tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35504500360531513612024-03-08T04:05:10.733-08:00Cherrypicked HandsWhere hands are picked like cherries. Whatever that means.
www.facebook.com/cherrypickedhandsgreghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-32864796099853475222011-12-12T13:13:00.000-08:002011-12-12T13:29:42.317-08:00I Am Lazy; and Other IssuesI believe I have mentioned before that I am lazy. If not, I will mention it again: I am lazy. This is the reason why it has been such a long time since the last issue of Cherrypicked Hands came out and why there is still no sign of the next issue bumbling onto the horizon. It is because I am lazy.<br /><br />But I am here to make a promise - the next issue is coming soon. This is a promise, and I very rarely break promises. And on those rare occasions when I do break, I break them gently, and with love. But rest assured this will not happen this time.<br /><br />How long, I hear you say. How long till the next issue will be out?<br /><br />Two weeks max, I reply, with a self-satisfied smirk. Two weeks. Just in time for Christmas.<br /><br />Talking of Christmas, have you got all your presents yet? I haven't. I haven't even got one. I am bad at buying presents. I lack imagination. I also lack motivation to buy the presents. This is another side-effect of the laziness issue I mentioned earlier.<br /><br />I am going home to spend Christmas with my family. I will probably get drunk, and no doubt I will make a fool of myself. I may even argue with my girlfriend. She will probably argue with me. And then we will, hopefully, make up, and live happily every after.<br /><br />Anyway, I am getting sidetracked. I will stick to the point, and the point is this: Cherrypicked Hands #5 will soon be with you. I know you are all eager for it.<br /><br />On second thoughts, I very much doubt you are all eager for it. There are not many of you, I know, and yet it helps my pride and my mental well-being to pretend that there are lots of you, all eagerly awaiting the next important dispatch. I see you chomping at the bit, as my grandmother used to say. I see you in the streets, marching, rioting, demanding the next issue. I see you in a crowd outside 10 Downing Street, telling Mr David Cameron that he is ruining the country; that he is a smug so-and-so; that some kind of nice revolution is needed and needed badly; that he should get out of office and get out now; that his policies are nothing more than presents for his rich friends; but that all will be forgiven if only he is able to speed along the arrival of Cherrypicked Hands #5.<br /><br />I apologise for the political nature of that last statement. I don't know what came over me. Again, I am getting sidetracked. I believe I better go now.<br /><br />It is raining. It gets dark now at about 4 o'clock. It doesn't get light until about 8 o'clock. There is not much daylight left in the days. If you plan to read Cherrypicked Hands #5 after 4 o'clock, you should make sure you have a candle, a torch, or an adequate electrical lighting system that is provided by the National Grid. Because it is coming. It is coming soon.<br /><br />I hope you are all having a lovely day.<br /><br />Send my regards to your family.<br /><br />Lots of love,<br /><br />Gregory.greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-46382542367338531002011-04-30T00:23:00.000-07:002011-04-30T01:27:14.263-07:00Cherrypicked Hands #4Well, well, well. What have we got here, then? What we have got here is only the fourth issue of Cherrypicked Hands! Three cheers - nay, <i>four</i> cheers! - for Cherrypicked Hands #4!<div><br /></div><div>We have some good stuff in this issue. We also have more stuff than we did in the last issue, in which, as you may remember, we only had one poem. It was a good one, but it was only one, and it was lonely. This time, we have more than one. I think you would all agree that this shows conclusively that things are moving in the right direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is spring here in England, and the mornings are bright. Because of this, I have been rising from my bed earlier, which is nice. The evenings are also brighter, which is also nice. I like spring. It gives me a spring in my step. I take my dog for walks in the woods, and I pick up his poo in little black plastic bags that are scented with lavender. Despite this, the bags do not smell particularly nice, particularly when there is poo inside them. But it is nice of the manufacturers of these bags to try to make them smell nice for us, their customers. Futile, but nice. I then put the bags in bins, and the rubbish men to take them away. Some people decide not to do this; instead, they hang these bags on the branches of trees, like defecatory tinsel. This is a strange custom, but it is one that is common in the place where I live. I do not know what to make of this.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sexual among you will no doubt be disappointed to realise that no one, Oriental or not, decided to add pornographic links to the comments section in the last issue. I find this disappointing. Having first railed against these Oriental sex advertisers, and wished they would leave me alone, I gradually became to love these people, and to welcome them, and to feel a certain kinship with them - and now they have deserted me. I do not know what I have done to disappoint them, but I sincerely hope they come back. The comments section is a lonely place without links to pornographic places.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I ever open a pub, I am going to call it 'Moderation.' That way, people can say: "I only drink in Moderation." That would be quite funny, I think. It would give people a chance to make a joke, lighten their lives, and bring joy to their existence, however briefly. This is important in these troubled times.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you enjoy this issue, and I hope your lives are all proceeding in the right direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your friend,</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Greg.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>MAKE MYSELF AT HOME</b></div><div><b><i>by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>I want to make myself</div><div>at home with you.</div><div>I'm not a stalker.</div><div>I'm just in love.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to take you out</div><div>for breakfast, lunch,</div><div>or dinner, perhaps</div><div>have some ice cream.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could grow on you</div><div>like good disease.</div><div>The kind you could not</div><div>get rid of no</div><div>matter how hard</div><div>you tried,</div><div>baby.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works for the Public Guardian in Los Angeles, CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry in English and Spanish has been published in print and online journals. His latest chapbook, Digging A Grave, will be published by Kendra Steiner Editions in October 2010. He has been included in Cherrypicked Hands before, but I still cannot pronounce his name. I call him: "Lou."</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b>KUKAW!</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i>by J. Bell</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I live quite close to where Madonna has a large house. I read a news article in which Madonna is said to have closed off footpaths that run through her land. This made me angry. Who does she think she is? This land is ours; it belongs to the people who have seen it all their lives. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; ">What does Madonna know about what this land means to those of us who it has shaped and those of us who have, in turn, shaped it?</span> I’ll admit it, I got a little obsessed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); line-height: 17px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); line-height: 17px; ">I’ve since moved away from the village near to the place where Madonna lives. I hadn’t been there for a small while. So I persuaded my sister to come with me to the place. She can drive. I told her the way and we went there together.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">My sister didn’t care about Madonna, and neither did I until reading that article. I kept talking to her about Madonna.</span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">She shrugged and said ‘who cares about Madonna?’.</span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It was really windy. The hill that overlooks Madonna’s land is the highest hill for miles and miles. I think it’s the highest in Dorset. My sister and I stood against the wind. It was so strong that we could lean back and lie in it. They say that from the hill you can see the Isle of White, which is about fifty miles away. I thought I could see the white cliffs, but I wasn’t sure. We gazed into the smooth valley in which Madonna has a house. There are lots of pheasants there. I imitated them Kukaw! (then I flapped my arms to try and make the wing flap sound.) My sister laughed. I talked about Madonna a bit more, but my sister didn’t care. We decided to check to see if the footpath was open.</span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The article was lying.</span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><b style="line-height: 17px; font-weight: bold; "><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>J. Bell</i></span></span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i> lives in the countryside writing novels, short stories & comics. She’s had stories published in </i></span><i style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Dogmatika,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i> </i></span><i style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The Pygmy Giant</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>, </i></span><i style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The Recusant</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>, </i></span><i style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Just a Kiss</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>Anthology and a couple of student art magazines. In 2008 she won a Curator’s Choice Award (Noise Festival) judged by Niven Govinden. Her website is at </i></span><a target="_blank" style="line-height: 17px; font-weight: inherit; text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 104, 207); cursor: pointer; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>www.bellstories.co.uk</i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>. We had a nice editorial discussion about one of the lines in this story, and we sorted it out amicably and with good humour, which I think you would agree shows what an agreeable and lovely world we all live in, sometimes.</i></span></span></p></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#2A2A2A;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">THE INTERVIEW</span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#2A2A2A;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Ally Malinenko</span></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br />So both you and your husband get up</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">at 5 o’clock in the morning? he says.</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Yes.<br />And what do you do?<br />Write.<br />What do you write?<br />Stories, poems, fiction,<br />failed novels.<br /><br />What does he write?<br />Stories, poems, fiction,<br />failed novels.<br /><br /></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Both of you? Every morning?<br />Yes. But no, we try for four out of five.<br />So you are exactly the same, he says.<br />You both get up, you keep the same schedule,<br />you write the same shit.<br /><br />No, I say. We aren’t.<br />Well, what’s the difference? he says.</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">And I think about it.<br />He drinks coffee, I say.</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">And you don’t?</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">No, I hate that shit.<br />I drink tea.</span></pre></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b>FOR HARVEY</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i>by Ally Malinenko</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We toasted you the night you died,<br />but I couldn’t help thinking that you<br />didn’t seem like the kind that would die.<br /><br />Which is a very stupid thing to think.<br /><br />Salinger died. But he already checked out,<br />decades ago firing shotguns at curious trespassers.<br />Steinbrenner died the day after<br />they found your body in the bedroom.<br /><br />But it didn’t make sense. You couldn’t be dead.<br />You are too real to die.<br /><br />You are supposed to be in Cleveland<br />in the grocery store.<br />Behind the Jewish lady with all the coupons<br />arguing over canned soup.<br />You are supposed to be living through the same<br />shit as the rest of us.<br />Bus routes<br />and late bills.<br />Sick mornings and fights with the wife.<br />You are supposed to be nervously checking the phone book<br />for another Harvey Pekar.<br /><br />Not dead and still and peaceful.</span></pre></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>Ally Malinenko has been fortunate to have been published in numerous online and print journals. She's not sure how she got so lucky. Her first book of poems, entitled The Wanting Bone, was recently published by Six Gallery Press. Ally lives in the part of Brooklyn that the tour buses don't come to. I think we should all hire a tour bus and go and visit her and say, "Hello Ally Malinenko. We have hired a tour bus to come and visit you. We liked your poems."</i></span></pre></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b>MY FIRST ENLIGHTENMENT</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i>by Blake Ellington Larson</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><b><br /></b></span>came as black eyed susans <br />found light<br />in the midst of kansas<br /><br />my soul was as young<br />as pickens go<br /><br />lord have mercy<br />read the signs<br /><br />i was touring hospitals when<br /><br />my cousin and i<br /><br />found new light<br />in blue lips<br /><br />how nightgowns nurtured<br /><br />what seemed like an accident<br />at first</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><i>Blake Ellington Larson invented the color pink. He does not collect Care Bears and most certainly doesn't have a subscription to The Believer. On a scale of one to awesome. He would definitely be awesome. He lives in the quiet suburbs of Alameda, California and would very much like to meet you. Additionally, he's been published by Amphibi.us, Back Room Live, Beatnik Cowboy, Black Heart Magazine, Bolts of Silk and Picaresque.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"> F</span>eel free to visit his blog: </i><b style="line-height: 17px; font-weight: bold; "><a target="_blank" style="line-height: 17px; font-weight: inherit; text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 104, 207); cursor: pointer; "><i>http://porchlife.wordpress.com<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span></i></a></b></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; line-height: 20px; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">PIDGIN DATE</span></b></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Matthew Roberts</span></i></b></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Today I had a date with a</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">lady of the world. Like me</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">she had not really mastered</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">any language, only her mother's.</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">But over a meal in an</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Itlaian restaurant, we had good</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">conversation conducted in broked</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">French, Korean and English.</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I very much hope to see her again</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">for another pidgin coversation,</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">followed after dessert with a</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">complete understanding of the</span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">male and female human body.</span></p></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">END OF THE YEAR - BUSINESS STYLE</span></b></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Matthew Roberts</span></i></b></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">There's smoke on my plate</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">of the salmon kind. There's</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">wine and whiskey to satisfy</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">our needs, and make high class</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">fools of ourselves. There's</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">important men with expensive</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">suits, blowing hot air into a</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">microphone to inflate our egos.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The year ended to high profits,</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">it's our right to act like animals.</span></span></span></p></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">THE BORING MEETING</span></b></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Matthew Roberts</span></i></b></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I sipped on my strong red wine</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">during the amazingly boring meeting.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Folded my legs, lent back and</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I took an unshelled prawn from</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">the many large plates on the table.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">They'd been fried in olive oil,</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">garlic and fresh basil - alive.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Put the prawn in my mouth,</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">whole and listened to the crunching</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">inside my head. Tasted the flesh.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Lit up a cigarette as my</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">seniors and juniors around me</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">tried to put a dollar sign on</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">the price of human life. As a</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">big business, we were trying to make</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">the large sum as small as possible.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Picked pieces of shell from my teeth</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">and sipped on my strong red wine.</span></span></span></p></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Matthew grew up in the Yorshire Dales and went to University in Carlisle. At 33 he currently works in Seoul, Korea teaching conversation English to adults. In summer 2011 he shall be traveling to Italy to teach adults there for at least a year. Cherrypicked Hands published his first ever poems back in the first issue, would you believe? He seems like a nice man.</span></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b>THE MISSING LINK</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i>by Kevin Heaton</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">It's 3:20 am, and I am listening</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">to the overnight radio program:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">"Coast to Coast." A British scientist,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">apparently of some note, has published</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">a hypothesis attributing 4% of the current</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">Homo Sapien gene pool to the sexual</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">interactions of prehistoric Neanderthal</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">man, and early forms of our modern species.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">This is a source of great comfort to me,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">as it explains away at least 4%</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">of the regressive, fornicating, tailgating,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">bird-flipping, dull-witted, dimly-lit,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">knuckle-dragging, Pleistocene morons</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">that I encounter on the street every day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><i>During a mid-life crisis, Kevin Heaton published country music in Oklahoma, and tried to sing, but it sounded like shit. He runs a lot, scubas, and plays on the freeway with his grandkids. He has published 110 poems so far, but the old fart ain't done yet, and has a chapbook, Postcards of Faith, at Victorian Violet Press, and another one, Measured Days, coming out in 2011 from Heavy Hands Ink. I have informed the police about his behaviour with his grandchildren, and I am sure all my readers will be pleased, and impressed with my good citizenship, to know that his grandkids have been taken away from him. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small; line-height: 17px; "><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 20px; font-size: 16px; "><div style="line-height: 20px; display: inline !important; "><a target="_blank" style="line-height: 20px; font-weight: inherit; text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 104, 207); cursor: pointer; ">http://kevinheatonpoetry.webstarts.com/publications.html</a></div></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">PROMOTE THE GENERAL WELFARE</span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Daniel Gallik</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Irv got a call. This lady<br />from this church<br />was telling him no,<br />that they didn’t have money<br />for obese people <br />to get help. That quote, <br />“These are tough times<br />to find money for them.”<br />Unquote. Irv laughed<br />at the lady over the phone.<br />Asked, “Guess the fatsoes <br />need less help cause they’re fat?<br />That maybe they’ll get thin<br />if they have no money?”<br />The lady quipped, “Well!”<br />And they both left it<br />at that.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">OUTLETS</span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by Daniel Gallik</span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">She yelled at the kids.<br />They weren’t even hers.<br />Told Ohio Edison<br />they were wrong<br />on their meter reading.<br /><br />Said her divorced hubby<br />had ringworm once.<br />Questioned her current<br />hubby, you don’t know<br />how to hug me, do you?<br /> <br />Cried a lot about famine.<br />Ate way too much<br />after supper. Said, I drink<br />a beer a day. When really,<br />she drank much more.<br /><br />Her doctor told her<br />what to do. Shetold <br />her pastor that she was<br />going to hell. He winced,<br />said, I don’t know.</span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: 19px; font-size: 11pt; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Daniel Gallik has had poetry and short stories published by Hawaii Review, </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: 15px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Parabola, Nimrod, Limestone (Univ. of Kentucky), The Hiram Poetry Review, </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: 15px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Aura (Unv of Alabama), and Whiskey Island (Cleveland State Univ).</span></i><span style="line-height: 19px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">He has </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: 15px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">placed writings in hundreds of online journals.</span></i><span style="line-height: 19px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">His first novel, A Story of Dumb Fate is available at amazon.com for a good price.</span></i><span style="line-height: 19px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Currently, he was just notified that one of his novels will be published next year.</span></i></span></p></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">THE OTHER SIDE OF SILVER</span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">by A.J. Huffman</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I don’t want to see myself<br />in your reflection.<br />And I don’t want to see yourself<br />in mine.<br />Please.<br />Close your eyes.<br />I’ll close your curtains.<br />Maybe <br />in this new dark<br />we can let our hands<br />draw the lines.</span></pre></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#2A2A2A;"><br /></span></span></span></pre></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b>AN E-MAIL EXCHANGE</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><b><i>by M.J. Nichols and Greg Phillips</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;">Here is an email exchange, just for your amusement, and to display to you what a fine man am I, and what fine people my contributors are. Or, if not contributors, what fine people the people who send me emails are. Until we meet again, I bid you farewell.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(42, 42, 42); "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">To: cherrypickedhands@live.co.uk<br />Subject: Submission: Fiction<br />Date: Fri, 24 Sep 2010 07:40:53 -0400<br />From: (I have deleted this man's email address, for reasons of privacy).<br /><br />Dear Bourbon Penn Editor,<br /><br />It is my pleasure to bring forth, for your consideration, my short<br />story: "***************" (1050 words).<br /><br />It is included as an attachment, because you're worth it.<br /><br />May your Fall be merry.<br /><br />Thank you!<br /><br />M.J. Nicholls</span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: normal; "><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">From: Greg Phillips <cherrypickedhands@live.co.uk><br />To: (I have again deleted this man's email address, again for reasons of privacy)<br />Sent: Sat, 25 Sep 2010 7:48<br />Subject: RE: Submission: Fiction<br /><br /><br />Dear Whiskey Pencil Editor:<br /> <br />Who is this Bourbon Penn Editor? That's not my name. My name's Greg,<br />Greg Phillips, and I'm the editor of Cherrypicked Hands. Despite this <br />mix-up, I'm pleased to meet you. How are you?<br /> <br />You may have meant to sent this submission to me, and just forgotten to<br />change the salutation; in which case I forgive you. If, however, you <br />meant to send this submission to the Bourbon Penn Editor, I hereby inform you<br />of your mistake. If you did mean to send this to me, I apologise - but<br />the chance that I might end up reading and possibly accepting a <br />submission that was never meant for me makes me nervous. Plus, round these parts<br />we do not accept attachments, I'm afraid.<br /> <br />So there we are. What a confused situation we have found ourselves in!<br />I hope it clears itself up one way or the other, and I hope you enjoy<br />the rest of your day.<br /> <br />Best wishes,<br /> <br />Greg Phillips, Cherrypicked Hands Editor.</cherrypickedhands@live.co.uk></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">To: cherrypickedhands@live.co.uk<br />Subject: Re: Submission: Fiction<br />Date: Sat, 25 Sep 2010 06:18:11 -0400<br />From: (I'm guessing you know what I have done here, and why I have done it)<br /> <br />Goodness me. What a horrible submission mix-up. I apologise dear Greg <br />for the slip and thank you for your hilarious response.<br /> <br />The piece I intended for you isn't up to much, so I'll do you the <br />pleasure of rejecting it myself:<br /> <br />Thank you for submitting to Cherrypicked Hands, you scruffy urchin, but <br />your story is the sort of tedious gibberish we use as toilet paper in <br />lean financial times. When I say "not for us" what I actually mean is <br />"not fit for human eyes anywhere in the world, even those of the blind <br />or deceased." So take your attachment and shove orf. Have a lovely week.<br /><br />Nice to meet you Mr. Phillips, and best of luck on your Cherrypicking <br />endeavours,<br /> <br />M.J. Nicholls</span></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "></pre><pre style="line-height: 17px; white-space: normal; "></pre></span></pre></span></span></span></div>greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-23677956678498228072010-09-19T02:02:00.001-07:002010-09-19T02:22:31.890-07:00Cherrypicked Hands #3Hello there, and welcome to Cherrypicked Hands #3.<br /><br />We have some exciting news for you. We are now on Facebook. You can find us at www.facebook.com/cherrypickedhands. Please be our friend. We are lonely and we need you.<br /><br />There has also been a change in the email address to which you should send your submissions. It is no longer gregisagoodgregATlive.co.uk, as I think by now we have all recognised the truth of this statement, and would all agree that, despite some mistakes in the past, Greg is indeed a good Greg. The new email address is now cherrypickedhandsATlive.co.uk. This email address is permanent. Unlike you, it will not change.<br /><br />In other news, it is raining. It is also Sunday morning, so that is all right. Soon I will have to brave the elements and go into town and buy some paint. Then I am going to paint some walls. That is my task for today.<br /><br />Your task for today is to read this issue of Cherrypicked Hands. Your task, I think you'll agree, is much easier to complete than mine, as there is only one item of interest in this issue, and I have four walls to paint. One poem versus four walls: I know which I would choose. And it wouldn't be the walls, that's for sure! Yes, it is.<br /><br />In other news, Cherrypicked Hands is still being hounded by Japanese/Chinese sex-traffickers. They keep commenting on the poems and fiction included in here. This used to bother me. Now, it doesn't. I welcome the sex. I like sex. I like Japanese people and I like Chinese people. It is nice of them to introduce our readers to a world of Oriental iniquity. So if, after reading a poem or a short story, you fancy a bit of sexual gratification, just scroll down to the comments, click on the comment button, and take your pick. All the links are in Chinese or Japanese, so it will be pot luck which sex scene you access. Hopefully, it will be something to your liking. If by chance you happen to click on a link that doesn't take you to a sex site, I can only apologise, and ask you to please let me know which link it is, and I will delete it immediately. I don't know how these Oriental people found us, or why they believed we would be interested in their many sexual suggestions, but I have decided to look upon it as a blessing. From now on, only Oriental sex links are welcome in the world of Cherrypicked Hands. Let us embrace our misfortune!<br /><br />I have nothing else of interest to say just yet. I hope you enjoy your day.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SACRIFICE<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">by Rebecca L. Brown</span></span><br /><br />I am doing this for you,<br />Said the man who was superior.<br />I am suffering to protect you<br />From the horrors of this world<br />Lest you be consumed<br />By the evils of greed and lust.<br />One day, you will thank me<br />For my ultimate sacrifice.<br />You owe me a doughnut<br />She told him.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">This poem is by Rebecca L. Brown. </span><strong style="font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;">She</strong><span style="font-style: italic;"> is a British writer currently based in Cardiff, South Wales where she lives with her partner and assorted menagerie. She has recently returned to writing medium-length, short and flash fiction pieces (including micro-fiction), after a short break which felt considerably longer than it was. Rebecca specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. Updates and examples of Rebecca’s work can be found on her Twitter page @rlbrownwriter and at her blog Bewildering Circumstances (available at </span><a style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">http://bewilderingcircumstances.blogspot.com/</a><span style="font-style: italic;">). I think we would all agree here writing has wandered into the right place this time.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>And that's it. The end. I hope you have enjoyed your brief journey today, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your day. You are free to click on a sexual link should you wish to do so. Unfortunately, I have no time for that at the moment. I'm off to buy some paint instead.<br /><br />Bye for now.<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-79233791197700716962010-05-12T09:56:00.000-07:002010-05-12T10:23:18.297-07:00Cherrypicked Hands #2Today is a big day in the small history of Cherrypicked Hands. It is our second issue. To continue the theme of "second" things, there will be two items in this second issue - the first, and the second. They are both poems.<br /><br />You may be saying to yourself that this is a short issue. You are right - it is a short issue. That's because I'm a short man, and time is short, and also, mainly, because I have only yet received two submissions that I feel are worthy to be included.<br /><br />This will mark a change in the way Cherrypicked Hands is distributed to the big wide world. From now on, I declare issues will only be issued as and when I feel there is something worth issuing. If I receive one thing I think should be issued, I will issue it, and will no longer wait until I have amassed enough other submissions to make an issue seem worthwhile. I hope that has cleared that issue up.<br /><br />In editorial news, there is not much to say. We have a new government here in England. I didn't vote for it, but that doesn't matter. Other people did - kind of - and in times like these, I always try to think of other people. Summer is on its way, but the nights are still cold, and every day I still have to go scavenging through my local woods in my caveman outfit and lug back armloads of logs to burn on my fire. It is nice, but tiring. One time I found a collection of logs all set together, as if somebody was preparing their own fire with them, but as I didn't see anyone around, I picked them up and carried them back to my place. I think you will all agree that this does not make me a thief. I am drinking a lot, but I am not an alcoholic.<br /><br />What other news? I am still getting Chinese/Japanese and sometimes English messages about sex. Sometimes these links to sex sites are disguised as words of wisdom - "Do not cast the first stone!" says one of them. I clicked on this link, and was led to a world of sex and iniquity.<br />I suppose it is something you just have to get used to if you start an online literary magazine. Since starting it, I have indeed been plagued by sex.<br /><br />Oh well.<br /><br />Other news? I don't think there is, no. I suppose one downside of what I envisage to be more regular updates of Cherrypicked Hands is that I will have to write more editorials. It is time I started to lead a more active lifestyle, in order to have more things to fill you in on. Hm.<br /><br />In the meantime, enjoy the issue. It is short, but as I always tell my girlfriend, that doesn't mean it won't do the trick.<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A CROSSWORD VOCABULARY<br />by William Doreski<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></span><pre><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Leering over crossword puzzles</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">for days and weeks has numbed me</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">with words like aloe, natal, fungus-</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">vowel-rich and useless except</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">to fill spaces empty as the rooms</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">of the house you abandoned when</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">a man of nonlinear mien</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">impressed you away with him.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mien is another crossword. Too bad</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">you've left me with so many spaces</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">to fill with only five vowels</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">and the occasional y. Too bad</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">your new mien man can't solve</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">the warp you've left in time and place,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">which eventually will overtake</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">and fell you both. Fell is another</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">crossword. Yes, it will hurt you.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Like that honky-tonk night in Dreamland</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">when in a Coney Island mood</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">lost in a single mutual smile</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">we drifted among bristling nightclubs</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">and swaggered home too tipsy to tell.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Tipsy occasionally crops up</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">in crosswords, and swagger as well.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Every day the New York Times</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">delivers fresh invective</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">to direct at the silence you left</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">brimming in the kitchen where we sliced</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">mushrooms fresh from the uplands.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">That man you've snagged won't savor</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">wild mushrooms the way I do,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">but maybe he'll make up for it</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">by eschewing crossword puzzles</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">in favor of a smaller lexis </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">still ripe enough to inscribe you.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></pre><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:georgia;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span>BICYCLING TO NEW YORK<br />also by William Doreski<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></span><pre style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bicycling to New York to track you<br />to your lair, I feel the small towns<br />cringe in the heat of my passing.<br /><br />Churches sag on brick foundations.<br />General stores peddle doughnuts<br />ten years old. Gas pumps weep fumes<br /><br />that sicken mothers and children<br />en route to the local mall. The light<br />of Connecticut looks too slack<br /><br />to support its huge economy.<br />Factories stand around sadly,<br />underemployed. My bicycle creaks<br /><br />beneath me, tired of my weight.<br />I stop and oil the chain. Standing<br />instead of pedaling feels so natural<br /><br />I question why I'm devouring<br />all these miles to expose you<br />rapt with your ripest lover yet.<br /><br />Not my business anyway, this leer<br />you impose on half the world.<br />Let the Defense Department worry<br /><br />about vulnerabilities exposed<br />by your rage for self-creation.<br />Let the President quake in his shoes<br /><br />whenever your name scrawls itself<br />across an otherwise cloudless sky.<br />I point my bicycle home but walk<br /><br />rather than ride, the long slow distance<br />extending my life span one town<br />at a time, the clapboard houses<br /><br />waving their mortgages like hand-<br />kerchiefs at a parade, the landscape<br />too bulldozed and paved to object.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">William Doreski teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire.<br />He told me some other stuff about himself, but I have accidentally<br />deleted his email, and can't find it, and rather than email him again<br />and admit to my embarrassing mistake, I have chosen instead<br />to simply give you the barest outline of his biography. I hope he<br />doesn't mind this.</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />UNTITLED<br />by Meg Eden<br /><br /></span></pre><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">what are you doing here?</span></span></i> a man in the </span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">airport asks. </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">it isn’t the Olympics yet. come back later</span></span></i>,</span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">as if Beijing is still dressing up, has her</span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">panties over her head, no</span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">make-up on. </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">we wanted to see China, </span></span></i>we answer, </span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">carrying suitcases to the bright hotel in front of</span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">cheap camera stores. </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">everything reeks of pollution.</span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">but it’s cold. you come back though, right?</span></span></i></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">white people are walking purses.</span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></span></p> <p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12pt;">we tell him we’ll see.</span></span></p><pre style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Meg Eden is the name of the person who wrote this poem.<br />She's been published in a lot of places and has won quite a few<br />awards. Unfortunately, in the same catastrophe that also<br />deleted William Doreski's emails, her full biography has gone<br />missing - I have also decided to withhold this from her until<br />now. I hope she is all right with this.</span><br /><br />I have also realised this has been quite an error-prone issue,<br />as I firstlyhinted that there were two things in this issue<br />(the first, and the second) but I now discover there are,<br />actually, three things in it. That is a bonus for you, reader,<br />no doubt, but it does make me look a bit like an unprepared fool.<br /><br />Let's ignore it, hey?<br /><br />Yes. Let's. Until next time - farewell!<br /></pre>greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-67107712884652659062010-04-04T11:49:00.000-07:002010-04-04T12:06:56.136-07:00Oriental Sex AdvertisersIt's been a long time, hasn't it?<br /><br />Yes, it has.<br /><br />When's the new issue coming out?<br /><br />Soon. But I need submissions. I have ignored a great many submissions due to a great deal of personal trouble that I don't think it's fair on either me or you to go into at the moment, and for that I am sorry. It is inexcusable, despite the vague excuse I have wedged into the previous sentence, and I hereby promise to make it up to you. So I would like submissions, and they will be responded to, and all will be well again in the world of Cherrypicked Hands. Or at least that is what I hope for - as well as world peace, of course. The email address to send your submissions to has changed. It is now: gregisagoodgreg@live.co.uk. I hope that you will all, in time, recognise the truth of that statement, and be able to nod your heads and say to each other: "Yes, Greg is indeed a good Greg."<br /><br />In the meantime, the previous issue has been commented on 5 times! Exciting stuff, ey?<br /><br />Yes, that's what I thought, too, when I first revisited Cherrypicked Hands and saw that 5 messages were waiting for me. "Come back!" I thought they might say. "The first issue is legendary - where's the second!"<br /><br />Things like that, I thought the messages might say.<br /><br />But they don't.<br /><br />They are all in Chinese - or Japanese, I'm not sure which.<br /><br />At first I thought this must mean that Cherrypicked Hands is big in Japan. (Or China.)<br /><br />But it doesn't.<br /><br />All the messages are about sex.<br /><br />Now, sex is nice, I grant you that, but to post a message to Cherrypicked Hands advertising sex is just not on. Is it?<br /><br />So I would like to make a plea to all the sex-obsessed Chinese/Japanese advertising people out there, and my plea is this:<br /><br />Find another literary-based online magazine to advertise in! Don't come around here with your sex-talk! Because you're not welcome!<br /><br />There. I feel a lot better now. I hope you do too.<br /><br />All the best,<br /><br />Greg.greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-64926503721589624462008-06-28T00:00:00.000-07:002008-07-03T02:14:37.427-07:00Cherrypicked Hands #1Well, here it is, everybody! Please give a warm round of applause for the first-ever issue of <span style="color:#990000;">Cherrypicked Hands</span>! Hurrah!<br /><br />I hope you enjoy reading it, whoever you are. If you do, or if you don't, I would love it more than crisps if you would leave a comment about what you thought of it. I know we live in a busy world, and you, like me, are busy people, but it would give me something to read, and it would be interesting. I am in dire need of something to read at the moment. You lucky people out there, on the other hand, already have something to read. I have already read it. It's called <span style="color:#990000;">Cherrypicked Hands</span>, and this is the first-ever issue. Hurrah!<br /><br />I must say I was terribly impressed by the quality of some of the submissions I received. I also received some that I didn't like at all, but that is only to be expected. My only gripe is that I didn't receive much prose. This, people, is bad. Send me some prose! Short and strange and beautiful stories is what I want. Send me them! Also, not to make poetry feel left out, send me some of that too. I am now accepting submissions for the next issue. I will also be rejecting some as well. Such is life. And please don't forget the laziness-inspired changes to the submission guidelines, which are detailed somewhere below this, in a different post.<br /><br />My plan was to write a nice editorial introduction to the issue, but not for the first time in my life, I am not sure what to say. What do people write about in editorials, anyway? I don't know. I have no interest in politics or the current worldwide situation, so I will talk about the weather instead. So: the weather's pretty drab at the moment. (I am in England, by the way.) It's summer, but the skies are grey. It rained like a trooper a few nights ago, and one of my windows leaked. Not much, though, so don't you worry. I am safe and sound. Me and my lady kept nice and warm inside. We had the old stove crackling, and we were listening to Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour. It was nice. The theme was "Laughing," and it was a good show. Bob Dylan is a funny man. I like him very much.<br /><br />That's all I've got to say, really. I will not take up any more of your valuable time. As I've said before, we are all busy people. Instead, I will let the first-ever issue of <span style="color:#990000;">Cherrypicked Hands</span> (hurrah!) do the talking. I sincerely hope you like what it says.<br /><br />All the best,<br /><br />Greg.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">THE MILLION-DOLLAR BET</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Michael Kechula</span><br /><br /><br /><br />“You’re all late again!” I hollered. “Don’t you understand what’s at stake here? You act like you don’t care. I’m sick of the lot of you. Now get to work!”<br /><br />Twenty monkeys put fingers in their ears and stuck out their tongues. Ingrates. If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be chomping moldy bananas and swinging from their tails on Kong Island.<br /><br />“Look. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. But guys, time is of the essence. Nine years and forty weeks have passed. We only have twelve weeks left to win the bet. If I lose, I’ll hafta declare bankruptcy and send you back to the jungle.”<br /><br />My words struck home. Hundreds of typewriter keys began to clatter. Walking around the tables, I leaned over here and there to view the results.<br /><br />“Hey, you, Monkey A! Stop doing somersaults. Get back on those keys and get dancing. Double time!”<br /><br />Instead of pressing individual keys, the jerk brought his rear paws down hard, causing three type slugs to lock near the paper.<br /><br />“Look, if you don’t get yourself squared away, you won’t get a frozen, chocolate-covered banana during your smoke break.” His face fell. He stopped goofing off and got back to work.<br /><br />“What’s the problem, Monkey B? Why are you turning in circles? I know you got the hots for Monkey E, but stop showing off and restrict your love life to your own time. I’m paying top dollar here, and I expect results. If you can’t concentrate on your work, there’s a bunch of unemployed monkeys who’re eager to take your place. So, get your grimy paws positioned properly on the keyboard and start pressing keys.”<br /><br />It was time to check the room next door where twenty additional monkeys wearing reading glasses poured over copies of “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.” All had their noses buried in the books. Good. They were a more serious bunch.<br /><br />After lunch, they’d rotate to the typewriters. And those now on the typewriters would put on glasses, and spend the rest of the day staring at the books. Hopefully, through osmosis, they’d produce a masterpiece.<br /><br />Many scoffed when I hired this bunch twelve years ago. I’d heard the old saying, that if you put enough monkeys long enough on keyboards, they’d eventually produce a Shakespearean play. I set out to prove it. After they pulled it off, I’d write a book about monkeys, typewriters, random keystrokes, and creativity. Figured it’d make millions.<br /><br />I brought them here, provided food, housing, and clothing, and gave them weekly paychecks. I did everything possible to integrate them into society. Then I personally trained them to mount typewriters and press keys with all fours. Consequently, at any given time during an eight-hour shift, 80 paws pressed keys. I figured every passing day increased the odds in my favor.<br /><br />Day after day, they pranced across keyboards, while I painstakingly checked results. I’d cut and paste from one sheet to another. They seemed light-years away from randomly producing a new play in the Shakespearean manner. However, during year three, and after organizing countless pages of their handiwork, they came somewhat close to producing a sonnet.<br /><br />In the fifth year, using scissors and a ton of scotch tape, I was able to piece together a 950-word short story. Unfortunately, it didn’t read anything like Shakespearean prose. It was more like something Hemingway would have written in his waning days. But it was good enough to capture first prize in a detective story contest.<br /><br />The CEO of General International Corporation read about the award in the New York Times. The article mentioned my intention to have a bunch of monkeys randomly type out a new Shakespeare play. The CEO bet me a million dollars the monkeys couldn’t pull it off in ten years. I accepted the bet.<br /><br />Nine years and forty weeks passed without any significant results, except for the small piece they produced for a Faux Faulkner contest. That one got honorable mention. With only twelve weeks remaining, I was overcome with anxiety. I drove them harder, increasing their workday to twelve hours. For the thousandth time I explained what was at stake. That’s when a labor organizer convinced the monkeys to go on strike for more chocolate-covered bananas and a 35-hour week. We worked out a compromise on the banana issue, but they wouldn’t budge on the shorter workweek.<br /><br />Then came my interview with BBC. I explained management’s position about the strike with logic and reason. When that BBC segment flashed around the world, amazing things happened. Millions of sympathetic monkeys found typewriters and began to pound them 24/7. By the end of the first week, I was flooded with tons of genuine monkey-typed pages.<br /><br />On the final day of the bet, while skimming through three tons of that day’s mail, I ran across something that knocked my eyes out: a hundred-page manuscript randomly typed by a squirrel monkey from North Zamboozia. When I read the very first sentence, I knew my problems were over. “Forsooth, friend Glavio, and you also, fair of face Scarpio.”<br /><br />The monkey had named it “Hamlet and Egglet.”<br /><br />The play is still running on Broadway and the London Stage. Next year, a movie musical version will be released. I’ve made such a killing I don’t have to bother writing a book.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I rewarded the Shakespearean monkey with his own private jungle loaded with amenities and eager females.<br /><br />Oxford offered him a full professorship and a trainload of manual typewriters. Time magazine made him Man of the Year. There’s talk about a Nobel Prize.<br /><br />As for my original batch of monkeys…they’re still on strike.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. I hope he is enjoying his retirement. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first place in seven contests and second and third place in four others. His stories have appeared in 104 online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at </em><a href="http://www.booksforabuck.com/" target="_blank"><em>www. BooksForABuck.com</em></a><em> and </em><a href="http://www.fictionwise.com/" target="_blank"><em>www.fictionwise.com</em></a><em>. Paperback available at </em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/" target="_blank"><em>www. amazon.com</em></a><em>.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">NIGHT FORGERY</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Tom Sheehan</span><br /><br /><br />Just before dawn<br />a shadow makes tracks<br />in the dew‑lit grass.<br /><br />Later, a whisper<br />and a scent follow<br />the forsaken imprints.<br /><br />Not a leaf stirs,<br />but if I watch closely,<br />blades of grass ease upright,<br /><br />a loam granule<br />is released to airs<br />staggering under stars,<br /><br />and the whisper, vague,<br />is familiar, perhaps stripped<br />from gists of old conversations.<br /><br />Years ago,<br />at a Red Sox game, I<br />became separated from my father.<br /><br />All the goblins<br />of young creation hung over<br />my hysteria, poked at my terror.<br /><br />When he found me,<br />pawed, frayed, diminished,<br />he said he'd never leave me again.<br /><br />This soft forging<br />in the night grass<br />is a kept word, a vow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">CABOT TRAIL LIAISON</span><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">by Tom Sheehan</span><br /></span><br /><br />In a blue nightdress a woman<br />leans on a Cape Bretton porch,<br />steaming coffee cup in one hand,<br />the other hand shading her eyes.<br /><br />She survives fog and heights,<br />a buoy bell out and beyond,<br />what night has left behind,<br />what debris waves wash up.<br /><br />Passing by, we acknowledge<br />her steep privacy, then note,<br />not yet connected, a pale lone<br />sunflower leaning with her.<br /><br /><br /><em>Tom Sheehan’s Epic Cures (short stories), won a 2006 IPPY Award. A Collection of Friends, Pocol Press, was nominated for Albrend Memoir Award. He has nine Pushcart and three Million Writer nominations, a Noted Story nomination, a Silver Rose Award from ART and the Georges Simenon Award for Excellence in Fiction. He served in the 31st Infantry Regiment, Korea, 1951-52. He has published four novels, four books of poetry. He meets again soon for a lunch/gab session with pals, the ROMEOs, Retired Old Men Eating Out, (92/80/79/78). They’ve co-edited two books on their hometown of Saugus, MA, sold 3500 to date of 4500 printed and he can hardly wait to see them. His pals will each have one martini, he’ll have three beers, and the waitress will shine on them. I hope he has a good time; but don't get too drunk, Tom.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">BUTTERFLIES</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Danny P. Barbare</span><br /><br /><br />As<br />if<br />a<br />flower<br />has<br />wings<br /><br />how<br />butterflies<br />bloom<br />in<br />spring.<br /><br /><br /><em>Danny P. Barbare is only 3-years-old and lives in Iceland with his father, Henrik. He is the author of numerous books, including "Life With Henrik," which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. He didn't tell me anything about himself, so I had to make a biography up for him. I hope he doesn't mind.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">UNRELIABLE WITNESS</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Simon Philbrook</span><br /><br /><br />when i was at college<br />learning history, made up by historians,<br />yearning to get laid<br />more often than<br />just a drunken friday fumble,i lived above a chippy,<br /><br />hippy curtains said student digs<br />pig of a landlord<br />lorded it over us<br />for weekly rent,<br />half spent in midweek pub-crawls,<br /><br />my innocence was befriended<br />by the local toms,<br />how wrong we are<br />about people,<br /><br />my obvious unskilled need<br />made me appealing,<br />and their revealing outfits<br />were<br />hard<br />to ignore,<br /><br />they joked about<br />how crap<br />i would be in bed<br />if i ever got there,<br />"teach you a thing or two<br />big boy!!!!"<br />they laughed<br /><br />and i made friends with kylie,<br />younger than me<br />but knew more history<br />than dusty books,<br />one look at a punter<br />told her<br />what sort of cunt he was,<br /><br />kylie (not her real name)<br />walked the mile<br />that was the Derby Road,<br />fat bald pimp<br />too wimpy to protect her<br />when she got done over one night,<br /><br />pigs were curb crawling<br />drooling and fawning over scanty flesh<br />and happened to mesh<br />the fucker<br />who fucked her<br />up,<br /><br />middle class, middle aged, magistrate<br />instead of castrating him<br />threw it out<br />of court<br />of course -<br /><br />unreliable witness.<br /><br /><br /><em>Simon Philbrook is a bit dull, really. He has spent the last 16 years working in the care industry. He is right-handed, but left-footed. He likes Sainsbury's potato chips. I hope he has a packet right now, and is eating them as he reads this. This, would you believe, is his first submission ever.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">VARIATION ON A THEME BY GERTRUDE STEIN</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by William Doreski</span><br /><br /><br />Basset to beagle to bison—<br />the alphabetic creatures baa,<br />bawl, and bray. Town election<br />today. Dollars waltz in the street.<br />Ballots fluster in sweaty grip.<br />I expect to solve the morning<br />by dissolving it into noon,<br />the way Emily Dickinson did.<br />By then I hope the town fathers<br />have become town mothers. I hope<br />the wind has discouraged blackflies<br />so I can come home from the vote<br />and peel the dressing from my garden<br />and grub in its manured wounds<br />without being boned and filleted<br />by those tiny winged ellipses.<br />Then as the afternoon undresses<br />with that sluttish dedication<br />I expect to delve indoors<br />and fuel my ardor with bourbon<br />and a crackle of crackers and cheese.<br />Alas, I’ve no Virgil Thompson<br />recordings to wrestle my ears,<br />but Copeland and John Adams<br />will suffice. Bassett to beagle—<br />an everyday canine password.<br />To bison? A trick of the light.<br />The human sheep baa to vote<br />Republican, bawl and bray<br />to vote Democrat. Not one<br />independent or communist,<br />no third-party strong enough<br />to brace against the northeast wind.<br />The ballots are moth-winged, drawn<br />to fire. Filling the circles black<br />suggests I’m sketching blackflies<br />to honor the authentic ones,<br />but my blood cries in protest<br />that sometimes a vote’s just a vote<br />and the braying, bawling, and baaing<br />of the electorate requires<br />the mockery of self-respect.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">TWO OF YOU</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by William Doreski</span><br /><br /><br />I photograph you smirking<br />at a paper plate of barbecue.<br />But the crisp digital image<br />reveals two of you, the second<br />frowning in disapproval.<br /><br />Your ghost? Your soul? We agree<br />there’s no such spiritual entity,<br />certainly not a bodily<br />duplicate. Yet this effect<br />doesn’t look camera-created<br /><br />but feels authentic to the eye.<br />And the clothing differs. You<br />eating pork wear a pleated<br />yellow blouse, while you frowning<br />wear a plain blue shirt with<br /><br />collar severely buttoned.<br />Should we ask a priest or rabbi<br />what this doppelganger intends?<br />The May evening undresses<br />slowly, a glimpse of tulip,<br /><br />a whiff of crabapple blossom,<br />the church-picnic couples plain<br />old Americans nodding<br />over the mildest conversations—<br />no religion, no politics, no….<br /><br />I should photograph you again<br />and see if your double remains<br />at your side, but we’re afraid<br />to discuss such disembodiments<br />even when they have the nerve<br /><br />to assume a bodily form,<br />and we’ve these plates of barbecue<br />to eat, greasy ribs shining<br />and tender as if gladly<br />coughed up by the one great hog.<br /><br /><br /><em>William Doreski’s most recent collection of poetry is Another Ice Age (2007). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, Natural Bridge. He can now add Cherrypicked Hands to that list, which I am very pleased about. I hope he is too.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">RED SHOES</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by David McLean</span><br /><br /><br />i never had red shoes so angels<br />weren't interested in them, but devils<br />liked my tattered raincoat, like daddy's<br />got a brand-new second-hand bag<br />and it's broken and smoky<br /><br />he's going to groove it<br />never, and all night long<br />but the red shoes never<br />belonged to me maybe<br />i need some -<br /><br />shoes like blood and mourning,<br />like nasty boxes with memories in<br /><br /><br /><em>David McLean has a couple of chapbooks out, one a free download at Whyvandalism.com. He has a full length poetry collection forthcoming at Whistling Shade Press in May or June 2008. A second full length collection is due from d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press this fall. See www.deadbeatpress.com. He regularly writes poetry and music reviews for Clockwise Cat. There are around 500 poems now in, or forthcoming in, around 220 magazines online and/or in print. Details are at his blog at htpp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He is a good man.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">THE TIME ACCOUNTANT</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Pablo Vision</span><br /><br /><br />The cruel twists of time are like a sickening trip on the most hellish roller coaster ride known to man. Those tedious and torturous dragged out moments of life (like four-hours queuing for a three minute thrill): double Latin with Fart-Breath Jones going on and on and on, ad nauseam – whilst the sun and the smells of summer torment through a window that is too small for escape, and too high-up to gaze out of; or the endless boardroom meeting where some ugly self-satisfied prick of a chief executive explains how we are all sharing the same vision, all part of a winning team – whilst your finger nails dig deep into your skin, to stop you screaming, crying or hitting someone, but unable to stop your mind musing on what kind of low self-esteem would allow you to delude yourself you were part of the same team, when the born-lucky bastard who is doing this motivational talking is on ten times your salary; or the wait for the appointment to see if that treacherous lump residing in your wife’s tit will change both your lives in a way that does not bare thinking about, but, think you do – compassionate, loving, supportive thoughts battling with the selfish, the horrific, and the cowardly – thoughts that will remove any delusions you had about yourself that you were anything other than a self-centred bastard with the morality of a snake – yes, even when resolved to stand by her through this thing you have already allowed that some future affair with a more conventionally breasted woman would be perfectly understandable, in these circumstances. Time twists like a fucking serpent then.<br /><br />And then it can be like the freefall drop – and you are only aware that things must have happened after the event: the plane landing in some exotic paradise that you have saved up all year to get to, and the days falling from your life like holiday-turds hitting the pan, and then the plane departing the same runway, taking you back to captivity; or days, weeks, years of lust for this other woman, spilled in three minutes of impassioned thrusting, and the emptiness and the guilt stretching across the tangled sheets and flesh – flesh that now seems much the same as any other flesh; or the face in the mirror that has aged twenty years overnight, as much in the creases of the skin and greying of the hair, as in the dullness of the eyes that signifies a life prematurely extinguished by routine – where, oh fucking where, did I go to, and when did this half-death happen to me, and how could I not fucking notice?<br /><br />Maths and numbers. Forty-one years old: more than half my life, probably. And what use will the years after seventy be? Sixty? How much time spent prostituting some sellable commodity that I find myself blessed or cursed with – brains, labour, or just the acquiescence to take it up the shitter daily from some overfed puppet controlled by the faceless and relentless will of shareholders? There is only one kind of whore that I have any kind of disdain for – those who suffer some kind of delusion that it is not degrading to live this life of evolved slavery – those who think that the collar and tie are not the same as a ball and chain – those whose lack of honesty, and lack of self-respect, would make this most insidious form of prostitution something to aspire to, and to pimp their children to. How much time spent in schools – where talent and originality are despised as non-conducive to the slavery for which you are being conditioned to?<br /><br />Surely the debits should equal the credits, the hardship equal the gains, or, at the very least, something other than debt as payment for this violent and frequent shafting? Live this life and you are the most desperate and the most pathetic of all the pimped whores, so totally dependant on the car and the TV and the house that you have no choice but to take it anyway it comes, day after fucking day, and year after fucking year. But where is my reward for all this shit? And who is going to audit my life and find out that I have been conned and short-changed? Maybe I should call the Time Accountant, because, in a life that is purely transactional, the credits and debits must balance.<br /><br /><br /><em>Pablo Vision occasionally updates <a href="http://pablovision.blogspot.com/">http://pablovision.blogspot.com/</a> with obscenity, blasphemy, links to recently published work, information about stuff in print, and, somewhat bizarrely, stories about himself. He has remained faithful to the same woman for a number of years, but is always eager to test his resolve in this matter with attractive gothic girls. What a slut, Pablo.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">PROBLEM SOLVING</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Stacy L. Welch</span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">One of the most</div><div align="center">intelligent strategies of living</div><div align="center">is to not over-stimulate</div><div align="center">a problem.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Rather under-stimulate it</div><div align="center">until it feels neglected enough</div><div align="center">to go away.<br /><br /><em></em></div><div align="left"><em>Stacy Lynn Welch is a 34 year old Poet with a Juris Doctorate from the University of Missouri Kansas City School of Law, as well as a B.S. in Psychology with a Minor in English from Southern Illinois University -Edwardsville. Currently she resides in Kansas City, Missouri, yet has known several States to be her home which she claims she hasn't found yet. She has been writing since able to hold a writing utensil and also utilizes MySpace for Poetry Postings, under the name of Trixy at</em><a href="http://home.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user" target="_blank"><em>http://home.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user</em></a><em> or <a href="http://www.myspace.com/trixareforrabbits">www.myspace.com/trixareforrabbits</a>. She was a bit nervous about writing her first autobiography, but I think we'd all agree she's done a very fine job indeed.</em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">SHORTS</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Richard Wink</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">i.<br />The drummers of Japan<br />Hammer a beat<br />Johann Strauss<br />Sends me to sleep<br /><br />ii.<br />What point is there for building barricades?<br /><br />Open your cakehole<br />And let out<br />A few words of forgiveness<br /><br />iii.<br />Exuberant drinking<br />Romantic entanglement<br />Broken bottles<br />Floating beds<br />and still my toe keeps tapping<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">96.8%</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Richard Wink</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">Cabinets crammed full of damaged goods<br />Knife wielding banshees hid by neon hoods<br />Tesco value ready meals<br />Waiting to be eaten<br />By pie faced cretins<br />Drunk on Lennon<br /><br />Street Art<br />Creates spray paint millionaires<br />Men who scrawl lewd words<br />On toilet cubicle walls<br /><br />Uneasy institutions<br />Aren’t the only way to freeze<br />Thousands and thousands<br />Search for the same key defiantly<br />When the door has already been kicked in<br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em>Richard Wink (a name, not a command) is a writer based in Norwich, England. His latest chapbook "Apple Road" is out now via Trainwreck Press. I hope he will forgive me for making a joke about his name. Richard, wink!</em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">ODIN’S OOPS</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Kenneth Pobo<br /></span></div><div align="left"><br />Having no neighbors helps keep<br />Icelanders happy. In Valhalla,<br />gods live too close. Our magic trips<br /><br />each other up. My hothead son Thor<br />tosses lightning bolts like potato chips<br />into a waste basket. I’m known<br /><br />in many galaxies for wisdom.<br />It’s not bragging. What have you given<br />an eye for? But I fuck up. I told<br /><br />a single Icelandic mom to marry.<br />She wed a dope who craves vodka<br />and Internet surfing. Sex was a time<br /><br />killer after shut down. “Odin,” she said,<br />“He’s creepy, picks his toenails,<br />farts when soup’s on. I’m divorcing him.<br /><br />No hard feelings. He can keep the computer.<br />We shook hands and he went<br />to the hot springs.” I’ve learned my lesson—<br /><br />no more family values. Did my<br />one eye go blind for a moment?<br />Whatever. Time to help clean the palace.</div><div align="left"><br /><br /><em>Kenneth Pobo has a new book of poems forthcoming in July 2008 from WordTech Press called Glass Garden. His work appears in: Orbis, Indiana Review, 2River View, Crannog, The Fiddlehead, Forpoetry.com, and elsewhere. Catch Ken’s radio show, “Obscure Oldies,” from 6-8pm EST on Saturdays at WDNR.com. He teaches Creative Writing and English at Widener University in Pennsylvania. The University was quite narrow at first, but not since Kenneth's been there. Widen A University. Ha ha.</em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">KEY WORDS</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Matt Roberts</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />Adventure<br />Beatles<br />Books<br />Buddha<br />Connections<br />Deep<br />Explorer<br />Generosity<br />Good friends<br />Hope<br />Infectious laughter<br />Karma<br />Love<br />Music<br />Pacifist<br />Peace<br />Poems<br />Silly<br />Sushi<br />Travel<br />Truth<br /><br />…She’s my girl.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">E-MAIL TO A FRIEND</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Matt Roberts</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />Before my beautiful travels,<br />And before my higher education<br />We used to hang out didn’t we?<br />We used to have a great time.<br />Remember that horrid thing we did?<br />The memory of the look on her face<br />Still stays with me.<br />Anyway lets not talk about that.<br /><br />Things were little and fun back then<br />But things are bigger and better now.<br />My mind sometimes goes back to the village<br />Where we drank, played cards and drove.<br />This time of year, this time of day<br />The city sometimes gets me down.<br />So what you up to now?<br />Where you been? What and when?<br /><br />My life is so much better now<br />Met so many different people<br />Had so much more better times.<br />But anyway keep in touch.<br />Got a small place, so you can’t come round.<br />Going to say this now<br />But only because I have to,<br />Wish you were here.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em>Matt Roberts is from the Yorkshire Dales, in England, where I went on holiday a few months ago. It rained, but that was nothing to do with Matt. He is 30-years-old and teaches English in Seoul. It has made his day that I have used his poems, and I am very pleased for him. All the best, Matt.</em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">TALK THAT CRAZY TALK</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />They talk all that crazy talk. Don’t they know how stupid they sound when they talk like that to intelligent people like me? I should not be wasting my time in this place. I have a suitcase of cocaine back in my house I need to see about. I have pot plants that reach the sky in my four thousand acre ranch out in the hills. I have refrigerators keeping my beers cold in every room of the house. Why do I have to stay here and listen to fools who say that is no way to live? I was born to be high. The stuff I get in this place makes me sleep and shit my pants. If my drugs of choice are evil, they are heaven compared to the drugs my doctor has me on. I just want to go home before my girl finishes up all my beers. She does not like the cocaine, which is good. And pot makes her evil. She told me she was going to sell my plants and leave me.<br /><br />I have to get out of this place. I don’t want to be clean and sober. That’s no way to love for me. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die. I just want to live it up. The doctor just told me I will be here for a whole month. He said I have no safe plan for living. I was not born to play things the safe way. I’m a thorn, baby. I’m a match head ready to light a fuse. This medication gives me the low down blues. It makes me feel so crazy.</div><div align="left"><br /><em>Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal’s chapbook, Keepers Of Silence, came out on December 20, 2007, from </em><a title="Kendra Steiner" href="http://kendrasteinereditions.wordpress.com/available-kse-poetry-chapbooks/" target="_blank"><em>Kendra Steiner Editions</em></a><em>. Luis was born in Mexico. He works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His first book of poems, </em><a title="Raw Materials" href="http://www.thelostbookshelf.com/b.html#Luis" target="_blank"><em>Raw Materials</em></a><em>, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His first chapbook, Without Peace, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. His next chapbook, Next Exit, will be the 100th chapbook published by Kendra Steiner Editions and will be co-authored by poet Ronald Baatz. I have tried to pronounce his name, but I can't do it. I call him "Loo."</em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">SLEEP RITUALS</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">by Howie Good</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Tonight, like most nights, she goes to bed first, and he stays up to test the machine, standing where the light is good and no one can see him from the street. He pops off the lid using gentle thumb pressure. Inside, heating coils glow like the ribs of a starving dog, God rolls dice that have no spots, a mare with a burning mane screams in terror. He bends at the waist for a closer look. After a moment’s argument with himself, he plunges his hand into the smoke. It feels cold, and a spider-web of scaffolding begins to rise around the dark castle of a line of mad kings. He weeps as if it were his own heart he was dismantling. Soon he’ll be tired enough to sleep, and when she awakes before the alarm, the dawn will be full of birdsong and the birdsong, as sometimes happens, full of primitive grief.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><em></em></div><div align="left"><em>Howie Good (goodh@newpaltz.edu), a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of four poetry chapbooks, Death of the Frog Prince (2004) and Heartland (2007) from FootHills Publishing, Strangers & Angels (2007) from Scintillating Publications, and the forthcoming The News at 11 from Right Hand Pointing. His name sounds like a question whose answer would be: "No, we're bad." Sorry, but that's the only slightly humorous thing I can think of to say.</em></div><div align="left"></div>greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-45783334994580294592008-06-21T09:35:00.000-07:002008-06-21T09:43:10.697-07:00Fashionably Late, and LazinessAs you can probably tell, it is now the tail-end of June, and the eagerly-awaited first issue of Cherrypicked Hands is not yet up. This is because I am lazy. Rest assured, it will be up very soon.<br /><br />In other laziness-related news, there has been a change to the submission guidelines. This change is this: I will no longer open any attachments.<br /><br />Like Owen Meany, I will repeat this in capitals: I WILL NO LONGER OPEN ANY ATTACHMENTS.<br /><br />This is because it is too much trouble for me, lazybones that I am, to open these attachments and wait for them to load - especially if somebody submits five poems in five seperate attachments, say. So from now on I will no longer open attachments, and will only read whatever is in the beautiful body of the email. So make the body of your email beautiful, please.<br /><br />In other laziness-related news, I will no longer be replying to anybody who isn't succesful in getting their submission published. This is extremely rude, I know, and I apologise for this - but I am a busy man, see, and also, as you have probably discovered by now, a lazy man, and unfortunately my laziness is far more important to me than politeness. So I will only reply to you if you are succesful. My usual speed in replying will still apply to succesful submittees because, as I believe I have stated before, I am a fast mover, see.<br /><br />Anyway, that's all for now, folks. I promise you the first issue should be up by the end of the month.<br /><br />PS. Billy Joel's "My Life" is a good song, isn't it? I like to sing it to my girlfriend. I hope you do too.<br /><br />Bye.greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3550450036053151361.post-80703200841580043552008-05-15T06:40:00.001-07:002010-08-23T00:28:08.219-07:00Submission GuidelinesWell, there aren't any, really - submission guidelines, that is. I accept simultaneous submissions. I also accept multiple submissions - but not too many. Up to five poems, shall we say, and two short stories? Yes, I think we will say that.<br /><br />What else do I accept? Everything, really. Though as Christopher Woods (or "Greg," as I mistakenly called him) recently discovered, the only thing I don't accept is artwork. Oh, and injustice. I don't accept that at all.<br /><br />As far as what I'm looking for goes, I'll try to give you some idea:<br /><br />I like poems that describe all kinds of things in all kinds of wonderful ways. I do not like experimental poems that I can't understand and that use syntax that doesn't make simple grammatical sense. Though saying that, if I don't understand it but it sounds nice, I will like it. It is a fine line, I know. However, I generally prefer poems that use simple language to express not-so-simple things, if you know what I mean. Some of my favourite poets are Emily Dickinson, Arthur Rimbaud, W.B. Yeats, and Richard Brautigan. To be honest, though, I'm not much of a poetry reader anymore. I prefer prose.<br /><br />Talking of prose, I like short stories that are short - say, below 2,000 words, though I might consider slightly longer pieces. I am a big fan of humour, because it makes me laugh, but I don't like slapstick humour, or middle-aged humour. I am also a big fan of strangeness in stories. I like stories that make me laugh as I read them, then make me go "Hmmm" once I've read them. Some of my favourite short story writers are J.D. Salinger, David Foster Wallace, Jorge Luis Borges, and Donald Barthelme. Recently, I have enjoyed reading <em>No One Belongs Here More Than You</em>, by Miranda July. If you don't like or haven't heard of any of these wonderful people, I would heartily recommend that you don't submit.<br /><br />Anyway, those are my submission guidelines. Follow them ruthlessly, people.<br /><br />I hope to have the first issue up by the start of June. (June is a wonderful month. I was born in June.) This, however, depends on how many people submit, and how good at writing these people are. So good people - write! And submit! After that, I don't know how often a new issue will come out. We will have to wait and see.<br /><br />Send your submissions inside an e-mail (no poems/stories/or strings attached, please) and I will try to get back to you within a few weeks, though it will probably be a lot sooner than that. I am a fast mover, see.<br /><br />My name, by the way, is Greg, and I am pleased to meet you all.greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14055017505868042815noreply@blogger.com0