The Opiate Winter 2016 Winter 2016,Vol. Vol.4 V4 This page intentionally left blank YourThe literary dose.Opiate

© The Opiate 2016 This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission. Cover: still from Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Petit Soldat 3. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

Editor-in-Chief Genna Rivieccio Poetry Editor Armando Jaramillo Garcia Contributing Writers Fiction: Michael Anthony 9 “It is sometimes an Joel Allegretti 17 Daniel Ryan Adler 21 Gael DeRoane 28 appropriate Sasha Sosnowski 29 Poetry: Peggy Aylsworth 33 response to reality Nova Reeves 34-35 Sandy Wang 36 Stuart Jay Silverman 37-39 John J. Trause 40-42 to go insane.” Scott Sherman 43 Scott Penney 44 Ryan Fox 46 - Philip K. Dick Criticism: Genna Rivieccio 49

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Each of the writers in this issue brings something unique not just to the magazine, but the genre which they are speaking to. As for the criticism section, I apologize Editor’s Note for it being, once again, by me. It’s a bit of a challenge to find fresh voices in this category (so if you’re out there, please send something to theopiatemagazine@gmail. com). With regard to the piece, let me bring up what Madonna said in the wake of the Winter may be a time of languor, but it is also a time for rumination. Trapped within Paris attacks: “It is very hard to love that which we do not understand, or that which is the confines of your mind as much as you are inside of whatever edifice it is you’ve different than we are. But we have to.” Well, this is one thing I can’t seem to do when managed to afford, this is the season of seriousness, of reflection. With this in mind, it’s it comes to Lena Dunham and her memoir. a particularly contemplative fourth issue of The Opiate. As always, thank you for reading. A good reader is as important as a good writer. Our intro story from Michael Anthony possesses a rare combination of noir and screwball comedy elements (the best genres from Golden Age Hollywood) that makes Yours very sincerely, Fountain Avenue in Los Angeles the perfect backdrop for it. Indeed, what I love most about this issue is how varied the locations are. Just as in life, the location that a Genna Rivieccio narrative takes place in is often key to our understanding of the story--as is the case with Daniel Ryan Adler’s fourth chapter from the novel we’ve been serializing, Sebastian’s Babylon. New York, that bitch of a town that seems so closely to mirror the way the protagonist’s love interest likes to toy with him, dangle him along until she gets bored. Though, in some cases, like Joel Allegretti’s piece, it isn’t about the where, so much as the why. Whereas, with Gael DeRoane’s tale of a man at his wit’s end, it’s more about the empathetic feeling you have for Myles Dunning, a man at the mercy of whimsical fate. And then there is Sasha Sosnowski’s work, which amazes with its feats in sentence structure, possessing the sort of utter self-control in brevity that many authors try for years to achieve.

In addition, there are our poets, who express the sentiments we often find difficult to say ourselves. It is, admittedly, a top-heavy poetry issue this time around. Some, like Peggy Aylsworth, Nova Reeves and Scott Sherman, have been published on our website before, and are rounding out their work in print, while others are entirely new to the dosing scene here at The Opiate, including Ryan Fox, whose “Marriage” poem presents the all too real analogy of that beloved institution being like a form of self- gentrification; Scott Penney, who has a few thoughts on a certain diamond-studded skull by Damien Hirst; Stuart Jay Silverman, whose way with words transcends languages; John J. Trause, who reveals Caligula’s depravity extended to architecture; and, finally, Sandy Wang, who has never made the coming together of two vegetables seem more romantic.

6. 7. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 The Muse of Fountain Avenue Michael Anthony FICTION

he last thing I needed at that point in my in the alcove entryway of the white stucco apart- thesis research was another loose end. ment building hoping to learn if the person whose But, who was this Sophie Bitard and why name was printed inside the small brass rectangle Tdid this otherwise unknown woman appear so on the front door could shed some light on this prominently in the personal journals of three mid- enigma. century Hollywood screenwriters? I scribbled the A harsh shout of “What?” came from be- name in my notebook, slid the chair in against the hind a closed door that showed years of neglect. desk and left the university archives for the day. “I’m looking for Sophie Bitard.” That evening I found nothing online “Who wants her?” the voice replied. about this mystery woman beyond the address of “I do. My name is Matt Albrecht and I’m an S. Bitard across town on Fountain Avenue, a researching screenwriters.” block south of Sunset Boulevard. Considering the “Did Willie send you?” woman, if even still alive, would easily be over The unexpected challenge—delivered ninety, perhaps this was a daughter or a relative? with a distinctly French accent—tempted me to The following day, I pressed the buzzer lie. I didn’t.

8. 9. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 The Muse of Fountain Avenue - Michael Anthony

“What studio do you work might be, I said, “Excuse me. I have geometric and blanketed with library, I found your name mentioned same. The old woman would clutch atop a wooden studio platform. for?” the reedy voice continued. more questions.” decades of detritus. A coffee table by a number of screenwriters.” the tattered hem of her skirt, rise A chance meeting one rainy “I don’t,” I replied cautious- “And, I have no more strained beneath uneven ziggurats “I am not surprised.” She unsteadily from the chair and lift the afternoon near a newspaper stand ly, hoping that would not end the con- answers,” she responded. of yellowed newspapers, old Life punctuated her riposte with the arch frayed cloth to expose an unwashed outside Carnegie Hall led Sophie versation. Sensing an apparent fondness Magazines and disassembled tabloids. of a heavily penciled eyebrow. torso. south in the company of fishing “Then go away.” at the mere mention of the famous The aroma of recently “May I take notes while we “This,” Sophie’s fleet heir, Edgar McCoughlin. One “Please,” I begged,” I only author’s name I asked, “What was it applied perfume assaulted my talk?” grandmother would shriek, “drove semester shy of a degree, he was need a few minutes of your time.” like with Faulkner?” nose in a strong, but not entirely “After you pour me a glass of Vincent mad!” thoroughly beguiled by her Parisian “They all say that, but then After a long pause she sighed, unpleasant way. The hum of traffic cognac,” Sophie said while flicking Then, she would collapse accent, which he would confess to her never depart.” “Heaven and hell.” along Fountain Avenue gave way to her wrist dismissively. onto the bed drunk and somnolent. was like the purring of an ocelot in With neither movement “William Faulkner is a major a Bizet overture, which I knew only I wrote “S. Bitard, 3 p.m., All this played out before the young heat. nor sound on the other side of the piece of my work,” I exaggerated. “I because the sleeve of the LP leaned April 2, 2009” on the first page of the and impressionable Sophie. The twenty-two year old closed door after that cryptic rebuke, would be grateful for any information against the wall behind the spinning blank notebook balanced on my leg, Gisele’s incoherence grew simply walked off the Columbia I turned to leave. The door cracked you could share so I do him justice. turntable. then began. over the eighteen winters Sophie campus hell-bent on showing Sophie open a few inches to reveal an un- Please?” “Entrez.” “You say you knew William endured with her grandmother until a good time on the way to the family’s ruly shock of wiry red hair beneath, “I am too tired,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.” I Faulkner?” she set sail for America with the Gulfport estate. Despite it being the which a clouded and suspicious gray “Tomorrow, perhaps?” I presented the bottle of liquor with a If what Sophie shared over equivalent of two hundred dollars, nadir of the Great Depression, Edgar eye measured me with through the pushed. “Can I bring you anything? small blue bow around its neck. the next four hours and subsequent half of which she had connived managed to buy three automobiles narrow slit. Some food, magazines, milk?” She inspected the label eleven afternoons in that time out of the butcher, Aubin Groleau, between New York and Mississippi. “What do you want?” the I was flailing, desperate for through a squint, saying only, “Merci.” capsule of an apartment was not telling him it was to place her ailing The first, an Oldsmobile, took the elderly woman demanded. even the smallest tidbit this woman Bent by age and garbed in entirely a fabrication based on the grandmother in a sanatorium outside pair as far as Maryland, where, at her “I came across your name in named Sophie Bitard could offer a flowing red silk robe, the woman bottles of cognac she consumed of Villeurbanne; the other half she suggestion, he traded it for something several screenwriters’ journals.” about William Faulkner. What a coup directed me to a leather club chair. during those sessions, then saying she had stolen from him during one of faster: a Chrysler. “Who?” for my thesis if any of it were true. “What is your name?” had lived a fascinating life is a vast her flirtatious visits when she would Though she had never “Robert Riggelson, The gap between door and “Matt Albrecht,” I replied, understatement. flash a thigh or bend low, allowing driven before, Sophie cajoled Edgar Lorenz Schubert and Ben Hecht.” jamb stopped shrinking. ignoring the fact that she had already her blouse to offer Groleau a fleeting into letting her take the wheel just Sophie Bitard was born “Ben, yes. The others, no.” “Cognac!” she cackled. forgotten after I told her yesterday. glimpse of her lithe body. outside of Memphis. A few hundred in Paris on April 26, 1916. After feet down the road, she misjudged “I’m trying to “Okay. What time would be I slid a sheaf of papers against the She was one of 454 third best?” a grueling fifteen-hour labor that a wicked curve and wrapped that understand the relationship,” I armrest. class passengers whose clothes reeked “Three!” With that, the door “What studio?” she asked nearly killed mother and child, she second car around a massive elm. pressed. of fuel oil and coal gas when the S.S. slammed shut. in a graveled voice that suggested a fought her way into a world devoid of Blessed with fool’s luck, neither was “I said only that I knew him,” Normandie slid beneath the long gray After a shorter but similarly lifetime of smoking. maternal love. Already emotionally injured seriously. Suitcases in hand, she corrected me sharply. shadows of the New York skyline on convoluted conversation through the “I’m not with a studio. I’m...” unstable and drained by the ordeal they simply walked away from the “What about Willie?” I the morning of June 3, 1935. Yet, her same closed ingress on the following “Writing on spec, eh?” she of giving birth, Sophie’s mother, smoking wreck laughing, leaving gambled, repeating the name she embellished version had her crossing afternoon, the woman threw back interrupted while crossing her legs, Nathalie, fled the city, leaving the the crumpled Airstream for anyone mentioned earlier. the Atlantic on that ship’s maiden the latch and opened the door. My letting a dark blue velvet slipper illegitimate, four-week-old with her willing to pry it off the tree. “Ah...mon petit Willie,” came voyage in the company of the writer senses overloaded instantly. The dangle from her pale foot. grandmother, Gisele. Inside a one- The rest of their two-month back in a noticeably softened voice. Colette and other first class travelers. small apartment looked like a film set. “Sort of.” room apartment three floors above journey south was neither direct nor “His last name again?” She As Sophie freely admitted, Heavy maroon velvet curtains filtered She threw me a hard look. a foul-smelling butcher shop on Rue uneventful. hadn’t said, but it was worth a try. this may have been one of her first the harsh L.A. sunlight into narrow “I’m writing a thesis for a Lepic, the elderly woman passed fictions, but certainly not her last. Sophie and Edgar argued “Faulkner, you fool. Now, slivers through which dust sprites Master’s Degree in Film History, countless nights recounting to her Nine months in New York viciously in Jackson where, despite good day.” The door began to creak danced before vanishing into the specifically the influence of major granddaughter her years spent in produced little work beyond figure her false claim to be carrying his closed. shadows. Movie posters blanketed American authors on mid-twentieth Arles. modeling at the Art Students League child, he refused to marry her and Could this mysterious nearly every inch of wall space; century screenwriting.” What started as addled on 57th Street. Sophie learned ordered her out of his car. Virtually woman really have known William some bore bold signatures, others “And this involves me how?” recollections set loose by cheap wine English by studying the conversations penniless, she found herself walking Faulkner? Unwilling to dismiss such handwritten notes. she grumbled. would inevitably deteriorate into a of instructors and students while she alone beneath the broad magnolia an opportunity, as far-fetched as it The furniture was large, “While doing research in the rage that almost always ended the perched naked with arms akimbo canopy of Pinehurst Street. Sophie

10. 11. The Muse of Fountain Avenue - Michael Anthony The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

struck up a conversation with one work, especially the finely drawn trucks overloaded with cotton and enchantment flowed. would be more than a minor despite asking Sophie to join him of the first people she saw: a gangly, descriptions of females that infused soybeans brought her to the outskirts In minutes, Sophie had inconvenience in such a small town. in Los Angeles, F. Scott moved large-eyed woman. her short stories. Sophie approached of Oxford, where she set about to laughingly spun the tale of her An altercation ensued, unannounced to Tryon. Pocketing After presenting herself, her housekeeping chores with find its gentleman writer. Normandie crossing and her leaving Sophie cut below her left the generous wad of money left on her purported lineage and her neither enthusiasm nor concern for Perched like a wayward most outrageous claim: being the breast and William with a vicious the night table by the fleeing writer, tales of Paris, Sophie proffered an execution. sparrow on a white paddock fence, illegitimate granddaughter of none crosshatch of scratches on his chest Sophie set out for Key West—alone arrangement: a place to sleep in Eudora’s ebullient praise for Sophie awaited Bill’s return from an other than Vincent Van Gogh. and neck. One of Sophie’s multiple again, but as always, with a clear goal. exchange for performing domestic another Mississippi writer over in early morning ride. Inquiring about Charmed by the girl’s shameless versions had him lashing her to the A local of some notoriety, work in and around the woman’s Lafayette County sparked Sophie’s what work would befit a young, audacity, William offered her bed with his belt while he burned F. Scott’s friend was easy to find. large Tudor home. So began a six- curiosity and rekindled her desire unattached woman in Oxford, her temporary use of a furnished room every last poem he had written Sophie strode into a fisherman’s dive month liaison with the 27-year-old for male companionship. She left Parisian accent, unusual in those adjacent to the stable behind the during those weeks. Another had her on Green Street and headed straight Jackson native and budding writer. with little more than the suitcase parts, engaged him instantly. Sidling smokehouse. torching the papers and sending him for the open stool next to the broad- While possessing no formal she carried from Paris and a small his chestnut mount to the fence, he Over the coming days he into a blind rage. shouldered man seated at the far end education, Sophie prodded Eudora photograph Eudora had taken of her. studied her smoldering dark eyes and would discover Sophie’s penchant for Stealing a letter sent to of a mahogany bar worn smooth by to add pivotal elements to her A succession of rides in flatbed farm the animated mouth from which the bourbon and American cigarettes, William from a fellow writer, she decades of elbows. both consumed in large quantities. fled Oxford that very night. It was “Cognac, s’il vous plaît.” “Mon petit Willie,” as she playfully postmarked Asheville, NC. William’s Ernest spun to see who dare dubbed him, disengaged from his second hard loss would come less order in such perfect French. wife, Estelle, to spend long nights than a week later with the death of “Scotty says hello,” Sophie “‘Hollywood is a with his newfound guest. his brother in an airplane crash. teased. The passionate hours Over the next hour, the two between dusk and dawn passed in Sophie arrived in Asheville downed enough whiskey to dispel any a dizzying blur of calculation and late in the afternoon of November 17, lingering inhibitions. The balance of charm. He was all but imprisoned 1936. Her mark was the 40-year-old that day and the next several passed cesspool aroud which by her auburn hair that, when loosed writer of considerable international inside the mosquito net that draped from twin tortoise shell combs, would acclaim and author of the purloined his ample bed. He, too, disbelieved cascade over her ivory shoulders; her letter she carried. the Van Gogh tale that had become rounded, but intoxicating torso; and, Already living a vagabond her trademark introduction. But, writers swarm like flies those dancer’s legs which she would existence of travel and marital seeing her unclothed body awash in lock around his waist. Despite— upheaval, F. Scott readily succumbed the afternoon sun that broke through or perhaps because of—the carnal to Sophie’s flirtations in the dining the window of the Whitehead Street obsession, William fell increasingly room of the Grove Park Inn. They house, he acknowledged her claim bemoaning the stench morose at his inability to write spent that first evening trading and as plausible, if not wholly truthful. anything but long poems describing trumping memories of Paris; he Something about the coloration of their illicit liaison. about wife Zelda, and friend Ernest her skin, he remarked. Sophie refused On the evening of November along Rue de Tilsitt; she about her to explain the scar on her chest. 4, 1936, Sophie implored him to lineage and her grandmother’s three- In Ernest, she believed she while happily take her to the Florida Keys where, year affair with Van Gogh in Paris and had found her soul mate and in the she said, they would spend the rest Arles. With a raised finger, Fitzgerald Gulf Stream, her paradise. Even so, of their days swimming naked in stopped Sophie mid-sentence and like earlier inhabitants of Eden, the the warm gulf waters. Sensing asked her to turn in profile. In the stay was idyllic but brief. Eleven days depositing the studio reluctance, Sophie stepped out of undulating light of a hurricane lamp, later, a stunning, self-assured blond her flowered dress and employed her he confirmed the resemblance to the sauntered into that very same bar most persuasive weapon—her body. deranged painter, a kind but insincere just off Duval. By week’s end, Ernest Still refusing to abandon his family gesture. would proclaim his infatuation with checks.’” outright, she threatened disclosure Thus commenced a two- Martha and his sudden disdain for of his infidelity, which, if discovered, week tryst that ended only when, Sophie.

12. 13. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 The Muse of Fountain Avenue - Michael Anthony

Her disingenuous boast of and too little sleep, his ashen face Sophie’s expanding constellation faded, the visceral attraction between within these velvet-curtained walls. good in 1971 and Sophie stopped William’s sexual prowess carried the barely registered the acquaintance. vanished simultaneously, leaving only them had not. Their months together Yet, each departed knowing Sophie shedding her robe for men she no final insult. Ernest exploded. Hurling How, he wondered, did this woman black voids where once brilliant lights left both drained. It would be another was, or so she claimed, Van Gogh’s longer knew. her belongings, suitcase and all, off get here? Had she followed him? had shone. seven years before they saw each other granddaughter. The whispered legend of the veranda to the ground below, he Where had she been these past few Though Paris had fallen to again, when he would return one last For most, her story was little the L.A. writers’ muse faded and demanded she leave at once. weeks? Her carefully scripted answers the Nazis earlier that year, Sophie time for Hawks, who became the more than a whiskey-induced fallacy, the Fountain Avenue apartment was “Out the door on your own included Key West, Whitehead Street cared little for her grandmother axle around which Sophie’s liaisons especially since the aura of red hair no longer a mandatory shrine at or out the window with my help,” he and a familiar name, Ernest. Gisele’s safety. The old woman, revolved. and smooth complexion had long which novice screenwriters stopped bellowed. A look of relief and, at the she said, had survival, not blood, Despite approaching her ago dimmed, replaced by too much and worshiped. Sophie became but In the waning afternoon same time, jealousy lit his bloodshot coursing her veins. It was a Bitard mid-thirties, Sophie neither slowed rouge, too much henna rinse and far a minor footnote to Hollywood’s hours before catching a ride north, eyes. Soon after, F. Scott arranged trait, no different than eye color or nor trimmed her voracious appetite too little sleep. Golden Age. Sophie swam naked in the turquoise for her to share a place on Fountain skin tone. After all, Sophie’s own for new bodies. Through these often Though she had spent less waters of the Keys. Floating on Avenue with a studio hairdresser. mother had fled the responsibilities illicit intimacies, Sophie influenced than two weeks with Ernest a quarter On the morning of May her back, flecks of golden sunlight Midway between North Laurel and of parenthood and the Great War by virtually every detective film century earlier, news of his suicide 10th, my doorbell rang. Not warmed her breasts as they broke North Hayworth, the location made escaping France in the company of Hollywood cranked out. hit the increasingly reclusive Sophie expecting anyone, I peered through the languid surface like two perfectly it easy for him to drop by on his way a wounded German soldier named The characters carried with all the impact of the fatal blast the peephole to find a bulky man in rounded isles. from the lot, although discretion was Grosz, for whom she would become neither her name nor resemblance. itself. She continued to model in a jacket too tight, a tie too short and As her grandmother had key, given Sheilah’s new apartment the subject of his erotic paintings and No, it was that she consumed the downtown L.A., but the classes no carrying a bulging notebook under followed Vincent from Rue Lepic to just around the corner. drawings. souls of these screenwriters. For them, longer attracted young men intent his arm. Arles, Sophie again sought out the Sophie took to Hollywood Free of children, Sophie sat release came keystroke by keystroke on becoming the next Picasso. Most “Matthew Albrecht?” unstable, but irresistible writer from with a passion rivaled only by her out this war in the shade of the palm on that much-abused Underwood simply wanted to stare at a naked “Yes?” Asheville who Ernest mourned as lust. Through many late night trees that lined Sunset Boulevard and one had left on her kitchen table. woman for a few hours. “I’m Detective Tysdal with “having been seduced by the rotting conversations with “F.S.” as she came by modeling for life painting classes The opportunistic secretary, the Invariably, one would paint the LAPD. I’d like to speak with you golden calf called Hollywood.” to call him, she learned that her at the Los Angeles School of Beaux hedonist rebel, the conniving moll, that scar now partially hidden by about a Sophie Bitard,” he explained Three weeks and several equestrian Mississippi lover would Arts. With F.S. gone, Sophie waltzed the good girl gone bad, the bad girl a pendulous breast and perhaps while peering down at an open thousand miles later, Sophie stood come west to earn some quick money through the ranks of writers that blew gone good—they all sprang from even summon the courage to ask its notebook. “You know her?” outside the epicenter of Hollywood’s screenwriting and rush back to the around the studio backlots like day- the sweaty nights and exhausted genesis. Her answer never varied: “Sort of. Is everything all creativity and decadence—the tranquility of Oxford. Ernest had old newspapers. mornings Sophie bestowed on the “Too long ago to remember, too right?” I asked anxiously. Garden of Allah on Sunset Boulevard. become engulfed by the worsening Monogamy held little sway thankful writers. painful to recall.” “Mind if I come in?” Though she left each of her seduced political situation in Spain, making in her social life, which at times Dazzled by Technicolor The sexual revolution of I stepped back from the open writers with only crystalline memories several trips there. And, commenting hosted three men in 24 hours. Drinks prospects, post-war Hollywood the Sixties and the burgeoning skin door and pointed him to the table. of insatiable sex, she took from on his own demise, F.S. lamented, in the Garden of Allah at five; dinner turned its jaundiced eye from the high trade along the far end of Hollywood “Is something wrong? With each, every spoken word, name and “Hollywood is a cesspool around downtown at eight with McCoy; contrast noir of hard-bitten murder Boulevard lured the voyeurs away. Sophie?” location they conjured. The tradition which writers swarm like flies breakfast the following morning with mysteries to sunny, widescreen Still, every session started the “I’m sorry to tell you this, but of the Bitard women demanded bemoaning the stench while happily a hot young writer brought west by musicals. It was a future that did not same. Sophie would enter through we received a call yesterday. When nothing less. depositing studio checks.” Curtiz. invite Sophie. the draped doorway, mount the our officers arrived, they found her Another bar, another man Sophie’s circle of gentlemen To each, she dispensed the Like a Spillane character, the platform in the middle of the loft deceased.” sitting alone. Before the sun set on callers grew to include Hawks and rejuvenation they sought. For some, dark side of screenwriting scurried that overlooked the freeway, loosen I said nothing because my this unforgiving company town, the Hecht, McCoy and Chandler. All it was only sex; for others, simple into that new medium: television. the scarlet sash of a robe stained mind was trying to comprehend his 21-year-old had found a bedroom seemed right in her new universe, companionship; still for others, it was Blacklisted writers, sometimes in with bourbon and whisper under cold announcement to which I could to call home—albeit a temporary until December 21, 1940 when F.S. maternal compassion. Sophie could pairs, hid out in the tiny Fountain her breath, “This drove Vincent form no intelligible response. one. By the morning of the third day, succumbed to the second attack on read a man’s eyes and know instantly Avenue apartment where they tapped mad!” Sometimes it was “Ernest” “Can you tell me when you Sophie managed to “accidentally” an already weakened heart; and, that which he craved. out teleplays carrying pseudonyms or “mon petit Willie” or “F.S.” or were there last?” Tysdal asked. bump into F. Scott as he meandered during that same weekend another Her Mississippian came west and post office box return addresses. any of a hundred other writers, some The question sounded his way through the courtyard to acquaintance, Nathanael West, again in ’44. This time, turning out Few knew, or perhaps even cared, famous, some infamous, but most suspicious. Sheilah Graham’s cottage. died in a particularly gruesome the screenplay To Have and Have Not that F.S. or the Mississippian or unknown. “Why? Did something Drained by too much alcohol automobile accident. Two stars of for Hawks. Though her scar had Hecht had found similar refuge The art school closed for happen to her?” I countered.

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Tysdal looked up at me and bore the heavy black smudge of a If the rest of Sophie’s story soothed, “Relax. There’s no reason postmark indecipherable beyond the is to be believed, then the Bitard for alarm. For now, it appears her year: 1890. I withdrew and unfolded women had indeed driven artists mad A Picnic Lunch With Ham death was from natural causes.” the two fragile pages carefully. with their passion. Or, perhaps, it was My shoulders sank. “Last “Hope you can read French.” the other way around. Sandwiches & A Beatles Song Thursday. I was supposed to go back Tysdal smiled awkwardly. this afternoon.” “I can’t.” Joel Allegretti “What were you doing “Me neither,” he said. “But there?” one of our detectives does.” “I’m working on a thesis “What does it say?” I asked. for grad school: Screenwriting and Tysdal looked to his notes Popular American Authors.” and read the loose translation. “It’s Unimpressed with my from a Doctor Gachet. Dated 26 Juin explanation, he asked, “Go there a 1890.” Tysdal’s attempt at the French lot?” pronunciation of June was a fleeting “Couple times a week.” moment of relief. “Since when?” “Says he discovered a “Four, maybe five weeks.” woman called Gisele in the bed of a “Did she seem okay to you? patient named Vincent. When he had Any health problems? See her take her removed, she claimed to be the any medications while you were patient’s pregnant wife.” there?” “Anything else?” “No.” “Something about shipping An unsettling silence personal effects to Paris. Not much blanketed my apartment. I sensed a beyond that.” test of wills to determine who would “Thanks. Can I get you speak next. After an agonizing two anything?” I offered. “Water?” minutes, Tysdal continued, “During Tysdal pushed up from the the investigation, we found an table and peered at his watch.“I have envelope addressed to you.” to get going. Just wanted to see that He pulled a worn manila you got this.” rectangle from the notebook and slid Tysdal straightened his frame it across the table towards my folded as he scanned the living room. I hands. My name was inscribed across sensed he determined my interactions onica arranged the food in the er half of the bread, and laid the concoction in its face below the RKO Radio Pictures with Sophie were as stated: nothing cooler as if fitting together the pieces plastic wrap on top of the ham sandwiches. logo in the upper left corner. more than uninteresting research. He of a puzzle: the tortellini salad here; At the sound of the doorbell, Monica Mthe cantaloupe slices there; the cashew brownies glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 10:30, not “It was in her hand when we left. got there.” I sat motionless at the table, wedged between the pasta and the melon. An- 10:29 or 10:31. I turned the envelope over that spectral letter still in hand. What drew had a yen for ham, so Monica had prepared That’s Chip, she thought. I wish I had it and unfastened the metal clip. I hadn’t shared with Tysdal was my three kinds of sandwiches: Black Forest ham with in me to be that punctual. Inside was another envelope, this own investigation into Sophie’s most whole-grain mustard on pumpernickel, Virginia “Come in!” she yelled across the room. one yellowed and delicate, almost audacious claim. In his final days, baked ham with mayonnaise on rye, and prosciut- The doorbell rang again. “Come in!” she hollered translucent. The florid handwriting Van Gogh had been treated by one to with fresh basil and fig jam on Italian peasant at the top of her lungs. Knocking followed. Moni- was clearly that of another era and Doctor Gachet of Auvers-sur-Oise. bread. Herself a vegetarian, Monica had grilled ca walked the fifteen paces from the kitchen to the the faded blue-black ink nearly So, apparently at least that thread slices of eggplant, sweet red peppers and oyster front door. illegible. An old red French Republic of her life’s fabric was not entirely a mushrooms and piled them on the narrow pallet “Didn’t you hear me shouting for you to stamp in the upper right corner woven fiction. of an oil-moistened baguette. She sprinkled sea come in?” she asked as soon as she saw Chip. salt on the vegetables, covered them with the oth- “Good morning. It’s nice to see you, too.”

16. 17. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 A Picnic Lunch With Ham Sandwiches & A Beatles Song - Joel Allegretti

“Don’t be smart. We last saw high overhead. Chip stood at the “Keep going,” Monica said. the guitar back in its case and closed she asked with feigned nonchalance. Monica’s sentences. Chip sighed and each other twelve hours ago. Come edge of the blanket. Andrew lay back “That was nice.” the cover. His suppliant face remind- “You haven’t said a word shook his head, as if anticipating that with me to the kitchen.” on an elbow and casually ate the last Andrew thought for a few ed Monica of Cyril, the basset hound since we hit the road.” he was going to have the conversation Chip leaned over the cooler. prosciutto sandwich. Oak trees in moments. He played a chord she owned when she was a little girl. Monica hesitated before say- again. “I thought it was going to be the three leafy abundance surrounded them progression and began singing “The “Let’s wait,” she said. “I’d ing, “I’m still trying to get used to it. I “Look, Monica, I can’t blame of us. Did you invite your family to like castle walls. The grass was green Long and Winding Road,” never like to hear another song.” mean, it hasn’t even been a year since you for the way you feel. I’ve seen it the picnic?” and lovely. The sun was comfortably turning his eyes away from Monica, “No,” Chip said. “No.” I signed on.” too many times. Manipulation is a “I’m half Italian and half warm. not to look at his fingers or Chip or Andrew caressed his guitar “Keep in mind this is what textbook ploy of the sociopath. You Jewish,” Monica said. “Making a lot “You look like you’re ready to the scenery. case. Andrew expected. There were no knew his history and still said, ‘I think of food is a cultural requirement. I’d fall asleep,” Monica told Chip. “That was my grandmother’s ***** surprises.” he’s sweet.’ Andrew had you doubt- be cut out of the will if I didn’t.” “I’m about to after that favorite song,” Chip said. “It came Monica, in the passenger “What are you going to tell ing yourself. He had you convinced “Are you sure that’s all there spectacular lunch. Why do you think out in 1970, the year she turned is to it?” Chip asked. I’m standing up?” fifteen. I heard the Beatles all the time Monica lifted her head to “You did a great job,” when I was growing up. I took look Chip in the eye. He was almost Andrew echoed. piano lessons for a couple of years, a foot taller. “If suspicion was a new Monica looked in the cooler but I didn’t get anywhere with them. “‘Never doubt suit, you’d appear in a fashion at the empty trays and balls of plastic So, I dropped the piano and took up catalogue.” wrap. “There’s one more sandwich, soccer.” “And if guilt was a mother, baked ham. Anybody want it?” “How were you at soccer?” you’d be the old woman who lived in “Not me,” Chip said with a Monica asked as Andrew’s voice Italians and Jews a shoe.” sigh. ascended to its upper register. “Why don’t you just tell me “I’ll split it with you,” “Better than I was at the what you’re trying to tell me?” Andrew said. piano, but I didn’t get any calls from “Fine,” Chip said. “I think “I’ll go for that,” Chip FIFA.” when it comes to you’re having second thoughts about replied. Andrew finished “The Long our friend Andrew.” “And you told me I made too and Winding Road.” Monica and Monica withdrew bottles of much,” Monica said. “If anything, I Chip clapped politely. flavored mineral water from the didn’t make enough.” “You have a beautiful voice,” refrigerator. “Would it be so terrible Monica said. “Did you ever think food,’ said Chip.” “Never doubt Italians and if I did?” Jews when it comes to food,” Chip about going pro?” Chip shrugged. “On the face said. “Not really,” Andrew said of it, I’d say no, probably not. This is Monica and Chip watched and then sang a song the others seat, gazed at her feet as she and Chip Goddard?” you were doing the wrong thing, yes bigger than the three of us put Andrew eat his half of the sandwich. didn’t recognize. “The letter she left had barreled down the empty highway. “I’ll tell him the truth. You’re or no?” together.” Her eyes conveyed sympathy. Chip’s only these words: / ‘Anywhere is better than “Ten dollars for your coming along very well.” Monica stared out the pas- “I feel bad for Andrew. I radiated impatience. Andrew rubbed here.’” thoughts,” Chip said from behind the Monica smiled hopefully. senger window. think he’s sweet.” a paper napkin against his lips. “That was pretty,” Monica wheel. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.” “You answered my ques- “I guess it depends on how said. “What was it?” “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘a “And you make a wicked tion,” Chip said. “I won’t lie to you. “Hey, Andrew,” Chip said. you define ‘sweet.’ The brownies in “A song I wrote about a doz- penny for your thoughts’?” ham sandwich.” Chip pushed down I think Andrew was charming and “Are you in the mood to give us a the cooler are sweet. How many can en years ago.” “I’m taking inflation into the signal indicator to make a left handsome. He sang like an angel. He song?” you eat in a row?” “I didn’t know you wrote consideration. I can see you’re still turn. “You know, you really have to also beat two people to death, name- Without answering, Andrew Monica pushed a bottle songs, Chip said. “What’s the title?” uncomfortable with the job. Am I give yourself a break, Monica. The ly his twin brother and their mother, reached over to unsnap the hasps of of mineral water against his chest. “I used to write them once in right or wrong?” job isn’t like catering a birthday party. and cut them up into chicken parts. his guitar case. He pulled out the “Here, lemon flavored. I thought of a while,” Andrew said. “That song, Monica looked through the Andrew enjoyed himself, and when Once upon a time, people on death nylon-string guitar and strummed a you when I bought it.” ‘The Letter She Left,’ is the last one I windshield at the road ahead and out it comes down to it, isn’t that what it row were strapped in a chair and C chord to make sure it was in tune. wrote, so it’s been a long time. the passenger window at the scenery was all about?” zapped with two thousand volts or His thumb tentatively picked a few ****** Chip checked his watch. that hurriedly passed them. “I suppose. I loved hearing put to sleep like old dogs. Now they notes of a melody on the bass strings Monica traced a crow’s flight “Monica, it’s now 3:15.” Andrew laid “What makes you say that?” him sing.” A tinge of regret coated get to choose how they want to spend and then stopped.

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their last day before they bid a fond daughters.” farewell to the world. I remember Monica clenched her teeth. there was one guy—he had a taste “Must you be so graphic? I’m going Sebastian’s Babylon, for doing in redheads—he wanted to get sick all over the dashboard.” to go to the opera. We took him to a Chip drove through the Chapter 4 performance of Tosca. He even wore headquarters gate and turned onto a tux. It was a painful night for me. the road that led to the morgue. Daniel Ryan Adler I hate opera. Andrew kept it simple, “You asked me what he did. thank God. He wanted to have a pic- You’d find out anyway, whether it was nic and sing a couple of songs. Now today or on the sixteenth. If you want he’s where he belongs: frozen solid in to be excused from the assignment, the back of the truck.” you can submit a request. It won’t be Headquarters was elev- denied.” en miles away, but for Monica the In her mind’s eye Monica ride seemed to last as long as a car saw an old man who had been on the trip from New Hampshire to New earth far longer than he was entitled Mexico. She found herself craving to be. She saw him at an art museum, something sweet. Monica rummaged a park, a zoo, or wherever else it was through the glove compartment. he wanted to pass his final hours. She There was a chocolate bar behind the imagined the look on his shriveled vehicle service manual. Sadly, it con- face as the hypodermic needle punc- tained peanuts. She put it back. tured his forearm. “When is the next “Monica?” execution?” Prior to the job, Monica “Yes?” couldn’t recall using the word “exe- “Did you hear what I said? cution” so frequently, if she ever used You can ask to be excused.” it at all. Monica leaned back and “Tuesday the seventeenth.” pictured a cellar occupied by two wo weeks later, Sebastian was walking the city and the icy wasteland of late winter. “Who is it?” terrified, almost feral young women under a blooming linden tree. He’d For a three-year-old, each season is an epoch, “His name is Frederick whose entire worldview was shaped planned to meet Lexi and had shown up an eternity of waiting. As a man, twelve weeks Earnhardt,” Chip reported. “He’s by four dreary walls, incest, and Tfifteen minutes late to find that she was still not seemed endurable; he could savor each month eighty-two years old. It seems kind infanticide. there. A waitress pivoted between tables, ponytail for its ripening or decline in the season, especially of pointless to eliminate him now. I She then thought of her be- swinging, legs scissoring like a ballerina’s. He if, as Shakespeare said, weather reflects people’s mean, how much longer could be loved cousin Laurie, who hanged her- might have had better luck asking her out. mood. possibly live?” self at seventeen. A text: “Sorry. Tons of work at the office. Back in his library, he admired his “What did he do?” “On the contrary,” she said Rain check Sunday?” bookshelves full of varicolored spines. The “Oh, he’s a gem. He kept his stoically, “I’ll let Goddard know that He didn’t believe her, but forbid himself Alchemist’s Handbook lay open to a diagram of the two daughters locked in a basement I’m ready, willing and able—and re- from sliding down the rabbit hole of distrust. He distillation process. He shifted the plastic skull on for fifteen years.” porting for duty.” put his phone away and ordered the duck confit. his desk sideways, jaw unhinged, to balance the “Fifteen years!” Monica smiled as she and While sitting outside, a breeze shook the linden red carnations that reminded him of Lexi’s neck, “It gets worse,” Chip said. Chip arrived at the morgue. blossoms onto his head. Sweat trickled down his her vanilla, peppery smell. When it became too “He got them both pregnant more back. Once, walking beside his mother in the much, he studied his print of Kupka’s Abstraction than once. And to top it off, he killed fetid August heat, he had wished for January’s Colorée, its representation of organic creation his children-slash-grandchildren right cold before he realized that he didn’t want that, and lyrical subconscious. Apollinaire too had in front of their mothers-slash-his but something between the stink of summer in recognized Kupka’s genius, and as Sebastian

20. 21. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 Sebastian’s Babylon: Chapter 4 - Daniel Ryan Adler

gazed at the speckled universe in the hesitating, Sebastian texted him an through the desk drawers when: guess chewing. “Good stuff,” he pointed. to think about how to satisfy your to the Black Sea because I was broke, painting’s upper half, their Orphist invitation. what I found?” “But she wanted her own dessert. customer.” He replaced his thick and then come spring find work on a circle came to him from another Karl replied seconds later “I don’t know.” I told her we should share. If she’s glasses on his nose and resumed his farm or something. Before I left the life: Picabia, the Delaunays and that he would arrive shortly. Sebastian “A stack of nine hundred gonna be my woman I have to teach caricature grin. city, I wanted this weathered copy Kandinsky entered a salon on the balanced the framed oil painting he’d dollar bills in a box of checks.” her how to eat like a lady. If she loses Sebastian hung his head. of Robinson Crusoe on the trade-in Champs de Mars, sitting in Louis XV recently bought, a dreamy canvas of “Did you take it to the twenty pounds, she’ll be good.” “My future wife barely knows my shelf for when I was at my lowest. I chairs, drinking Pernod and talking a woman’s legs spread above a white police?” He shrugged. “I gotta figure name.” asked the gypsy who ran the place if into the wee hours; Apollinaire rabbit, which hung in his living room. Karl snorted. “I pocketed the out how to tell her. Maybe bribe her, Karl said nothing. I could buy it, but you had to trade a stretched on a divan, candelabras He laid out his bamboo cutting board dough and booked it outta there.” say we can have our wedding in a Sebastian scratched his book to take one. I’d recently started dripping wax on the parquet, and prepared a cave-aged gruyere “Wasn’t there an address on Catholic Church. She’s Catholic. Full temple. “Doesn’t it make you happy Moby Dick and I wanted to finish it so Sebastian drifting off with a dry mouth with water crackers. Then he puttered the checks?” of guilt and rage. to make her happy? I forgot about Crusoe.” Karl smoked as clips of Guillame’s speech rang in about, from bedroom to living room, “One man’s trash. ‘Sides, Sebastian sighed. “It must be “I take what’s given to me. I like an old Chinese man: eyes half- his head, turning, twisting around, bathroom to kitchen, figuring Karl anyone who’s hidin’ a thousand bucks great to have a woman return your don’t know what happiness is.” Karl closed, fingers splayed, he exhaled in a toward an art that expressed simultaneous could show up any moment. in a maple desk has plenty more. Or desire.” rested an elbow on his knee, jaw in stream and paused in his recollection, happenings. A mouse scratches the He waited half an hour it was some old woman who died. “That and her father has his palm, long fingers lining his cheek. “I used my last twenty bones for walls of a Brooklyn flat, friends drink before Bagdasarian arrived with A bunch of junk was piled next to a penthouse on the Upper East He leaned back and drank. “I’m canned pork, beans and beets, trying wine around a fountain in Braga; in a smug smile more natural than the desk. Anyway, I needed it. I was Side.” sorry. I’m jaded. A month ago, my to prepare, but it didn’t matter. I had Manaus a poet scrawls a line of verse, the one on his business card, a broke this morning. I was gonna take Karl upended his bottle, girlfriend dumped me a week after I no idea what I was in for. My sleeping a man removes his sandals before codfish handshake and a six-pack my date to Los Padres. I took her gulped, leaned forward and looked was fired from Spunderkind Gallery, bag was cheap and my first night in his Guangdong hut, moans over the of American craft ales. He wore to Maxwell’s instead.” Bagdasarian down, two black locks falling over a month after I bought her a Fendi the woods I barely slept because of loamy fields of Asheville; a steak black chelsea boots that matched his stood for another beer. “It was a good his temple. “Besides that, I’m sick of bag. It’ll take me years to pay that off. the cold. When I woke, my boots were cut in the Burj Khalifa; while across skinny Levi’s and a white oxford. He thing—she’s the woman I’m gonna life.” He ran his hands through his So I took the first job that came my frozen bricks. I walked three miles to the universe a star explodes, taking extracted an ale from the plastic bag marry.” hair. way, cleaning toilets at Port Authority, the closest town with plastic bags on a thousand years for us to know— and set the rest in the fridge. “How long have you known “How could you be sick and now I’m living on my best friend’s my feet. But the physical suffering this and a thousand images more As he moved into the living her?” of life if you’re in love?” Sebastian floor. And already I’m headed back was easy, the hard part was being Sebastian understood before being room, he levered open his beer with a “Tonight was our first date cocked his head, jaw loose. Could toward a relationship?” He shook his alone. Some days I read while I ate brought back by his pale reflection in lighter and it fizzed and foamed onto but it’s as good as done. She wanted Bagdasarian be mentally ill? His belly head, “It’s a series of mistakes.” lunch. Moby Dick inspired me. There the glass of the frame. He shook his the hardwood floor. Karl rushed the to come home with me, but you prickled in fear. “At least you’re living.” was nothing to do except walk and it head. The meek inherit the earth, but bottle to his mouth and wiped the don’t take your future wife home on “This ain’t puppy love, man. “You want to hear about was like the forest was an ocean and I how long would he have to wait? dribble on his chin with the back of the first date.” He reached for the It’s marriage, business. I’m getting living? I’ll tell you a story about was Ahab, searching for my whale. I’d Sebastian had mentally his hand. “Sorry,” he said. cheese knife. “It was a good thing ready to sign a contract.” living.” walk all day until sunset and build a prepared to lose himself in someone, Sebastian already had paper you texted me. Gave me an excuse to Karl took off his thick glasses The prospect of a yarn fire to heat my beans. As soon as they and since Lexi was out, he thought towels in hand. leave.” and held them before his face. It took brought Sebastian closer, and Karl, were hot, I had to put the flame out so about the others he’d met at Jasper’s The leather armchair sighed Karl drank again, sighed, a moment for his dark eyes to focus sensing that he had an audience took the wild boars wouldn’t come around. party, that recovering heroin addict, as Karl flopped into it. “What a day.” and set the bottle on his knee. “She’s and he reminded Sebastian of a advantage. By seven I’d be in bed fully clothed. Pulmonetti and Karl Bagda- He drank again. “So get this. I always a little fat, but tight fat. Not the loose large animal, his gaze sensitive and “You mind if I smoke?” His Of course, I couldn’t fall asleep right something-or-other, who had asked admire trash, right,” he noted as he kind. The stretch marks on her tits dull without magnification. Without host waved him on and he extracted away, so I’d lie awake for a few hours, him those odd questions. He had crossed his legs. Sebastian set the kept me hard throughout our date.” those frames hiding his eyes, Karl’s a pack of Blues from his breast trying to learn the constellations. I good taste in film, even if he did enjoy cheese plate on the coffee table and He drank again. “It lasted four crow’s feet became evident, and it pocket. He lit one, dragging deep and slept about six hours a night. Then dog races. Sebastian reached into his joined him on the maroon leather hours.” seemed his smoker’s lines were more holding it, tense for a moment before I’d wake up at four to keep walking.” wallet and recalled their awkward couch. “And this afternoon, I was “Your erection?” prominent too; clearly this man had he sighed out a blue cloud. Sebastian touched his index interaction, which he associated with walking down Graham Ave. when I “The date.” Karl cast seen something of life. Karl breathed “I was in Bucharest at a place finger to his nose and moved his hand the mug shot and practiced smile saw a beautiful maple desk. I wanted Sebastian a dubious glance. “Bottle onto his lenses and wiped them with called The Mongoose, a gypsy hostel, to his chin. of Karl’s face on his business card. to take it to my apartment, but it of wine, appetizers, steaks.” He cut his shirttails. a weird fuckin’ place man. My plan “After three weeks I arrived Was it too late to try again? Without was way too heavy so I was looking himself a piece of cheese, nodding, “In any business, you have was to camp in the woods on the way at the Black Sea. I was early for the

22. 23. Sebastian’s Babylon: Chapter 4 - Daniel Ryan Adler The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

was. I kept thinking of the country had long gone. It took another two animal. In our supermarket societies, farmer who says what’s mine is yours, hours before I was on the last bus hardly any of us have. And what’s except my daughter, stay away from back into town. Without my bag I worse is I’m afraid to; I don’t think I her. I wanted her, even if it meant had no supplies, though I still had could do it.” “‘Besides that, I’m sick of life.’ her old man chasing me out of his my passport and wallet on my belt. “My brother lives in the house with a shotgun. That night, It was all because of Robinson Crusoe; Rockies. He camps in the forest and they made a Serbian feast and her the Mongoose gypsy proprietor had walks into town for beans and coffee dad kept giving us vodka until three cursed me. I was so upset I maxed out and hunts all the rest of his food. He ran his hands through his in the morning when we went to the my credit card for a night in a hotel Survives off of fowl and small game. club. Her old man was piss drunk and and called my sister for an advance A better man than I.” Karl shook his didn’t care that I was grinding all up on a plane ticket home. I should have head and pushed his glasses up his on his daughter. I invited her to meet kept going but I pussed out.” He took nose. “I tried and failed.” hair. me in the bathroom. She protested a last drag and slid the yellow filter “You could try again. After no, I can’t, my boyfriend. I kissed her into his empty beer bottle with a all, you have a great story. And isn’t and led her by the hand to a stall. But sizzle. “Hindsight don’t mean much that why we live?” I was too drunk to get it up. Fuckin’ when you’re starin’ into a bottle.” “I live to drink.” He stood for vodka. Fuckin’ Serbs.” Karl shook his “Good suffering,” Sebastian another beer. head. said. Sebastian imagined himself “We dragged her old man Karl shrugged. “I like what in Bagdasarian’s place, as a nomad back to their apartment and I slept makes life strange. That’s why I want trekking across the Hungarian plain, on the floor. When I woke the next to get married.” approaching an ocean of steppes. afternoon, everyone was still asleep. He ran a hand through his “If only we were at war.” ‘How could you be sick of life I left without waking them and took hair again and met Sebastian’s eyes Karl resumed his seat. “Then at least the bus as far as I could out of the before he dropped his gaze to the we could confront death instead of city. At the last stop I started walking. floor. He continued, “Yesterday I having to pretend like we’re not afraid It was almost dark. Then a car pulled walked down my street to a pollo vivera. of it.” if you’re in love?’ Sebastian up beside me and the guys who The lady asked me what I wanted. A “Enlist. Go to Iraq.” got out had gold teeth. One pulled turkey was in the back, bigger than “Fuck that. I want the war a knife, another told me to hand all the others, with its big blue head of our grandparents, with trenches over my bag. I did as they said, and crowned by black tail feathers. I and pig-sized rats. Parades and girls then something came over me and pointed.” Karl squinted and nodded in the streets when you return. If cocked his head, jaw loose.” I banged one of the gypsy’s heads slowly. “That one. Twenty minutes you return. War that makes a man against the door. He collapsed, dead, later, they gave it to me wrapped in of you or eats you alive. None of this and I ran. A knife whistled past my butcher paper, gutted and plucked. imperial bullshit, men being shot by great white pelican migration, so I and canned pork for the next leg of Next morning, before breakfast I ear and landed in the snow ahead of At home, the head was still on. I took ragheads in the desert for corporate stayed in a house on the water for my trip. Robinson Crusoe was still there stashed it in my bag, ate my porridge me. I kept running until I was deep my butcher’s knife—.” He squinted brass and oil strongmen. We missed a few leu a night and e-mailed my and I had a hundred pages of Moby and left. By week’s end, I was out of in the forest. I crouched in a snow and nodded again. the most perfect war the world’s ever brother to wire me money. On dial-up Dick left. Each night there cost me Romania and a hundred pages in. I drift, silent as a marmot. When my “When the blade hit that known, War’s Golden Age.” man. Remember those sounds? Any fifteen bucks and I couldn’t finish it was practiced by then, I had a good breathing returned to normal, it was block, I’d grown up a little. I peeled off “We were born late.” who, I used the address of the gypsy fast enough to trade it for the Crusoe; sleeping bag and I knew how to fend so quiet, I couldn’t even hear the the skin, threw the gizzards away and Sebastian shook his head. “Today, we hostel, The Mongoose, and walked I was too poor. I had to walk the off the wild boars if they came round. cars on the highway. I peeked over kept the breast and legs. Ten pounds have to fight against twelve hour days, the way I’d come after a few days of Danube to Germany where I could I arrived in Belgrade two weeks later the ridge, nothing. I walked back of fresh turkey for forty bucks. This average salaries and taking work recuperation. Two weeks later, I was stay a few days with a girl I’d met to stay with a friend of a friend, a through the forest, afraid that at any was before I found that money.” home. People hope for a Christmas in the belly of The Mongoose, stoned in Prague, maybe longer if we had beautiful girl who could’ve been a moment I’d have a four-inch blade Sebastian mused, “It’s one bonus or a promotion and wind up as a goat with a bunch more beans the sex. But first I needed that book. model. Her father was nicer than she stabbed into my back. But the gypsies of my regrets that I’ve never killed an living for pensions, scared of growing

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old. They think people like your a pool table in the back. Karl elbowed blackness fell. They had lived it once about last night, but all that came to Venice,” he exhaled, settling his gondolier’s oar-strokes under the brother are crazy. But they have it through the crowd to the bartender, before, worlds ago, and now they did was an image of a minotaur thrusting gaze on her parted lips. “And,” he Bridge of Sighs, past marble-faced backwards.” who wobbled, visibly drunk as he so again. After Karl’s desire to drink over the dangling arms of a woman continued, “if you decide to join me, palazzi, into turquoise lagoons and “I wouldn’t’ve minded being overfilled a line of shot glasses. had run its course, their recollected who looked like his love. He clicked you are too.” on, maybe toward something more. born later. Then those wars wouldn’t Sebastian sat against the wall dreams faded in candelabra darkness. and unclicked his pen vacantly. She swallowed, set her lips seem so close. Money wouldn’t matter and stared into the candle’s flame. The next day Sebastian woke and lowered her chin. “Have you as much either; the government Behind it was a pentacle carved into at noon, remembering what he’d left “Who doesn’t want a already bought the tickets?” would be taking care of everyone.” the wooden table. The fire controlled unsaid. present?” Lexi replied. “Yes.” “You ever think of moving to his eyes and an atavistic body rose to “Last night was fun,” he They were at Socarrat on “I...” Norway?” life, dancing—an androgynous figure texted his new friend. He closed his Sunday night. She scooped a bite “I’m paying for everything,” “I guess that’s my only option. from a tribal time. The thud of mugs eyes and reclined on the down pillow, of paella into her mouth. Sebastian he said, challenging her with his eyes. Revolution is finished. Anarchism was on the table snapped him to. recounting Burmese pagodas. had taken great pains to present “My treat.” destroyed by the Punk Movement. “Cheers,” Karl raised his His phone buzzed twice. “On himself as a man who could not be A smile tugged the corners of Communism is a joke.” glass and clanked it on the lip of the my way home last night I went to denied: hair parted, pressed white her mouth. “Okay.” She spread her “Thank the Russians. You other. Rattlesnake to look for the ugliest girl. blake cotton shirt, jeans well-broken fingers on the table and lowered her can’t bring about communism by “Is that for me?” Sebastian After you meet the girl you’re going in, black high-tops (not too new). eyebrows. “But if I go, it’s as a friend. willing it. They didn’t realize that said. “I don’t drink, remember?” to marry you have to find the ugliest So far, he had succeeded in making Nothing more.” Marx was writing about the course of Karl nodded at a couple of one you can to sleep with because her laugh and the power scales had “Of course. Like this dinner.” human civilization,” said Sebastian. girls behind them. “Want a drink?” she’s the last one before you have only remained in balance. She looked like she had swallowed a “Laissez-faire is here to stay.” he called. one for the rest of your life. She had “Might I try a scallop?” Palm bird. He hid his pleasure by taking a “We won’t know communism The girls sat cat-like pockmarks bad teeth greasy hair and open, he wiggled his fingers and sip of water and forking a chunk of for another five hundred years at in the candlelight, slender and smelled like hippies. We made out at leaned his elbows onto the table to crab. least. Meanwhile, media corporations unconcerned. He stood and handed the bar and I took her outside. We lighten his mood and smell her sweet, Outside, after he paid the sell us products for lifestyles that them the extra. were going to on the street between peppery scent. She had ordered better $120 bill, she cast an arm over his increase productivity without caring “They’ll be over,” he two SUVs but she wanted to go to my than him: scallop and fluke paella so neck and pecked his cheek. A few about our quality of life. People still whispered. place. I said, ‘We can’t go to mine so hot that the rice was still popping, steps away, she half-turned and work in cubicles! Society still hasn’t Karl spilled some wax on the the only way we’re not going to yours wafting saffron. waved. “Call me.” figured out how to treat creative table, covering the pentacle, his other is if you squat in a burnt-out loft.’ “No,” she said. Eyes on her His shoes clapped the people. As long as most people make hand on his highball. She said, ‘Yes I do squat in a burnt- plate, she took another tiny bite. “I pavement to a beat. The moon enough money to buy the latest He declared, “My next trip out loft.’ So I left. She was too busted don’t share food.” flashed green. Thank you, Sweet iPhone, they’re satisfied. Except for I’m going to Ulan Bator.” anyway.” “Fine.” He set his fork down, Selene! Brash tactics work. Before he those Sunday nights spent trying to “Real adventure there. Wild Sebastian laughed, imagining his paella an open wound. He hated reached the corner of 23rd, a cluster ignore the source of their angst, life is horses, the steppes, hot tea...” Bagdasarian’s scene, his willingness to himself for this rising, uncontrollable of sparrows alighted from a tree bearable.” And soon they were encounter the meek and dispossessed. passion, a mixture of embarrassment branch. A bit late for birds, wasn’t it? Karl finished his beer and discoursing wildly, each drink He stared at the paint flecks on his that gave way to a lust that burned his Green subway bulbs lighted straightened. “I’m about ready to making Karl more powerful. They ceiling. His only problem was that face and spread into his neck, causing his way into the station and in a ignore the source of my angst too—I became sultans, khans stampeding someone Lexi was seeing. Part of him him to breathe heavy like a dog in dance, he clickety-clacked onto the found nine hundred dollars today across a continent desiring to know wished the ceiling would cave in, to heat. train, which pulled in as he reached and I’m ready to spend some more of inflections used and fashions worn, end his patient ennui. “So what’s this present?” the southern end of the platform. it.” muslins spread in markets and marble He threw back the sheets and “Right.” He forced a laugh. He imagined how he would share Under a Brooklyn moon, a mosques beyond hillocks, meadows walked to the kitchen, filled the kettle If she doesn’t accept, I’ll forget about a room with Lexi, roll over in bed train roared and they came closer to and desert sands; in stately pleasure and set it on the stove, then ground her. I could always invite Karl or to gaze upon her goldenrod belly, the neon Pabst sign on the corner of domes they decreed the boundaries enough beans to jolt him awake. Jasper. But he knew his happiness watch sunbeams cross the carpet to Dodworth and Broadway. Candles lit of their khanates; on lakeside evening When his coffee was ready he brought hinged on her response. cover white terrycloth robes; a blow the bar and an island light hung over walks dragonfly wings buzzed as it to his desk and tried to journal “In three weeks I’m going dryer through a bathroom door, a

26. 27. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 The Curious Life of Myles Helpless, An Exercise... Dunning Sasha Sosnowski Gael DeRoane

is employment at the Corporation for the CEO himself, not only a name, but a title: having reached its breaking point, Myles Lee Muria, New-Age Twit. Dunning arrived at work in a starched No one addressed Myles directly, but Hwhite shirt, yellow power tie, propeller beanie, someone whispered, “He’s gone mad.” The CEO Bronco Buster pajama bottoms, and fluffy bunny was considering a compassionate intervention, ngela has a crush on Harry. Harry has a showmanship. Harry has never been too sure he slippers. I’ll show them, he thought, striding, but noticed that Myles’ genitalia were visible crush on Harriet. Harriet is buxom and likes his silly penchants. Harry gets high quite briefcase in hand, past the tittering secretaries through the aperture of his pajama bottoms. blasé. Angela is adequate but homely. often now. Harry isn’t even a pot-smoker. Jeffrey AHarry sits around the morass of indecision and smokes pot all day long. See, high Harry wars toward his office. Disgusted, he called security at once. For the first hour of his day, Myles sat Although Myles did not resist, the burleys over-contemplation. Harry struggles with the with himself constantly. It’s like the blitzkrieg in quietly at his desk reading an obscure pamphlet treated him roughly, holding his arms in a vise “big” questions; life, love, meaning, identity—and his head. Sober Harry laments. So there he sits on astral projection. At ten o’clock he was grip as they descended the elevator, then frog- moves about it all slower than a steamboat. Har- in vacillation. Sometimes, Harriet and Harry summoned to the conference room for his marched him out the front entrance. With a riet leads men on and attaches herself to them get high together. They have sex. Afterwards, presentation to the board of directors. He could flourish (one of them actually shouted, “Heave because she’s insecure, spoiled, and has nothing sometimes Harry tries to delve deeper—into not recall what he was supposed to present, but ho!”), they lobbed him face-first onto the busy better to do. Her breasts have largely gotten her himself, into other things. Harriet makes a face this did not concern him. sidewalk. nearly everywhere and everything she knows. or dramatically misunderstands. As far as depth “I’m a great admirer of Thomas Myles picked up his briefcase, retrieved Angela is capable and caring. Angela, oh Ange- is concerned, Harriet is self-involved enough for Pynchon,” he began, as the board members, his propeller beanie, straightened his tie and la; she could be a real winner. But she wastes her her own liking. Angela violently knits. She knits billionaire CEO included, stared at his outfit in reflected upon his good fortune. He was free time in patient consternation, certain of the vir- scarves, sweaters, hats—for her older sister’s disbelief. “Consequently, I would like to christen at last! But at precisely that moment a trio of tues of the wait and little else. triplets she babysits. Meanwhile, she cries. all my associates with Pynchonesque monikers.” skinheads came around the corner, their fists Harry calls himself a writer. But Harry Jeffrey has dreams but no backbone. Facing the man seated at his left, the distinguished clenching and unclenching, eager to pummel only writes about himself. Rather, he writes less Sometimes he plays guitar. Sometimes he plays corporate attorney Braden Quillington, he said, some character whose general disposition seemed “about himself ” than what he’s merely thinking piano. Sometimes he even paints. Most times, “Henceforth, you shall be called Geronimo inimical to the standards and practices of the or feeling at any given moment. Angela believes Jeffrey drowns his stagnant discontent with Sangfroid.” He continued in this fashion, Aryan Brotherhood. Harry has untapped potential, he only lacks whatever he can get. He now slams everything. conferring upon these august gentlemen such And so began a new adventure in the commitment. Harriet just likes Harry’s silly Harry is not a drug abuser. He is only an names as Blip Nerdstrom, Basillio Cumquat, and, curious life of Myles Dunning… penchants for danger through overcompensating “experimenter.” He now slams everything too. 28. 29. Helpless, An Exercise... - Sasha Sosnowski The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

Harry tries to help Jeffrey do. Jeffrey they ascend. Harriet takes stupid and back. The moth crashes loudly her right. Harry yells Angela’s name. tries to help Harry be. Together, Har- sips. Harry tells Harriet she shouldn’t into the light bulb without restraint. Angela’s eyes narrow. She rises and ry and Jeffrey go get high. This has drink yet. Harriet tells Harry he Jeffrey’s body slumps. The moth col- walks to the door. She stops short. now gone on for months. Harriet shouldn’t be loaded. The procedure lapses to the floor without a sound. There is a mirror on the wall to her comes and goes. She drinks and nags. from floor four to floor five and roof Jeffrey dies without a sound. left. Her face is torn and tragic. Har- Angela visits occasionally. She brings access is more complicated. Harry ry pounds on the door. Angela looks Harry gifts. Sometimes, she brings explains this to Harriet. Harry ques- Harry trudges through the right and peers through the peephole. Jeffrey gifts too. But Harry and Jeffrey tions Harriet for confirmation. Once. darkness, gaunt and forsaken. He Harry’s face is torn and tragic. Ange- can now only appreciate in words. Twice. Three times. Harriet growls broods deeply and concludes—Ange- la takes a deep breath. She opens the Angela refuses to give up. Harry has something back. Harry makes the la. He is heading straight for Ange- door. Harry launches in. He sees her no answers. Harry hates himself a lit- ascension and prepares to assist Har- la’s house. Harry will confess every- and exhales relief in embrace. He re- tle bit more each time he flakes. riet. Harriet tries for another stupid thing and apologize. He will ask for peats the word “sorry” over and over. sip but the bottle slips from her hand forgiveness and promise to become a Angela’s expression is unchanged. One evening Harry is much, and tumbles to an imminent shatter. better man, a stronger man. He will She lifts her right hand slowly. Put- much too loaded. Ashamed, he must Harry shakes his head dejectedly. commit—he will marry her if need ting it to Harry’s stomach from within flake on Angela again. Angela hangs Harriet takes a deep breath. Harry be. He announces his wretchedness his hug, Angela pulls the trigger. And up the phone understandingly. The asks if she’s certain. He recommends aloud to the darkness. Four raccoons again. And again. triplets cry, so does Angela. Sudden- they go back. Harriet starts to cry. scurrying up and down a tree stop Harry’s face melts in re- ly, the tears on her cheeks are from She mumbles despair and apology. and look. Harry marches along. The morse. He collapses to the floor as laughter. Fed up, she hatches a venge- Harry starts to return. Harriet starts raccoons shrug and watch. Harry is Angela steps out from under him. ful plan of awakening. Inspired, she toward Harry. Harriet slips and tum- entranced in his disaster and redemp- Angela’s expression changes. Look- gets drunk. Drunk, she falls asleep. bles to her imminent death. She does tion. The raccoons look at each other ing over the dying body, she erupts Asleep and unattended, one of the not shatter. She cracks like a wooden and hunt onwards for food. in regret. The twins have continued triplets dies of asphyxia. The cuckoo box, thumps like a large watermelon. The night is purple as dawn to wail. Angela paces a circle around clock calls midnight. Drunken Harri- Harry vomits. approaches. Angela awakens to the Harry. Harry is bleeding out. The et barges over Harry’s and calls him The night is deep and black. cries of a baby. Her eyes spring open twins continue to wail. Angela paces a lazy, existentially bankrupt junky. A traffic light in the distance throbs and scan the room. Two cries. She a circle around Harry. Harry garbles She dishes a look of disavowal at Jef- yellow. Harry finally descends. He rises. Two cries. She walks out of the something and dies. The twins con- frey. Harriet demands to go out. She leaves the premises. He does not go room to the triplets’. A loud shriek. tinue to wail. Angela paces a circle bemoans Harry’s newfound paraly- back to the body. He marches into Two cries and a sob. Stood over the around Harry’s body. She stops, diz- sis. Harriet eggs Harry to climb the the aimless night, wraithlike. Mean- crib, Angela recedes completely. Af- zied. She sobs meekly. The sun begins scaffolding at the local construction while, Jeffrey stirs. Harry’s bed is still ter a period of recollection, she looks to rise over the town. Angela puts the site once more. Reluctant though empty; a fatter shot thus remains. Jef- back at a half-empty bottle. She grows barrel of the revolver into her slow- emasculated, Harry accepts. The two frey slinks to the bathroom to cook pale; her eyes renounce their luster. ly unfolding mouth. Light streams wander the hazy navy night. Harri- the remains of the sack. The bubbles Angela walks to a closet and reach- in delicately through the blinds. An- et continues to drink. She dumps all fizz and dance wildly. His eyebrows es for a shoebox. Angela pulls out a gela closes her searing emerald eyes. her deep-lurking nastiness upon him. dance wildly, too. He loads the stew small revolver. The twins continue The twins stop their wailing. Daylight Harriet justifies this as her deep de- into the outfit. The bathroom light to wail. Angela marches straight to creeps in to fill the room. Angela pulls sire for what’s best for him. Harry bulb flickers. Jeffrey is startled, then the living room telephone. Her right the trigger. Her body makes a solitary only broods. He furrows his brow and shrugs. He tourniquets his left arm. hand clutches the revolver. thud. Angela, oh Angela; she could stares at the ground, scratching at his The light bulb flickers again. A moth Harry turns a corner. He have been a real winner. body. has crashed loudly into it. Jeffrey passes one house. Two houses. Three Harriet and Harry reach the chuckles. He finds a working vein and houses. At the fourth he turns up a skeleton of a five-story building. Har- inserts without restraint. The liquid walk. Harry climbs four stairs onto riet pushes Harry belligerently and goes from marron to maroon to gone. a porch. The pink daphne’s are fra- tells him they should have sex on top Jeffrey must sit back on the toilet. The grant in the damp, early dawn air. and be happy like they used to. Harry sound of pipes flushing is heard. His Harry pounds on the door. Angela doesn’t recall that time. Floor by floor lips turn a pale blue. His eyes roll up breaks from her trance and looks to 30. 31. Straight With Necessary Curves Peggy Aylsworth

Enlightenment has yet to reach the twenty-first century. I’m not

here to praise its tenets or curse the blind who will not see. Let Kant

and Russell preach their principles as headlines blare the worldwide

evidence that spits in reason’s face. POETRY As Trump would thrust us back and back to righteous barricades, the stride of rational thought falls into slough.

One can drive too far on strictly charted roads. The spirit balks.

Those by-ways through the tangled forest lead to sprouts of blue-green

seeds fed by the moon. And as we reap they shine new color beyond the literal.

33. Motion (little death) - Nova Reeves The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

ebb and flow, faith in equilibrium Motion (little death) in ecstasy ebbing and flowing, no matter who else dims the Nova Reeves heart structure faith, Ecstatic ebb and flow.

Motion In love with what lasts, not with what comes and goes. Yes, it was painful long ago, Held with small hands and no, it is not still so in a ring painful the circle but rhythmically Life getting back to where we started. sex “little death” Love; a woman. Birth Love her strongly we want to play with each other. Release her, love love life, Ecstatic messy meeting sex ripple of life and death in the body “little death” vulva vas deferens night birth and opening. motion love her motion Staying open? hold her in small hands, cry out as loudly as you can, Ecstatic meeting of our mortal parts Hold her. yes, this body remembers then temporarily releases ah but so much must needs be, must is and will be, released

Releasing, effortless let-loose flight

But not releasing the dead, only because they will not talk to me, yes only because I cannot grab them, tear at their clothes, fall at their feet shrieking, demanding to be loved.

You need I need smooth touch skin smooth motion, faith in motion and love, in love with motion in love with motion, of rhythmic, musical ways to get back to our inner Life is force is thrill is height joy in equilibrium oh the mania slips in so that, 34. 35. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 Onion Will Marxism Give Health to the Sandy Wang Sick? This is not about how she makes me cry. Stuart Jay Silverman It's not even maybe it was the polio, which she had as a child, and which left its streaky mark like a single fingernail down her side corrupt as original sin about the tender heart, tied to a secret, hidden maybe it was the accident, the one that seemed to move slowly as a woman sultry with heat across a room beneath her toward the man who has taken her heart

white organza dress, unattainable maybe, just maybe, one doctor opined, it was that her back had not been right since birth, since before birth, despite my teary efforts. congenital scoliosis axing her axis You see—this is about or, it might have been Diego, whose weight crushed her breasts which opened like Indian offerings her coming to ripeness in my garden, spread on an altar to bleed his dark seed, a full moon rising to the high throne. Indubitably she is the pelvis crooked as Lombard Street in San Francisco where they lived in 1940 after they remarried and where he had painted Treasure Island the queen's picking, fattened virgin bulb, green stalks and they got along without sex, got along without sex with each other, though he had his women and she lovers and soon to flower. Overnight, her own deep-delving fingers

poignantly and nervously, she drags so wrenched out of true, her pelvic bore, she could not bear a child, though accessible to the boneless tube her robe of white mist a man could thread into her, she willing in slow waltz, my sweet deb. and she paints My Nurse and I in 1937, black hair framing a basalt mask behind which the nurse’s face Come daybreak I will have to take her must lie whose features she has forgotten, out of her loam-perfumed boudoir, and marry her off to the gentle but she lies cradled in those brown arms, a seepage of milk from the left breast trickling into her adult mouth, her child’s body in a satin shorty yellow bell pepper. and helpless in those brown arms, as she was in Diego’s embrace, and she painted My Birth, earlier, 1932, the adult head, as then, enhaloed by blood

resting on the white sheet, neck still stuck in the pelvic passage of the figure covered from the breasts up by a white cloth, and she painted herself

many times, with Fulang-Chang, her monkey, peering over her shoulder, or held to her like a baby, or she festooned herself in tropical birds and set

vines and fruit alongside or as a backdrop for her almost-meeting eyebrows, under which her obsidian eyes rivet the viewer and her scarlet lips

36. 37. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

tighten, a clasp snapped shut, in contempt, or indifference, or holding in the pain that flooded her being until she could escape into the painting Ballad of the Three-Gaited Whores you see, or another, perhaps The Broken Column, her body wreathed with straps through which breasts push, splayed out from a shattered marble Stuart Jay Silverman

colonnade exposed by the torso torn open belly to throat, or the still life of magnolias: heavy oil-green leaves, curls of Note: This poem derives from a paragraph in The London Review of Books several years ago. The Hamburg contingent of white petals, stiff yellow stigma. prostitutes had doubled or trebled with the addition of expatriate women from other countries, mainly Turkey. The local women wrote up a list of services with prices to help the newcomers. Silverman composed the verses in German and, then, translated them into English and French.

DIE SPEISEKARTE

Ein Anal ist so schwer Es kostet etwas mehr. Französisch kostet etwas schlimmer. Bei hand's ein Augenblick, Doch eine Tittenfick Machts langsam, und es braucht ein Zimmer.

BILL OF FARE

A backdoor's pretty rough— It's extra for that stuff. For somewhat less, I'm prepared to eat it. By hand, you get off quick, But tit-fucking's a trick Takes a room, and leisure to complete it.

LA CARTE

Dans cou, c'est formidable! Il coute en plus, semblable. A la bouche coute à meilleur marché. Par main, c'est un coup d'oeil vite, Mais entre les seins, je dite, Va lentement, et demande se coucher.

38. 39. Gaius Caligula, Gephyromaniac - John J. Trause The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

Cloaked in a purple robe, fit for an emperor, Gaius Caligula, Gephyromaniac Over his bridge — ah yes, gephyrophilia. Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, John J. Trause When on the Rhine in the inlands of Germany, During the time of the German hostilities, [2. Life on the Edge: Marginality as the Center of Public Art Camped on the bridges and maintained his quarters there: Inside the gallery/museum, the artist functions as the center of a particular system; once outside that system, the artist is lost between worlds — ] Gaius Caligula out of perversity Sat on a bridge one day arguing violently => “the artist’s position in our culture is marginal. The public artist can turn that marginality to advantage. Forced, With the divinity of the Rhine River, as, physically, off to the side, the public artist is asked to deal not with the building but with the sidewalk, not with the Deep in insanity he at least thought he was. road but with the benches at the side of the road, not with the city but with the bridges between cities.” <= [Outside and in between centers, the public artist is under cover; public art functions, literally, as a marginal When his poor uncle, Tiberius Claudius, note; it tries to comment on, and contradict, the main body of the text as a culture.] Limping and stammering came up to visit him, Gaius Caligula ordered poor Claudius VITO ACCONCI Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, To be thrown into the Rhine as a sacrilege: When he was Emperor of ancient Rome, being Heir to Tiberius, reigned in insanity: Gaius Caligula watched from his bridge as old Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac. Claudius, lame and a spastic on land, but in Water as home as a fish, fished around in the Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Currents until safely he came to shore. When he was Emperor, grew very passionate And more obsessed, one would even say violently, Gaius Caligula, while still in Germany, This time with bridges — yes, gephyrophilia. Rode on his chariot just for the fun of it Over the Rhine in the zone of the enemy, Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Fearlessly flouting the fears of his bodyguard: Grew more obsessed and not only with building them, But also he’d just adore being close to them: When someone carelessly had remarked what if the How could you satisfy such an arch specialty? Enemy were to show up, very suddenly Gaius Caligula panicked and jumped on his Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Stallion and raced toward the bridges, and since they were When he was little had read in Herodotus How in the Persian War Xerxes, the emperor Loaded with baggage and crowded with servants, he Of all of Persia invaded the Greek mainland Ordered that he be passed overhead hand to hand: Reaching his bridge, the mad Gaius Caligula By crossing over what we call the Dardanelles, Clung to it tightly — yes, gephyrophilia. Then called the Hellespont, gateway to Asia, By building over this body of water a Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Gigantic bridge, that stretched nearly a mile, so Had by this time made his claim to divinity Through metamorphosis, so he believed it that Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, He was as powerful … nay, he was Jupiter: In a mad effort to outdo that emperor Stretched a huge bridge all the way from Puteoli Gaius Caligula (let’s not say Jupiter), To Bauli over the wide Bay of Naples, and Since he was Emperor, lived on the Palatine Close by the Capitol, where stood the Temple of Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, so the mad Rode on his chariot, crowned with a golden wreath, 40. 41. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

Gaius Caligula built a long bridge from the Idols Roof of his Palace and over the Forum then Up to the Capitol, so he could visit, as Scott Sherman He said, his Temple, and there on the Capitol

Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac, Nothing is pain like watching something age. Used to converse with the statue of Jupiter I remember the family dog standing up slower, And could be heard laughing, shouting, or whispering: arthritis in the back legs. Gaius Caligula, gephyromaniac. It made my rib cage raw. My family told me it was something that happened, so when dad began to fall asleep before seven Postscript call out of work & miss dinners I wondered how comforting it would be if he knew Great wits are sure to madness near allied, it was just something that happened. And thin partitions do their bounds divide. The doctor did that for me, Dryden after we rushed to the hospital when we found dad passed out in the bathroom. I wondered how the dog did it for so long. A l’histoire, Caligula, à l’histoire The stiffness in my legs ached where it never had.

Never more than in those years do I want to be a time traveler, see how the dog managed so long & say goodbye once more. Practice.

This is not about saying goodbye, I'm not ready yet. There will be a day when you're too tired to make it up the stairs & sleeping at the bottom will sound good enough.

I was awake in my room every morning when dad carried the dog up to the kitchen. He taught me to lift idols up so I will.

42. 43. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 Thoughts on a diamond-studded skull by Damien Hirst Scott Penney Regard this diamond skull that artist Damien Hirst construed, derived from diamonds hard-wired on a steel mesh frame, cornrows arrayed as exactly as those in the garden of Cyrus— regard the value of even those most tearless of eye-sockets, edgy hollows lachrymose with nothing but art-world track-light.

Artist Damien Hirst has made a masterpiece no one can afford— not even the most star- or diamond-studded semi-celebrity. No insurance plan nor all of Lloyd's can underwrite the skull suspended in the Plexiglas cage of the London gallery

Each diamond on the little skull refracts a point of light cupping in its precious radius another viewer, eye that altering all beams back each gaze that hails it, each flashbulb-popping camera angle. What paparazzi member is not astonished, awed?

Each eye-beam joins each beam of light each discrete gem bends— grin that gapes back at its buyer wannabe, each inert eye-socket invested with millions, world of mineral wealth in a worm-hole.

Such the conceits the brain-vault beams to the absent cortex. Pièce de résistance: being pinned to a pedestal. And all along the thoughts a botoxed skull beams back: regard my void.

44. 45. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4 Marriage Illustration by Jeff Pike Ryan Fox Even the most knotted among us are tenderized by it— the most dangerous rendered acceptable for household use— in unity and for one prolonged moment even the most forbidding among us is gentrified by it— even my wild and wind-blown heart is now just a mallet I leave on the counter for you to find and when you do you take out your own four-chambered briefly beating thing and lay it down like the good home cook you are on the graphite cutting board next to the bowl of salt.

For the sake of tenderness I have waged many wars because a man must have a cause I sang the black-throated blue warbler back to sleep I dismissed the sumptuary laws as no laws at all and borne on the budget wings of alcohol I said submit she said submit and the yoke was mild for a while the shackles lay lightly on our wrists.

46. CRITICISM

The Problem With the Children of New York Genna Rivieccio

o be born in New York City is to be born essays,” the “book” is a random smattering of delusional. By virtue of your birthplace, sexual experiences, white girl problems (which, you are somehow automatically yes, is a derogatory term, but too applicable to Tindoctrinated with the notion that you—and avoid in this case) and elucidations of how lifelong others like you—are the most significant and privilege and a built-in destiny for fame makes interesting beings on Earth. There is quite you utterly oblivious to reality. The frequent possibly no better recent indication of this than mention of French bulldogs and clawfoot tubs a certain memoir called Not That Kind of Girl, is just one indication of how out of touch Lena which has gained a second wind in the wake Dunham is not only with the average person, but of its paperback release and translation into with the average New Yorker (meaning someone various foreign languages; yet, it’s hard to fathom born elsewhere). how one could ever get across the vapidness of Not only are the cutesy little drawings the content as effectively in any tongue beyond throughout the “novel” a testament to its utter English. Presented as “a collection of personal frivolity, but so, too, are tales of her sexual 48. 49. The Problem With the Children of New York - Genna Rivieccio

discovery and her various travels. For a European jaunt continues with, and the struggle to lose her virginity. a spotlight on the incestuousness of city to make it as a Broadway actress have been told they are special and instance, Dunham bloviates, “I am “A wood-paneled, dusty room, low Her obsession with a proverbial youths of a certain social class from and been seduced by a controlling also have the social media outlets going to London. All alone. I haven’t ceilings, and cigarettes smoked NYC cool kid named Jared Krauter New York, all damned to be among construction worker who had forced to prove as much by any bombastic been to London since age fourteen, inside. Nellie orders red wine, so I is one of many forays into the inane one another, to know the same her into domestic slavery.” Again, means necessary. However, unlike, people and to bear the same exact this sort of grandiosity is imposed by say, Marie Calloway or Emily Gould, self-deceptions of importance. Dunham onto her reader, comparing Dunham can’t even take the risk of The relationship she has with herself to easily one of the greatest going truly “full exposure” in her her sister, Grace, is portrayed in a less authors of all time. It is indeed this writing (though, yes, she can do this than kosher way as well. Even when element of the novel (apart from physically in her HBO show). And “Dunham’s so-called ignoring tales of “sororal” vaginal its spurts and near orgasms toward at the core, it is her New Yorkness inspection, Dunham’s complaints some kind of plot) that is the most that makes her this way: wanting to about having to share her bed with incensing. The sheer braggadocio be provocative and meaningful, but Grace are almost more bizarre of it all, fakely masked as a veneer ultimately coming across as utterly literature puts a than the joint sleeping arrangement of self-deprecation. And again, this hollow. Sure, one could counter, itself as Dunham screams to her characteristic brings us back to the “What about people from Los mother, “No other teenagers have to majority of famous people from Angeles? They’re the worst too.” share beds unless they’re REALLY New York City who act in a similar But this simply isn’t so, because at spotlight on the POOR!” And thus, for as “down to manner—who have the power of least Californians have the warmth earth”—as “woman of the people”— skewed perception to believe in the of spirit and the chillness in vibes to as Dunham would like to believe normalcy of their reality, and that in know when it’s time to stop taking herself to be (recently evidenced by it there is a place for their vanity, and themselves seriously. New York- her new website, Lenny Letter), she associated projects. born ilk do not have this filter or incestuousness of can’t eradicate the formation of her Like another New Yorker capability. It is, for this reason, that entire character within context of the who came to prominence during outsiders must come to the city and false reality of New York City, born to the same era, Lady Gaga, there is work toward a more legitimate type parents already “successful” in the art a certain latent shame that this NY- of fame. Like Andy Warhol, who is youths of a scene (painter Carroll Dunham and raised breed feels for the wealth and responsible for the most insightful photographer Laurie Simmons). This privilege it possesses, as evidenced thing said in Dunham’s memoir, circumstance of birth is undeniably by Lady Gaga’s need to iterate that when she quotes the aphorism, what has led Dunham to believe that her parents “both came from lower- “I always run into strong women certain class from every action, every thought of hers class families, so we’ve worked for who are looking for weak men to is of the utmost significance, and everything—my mother worked dominate them.” Unfortunately, no will be useful to others—specifically eight to eight out of the house, in such luck occurred during the writing women—trying to navigate through telecommunications, and so did my of this psychological spotlight on New York.” the awkwardness of life. father.” The desire to defend living the children of New York and their Highlighting the minutiae of an elitist life on the Upper West Side unbridled narcissism, paired with an her existence may be her ostensible is more than Dunham can offer, inflated sense of self. shtick, but none of it serves to however, as she spent most of her when I was angry my mother forced do, too, fiddling nervously with the descriptions of her quest for sex: enlighten anyone other than herself. youth in the bubbles of SoHo and a me to ride a Ferris wheel and even strings of my purse. She introduces “This was not technically the first Case in point, Dunham’s (one of costly private school in Brooklyn. angrier because I liked it.” me to various Wilde-ish characters time I’d seen Jared. He was a city kid, many) non-sequitur moments in Admittedly, part of Apart from sentence and mentions Aristotle, Ibsen, and and he used to hang around outside a chapter entitled “Platonic Bed Dunham’s grotesque compulsion to structure designed for a children’s George Michael in one breath…” my high school waiting for his friend Sharing: A Great Idea (for People document even the most inane of book, the subject matter (or lack And yet, sadly, her rehashing of from camp. Every time I spotted him Who Hate Themselves)” prompt her occurrences (“I learned to masturbate thereof) contained within her prose is experiences spent abroad are far I’d think to myself, That is one hot to spew, “In response I wrote a short the summer after third grade”) in her frequently as vacuous as this. more interesting than listening to her piece of ass.” Colloquialisms aside, story, tragic and Carver-esque, about book stems from being a part of a Her trite interpretation of prattle on about college life at Oberlin Dunham’s so-called literature puts a young woman who had come to the generation of egoists; these people

51. The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4

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