Cover Image: Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
Image Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
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“Untitled” By: Leora. M. Alk
She smiled as she put her head in her hands, and
pulled herself to pieces.
About The Artist:
Leora M. Alk is a poetess who spends her days writing and
reflecting with a hot mug of tea; her nights, absorbing
inspiration through endless books and works of art. She was born
and raised in the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys the dark
rainy days, crocheting, singing, and being in her home
surrounded by her beloved cat, Moxie, and fiance, Tyler.
Leora can be found on social media platforms including
Pinterest, Instagram, and Tumblr as @leoramichal
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“Voicemail Message 233” By: Jonathan Rentler
placed at 1:15,
to listen press the star key:
I imagine the ocean raw in September.
Names, not necessary,
but stamped indicting all.
No Chris,
I’m not asking to come down anymore
or up eleven stories to find you
craving a stripdowndancewrestlesex
(sober though).
To lie then on your floor while you descend
to cocktails and friends,
“They’d bore you Jon.”
Like funhouse mirrors propped
on the backs of Fates,
through a shot glass smashed,
I sit on your white plank throne
watching the crash of someone on my shores.
He, Jim, brings his “kids,” an ark of pets.
A bed of leashed lizards,
collared dogs, one cockatoo perched,
a meth boyfriend in the back spare room
found living in his Toyota.
Another stray. “But no,
he hasn’t fucked me in three months;
he’s more of a roommate than anything.”
Jim calls nightly
much like I once did to you.
Oh what a strain!
I don’t want you, I whisper
as you I’m sure did.
You don’t want me, chanted secretly
down telephone lines to New Orleans.
When threatened
like a bitch defending her runt of a pup
he slanders your name.
You’re the bronzed knight
on a tarot pulled
when he’s confronted
4
with my plotless metaphors.
Jim,
I’ve been led to the water’s edge
but fail to jump in.
I’m the one who takes off.
When anyone calls me
more than once a week
I freak.
I hull up planks
and drag my anchor aboard.
I unearth the stringy roots
used to leave faint impressions
like disappearing tracks
of sandpiper feet
on coastlines shifting.
“But (sob) Chris (sob)
the way you (sob) chased (sob)
and Chris (sob) strung (sob)
asshole (sob),”
said sans his Southern twang
and queer wit.
The bedroom puns are lost
sunken in the sags
of forty something skin
on a bed somewhere
in the French quarter.
Jon,
in the beginning you harped
on disappointment,
the careless handling
of others by others.
Setting bulbs of poison oak
laying tracks
of Venus fly traps,
whistle blowing breaths
stored early on.
The words flowed
from your pitcher lips
like honey wine
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hornets still in twitching.
Wishing just wishing,
Chris would be the exception
to the spouted.
An earthen concoction buried deep
where Adam and Steve
did first meet.
Love caught at the base of the trunk.
The seed steeping
into a swirling sap
cupped in a jar of clay.
For Chris and I
to find one day
lapping up
till death parts.
But Chris,
your home is in the news;
all alarms and sirens’ whine.
A Philly nymph
bought a one way ticket
for a one way swim
left her waitress skin
to skim
atop sea foam,
surfacing at your feet.
In Atlantic City there are syringes
in with the summer waders.
Washing up are bags of fat.
Rotting like jelly fish sacks,
they burst beneath your ATV wheels
penetrating sun shades.
You blink in AIDS
and Old Age.
They follow Fear
to the optic nerveways
to your starfish of a brain
its legs tangled, tucked,
curled like the fingers
in the fist of a stillborn.
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Cupid had in his party
the avenging angel
of Love unrequited,
When it’s not reciprocated,
Enter Anteros
a face of knotted teary sleeves
a dagger always drawn,
never sheathed.
He just arrived
so don’t pick up.
Just let this ring
leave me to a voicemail slot:
Hear this.
Hear me.
I cannot help if
I don’t feel the same for Jim
as I do for you Chris.
(I hope your listening.)
The blade lifts
with a familiar scent,
the crust of someone else, recent
in the last few hours.
Grains of sand fall
from the clenched god’s hand.
As he lays me down, I ask,
“You didn’t happen upon,
the death before this one,
a condo where a lifeguard slept?”
A nod and I float
on my stomach,
arching my back as it slides in sharp
its Chris
its Chris
its Chris
but its not.
About The Artist:
Jonathan Rentler is a NYCbased, writer/performer, June baby
delighted to wade in the waves of the Summer Edition of Midnight
Muse Zine! www.jonathanrentler.com
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“Us” By: Kevin Neirbo
We scalp the land to factory farm animals to crush in our teeth.
We put too much on our plate, laughing at our complete
carelessness and then throw the rest of the animal away. It will
rot amongst the rest in a heaping pile of destruction.
But we don’t even notice.
We distract ourselves with intangible thoughtless fodder. We
ignore real life and moments, paying absurd amounts of attention
to LED screens searching for nonexistent peace. We inject our
faces and body parts with chemicals and idolize vanity.
We have lost our connection. We have lost our way.
We have no purpose so we become addicted to self help. We read
“productivity” articles, where we learn how to swallow the
bitter pill of an infectious society, and feel great about it.
But we can not turn back now, we cannot right this ship.
No, we will continue our vile course into our own demise, and we
don’t want to look away. Let’s feel the burn together, we
fucking earned it. We create more life just to crush it in our
machines without any thought at all. We fucking love puppies.
Puppies are so fucking awesome we need to keep making them. When
we make too many, we’ll throw the leftovers into a steel box and
gas their desperate cries weeks into their short lives.
We are an unstoppable force of nothingness, empty inside.
We crash thoughtless into the future crippled by our pseudo
cultural norms. We cannot slow down. We have insatiable drive
with no real goal. We are mired in mediocrity. We create
anxiety. Our souls flutter with indecision and insecurity. We
clamor forward blindeyed, consuming all in our path.
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We deserve the Kardashians. We fucking asked for it. We deserve
Trump. Our attention span isn’t long enough to assess anything
with a critical mind. We deserve reality TV. We are obsessed
with frivolous waste.
We deserve the apocalypse, as we cannot be trusted with this
world anymore.
About The Artist: Kevin Neirbo writes when his debit card is
declined on Netflix. He writes fiction and nonfiction fragments
and stories and mostly enjoys blurring the line between them.
http://medium.com/@KevinNeirbo
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All Images On Page 6 & 7 By: Marshall Scheider
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“The Path” By: Kasey Jakien
I thought I was going to get away with screwing Luis
Marconi, but no. No way. Here I am, standing in the middle of a
forest, at the height of allergy season, sneezing my fucking
face off and digging my own grave. I know enough about guns, and
the one Marconi has pointed at my back is loaded and ready to
spit. He asked me to put a gun to someone else's head and pull
the trigger, and I couldn't do it. Now I am here with Death at
my back. But maybe that is better. For my soul.
It's early, but the sun is out and the heat is making me
sweat. Anxiety eats me alive like a big black hole. This is it.
The end of the game. I wonder how to get out. How to fucking get
out of this? There is no way, not right now, so I keep digging,
wi8th anxiety chomping at my thighs like a bad dog. I shake; my
face twitches. Forced to dig into the lush soil of the Oregon
rainforest where roots and clay are making this grave work
harder than it needs to be. But Marconi seems content. At least,
he is gabbing over my shoulder:
“My father was an asshole, you know? Alcoholic. So I was
out of the house at thirteen. Making a name for myself. And I
never forgave the son of a bitch.”
Marconi is smiling. I can hear it in his voice. I don't see
b8him sweat but I knew he must be boiling, just standing there
in the sun in his suit. He is a little guy, and maybe I could
overpower him, but Marconi has been in the game a long time. He
knows what I am thinking.
“You can't overpower me,” he says. So I stab the shovel
deep into the dirt, like I am killing Mother Earth.
“I'm sorry it has to go down like this,” Marconi continues,
“You were a good worker. You kept your mouth shut. I was a hard
worker and never gave up. I was a boss at fifteen. You could
have been that way. But when someone above me told me to shoot,
I shot.”
I nod. I think about how I am going to look laying in this
dirt with a hole in my back. I sneeze, spittle flying out of my
mouth. At least he won't bury me alive. I am pretty sure of
that.
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It is turning out to be a nice grave. Not the worst old
tomb in the world. Even through my bleary eyes I can see it.
I suppose falling face first into a nasty cold river or
being in a hospital bed would be worse. Or stuck in a tunnel or
under something. At least I can shape my own destiny (a little)
by shaping this rectangle I am very, very focused on.
Marconi says, “Once I had my own business I became very
shrewd. That is how you should have been. I think this is the
way it has to end, with you in this lovely soil and me still
breathing and living, eating steak at Ringside and drinking my
whiskey. You know, I never tell anyone this, but at home,
secretly, I prefer Shirley Temples.” He laughs. “But you will, I
hope, live in this big chunk of forest forever with bears
shitting on you.”
I nod. I know now that I am fucked. I try not to cry, to
hyperventilate. I am too shockedeven though I have done many
crappy things over the years. You just never think your own sins
will catch up to you. You're too high on the game.
I put my best work into digging the hole that will house me
forever. Cut through roots, tear up rocks. Smooth the edges. We
are out in the middle of nowhere, the flickers sending their
sharp mating call out toward everything. “Water,” I gasp, hardly
processing my own words.
“Don't turn around,” Marconi says. He hands me a metal
flask and at once my heart leaps because I know there is liquid
inside. But it is bitter, pure whiskey. I drink anyway and fight
the urge to vomit into my own grave. Pretty soon it gets a
little easier to dig, everything is a little easier, except the
thunking of my heart. Of course I think of my long life, begin
mulling over it like Marconi has been, begin wondering what I
did wrong, begin begging God to help me. But there is nothing.
No sound but Marconi and the flickers.
I will not beg for Marconi's help. I won't.
I try to slow down, I have to slow downwhy not slow
everything down in the last few minutes of my life? Six feet is
a lot to dig. Marconi demanded six right off the bat. So much to
dig and so little time.
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“I don't want to be found out,” Marconi said. “I like my
life.”
"I do too," I wanted to snap back at him, rattle his body
like a little jar of toothpicks. But the gun could snap back
worse. Maybe that's what I needed. For him to fire.
I am too chickenshit though, and who wouldn't be? I tell
Marconi that he picked a nice spot out here. He agrees. He
lights a smoke. I can smell the change in the air. I almost ask
him to put it out, because it is making my work harder. But
then, the gun....
“Keep going,” he says. “Let me tell you about my last few
days.”
I try to listen, but I am focused on digging, tuning out
the roar of Marconi and his life. The grave is almost done. The
forest is peaceful, calm. I wonder if I want to stand with my
face to the forest, have that be my last vision, or look Marconi
in the eye.
“I'm about to shoot,” he says. I stop my work. I wait for
the sting of pain before the big sleep. My mind spins with a
million thoughts.
Maybe you never actually die. Maybe you are only imagining
that. Maybe this is your will against God's. Maybe everything
never stops. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Marconi makes a strange sound. Then makes it again, again.
I think maybe he had seen a bear, a mountain lion, so I turn.
His eyes are wide and glossed over like wet marbles. His hands
go to his head, his eyes, his chest, and he falls forward. I
jump aside. Marconi lies there in the grave, on the dirt, and
rolls over a little bit, the gun right beside him. Then his face
loses its life. He is gone. The motherfucker is dead.
I stare at the gun. I never shot, but God shot. I didn't
even have to touch the thing. I think for a moment. I fill the
grave to the top, turn away from Marconi and his wretched death.
I start on my own way down the path toward freedom.
Everything is bright. Everything is alive.
About The Artist: Kasey Jakien is a writer and hearing
researcher in Portland, Oregon. She received her bachelor's
degree in English from Willamette University and a post
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baccalaureate degree in Speech and Hearing Sciences from
Portland State. She writes both fiction and nonfiction. Most of
her time is filled with science, poetry, and her lovely
5yearold son.
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On a warm Sunday afternoon at Blue Moon Cafe, Midnight Muse got
the privileged opportunity to sit down with professional
photographer, Taylor Noel, to talk everything from Foo Fighters
to Cape Town, Africa.
How long have you been practicing photography?
“Most of my life! When I was a kid I remember going through one
disposable camera after another until my parents gave me a
reloadable one for my birthday. I must have been 6 or 7. Then
when I was 14 I found my grandfather's old Canon SLR that he got
when he was in Vietnam. That's when I really started to learn
photography.”
What is your main source of inspiration for your work?
“Lots of stuff... Really take a lot of inspiration from music.
In particular, movie soundtracks and experimental ambience
music. Always a big fan of my rock and some electronic stuff of
course.
Other inspiration comes from being in nature, long drives, or
listening to someone say something passionate and real.
Sometimes even a particular sound or texture will lead me to an
idea.”
Is there a particular message you are trying to get across with
your work? If so, what is it?
“Not so much right now. I've got some ideas floating around that
would require a more solidified message and sense of meaning.
Right now though, my work is more the product of an internal
dialogue not really meant to convey a particular message.”
What sort of subjects do you like capturing best?
“I love photographing people. Both as they are, without me
changing anything, or as I want them to be, wearing an idea or
theme.”
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Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
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Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
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Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
Any particular artist(s) influence your work? If so, whom and
why.
“Absolutely. Richard Avedon, Tim Walker, Mary Ellen Mark, Sally
Mann, Steve McCurry, M.C. Escher, Caravaggio, the guys in
Incubus and Foo Fighters, Imogene Heap, Nick Brandt, Gordon
Parks, Alexander McQueen and soooo many others.
It's hard to say what common thread exists between them all that
I love so much... They are (or were) all incredibly creative and
able to work in new ideas. They have (had) rich working lives,
and sometimes dubious personal lives. They are were interesting
people.”
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How has the style of your work changed over time?
“My work has become more thoughtful and more based on my own
personal experiences. I'm far less concerned with pleasing an
audience than I use to be.”
What are your future artistic goals in regards to photography?
“I want to reinclude painting and drawing back into my flow. I
feel like painting on my prints is what's next for me.
I also would LOVE to keep working with musicians. It's awesome
to collaborate with other artists to create unique and
interesting images. Album art is where it's at.”
Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
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Copyright Taylor Noel 2016
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What are some of your current projects?
I have been working on a project photographing strangers on the
street. There is something very cool about taking a person as
they are and capturing a small slice of their life. People want
to be remembered.
What are some of your past projects?
Lots of my previous work has been more commercial than fine art
based. For example, a large project that I completed recently
was a long term commission from the University of Arizona where
I rebranded their entire school of art. I photographed the daily
life of the students and teachers working their craft. I met a
lot of other artist and it was amazing.
Where has your work been featured?
Dance Magazine, Zocolo Magazine, Edible Baja Magazine, Tucson
Weekly, National Geographic Channel, a variety of album covers
and accompanying art, some printed branding efforts, and a bunch
of websites. I
Do you practice any other artistic mediums? If so, what?
Yes! I paint and draw as well. As I mentioned earlier, I'm
starting to include these elements more into my current work.
Do you do photography work full time? If so, how long have you
been doing so?
Yeah I do, but I also take on odd jobs to keep the rent payed
some months. I've been living like this for about 5 years.
How far has your work taken you in terms of travel?
Pretty far! The farthest I've traveled is probably South Africa
for a photography competition. I didn't win, but I got to go
hang out in Cape Town for a month so who can complain?
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If you could give advice to another artist what would it be?
“Being and artist can be painful, vulnerable, stressful, and at
times incredibly disheartening... But keeping your priorities
straight is so important. For me, the goal is not to please the
masses, or even to have my work understood... It's crazy to
chase the opinions of a faceless audience. The only goal of
being an artist is: keep making art. No matter what.”
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“No Title” By: Micheal Alan Johnson
through the mist
in a state near dreams
so it finds you
half stricken with deathly anguish
a haunting memory of
what it's like when pure
and unbothered
when being flows through
perforated mind
and clarity itself whispers
to one and everything
where you used to stand
but it flees farther and faster
when you limp
and water is fucking everywhere now
it's time each day to force the issue
enabled to ignore the orange glow
of a decaying hope
yet, times may come
when happenstance smiles
and offers
love to engender gratitude
fallen spirits kiss in shade
over nothing
they will create a world
better than reality
you yearn and mull
as you direct
your washing motions
away from end points
you might
swayedly illumine
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a wandering path
on pavement
and in your mind
kill it with your poison
or theirs
or your decrepit machine
About The Artist: Michael is a musician and writer residing in
Portland, Oregon.
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“The Chase” By: Sierra Lomprey
Whoring slidely with photos
and erections
but I don’t mean it.
I don’t want your penis.
Or commitment
I just want you to look at my ass
the two beads beside my nipples
and occasionally my dumb face.
but mostly my ass.
does my hair look pretty?
tell me you like my thong
it’s so damn tropical.
That ass.
It’s the thing I most hate
that others seemingly want
to possess themselves or sexually
affirm that it is round and large and all of the things
an ass should be.
Affirm that I am girl.
That I am a thing you want.
So I can delete your number
and pretend you died
but without the sad part
and see if you care
if you think about me
when you ejaculate
I hope so.
I hope that you think of me
and that I break it off before it goes too far
and I have to refuse to undress for you
in the flesh
and refuse to spread my legs and reveal my
flesh.
Tease.
It’s my high
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that comes easier with
alcohol and drugs
but I try not to be sloppy
because I want you to
want me.
So I can delete you.
About The Artist:
Sierra Lomprey holds a BA in English from Nevada State College
and in the fall will begin her MA in English at Washington State
University. She has one cat, one bike, and a profuse love for
rye chips.
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“Dark Roast” By: Ixqui Salas
Coffee filled mason jars sit on my counter.
I keep drinking every night to feel that same
jitter
I would get every
time I saw you.
I used to drink it with French vanilla creamer,
but drinking it black does
the trick.
When I'm finally done with my jar,
I enter this
upside down world
where your insecurities become kisses, and your punches
fly into
sensual words of poetry
that you recite to me everyday
before falling asleep.
Your dark brown drunk eyes became
sweet like cubes of sugar you
plop into a freshly brewed cup.
I wanted to drown myself
in them.
The world
swirls and twists,
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showing me
how things really are.
Stars don't connect
for us anymore;
your kisses are old tattoos on my burning flesh,
your words punches thrown at my ears.
It takes a thousand moons for things to get this way,
It also takes a thousand suns for me to burn and turn to ash.
People always ask me why I have jars on my kitchen counter,
I always answer
them with your name.
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“February 15, 2013” By: Ixqui Salas
I remember watching the rain go
down your leather jacket
how droplets would slide right off
and eventually fall face first
into the ground.
You let me hold the moon in my hands,
every day,
since that February night.
I remember driving to a parking lot rooftop
in your cherry Cadillac.
We exchanged secrets,
the way little kids tell each other things
they don't want anyone else to know.
A pinky promise.
But eventually the honey poured out of your eyes.
I knew.
I remember her voice.
It's not something I would forget;
she had a voice like candy,
like a big pouch of Skittles.
Through the phone I would hear her set
off fireworks under your skin,
She was best at that,
Something I would never be good at.
She was your favorite beer.
Your Cable Car
after getting home from work,
sipping and unwinding.
Zip.
The way she unzipped your jeans,
the way she made your insides twist.
Zig.
Zag.
Your hand zig zaging
31
down to her pants and...
I knew.
I thought this was just me
swimming in a pool of clouds, until
I saw the way your eyes 32
screamed at me every
morning waking up next to you.
“The Seventh Gate” By: Madilaine Brown
Reality was a broken mirror
cutting the vein that kept her sane
friends bled out went down the drain
from behind barred windows she watched the rain fall
...and she could not grasp it at all...
she made her own behind locked doors
her eyes hid poison beneath floor boards
her stomach churned the void of truth
...her daughter lost another tooth...
Portals exist everywhere
from cathedrals to windswept hair
calling out to ghosts of grief
seven tests of honesty
Powerless when not aware
that there was never power there
glowing blue attracting you
and burning with no warmth to spare
Reality was a broken record
a song she loved played on repeat
it got her through the memories
'till stitched wrists became obsolete
...little did she know, that so was her disease
Psych wards always have blue walls
the doctors say "it calms them all"
but her release was in a pen
the kind you can't stab someone with
...the more she wrote, the more she lived...
Freight trains get real cold inside
when daughters aren't around to smile
living 'neath Louisiana
writing more with every mile
Portals exist everywhere
from cathedrals to windswept hair
calling out to ghosts of grief
seven tests of honesty
33
Powerless when not aware
that there was never power there
burning blue attracting you
until the day today's somewhere
34
Reality's a present place
when guided through the seventh gate
gathering round that laughter sound
resonates with warm embrace
...windswept hair around my face...
I write of old, I write of new
I write in black, I write in blue
I write with love, I write to ghosts
the lost of wondering labyrinth souls
...singing songs from days of old...
Portals exist everywhere
from cathedrals to windswept hair
calling out to ghosts of grief
seven tests of honesty
Powerless when in despair
when it's impossible to care
burning blue, attracting you
until the day today's somewhere
“Clown Gang” By: Fell Jones
The clown gang walks the street tonight
Looking for love, finding a fight
The Jack brought a knife
The Joker had a gun
The Queen lies naked, waiting for fun
He turns off the light and lights a match
“You’ll be left with nothing but a scratch”
he said as he takes the sword from the king
and cuts her in half, poor little thing
The clown gang doesn’t care if they kill
One of their own if just for the thrill
They even have a preference, in fact
To know personally who they’ve whacked
Stomping down everything in their path
The clown gang likes to make known their wrath
The Joker doesn’t like to keep secrets
So open your mouth and place your bets
Let us hope you don’t forget
The clown gang doesn’t plan a kill
They just do it when they will
The clown gang says they live off danger
But they only tell it to a stranger
So if you want to know their ways
Look for the Ace with the painted face
And tell him that your life’s a waste
About The Artist: Fell Jones is a Portland poet, PSU alum, and
alliteration addict. She is overjoyed to have her first
published poem appear in Midnight Muse.
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