on 12th and Race and Amber lived down the street, a bicycle’s ride away, a walk in the snow. we sat around Carol’s desk and listened to music on her computer. we made mixes we drank coffee in the winter we had a TV and VCR we had a cordless phone and one of us was a phone sex operator all day long. when guys called for requisite humiliation, our group of friends would pause the TV and laugh fake laughter, enough to fill the room, enough to fill the man on the phone in the cold that winter calling from a different city, calling from a different room. we only needed two places other than home: a place to get warm and a night to go dancing. Kaldis had two bathrooms. the non-smoking side was a model-home for visitors and on the other side i had a date with a schizophrenic on the other side i had too much coffee on the other side Alan was commissioned to paint his art all around us. at home, one of us was a phone sex operator all day long. she sounded like a little girl; she gave lots of spankings; she was a feminist; she was a sadist. we made out in the bedroom on the floor during a party. she told me not to get nervous. every thursday night we went dancing at Jacob’s. we parked in the alley next to the building (every single time). we walked in like we owned the place (every single time). say “hello” to Jaunita, he’s a really good bartender, get in line for a drink. i kissed a girl on the dance floor. i fell off the dance floor. i climbed the ladder and requested a song. i went to bed the next day. Kari and I made-out on the car ride here. she’s dead in a car accident now. she’s dead in a car accident all the time now. the day I found out, I brushed my teeth. I was eating a crab cake on Main St when Bethami called and we met her at the hospital and then Kari died and stayed Kari in her early 20s forever. I chanted in my car that morning and didn’t know why. It rained all afternoon it was dangerous rain. Carol and I started buying pot from our neighbor downstairs. her daughter, whose name I can’t remember, went to the Creative and Performing Arts School. she wanted to have slumber parties at our place. she’d come knocking at our door after we were already stoned on her mom’s weed. I hope she’s Madonna now. Carol and I paid the bills erratically. one of us thought the heat wasn’t working. one of us wanted to sleep in the same bed. one of us bought an electric blanket. Now i’m anchored to the university, I lead a university- life. I live inside the little map with the little buildings, the shuttle drives by my house in half hour increments and we learn things. Kim and I fell in love at a potluck on 12th and Race; she was in graduate school and I was keeping warm. we have a son named Desi, he’s starting to dance and point at things. it seems like his life will go on forever. Carol and I were eating breakfast one morning when we saw two men shooting at each other in the snow. it was hard to believe because of the snow. I ordered a pizza later that day and was afraid to go outside. I hold onto the memory like a smalltown girl with grocery bags. I didn’t even know how to park on our street, let alone process violence. insert the total number of my graduating class; Randy Travis and Garth Brooks; how many stop lights in town; and when we finally got a McDonalds. the man who swept the stairs of the church put money in my meter so I wouldn’t get tickets (right in front of the Lord’s Gym). Washington Park was just a gazebo and a bunch of people I didn’t know-----back then. Carol and Amber eventually broke-up and Kari died. Kim and I fell in love. and the guy, whose name I can’t remember, brought blueberries to the museum while i was working. now it seems like i’ll remember all of those things forever. . . . . YVETTE NEPPER lives and writes in the city she loves, Cincinnati, OH. Her chapbook, 26 poems for grown ups and children, was published by Perfect Lovers Press last year. LAURA BIRDSALL composed the music and managed the soundtrack production for the poem "Blueberries."
3.
(Tragic Queen) I remember soil frozen in December A vague crunch under foot The slow silence that ascends underneath me From your cold face to my hardened body What bit of bread left inside my pocket The sounds of children wail behind us And this refuses to quit No, not unless somehow you make me a better woman Could you lift me above the waters that ice at this time of year This season has left me naked & freezing Walls that rise above We cannot stop climbing & the bricks they won’t soften You don’t soften while I am this small curled thing against your feet I am this woman all dressed in black Always ready Always ready for whatever ends next . . . . ALEXIS POPE lives in Brooklyn. Forthcoming from Coconut Books in 2014, her first book was selected for the Joanna Cargill First Book Prize. She is the author of three chapbooks and is in the MFA program for poetry at Brooklyn College.
4.
(Human Behavior) Lapping up curdled milk you choke on thick cheese of soured milk You wore either eight dresses or nine pairs of slacks That day in January you marched to my hind place Dark & nearly cloudy I want your sunlight to be almost You touch my field & sunflower panties Warm not hot Weather I fucked you or not Sunny day in clouds blackened by blood clots We settle for nothing less than disaster of chance or wild life eats us Hopefully my death will be a crime scene of envy All the paparazzi will be there to ease your pain over my passing in such Manner Say these deaths happen so easily No one finds me for three years I sat in front of the television watching Bones It’s called depression You tell me It’s serious I say Nothing is serious Only our thoughts on it Actually one time something serious happened But I forgot What happened was I bought the cat although I am allergic I really like sneezing I just wanted something to live beside . . . . ALEXIS POPE lives in Brooklyn. Forthcoming from Coconut Books in 2014, her first book was selected for the Joanna Cargill First Book Prize. She is the author of three chapbooks and is in the MFA program for poetry at Brooklyn College.
5.
“Old Fashioned” Cooking Recipes Soup: Think of all the times in your life using the phrase: “I am so sorry.” Reflect on this for about an hour. Begin a new project in your life for ten minutes. Abandon it. Casserole: Go out tonight. Learn to enjoy yourself. Smile. Smile. Smile. Give a piece of yourself to someone you have never met. Flavor to taste. Pie: Take a deep breath and jump. The water will be cold, naturally. Boil at medium high heat for twenty minutes. Dip your head under the water. Listen to everything around you. Come back up and fill your lungs with air. Try to imagine life without the last step. Sandwich: Spin around three times and don’t fall down. Learn to make bread. Find out what talking to yourself at night is all about. Keep a candle burning to give a false sense of security. Count ninety-nine sheep. Save the last one. Beef: Go to the supermarket. But the first thing you see over twenty dollars. Give it to the next person you see. Cope with loss, but understand charity. Discover what this person means in relation to you. Find out their name. Write it down. Write it down. And again. Pasta: Stop believing in monsters. Turn the lights off at night; save electricity. Leave your doors unlocked. Leave them open, if you want. Wash your hands to avoid cross- contamination. Chili: Buy a baby calf. Name it. Find a wife. Have thirteen children. Give yourself up for adoption. Tell the children to raise the calf after you are gone. And their children. And their children’s children. Muffins: Buy something you normally wouldn’t. Put it on display. Liver and Onions: Learn a foreign language. Travel abroad. Speak to people you do not understand. Spend money you did not earn. Earn money you can never spend. Vegetable Stew: Learn to paint. Find the closest river in your area. Paint it as you see. Finish the painting and go for a swim. Figure out how deep the river is. Deviled Eggs: Take the first three pages of every book you have available and rip them out. Keep these pages in a safe place, you will need them later. Burn the remains of the books. Write your own. Call it the best thing to happen in one hundred years. Tell no one of the book. Lock your door. Shut the blinds. Strip down and paint a self-portrait. Apples: Buy a newspaper. Read it from front to back. Keep the obituaries. Attend a funeral of a stranger. Learn their life as best you can. Understand how they died, and why. Apply this knowledge to your own life. Go home. Write your auto-biography. Chew on it for a while. Cake: Celebrate an unimportant birthday. Take of photograph of the most interesting thing you can find. Write a story based on nothing. Realize the mistakes you made. Learn to be steadfast in temperament. Rip every door off the hinges. Apologize for nothing. Be sincere for everything. Lamb Chops: Chop down the thickest tree you can find. Burn the stump. Salt the earth. Tell everyone. Fish: Learn how to swim. Learn how to cook. Forget the things you never wanted to find out. . . . . . DEREK HURT was born in a barn in the mid-mid-west. He has written biographies of history's most unimportant men. He enjoys a fine grilled cheese.
6.
ONE FUTURE DOES IT ALL Someone took the couch. I hope they took it back to let my rivals crash after the stage lights have burnt out, long after they answered incorrectly: “For no points at all, what’s the most comfortable language?” Reupholstered it in cucumber peels. Gave it cushions that gather you in like making out without philosophy. We’re tired of staying right here, but not of staying. All the way home, but you can never figure out which way it should face. I hope they let anyone sit on it who’s on my list: dads with eye patches, nerds with CCCP t-shirts. No, I insist. That’s not history, it’s a foaming tablet. That it shrinks collapsingly, as every middle gathers all there is from the hoax of approximates. Plus a stack of atlases, to fix the leg. No actually I hope it slid right off the truckbed, no bungee cords, onto an airstrip dotted with radishes, into a soggy new poem about an airstrip dotted with radishes, that truck truck truck of legend skidding through six poems a trip, O restless diet, driven by a forced-into- retirement preschool algebra tutor who signs up on every service to post that she’s the next Buddha. Her clutch pedal is a squawk I’ve never fallen asleep forgetting. Get up and circulate. I hope they need the rest more than you and I do, because that’s it for couches. From now on find me by the window, stiff as a pet who can't rank dangers. If you can’t see what I'm seeing, go ahead and make it up above me. . . . . MIKE YOUNG is the author of "Look! Look! Feathers" (stories) and "We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough" (poems) and "Who Can Make It" (chapbook of poems) and, forthcoming, "Sprezzatura" (poems). He edits NOÖ Journal, runs Magic Helicopter Press, and writes for HTMLGIANT. He lives in Northampton, MA.
7.
Some Times In Our Minivan 1. When school let out for summer, Dad bought a minivan and showed up to take Timmy and me and Timmy's friend Joshua for ice pops. He parked in the bus' spot and opened the hood and the trunk. There was a crowd, and we'd have given anything to just be on the bus, but Dad said, "Look, when I push this button the doors open on their own," and suddenly we were inside. "You can even do it when the car’s in motion," Dad said. Joshua, who was always holding us back on things, said, "I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way. It makes me nervous." "Watch your hands," Dad said, "Keep them inside, and just watch." 2. As soon as Timmy was busy with whittling and archery and summer shorts, we drove to a farm. Dad slowed and tested the hazards. Mom said, "Oooh look at those cows and the pastures and that little gazebo. Look at those flowers in front." She turned around in her seat and said to me, "You'll get married here one day, I think," and to Dad, "Sarah will get married here one day. I think." Dad said "No one's good enough for my little turkey," and gobble-pinched under my chin, and then Mom said, "I've collected this baby blond wig, and the perfect pink nail polish, and lacy white gloves, and a dress that goes down to your ankles and I'm saving them all for you to wear when you meet the right nice boy," and then Dad said without looking at me, "Wait. Full stop. Are you sexually active?" Mom said, "You know, good idea, sure. Henry, I think it would be an okay time to bring up the birds and the bees, what with Timmy at camp at all. It's a quiet, special time," and Dad said, "You think this is a really a good time to talk about pulling out and rubbers? Is that what you mean to say, Barbara? We are in the middle of a field with the cows and the pasture and the flowers over here. We are taking it all in and you're over there talking semen in front of my little girl." Mom said, "What I mean is, Sarah, would you just please tighten your shoelaces. Now push your hair behind your ears. Can you please just yank that bit of skin off your cuticle. Your hands should go in your lap. What I mean to say is"...and Dad interrupted, "How about saying no. Yes, saying no all of the time. That's the thing to say even if that little scumbag Joshua says he's got something to show you." Mom said, "Henry, pipe down, she's not even six yet, and if I meant anything at all, I meant feminine hygiene, honey one day, what will happen is, well what I meant was," and then Mom turned around again and folded her own hands in her lap and said very softly, "Plus, I've got a veil and that dress and it's in all hanging a lint-free dry cleaning bag, and I'm certain you'll fit into it one day and then we'll talk more." Dad took his hands off the steering wheel and wiped them on his pants. He used his shirt sleeve to pat his forehead though it wasn't wet and kept his eyes on the road the whole time, never once offering to open the doors. 3. Some time later, with the back seats folded down, I didn’t exactly take the candy, but I knew what was being offered while Joshua whined, "Everything seems to be moving very fast." I gobble-pinched under his chin and said, "Don't be a turkey." 4. It was raining when they thought Timmy and I had fallen asleep in our reclinable seats. Mom and Dad drove back out to the farm, and Mom sighed and whispered, "She was going to get married here one day but look out there, Henry." She put one hand on her chest and the other on Dad's arm. Dad said, "It may have been another farm that had a gazebo. It's difficult to tell between farm and farm and farm and farm..." repeating farm until Mom raised her voice to say, "And now the roads are flooding and if only we’d bought a Jeep with four wheel drive." Dad rocked the minivan in and out of reverse. We were stuck. And then Dad wailed "I’ll never be a grandfather." And Mom said "Henry, you should have let me tell her about dental dams when I wanted to," and Dad said, if I remember correctly, Barbara, if I remember correctly what happened was..." And suddenly everything on me felt feverish and full of more blood than it needed to have. "But Dad," I said, "Joshua is Timmy's best friend." Then Timmy coughed, or maybe choked a little bit. We’d had a lot to eat for dinner. 5. Then came an ambulette. The ambulette! We all climbed out of the minivan and into the ambulette, each of us holding one of Timmy’s limbs to buffet his shock. I patted Timmy gratefully for taking the attention off me. And Timmy recovered enough to say, "This is so not fair. The siren sounds like a dumb kazoo," and Dad said, "Son, I think you were faking it a little before. You sure seem to have your sense of humor back," and then Timmy passed out, but just for a little while and maybe just for effect. I knew Timmy had been expecting more. 6. The last time Mom and Dad drove me out to the farm they said "Up and out. We're dropping you off. You were going to get married here one day, but the pastures and the cows have been slaughtered and Timmy's bought the ambulette company because he liked the kazoo siren so much. You see what it does for his mood, don't you? He’s done so well for himself, and a full two years younger, at that. And Joshua's gone to work for him. Such a nice boy. So this is your home now. Dig a well and watch you don’t burn it down, won't you?" . . . . MELISSA SWANTKOWSKI writes fiction in Brooklyn. She is one half of The Disagreement, a reading series based in NYC, and the prose editor for Bodega, a magazine of literary work.
8.
. Song written and recorded by Wet Blankets in Bloomington, IN. Wet Blankets' first EP is available through Crossroads of America Records here: http://xrarecords.bandcamp.com/album/sheepy-love Wet Blankets is Aaron Denton.
9.
. Song by Dead Birds, a now defunct band from Muncie, IN once called Scales. Recorded with Keaton W. for a case of beer.
10.
. Recorded through the same soundboard as Clapton's "Cocaine," this song is forthcoming on a big ol' space rock EP - look for it online. "Whippersnapper" belongs to OSIMER, four Hoosier dudebros bunkered down in a canyon in the Hollywood hills with skateboards and rock n roll instruments - surfing the sound waves. They're on FB, TWTR, INSTGRM -- /Osimer317 OSIMER is: Aaron Cook, Dan Shannon, Greg Hunter, and Andy Colich. Editor's note: I met Andy at space camp. I was in 4th grade, and he was in 5th. He listened to Blink 182 the whole trip. I've been listening to these guys play music since junior high, and I am stoked they're still stoked doing it.
11.
. "In Ninjitsu" belongs to Short Hand. Short Hand's upcoming album "Punk Heart" was recorded in Muncie, IN. Short Hand is Peter Davis, a professor at Ball State and author of "Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!" and "Hitler's Mustache" and, most recently, "Tina." More: http://artisnecessary.com/
12.
. "Poet Teardrops" belongs to Short Hand. Short Hand's upcoming album "Punk Heart" was recorded in Muncie, IN. Short Hand is Peter Davis, a professor at Ball State and author of "Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!" and "Hitler's Mustache" and, most recently, "Tina." More: http://artisnecessary.com/

credits

released March 10, 2014

–CLICK "LYRICS" FOR TEXT & BIOS–
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••• CONTRIBUTORS:
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Album Art and Header by:
CARTER ARTHUR LODWICK –
carterlodwick.tumblr.com
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Words and Music by:
ALEXIS POPE –
alexispopeisagirl.tumblr.com
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MELISSA SWANTKOWSKI –
melissaswantkowski.com
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DEREK HURT –
www.gibson.com
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MIKE YOUNG –
mikeayoung.tumblr.com
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WYATT SPARKS –
www.ibanez.co.jp/usa/
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YVETTE NEPPER
bcrich.com
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OSIMER –
osimer.bandcamp.com
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WET BLANKETS –
www.xrarecords.com/artists/wet-blankets
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DEAD BIRDS –
www.fender.com
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SHORT HAND –
artisnecessary.com/shorthand.html
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THE STUFF LEFT IN PARKING LOTS
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90s Meg Ryan Muncie, Indiana

In 1989 Meg Ryan immortalized herself as Sally Albright.
Throughout the next decade, she mesmerized us all.

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