Other Rooms Press

2011-11-06T15:01:00.003-08:00

OCCIDENTAL RIBOFLAVIN

Fall/Winter 2011

Panoptical Illusion
a play by Matt Reeck

untitled entries from a recluse’s journal
by Patricia Connolly

4 poems
by Jim Juletid

4 poems
by Annalisa Pesek

BARE BONES
by Emilie Friedman

Conversation Over Scotch
by Luke Janka

On the Table
by Danny Earl Simmons

An Inventory of Your Omentum
by Christina Rodriguez

Taliban Narcolepsy
by Michael Karl (Ritchie)

2011-11-06T15:01:00.001-08:00

Panoptical Illusion

a play by Matt Reeck

untitled entries from a recluse’s journal

by Patricia Connolly

4 poems

by Jim Juletid

4 poems

by Annalisa Pesek

BARE BONES

by Emilie Friedman

Conversation Over Scotch

by Luke Janka

On the Table

by Danny Earl Simmons

An Inventory of Your Omentum

by Christina Rodriguez

Taliban Narcolepsy

by Michael Karl (Ritchie)

Christina Rodriguez

2011-11-06T15:00:00.003-08:00

An Inventory of Your Omentum

You carry your father's habits
underneath the curtains of your omentum,
hoping to stop the infection of
your mother's impuissance.

You've seen your phone flash
with missed calls from a jail cell,
but you deny deny deny that
you are worst as their hybrid.

Drugs land you a sentence so you might
go down easier written as a liquid addict.

Bottle bottle on the floor,
whose memory did you kick out the door?
Bottles scattered in boxes,
under beds, in your vagina,
but you got it under control, right?

Hold on there fancy child,
don't you see your gut growing?
You're carrying too much
rejection in your lymph nodes,
stuffing down your want, need,
want, need because you think
everyone sees the witch in you:

The nothing-good-comes-out-of a girl
who brands her liver with wine sales
and club shots, hoping to magically bottle
pin-prickles of love to cure
the loneliness filtering in her stomach.

Return to CONTENTS

PANOPTICAL ILLUSION

2011-11-06T15:00:00.001-08:00

by Matt Reeck

[Production Note: This is an unnatural drama. The play’s characters, while they have personalities, are locked in a dream that might be reality or a reality that might be a dream. They are locked in a protracted present. As a rule, their actions and words occur at a slower rate than those of a naturalistic drama.]

(2 prisoners inside the prison. PRISONER 2 has ear against the glass wall.)

PRISONER 1
In effect, yes. In effect or for effect. A turn in the events. A change. (Beat.) Did you
hear me?

PRISONER 2
I was listening — yes.

PRISONER 1
What did I say?

PRISONER 2
Verbatim or gist?

PRISONER 1
You weren’t listening! Whenever you have your ear pressed against that wall, you don’t
listen.

PRISONER 2
… butterflies.

PRISONER 1
Come again?

PRISONER 2
Butterflies. I am close to them.

PRISONER 1
Not that again —

PRISONER 2
No. Yes. I can’t say.

PRISONER 1
Or won’t?

PRISONER 2
I won’t.

PRISONER 1
I have my own dreams too, you know.

PRISONER 2
Butterflies of all possible integers.

PRISONER 1
Fantasy.

PRISONER 2
No. Not there.

(PRISONER 2 points.)

He’s still watching — Warden.

PRISONER 1
That’s his job. He watches. Oversees. He is an over-seer.

(PRISONER 1 breaks into a hacking laugh.)

PRISONER 2
One watch. Two watches. Eight watches in a day. Eight wardens in a year.

(PRISONER 2 makes the sound of a ringing phone and picks up an imaginary phone.)

Yes, this is.

(PRISONER 2 holds it out to PRISONER 1.)

It’s for you.

PRISONER 1
No, it’s not!

(PRISONER 2 puts the phone to ear again.)

PRISONER 2
Who is it that you wanted? (Beat.) All right. One moment, please. (PRISONER 2
extends the phone to PRISONER 1.) It’s for you.

PRISONER 1
Well who is it?

PRISONER 2
(Into phone.) Who is it? (Beat.) Oh, right. Sorry.

(PRISONER 2 extends the phone to PRISONER 1.)

PRISONER 1
Who is it?

PRISONER 2
Warden.

PRISONER 1
Eight watches in a day. Eight wardens in a year. Shock of defeat. Sentence of time.

(PRISONER 1 takes the phone.)

Yes? (Beat.) Yes, sir. (Beat.) Of course not, sir. (Beat.) Gruel will be fine, sir.

(PRISONER 1 hangs up the phone.)

PRISONER 2
What did he want?

PRISONER 1
He wanted to know what we’d like for dinner.

PRISONER 2
And?

PRISONER 1
I told him gruel.

PRISONER 2
We always have gruel.

PRISONER 1
He didn’t give us a choice.

PRISONER 2
Then why ask?

PRISONER 1
I suppose he wanted to be polite.

PRISONER 2
In effect or for effect. A turn of events.

PRISONER 1
At the periphery, an annular building. At the center, a tower.

PRISONER 2
My tooth hurts.

PRISONER 1
Cry, then.

PRISONER 2
Can’t they give me something?

PRISONER 1
An injection.

PRISONER 2
If it would relieve me.

PRISONER 1
It would relieve you.

PRISONER 2
Then?

PRISONER 1
I’m not standing in your way.

(PRISONER 1 looks at his wrist. A number is tattooed there.)

6243.

PRISONER 2
6 plus 2 equals 8. 4 times 2 equals 8. Half of 6 is 3. 3 plus 2 is 5. 2,3,4,5.

PRISONER 1
But no 1, no 7.

PRISONER 2
4 plus 3 equals 7! And 6 plus 3 equals 9!

PRISONER 1
Yes, yes! And 4 minus 3 equals 1!

PRISONER 2
All are accounted for: the accounting complete.

PRISONER 1
Eight watches in a day. Eight wardens in a year.

PRISONER 2
Criminals identical but for their pin-code-like numbers.

PRISONER 1
Likewise a hand ...

PRISONER 2
Clutches ...

PRISONER 1
From these rafters ...

PRISONER 2
Bearing this foreign moniker.

(They look up.)

PRISONER 1
What’s he doing?

PRISONER 2
Watching.

PRISONER 1
Us?

PRISONER 2
Yes, us—the event participants.

PRISONER 1
But we’re doing nothing. There’s nothing to do here.

PRISONER 2
We watch back.

PRISONER 1
So he’s watching us watching him?

PRISONER 2
In so many words.

PRISONER 1
Actors.

PRISONER 2
Agents.

PRISONER 1
Perpetrators.

PRISONER 2
Recidivists.

PRISONER 1
Confess! O, rural police look toward the sky!

PRISONER 2
The satellites beam down their refulgent images!

PRISONER 1
That inhabit our minds!

PRISONER 2
This cage.

PRISONER 1
This mind.

PRISONER 2
Like so many small theaters.

PRISONER 1
Each actor — alone.

PRISONER 2
Constantly visible. O Moon, my thousand-faced pinup!

(They look for the moon.)

PRISONER 1
What do you see?

PRISONER 2
A rabbit, a landau, a sheriff with a bandolier. An Afghan with a stone. A …

PRISONER 1
Do you see the witch? The elegant lady?

PRISONER 2
Mere surfaces reflect. Beliefs unsubstantiated.

PRISONER 1
Personality — bah! Vaudeville!

PRISONER 2
Death and transfiguration.

PRISONER 1
The visible constantly before his eyes, the tall outline of the central tower.

PRISONER 2
Words.

PRISONER 1
Magic spells ...

PRISONER 2
Inoculate hill stations.

PRISONER 1
Recidivists — scourges.

PRISONER 2
The body holds its pathogens in periods of dormancy.

PRISONER 1
Neither symptom nor cure.

PRISONER 2
In effect, yes. A change.

PRISONER 1
To change. Of or in itself.

PRISONER 2
Faces — manipulated — cosmetic unguents.

PRISONER 1
Visibility is a trap.

PRISONER 2
Visibility—a trap.

Return to CONTENTS

Jim Juletid

2011-11-06T14:59:00.000-08:00

you long for the warmth
of a rice cooking aparatus
II
i infuse your tea with
early morning jingoism
III
a stale manoeuvre
IV
tomorrow i’ll spit
chaw on the terrace
V
bugger your pillow to
the melody of
1010 wins

ungroomed coffee fingers rap
the dining counter with dark
stubble flagging gently
beneath pruned nostril
blonde hoodlum
robbing oil tycoon
sloppy fellatio
and checkbook
index fin
ger

Whittling some timber posts
I claw out a fire
Warm the bones
II
Empty garbanzo packages rustle
Inside my trousers
III
The mule can't sleep
Mouths the only expletive
He can muster: friendly smile
III
“Good old boy,” I say
“Good boy”
IV
The trail is long as the sky is wide
I’ll roll this smoke into a meal

Dirt washes over
My filthy lip
Ness
Monster
Scuttling in alleyways with flimsy,
Red eye askew
II
I might pull the strings of night like a hand puppet
Deciphering lyrical funk
For migrant workers
III
With your permission,
I’m finna do this

Titles:
1) 1010 wins
2) untitled
3) desert garbanzo
4) nighttime garbanzo strategist

Return to CONTENTS

Annalisa Pesek

2011-11-06T14:58:00.001-08:00

Headless

Less listening more talking
That night I went to Maine or talked about it anyway
The state berry is the blueberry
Notice the floor is tilted here the bed is sliding
All the way to Maine in my head
This piece of paper says SKETCH FOR KAFKA
Taped to the wall
We’re both naked
I turn around and around so he can get a good look
Then out the door
Oh Kafka stay hydrated!
These generations of words sour the mood
We’re all muddy and sticky it’s snowing oh Maine!
Where are your promised huckleberries?
We’re purple too
Our words are thrown they may bounce
So many of them why add more
Come back to bed Kafka
Read to me read to my head while I go on talking

The Israelites

What about those summer birds?
What summer birds?
That accept the impossible before breakfast
I hear Alivia has decided to form a band
Some great brain at the death of evening
It took 1000 years before we ran out of love
Barefoot after midnight
Alivia, I took it for a miracle
Manna for breakfast
Cheerios for the birds

Jealousy

In the end the heart does not grow fonder
Is that something of a shock?
There is no evidence they visited Italy
Or that she was gifted with achievements
To explain the works of Pietro da Verona or Jan Coene
There are names but it is not clear where they come from
Pietro da Verona or Jan Coene
What period or century
They get the general idea
But their love was hazardous
They passed through earthly paradise
Babylon too
There's only so much in the old romances
Maybe they’re new wave
Special interest anyway
I'll testify to the diffusion
When love evaporates without a bell rope

A Leg Came Off

I’ll try it in the park
The U-Control helicopter
It’s irrational
I feel like rubber
It’s the European medieval look
No I’m all in silk I’m a girl
You were wrong there’s no connection
Between Vermeer’s pearl and the soul
A pearl is an irritant you idiot!
And so is the soul

Return to CONTENTS

Patricia Connolly

2011-11-06T14:55:00.000-08:00

Ceci n'est pas une pipe
                                 (this is not a pipe)
                                                      ---rene magritte

           ***

after the dog walks. still having boots on
@ the store for milk cream & various
incendiaries not bothering
my coat tobacco brown, too, too
parlez parlez jamais plus
concentrates blue l' outhre & le meuse
dit-moi yellow pops a cigar
anchors the mouth, my
father’s corpse motions for a light.
says it only takes, only takes 3 days
to break a habit & if I had
had longer hands in leather plaid
would I know, do I know
the strange brown foam
gurgling up his esophagus, too, too
parlez parlez jamais plus
they still use
paper bags tan tawdry & cheap somewhere
beneath whiskey & porn for 3-3 days
does a habit break my hands
longer, longer---don't shout, don't

           ***

le pont bends as rivers intersect
fashioned off a parisian
island park, art-house afternoons.
my back chews a little grass
& a riverboat man tips his hat, madame,
the spring has come white served w/
lemon twists on pillow tops
touching green across sart-tilman
as wild mushrooms hunt for if,
if I had longer hands, instead his
face thru my thin whims
laugh a coffee accent - strong
fingers long sizable palms & knuckles not
overpowering his shirt sleeves pace up & down
my bucket finds itself to ground
he'll not miss me in the crowd

           ***

           ***

strike a match against sometimes
a cigar is just...
thick w/ spit
along it's tip until
sometimes
it is more as
desire & aftermath
so I call him Matt

           ***

welcome, here, roll up the rug.
I just vacuumed
il faut: the salt spat-her
regardez- moi become
the soot smudged diaries of also

           ***

           ***

surely God will not begrudge
us some small
comforts here
cubans are widely available & between
my lips feel illicit.

           ***

the tobacco shoppe is near la gare
waffle vendors & les femmes dans
les fenetres. men mostly window
as women pretend hurried
is not a glance
on bright red shag, leather straps up
tight nice thighs narrow hips w/
stunning tits: peroxide fringe indigo
powdered lids dim her brown
hazel eyes foaming mine, would we
know, do we know before her next if
I had more cash, please just
give me 15
minutes please
give me just give me
10 or 5
times bite
the soft yellow shell
filled w/ rock-sugar
scratches my gums & tongue
swallow rivers along

           ***

Return to CONTENTS

Michael Karl (Ritchie)

2011-11-06T14:54:00.001-08:00

Taliban Narcolepsy

Narcolepsy is a chronic, life-long condition typical of frozen time. This sleep disorder lures infidels into 15th Century mountainous terrain. Insurgents, cloaked so as to conceal their identity, videotape their captives begging for mercy, then bargain for their release. In states of psychic hegemony, invading forces use satellite technology to target rebel cell phones. Text messaging produces collateral damage. A maze of caves swallows foreign hostages with concussions from heat-seeking missiles.

Taliban women are too beautiful ever to be seen in public. Mullahs like magnets bend toward Mecca and humble themselves in prayer five times a day. This is how they avoid the fate of those imperialists who black out from unplanned, sudden sleep attacks by suicide bombers. Counter-intelligence profilers suffering from insomnia identify these men by their unshaven beards. The wealthiest among extremists unroll the most frayed prayer rugs. Eating light or vegetarian meals during the day and avoiding kite flying or heavy meals before important activities help keep their animosity alert. Their primary crop is opium for heroin, which they sell to enslave the youth of the Great Satan and its allies, who still believe in television and playing with pigeons.

There is no known cure for such waking hallucinations. Armies from all nations have perished attempting to conquer this territorial nightmare. Dreaming continues even after the head has been chopped off. No one has ever returned to say otherwise.

Return to CONTENTS

Emilie Friedman

2011-11-06T14:53:00.001-08:00

BARE BONES

I feel like I’m rattling around inside your ribcage
After the whale has washed up
on a private island,
and died.
And that rocking, that’s me.
Isolation, fear, could all be quelled
I guess
by slipping through your rib bones
bare bone
white
and walking outside,
on this sunny hot day
sunny and hot, burning sand
feels lovely on one’s feet, I am told.
But being pushed from side to side
slows that instinct.
I’ve been here for years
Holding white bone in my hand,
because it’s so smooth
Tightrope walking down your spine
to show you my amazing balancing act.
And I know that my footing
might be the thing
that’s rattling me.
Because I don’t see you applaud anymore
When I show you my tricks,
When I cry out for help
To hold me still
You watch me rattle,
Bare feet holding ground on burning sand.
You have stopped trying to whittle bone
to free me
from this carcass.

Return to CONTENTS

Luke Janka

2011-11-06T14:52:00.000-08:00

Conversation over Scotch

Waterborne insects rise
to the surface,
born again
membrane of water, pierced
eternally, or eaten by
fish sensing electrical disturbance,
ensnared, flight and

chase. Honorable intent
against wet moss,
musk of earth.
Fascination understood
as longing, seeking
to know and disrobe
gendered expectations.

A lesson in cycles—
          pursue
          catch
          tighten
          flesh, torn
          interrupt
          release
          Repeat

A warm body.

Return to CONTENTS

Danny Earl Simmons

2011-11-06T14:51:00.000-08:00

On the Table

The girl of my dreams
Is a very stark reality -
Stark as in bare,
Bare as in naked,
Naked as in nothing between us,
Everything laid out on the table.

I hope the table can take it.

Return to CONTENTS

2011-04-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

OCCLUSAL RHOMBOHEDRON

summer 2011

featuring

Daveo Crish + Andrea Henchey

j/j hastain + Kip Potharas + AP Lewis

Jacob Jacques Martin

Nate Pritts + Michael Schiavo

plus Ed Go's brief commentary on the future of poetry

& MARS POE ATTICA by Michael Whalen

2011-04-22T09:58:00.006-07:00

{click on poet to read}

Andrea Henchey

2011-04-22T09:58:00.005-07:00

SLURLOGIC

Nearly thirty, thirsty, dirty

She’s’lutty they’ll say but

celibacy’s’ure a drag

when you’re drunk &

wouldn’t you like to come

over here, Chuck? Maybe we can

talk. About Faulkner or

the weather. Whether or

not you like me, would lick

me, here on my wrists or armpits

what? Too far? But if you go

s o f a r, t o o f a r

you end up back where you belong,

East and East until you’re West.

Why’d’you walk away. Bomb the test.

MASH POEM IN REVERSE

The masons remove one brick at a time, stack them neatly. They

scoop back mortar, dismantle my mansion, take it away in trucks.

Scott Baio unlocks his lips from mine, pulls out

of our embrace. Leaves float back up to the trees as Scott

walks away, ass first, his smile morphing into a frown. He takes

our five babies with him (including the one from my womb which

unfetuses, unembryos, unzygotes, shrinks into a tiny swimmer

and slips back into the hot tub between his thighs). They leave

in my purple jeep as the Cali beach collapses. Somehow I know my

job at COSMO is gone. Then my phone unrings. I am unhired. I am

left with only the opposite of everything I want: a page of blue-lined

paper in a Trapper Keeper®, a pencil, a grain of sand in my hand.

Other Rooms Press

Christina Rodriguez

PANOPTICAL ILLUSION

Jim Juletid

Annalisa Pesek

Patricia Connolly

Michael Karl (Ritchie)

Emilie Friedman

Luke Janka

Danny Earl Simmons

contents

Andrea Henchey

j/j hastain

j/j hastain

j/j hastain

Kip Potharas

Michael Whalen

Ed Go's brief commentary on the future of poetry

Daveo M. Crish

j/j hastain

Jacob Jacques Martin

Nate Pritts

Michael Schiavo

AP Lewis

other rooms 7

Introduction to the 6th OR eJournal

contents

Heaven, Hell & Middle Earth

Beni Ransom

Stephen Emmerson

John Sibley Williams

Whit Griffin

Sarah Pearlstein

Susan Lewis

A.P. Lewis

David B. Applegate

Mark Terrill

Jennifer Stockdale

Samantha Taylor

Yelizaveta Golub

contents

CONTRIBUTORS

Michael Whalen

Stella Goodall

Yelena Kolova

Michael Karl (Ritchie)

Dolan Morgan

Emilie Friedman

John Sibley Williams

j/j hastain

Tamiko Beyer

Douglas Watson

Ed Go's manifesto

ORIV

2 poems by Yelena Kolova

2 poems by Ariella Goldberg

2 poems by Keith Wahle

2 poems by Sarah Feeley

excerpts from "The O Mission Repo" by Travis Macdonald

Table of Contents

pages 68-70 The Found Error

pages 41 & 42 Weave Plan

re:black holes

comparing notes with john

Derailed

A WOMAN'S BIG DESIRE

THE ESSENTIALS OF HYPOTHERMIA

From Z, To A

blinking

ogunquit

RED HOOK FRAGMENTS

The way things move! They move so very movingly!

My Dick Approaches Reality (in the most beautiful way)

THE PLANARIA WORM

SPECIES SPECIFIC

AMAZEMENT MAY COME AND GO,

Palingenesis

3 poems by Susan Lewis

WELL, COME