a sketch–percussion by j. branden

percussion practice
on late night spines
brings full focus
on the irrelevancy
of hopeful attitudes for the morning

haphazard charisma in a metaphysical wreck by sgath

mouth-tentacles flailing, gnashing

with every slurred syllable

i glow with your shared words,

pulsating, naked masses

stalking insects on neon, on brick

burn all of your sheets

B into breathing and A into afflicted

condolesences cheap

process and again process

baseball caps, central air

a cancer spreading quickly then whimpering out

seething: tongue lashed between teeth

ornaments ripped from the walls

vomit them into the street

ignition into propulsion

drown in sweat

living vicariously through self

in ecstatic escapism

aftermath by david halliday

bought a blowtorch
at 4 thirty
at the hardware
to clear the cobwebs away
yesterday found four spiders crawling
out of suzanne’s mouth
said that if it happened once more
she would no longer
put up with their shortcomings………….that which may
……………………………………………………..be spoken of
……………………………………………………..and thought of
jimi’s buddy……………………………………is what is
is a Sniper
on our block ,
feeds his alligator slow fingers

haven’t filled out my income tax yet
eyes r cryin’
legs r cryin’
arms r cryin’
whats going on

‘wonder if its living that makes you sick or gets you better.’
last words grandpa said
before he let the razor rescue him
we pulled on our galoshes
carried him up from the cellar
into the backyard
took him behind the abandoned cars
shook his bones like loaded dice
and scattered him over the egg shells.

mr. joel collins–the art of the judgment

Let’s get this out of the way now: I am an asshole. Not in the “I’m feeling sorry for myself and nobody likes me” way, but in the “I’m going to tell you everything I think about everything and you can go fuck yourself if you don’t like it” way. Don’t get me wrong, I am generally a nice guy and I smile and listen to your stories and laugh if they’re funny. If they’re not funny, I will not only NOT laugh, but I will tell you how unfunny I think it is.
For example, if you tell me a story about a car trip you had and somebody had to shit so badly that they just rolled down the window and let it fly, I’ll probably laugh pretty hard. If it goes on to say that the shit landed on the windshield of a police car, you’ll have to pry me off the floor and possibly clean up my piss. That story is funny.
Alternatively, if you tell me a story about how your baby did the funniest thing because it rolled over and crossed its eyes and made a noise, I will stare at you blankly. If you end the story with “maybe you just had to be there” I will call you a fucking idiot and possibly smack you. Not hard, just a gentle tap on the cheek. That’s what I do.
My point is that I am a judgmental prick. I constantly point out the flaws of others, even though I have plenty of my own. This is usually met with a laugh, a covering of the mouth with the hand, and an “oh my god, I can’t believe you said that.” That’s right. If a girl is pear shaped, I will say it out loud.
“What if they hear you? You’re going to get your ass kicked.”
I have been in one fight in my life, and that’s when some punk kid spat in my face. I was thirteen and I punched him and made him cry. I almost got kicked off the bus for that one. Other than that, I’ve been able to talk my way out of any other scrape I’ve gotten myself into. If Peary’s boyfriend wants to threaten to beat my ass, that’s fine, mostly because any punch thrown is called “assault” and is frowned upon. I’ll just smile like the cocky asshole I am and see what happens. Most people walk away. Correction, most people get dragged away by their friends, who are whispering “dude, he’s not worth it, let’s go.”
Why do I do this? It’s funny to me. I don’t say things to entertain people; I say them to entertain myself. If other people enjoy it, that’s just a bonus, and makes them just as horrible as I am. I just don’t have the tact or the patience to deal with people (I get told to stop cursing in front of children, which usually causes a string of obscenities to flow from my mouth).
Better yet, I judge people because it’s FUN. That’s right, I said it. And part of the fun comes from finding new ways to describe people. Saying a girl is fat is too bland and not as much fun; it’s just plain mean. However, saying she looks like she absorbed a twin in the womb and wondering aloud if it will poke its head out is fun had by all.
I do draw a line at being mean. Being mean isn’t funny. Making people cry is not funny. I have my own flaws people can make fun of, but to be blunt about someone’s flaw is cruel. I’m overweight, I have accepted that. If someone calls me “fat ass,” no one laughs and that person is a douche because they’re just trying to be insulting. If someone says to me “sometimes I wonder: if I poke you too hard, will corn syrup come out, or just marshmallows,” then that’s a little funnier. Still not the cleverest, but you see what I mean.
Anyway, the purpose of this is to serve as an introduction to what’s coming: a collection of the types of people I like to make fun of. Know now that I make fun of anyone and everyone for any reason I find funny. I have no hatred of anyone, regardless of race, religion, disability, et cetera. So please, enjoy this for what it is: a look at a man with a twisted sense of humor.

legacy by dana judas

Born: Judas, Dana A, November 21, 1988 A.D.

 

I.

Impassioned. Rough. Carnal. No thought necessary. Gratuitous fucking punctuated by fits of shaking and long exhales. Limbs and pounding hearts. Coming. Going. His. Mine. It was as good as it could get at 16.

 

–

 

“Hey dude, what did you do this weekend?” Nate said, drying off from an after-practice shower. The rest of the team were doing the same. The sweat, cologne and body odor created a rank mix in the locker room. It was nearing the end of the season and the players would soon head back to their hometowns, many of them graduating and going to college in the fall.

“I just hung out and chilled, but Dana ended up coming over.” The inflection in his voice gave away his meaning.

“Wait, you mean Dana from class? What the hell was she doing at your house, man? Isn’t she your girlfriend’s best friend? What did you guys do?”

A shit-eating grin crept across his face as he picked up his hockey gear and walked towards the exit.

 

 

II.

My favorite version about the biblical figure Judas isn’t from the canonical gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-it’s the hybrid, part fact, part embellished version my Dad told me as a kid:

It was evening. Jesus dined with the Twelve. They sat at a long, oaken table, with artisan breads and wines scattered among them. They were crowded to one side, though there were chairs on both. Peter argued with Thaddeus about the legitimacy of sustainable shepherding practices, as Paul discussed selling his daughter to Simon the Zealot in exchange for 3 goats and a yard of fine linen. Jesus looked around while the rest conversed, and said, “I have a heavy heart as I speak to you tonight,” he paused, for effect. Their leader was always a bit melodramatic. The disciples squirmed. “One of you will betray me. You know who you are.” Some eyebrows raised, some faces dropped. They all became very sad. The disciples just wanted Jesus to get down to brass tacks, asking him one after the other, “Is it me? Will I do it?” Jesus replied in his usual hyperbolic tone, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me. The Son of Man will go just as it is written about him. But woe to that man who betrays the Son of Man! It would be better for him if he had not been born.” Judas glanced from right to left, with a blank expression on his face. Jesus looked down at him like a scornful parent, nodding his head.

“Who? Me?”

 

 

 

III.

My last name is infamous. If we share a last name and live in the United States, we’re related. It’s in short supply, and there aren’t very many of us around. It’s existed in one form or another since before the 2^nd century. The Greek’s called it Ioudas, the Hebrew’s Yĕhūdhāh.  As long as there’s blame to be assigned, my name lingers like an unwanted houseguest. Before I was old enough to understand the negative connotations it held, I was defending it.

“My dad told me that Judas killed the Savior. Are you the one who killed Jesus?” said a kid in 4^th grade.

“Yeah, but see, that’s his first name, not his last,” I countered with my flawless 10-year-old logic. My dad had settled many arguments at work on the same “last name” technicality. He had more than once gotten physical with someone when they dared to compare him to the Biblical figure.

When I was younger, I went to church every Sunday with my brother and parents, but Sunday school was a precarious situation. There was a hostility I could never place. Even as a kid, though no teacher or pastor was outright unkind, I felt all eyes turn to my family when the name or act of betrayal was mentioned from the pulpit. Easter was a real bitch.

As I got older, my family went to church less and less. It was as though the more illuminating discoveries that were made about Judas and his life, the less my family believed what we had been told in church.  There seemed to be a direct correlation between how many History Channel episodes we watched about the betrayal, and the amount of times we attended church with the TV special’s winning out.

IV.

Judas: a tree, a man, a kiss, a proper noun, a name, a devil, an actor, a turncoat, a traitor.

 

 

 

V.

 

I drive across town. With my fingers gripping around the curve of the steering wheel, I can feel the blood making its way through my veins-the internal pulse of my body. Unsteady, quickening with each passing street sign. I wish I felt more guilt, but all I can think about is pulling up to his house and seeing that face. Would it be good? Would it be worth it? Sometimes, can we justify deceit?

 

VI.

 

 

Judas
n.

1. One who betrays another under the guise of friendship

 

 

 

VII.

 

 

“Do they know where you are?” He locked the door and drifted towards me.

“No. I told them something came up and I had to leave, but that I’d be right back.”  I was nervous and anxious, worried that I wouldn’t measure up to past conquests and lovers.

“We have to make this fast. I don’t want them to ask questions. She’s losing it though. She can’t believe you dumped her. She thinks you’re a total douche bag right about now.”

“Just stop talking”, he said.

His eyes met mine, and I tentatively put my hands forward. I was crossing an enemy line of sorts. He knew it. I knew it. But, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.

 

 

 

VIII.

 

 

So Judas betrayed Jesus. Everyone knows the story. But what if there’s more to it? What if the tale is not so black and white-a story with a little more gray area. What if the truth has gotten lost in translation? What if Judas was a hero?  In April 2006, a papyrus manuscript, written by the Gnostics, was found.  It was titled “The Gospel of Judas” and relays that Judas was just following Jesus’ orders, not working covertly for some larger end. The Gnostics believe he was the ultimate catalyst for the crucifixion and resurrection. He was simply being an obedient disciple by orchestrating the entire betrayal, that he sacrificed himself so that Jesus could fulfill his mission from God. Logically then, Judas was just taking one for the team. If it wasn’t him, wouldn’t it have been someone else?

 

IX.

He was my best friend’s boyfriend. Or, at least he was before that night. He was from Alaska and played for the junior ice hockey team in town. He went to my high school during his senior year, with a pipe dream hope of being recruited by a college or the NHL. They started dating after hitting it off in a first hour Sociology class. It was fast, easy. He was her first. But by the time February came things became a little less stable.

We had Government together during second semester. He slowly started confiding in me. Confiding that he wasn’t that into her anymore, that he wasn’t there. I knew I should report back to her everything he was saying. Friends do that, right? But something stopped me. Something kept the words on my tongue, unspoken. Lust? Lust.

She and I had been best friends for more than four years. We were inseparable. Together everyday, we were on the same athletic teams in high school. I shouldn’t have even entertained the idea of him and me if I had any loyalty to her, but it was as though I had no control. He was charming and intelligent and he knew it. I was drawn to him the same way she was. I never planned it, never wanted to hurt her. He told me she would never have to know.

He was intriguing because he was different-a foreigner from the north. He was 5’11 and handsome with a stocky, athletic build. He had dark eyes with an even darker sense of humor. I loved the sharp glances thrown my way, the coy smiles, and would eventually love being on the receiving end of 10 years of strength and conditioning practices. I also loved the compliments. “You look ravishing today” was a personal favorite. Why didn’t I put an end to it then? Wasn’t I violating some set in stone code of honor? His emotional departure from her made him fair game, right?

Right.

But, maybe not.

What happens between sheets should stay that way, but it never does, especially when there are locker rooms and young men involved. There is no intimacy without repercussions and gossip in high school. The wrong words get spoken a little too loudly, and supposed secrets get out.

 

 

X.

 

The canonical gospels say Jesus was blindsided by Judas and that he sold out his savior for 30 pieces of silver, but those are merely interpretations of the facts, and have gone through thousands of revisions throughout the centuries. Another Gospel, The Gospel of Barnabus, deviates from these traditional biblical writings, however. It suggests that Jesus and Judas spoke openly to each other about the betrayal, and even that Jesus went along willingly with the plan:

 

“Look, Jesus. I’m in a real bind here. I love you. I’m loyal to you. But if it’s not me, it will be somebody else eventually, right? The Romans will never just let you go. And think what a brilliant publicity move it is. You’ll be forever remembered as a martyr.”

“Good point. Maybe a crucifixion would be just what I need to take this movement forward. I’ll have to ask my father, but I think you’re onto something. Let’s be honest, we both knew you were going to do it anyway.”

 

XI.

 

“Listen, I’m saying I never fucked him. You either believe me or you don’t. That was like, five years ago. I care more about you than half of my immediate family. I would never do that to you.”

 

It’s a wedge that’s still between us, although the hockey player in question moved shortly after graduation and was never heard from again. She still brings it up because she’s always known the truth. The locker room banter got back to her and she was devastated. She tried her best believe me, but I know she never did. She’ll never let me forget.

Like the story of Judas, there are multiple versions that I told her, and even more that I told myself to try and justify my actions. At first I told her I never went to see him, then I told her I did go to see him, but only to talk with him about an assignment for government class. The lies seemed to get more complex the longer the story drug on, with other people, just like the writer’s of the Gospels, filling in the parts they didn’t know or didn’t understand.

Even though the situation happened almost five years ago, we still have assigned roles, a sort of routine we have to go through whenever the subject is breached. She makes the accusation in the guise of a joke and I feign anger that she doesn’t have more trust in me. She pretends she was just kidding, and I placate her with my well-practiced rebuttal. Sometimes I get the urge to just admit it during one of these episodes, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If she knows anyway, then what’s the point? College and different schools will soon separate us anyway, and my confession may be the last blow. It would be cathartic to let it out-to stop having to see the look on her face when something reminds her of it.

Maybe I’ll never tell her.

 

XII.

 

At the end of the day, where would Jesus be without Judas?

 

the GAP

the gap is increasing
as the gas elevates us to
something that was once better
but trifly written
but this is meta
this is meta
and our communication reeks like
getting to bed much too late

once a day, every day, day or night by rickycrack

It’s hot outside today.  I’m sitting on my chair in my bedroom.  My dog jumps to the door, breaking my concentration.  I take a look to the right to check the front door.  My bedroom door is open.  I wait a few minutes, making sure there’s no sign of entry.  I focus my eyes to double check that the door is locked.  The dog chases the cat into my room – I am alone from human contact in front of my computer which quickly regains my attention.  Nobody can judge me and I’m not wearing any pants.

My apartment is quite clean for having two boys living in it, although my floor is riddled with laundry both clean and dirty.  My computer shelved on a desk in front of my bed.  I don’t pay for cable therefore I watch my television here, both legally and illegally.  I love Hulu and Megavideo dot com.  My sheets are quite plain and my walls still adorned by posters from my youth and sports articles from local paper, praising amazing games of the local sports team I have watched.  A copy of “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters” by J.D. Salinger rests next to the computer.  This copy also contains “Seymour: an Introduction.”  I have not finished that part.  I don’t like it when people explain themselves.

This website bores me.  I find nothing good on it so I go to a new one and find something to keep my interest for a few minutes, but my mind wanders elsewhere so I search elsewhere.  By this time beads of sweat roll down my forehead.  It is still very hot outside.  I hear the neighbors yelling again.  They are always fighting.  I hear a door unlockng. I pose myself ready to grab some pants but I figure it must also be the neighbors.  They were fighting in the hallway, why do people put their private lives in public constantly?  The dog whines briefly.  She’s afraid of the neighbors’ dog who had just barked at somebody for walking by their door.  I hate that dog.  That dog attacked my dog in the winter a few months ago.  My mind quickly imagines ways to kill that dog were it to attack either my cat or the dog again.  My roommate says he’d poke its’ eyes out, but I find myself curb stomping it in the windpipe.

By now I’ve switched websites again.  This new one is promising.  Several links catch my attention and I open them in new tabs.  I use Google Chrome.  I check each new tab one-by-one and they hold my attention for a few seconds but just as quickly I close them for a new one and I’m on the search again for something new and exciting.

Bob Brenly yells homerun from my living room.  The Cubs are playing right now and the game isn’t blacked out on MLB TV.  Carlos Peña just hit a homerun.  The Cubs are still losing by six runs.  This game doesn’t hold my attention.  I’m still searching the internet for something to grab ahold of it.  I’m still sweating.  I take a nearby t-shirt that needs to be laundered today and wipe my face off.  It’s okay because I still need to shower.  I imagine how refreshing a nice, cold shower will be to cool off with.

My phone buzzes softly with annoying beeps and boops.  My mom just sent me a text message from Mexico reminding me to pay my phone bill.  My mom, brother, and I share a plan together.  It’s a Mexico plan so we can call and keep in touch with her but we rarely use the opportunity.  I love my mom but I’m just not in the mood to talk to her at the moment.  I’m busy scouring endless webpages to interest me, and my task is not yet complete.

My cat lets out a loud meowing sound and jumps on my shoulders.  She likes to lay up there, but it’s hard to read a computer screen hunched over like so.  I stand up, sit her on my bed, and sit back down into my chair to stare at my computer screen once again.  I found a video that’s still playing, but it bores me so I click the X on the upper right hand side and continue to hang ten while surfing.

It’s time to end my quest so I go to something familiar.  My penis is beginning to feel limp.  I find what I’m searching for and my giant erect cock finally explodes in my hand after several coaxing strokes.  What internet porn failed to do for me I was finally able to satisfyingly ejaculate to pictures of your mom on Facebook.