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fall 2015 2012 a new destination for gay literatureALA Rainbow Book Now Back in Print WHERE THE RAINBOW ENDS Lambda Literary Finalist a novel by Jameson Currier “Jameson Currier’s debut novel, Where the Rainbow Ends, moved me to tears more than once and, simply put, is one of the best pieces of gay literature I have ever read. Rather than focusing on and wallowing in the heavy melodrama that the AIDS epidemic seems to produce in most writers, Currier shows both the highs and lows. The lives of these incredibly well-drawn, three-dimensional people encompass all of the emotion that is found in gay/ lesbian life. The book is about creating a sense of family, and most of all, it is about hope. In Robbie, Currier has created a gay Everyman we can all identify with, love, and root for. This is one novel that I was sorry to see end. With this work, Currier has established himself as one of the preeminent gay novelists, not just of the 1990s, 978-0-9832851-6-8 but of all time. This book should be required reading for $20 every gay man, period.” Also available in digital editions —Greg Herren, Impact Also by Jameson Currier Dancing on the Moon Still Dancing “De ant and elegaic.” “Courageous.” e Village Voice Edge www.chelseastationeditions.com Fall 2015 Chelsea Station Edited by Jameson Currier Chelsea Station Fall 2015 Contents copyright © 2015 “White Magic,” poetry by Derek Coyle Chelsea Station Editions “Red Devil,” fiction by J.L. Weinberg, Founder, Publisher, and Editor: excerpt from True Religion Jameson Currier “Song of the Radical Faerie,” poetry by Stacy Brewster “Mr. Fortune,” fiction by David Boyle This publication may not be reproduced in any form without written permission “The Man in the Mirror,” fiction by Jameson Currier, from the publisher, except by a reviewer, from The Haunted Heart and Other Tales who may quote brief passages in a review where appropriate credit is given; nor An Older Man by Wayne Hoffman, review by Michael Graves may any part of this publication be Parade by Michael Graves, review by Jason Anthony reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, Finding Pluck by Peter DiFiatta, review by Keith Glaeske or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, “Education,” poetry by Fredric Sinclair recording, or other—without specific “Baldwin Boys and Harris Homies,” essay by Jarrett Neal, written permission from the publisher and/or author(s). Contributors maintain from What Color is Your Hoodie? ownership rights of their individual “Busted, in Holborn,” poetry by Chase M. Ledin works included herein and as such retain “A Conversation with Robert Levy,” interview by Steve Berman all rights to publish and republish their work. “Two by Gidney,” review by Keith Glaeske “Body Blow,” poetry by Jim Nawrocki All of the names, characters, places, “Leaving a Mark,” essay by Miah Jeffra and incidents in this publication are the product of the authors’ imagination or “Nothing,” poetry by Dennis Rhodes are used fictitiously, and any resemblance “Remnants,” memoir by Jameson Currier, to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. from Until My Heart Stops “The Boxers,” poetry by Derek Coyle Published by Chelsea Station Editions Based on a True Story by Jameson Currier, review by Eric Andrews-Katz 362 West 36th Street, Suite 2R New York, NY 10018 True Religion by J.L. Weinberg, review by Keith Glaeske www.chelseastationeditions.com “Ali’s Knife,” fiction by Kevin Allan Wells [email protected] “The Weight of My Past,” essay by Gregory Messina “Recipes for Success,” fiction by Michael Graves, Chelsea Station, a new literary journal excerpt from Parade devoted to gay writing, is published online at www.chelseastationmagazine. “Thanksgivings,” fiction by Jameson Currier, com. excerpt from Based on a True Story Until My Heart Stops by Jameson Currier, review by David Swatling Counternarratives by John Keene, review by Jarrett Neal Little Reef and Other Stories by Michael Carroll, review by Leo Racicot “Reductions,” fiction by Stephen Greco Design by Peachboy Distillery & Design. art by Peachboy Derek Coyle has published poems and reviews in the U.S., Britain and Ireland; in Irish Pages, The Texas Literary Review, Cuadrivio (Mexico), Wordlegs, The SHOp, Burning Bush 2, Glitterwolf, Skylight 47, and fathers and what needs to be said. He has been shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Award (2010, 2014), the Bradshaw Prize (2011), and in 2012 he was a chosen poet for the Poetry Ireland ‘Introductions Series.’ In 2013 he was placed second in the Bradshaw Prize. He currently lives in Carlow, Ireland, and he is a member of the Carlow Writers’ Co- Operative. CHELSEA STATION White Magic Right after I saw you with a new lover, dancing on the street, those green boxers I’d bought showing above your jeans, I consulted books of old magic for a potion. I spent weeks in moonlit visitation to a fox’s den, a raven’s nest. I fasted, invoked jinn, prepared nuts, herbs, a rabbit’s innards. I drank it and my soul transmigrated into a large white bloodhound. I sniffed all you’d left behind: aftershave, swimming trunks, boxers. Filling my nostrils with your scent I set off across fields, houses, hills. I would find your new lover and rip off his cock and balls. As you cowered in the bed, shaking beneath the sheets, I thought better of it. I picked up that pair of boxers we’d bought together, that pair your new lover tore off you earlier, and carried them home between my teeth. They lie at the bottom of my wardrobe. Another relic for your shrine. —Derek Coyle CHELSEA STATION Photo from Shutterstock.com From True Religion Red Devil J.L. Weinberg Around nine o’clock, the orange sky dissolved into a muddy sea of clouds, and night fell over the yard. Paper lanterns embossed with red, white, and blue flags flared to life on the patio. Guests circulated with lit candles, which they placed around the pool, the barbecue pit, and the dance area on the side of the house. Roger planted two Tiki torches at the back of the lawn, retreated inside, and reappeared carrying a box of fireworks. Through the darkness, two figures approached Seth and Martin at the top of the hill. Clutching a glass in one hand, Christy said, “We looked all over for you.” “How’s the work coming?” Beth asked. CHELSEA STATION “Not bad,” Martin replied. “We should move down to the lawn,” Beth said. “You don’t want to miss the fireworks. Roger always puts on a good show.” Martin stowed his script in his shoulder bag, and they clambered down the incline and stationed themselves in front of the torches, which gave off oily tongues of flame. Diana steadied the rocket launcher so Roger could pound it into the lawn with a wooden mallet. Wearing cut-off jeans and a white T-shirt knotted under her breasts, she appeared subdued—she’d switched on another personality. Roger mounted a candy-striped rocket into the launcher, and Diana retreated into the blackness that fell beyond the torchlight. When the torches sputtered flame in her direction, her closed eyes were cast heavenward, eyelids fluttering like moths. “Friends, it’s time for the fireworks!” Roger announced. A slow migration of people commenced from the house and front yard. Some guests picked up candles and used them to illuminate their way, like pilgrims heading to a shrine. When everyone assembled on the lawn, Roger said, “Beth and I would like to thank you for coming. This is the first time we’ve held the party in our new home. We hope you enjoyed the pool!” The crowd whooped and whistled its approval. “Without further ado,” Roger said, “let the fireworks begin!” He leaned over and lit the fuse on the candy-striped rocket, which lifted off with a whizzing sound and disappeared into the starless sky. Nothing happened, and a dissatisfied murmur passed through the crowd. The rocket suddenly burst into a galaxy of gold sparkles that expanded outward in several rings from its nucleus, and the startled guests dutifully applauded. Roger positioned a rocket with “Red Devil” stenciled on its side into the launcher. He lit the fuse and the rocket took off, seconds later emitting a loud double-boom along with a hail of red sparks. As the fiery embers cascaded to earth, the backyard was bathed in an infrared glow. The guests cheered their approval. When the hooting died down, Roger said, “The Red Devil never fails to satisfy.” “Just like you, Roger!” a woman’s voice cried out. Martin nudged Seth and whispered, “You’ve got competition.” Roger fired another missile, which burst into a halo of sapphires and diamonds. He launched two more rockets in quick succession, then said, “That about wraps up the main event. I’ve got one more rocket and some pinwheels you can nail to the trees at the top of the yard. As an accompaniment to the grand finale, Diana will hand out sparklers.” Roger placed a red, white, and blue missile with “God Bless America” emblazoned across its nose into the launcher. Diana distributed sparklers and matches, and returned to his side. He told the crowd, “Light your sparklers and hold them overhead, like the Statue of Liberty.” “That’s so goddamn hokey,” Richard yelled from across the yard. “It’s only for effect,” Roger replied. Diana slipped into a shut-eyed trance as Roger lit the fuse. The rocket rose into the air and, moments later, a deafening explosion filled everyone’s head with confusion.

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