Download - Rocket Lawn Chairs 7
Self Destruct
By Ryan B., brother of Dillon B.
It’s been years since I’ve been stripped of my own control. Now at the pinnacle
of my understanding, I can’t help but realize how utterly weak I was against him.
I was foolish as to let my guard down, calling the bluff of an invisible anomaly
that threatened my entire existence.
I now rest inside this vessel that swarms with constant ideas, decisions, de-
sires, of which most I cannot agree with. How could I fight back against him any-
way? He was me to begin with after all.
I’m not used to this place that seems so confusing along with being completely
unrealistic. I find myself in a graveyard that I’ve seen before in my previous state of
being. However, this graveyard is not of humans long dead, but instead is the resting
place of failed ambition and several other catastrophes, all entwined with a grassy–
like substance making the head stones barely intelligible.
At the very end of a white stone path protrudes the largest of the headstones.
It is the size of infinity, stretching upward into the foggy sky eternally with no sum-
mit. It dawns on me that this headstone was placed here recently due to its lack of
shrubbery covering it, and the name clearly visible. The headstone reads “Kigireek".
Such a word must look foolish to those who aren’t me, for only my consciousness
could comprehend it. “Paul Dawson” is the name on the stone, which to me is no
surprise. It is MY gravestone, and here is where my being will rest forever.
I almost savored the moment I beheld my own resting place, for I knew I
would not have to deal with the harsh nature of the world any longer. The outside
world is now Paul Dawson’s responsibility, not mine. It would be easy to say I am
hallucinating, but I am as adamant as stone in my belief that I no longer exist.
I turned back towards the graveyard’s exit to see the only thing I wasn’t pre-
pared for. Any bomb, gun, or chainsaw murderer psychopath would be a red marble
in the ocean compared to her….She glistened with an unearthly light, her red hair
falling over her trademark white gown she used to wear to bed every night. “Emily,
my only handle by which I held onto life every day, was presented before me on the
out of place white path…What I wouldn’t give to hold her again, how many earths I
would rip apart with my bare hands to keep her with me. Only, she was mine, but
shut away from me by my own mind who has now taken over the outside as well as
the inside in which I, a measly pathetic pawn in life’s chess game am forced to be by
my ever superior subconscious.
I am not permitted to touch her, or even to engage in conversation for I am
no longer worthy. My own head is torturing me for what a cowardly person I have
been. I force Emily’s apparition to exit my new world, for her very image amplifies
my anger and subdues any rationality I may have left. I sheathed my eyes, trying to
redeem any sanity that could be salvaged. It should not be misinterpreted that I
don’t want to be here. As all humanity knows, the subconscious is simply the re-
ceiver of information by the all-powerful king that is the mind. It was my own deci-
sion to change places, to give my body a better life, to give Emily a better life, to
improve what situations I left behind that were being ever worn to destruction by
my own incompetence. He threatened me; told me the inner world he resides in
was not the place for me and I would ultimately fail at running my internal world,
thus crippling the outside…I had no choice, I had to try, and now the fate of the
outside is unknown. The tangle of information being sent is incomprehensible to
me. One word occasionally gets through the mess though. A barely comprehensible
strand of symbols reading “arkitaecal”, or in English, “dwindle.” I try to shout to
him, but all that leaves my ‘mouth’ are obnoxious booming noises.
Patient 001807 Status Update:
Patient is recovering from a single bullet wound (self-inflicted) to the
right temporal lobe. Patient has very limited motor function, as well as
a loss in the ability to speak.
Patient has little to no documented prior incidents. Patient sometimes
cries out in pain while pointing at his head, more specifically the
ears. Reporting possible exploding head syndrome.
Patient has had no family visitors or contact, excluding Mrs. Emily Daw-
son who claims the patient is a Paul Dawson. Further instruction is re-
quired on how to assess the given situation.
Report by Dr. Sean Henry MD at Chris Wallis Hospital, Ohio USA
A Poem for your Son
By Nick Pino
Life has a funny way of kicking
You when you’re down,
And the adage about rain,
It’s true. The clouds
Have more water when you’re already wet.
Unfortunately, son, it gets darker
Before dawn; and the light at the end
Of the tunnel, is sometimes, unavoidably,
Only the start of another.
I don’t tell you life’s shortcomings
To get your spirits down,
Or have you believe that you can’t
Make it, but as a lesson in perspective for those that don’t.
Because life has a funny
Way of kicking you when you are
Down and the adage about rain,
It’s true; The clouds have more water
When you’re already wet.
Unfortunately, son, it gets darker before dawn,
And the light at the end of the tunnel
Is sometimes, unavoidably, only the start
Of another.
I don’t tell you life’s short
Comings to get your spirits down or have you believe
That you can’t make it
Son that’s my lesson for you, because compassion,
Reads between the lines.
PHOTOS BY
JEANETTE CHWAN
The Jewels of Yawn
By Mani K-2 at last mine are the chaos
emeralds take forms of hyperion
in two great timespans
defined by Itzamna am I able
to exaggerate my purple
until it is silver and the seasons
have landed on a planet made
of platinum the alchemists joined
the sun and the moon together
a horned and reclining helium
hydrogen kaboom the languid went
elegance I can not fathom miserere
mei Deus grew up together
apart we together grew I suppose
the brushburns on my inner thighs
prove His pederasty and existence
in one fatal blow I saw Miles Prower
die thrown by Doctor Robotnik's mettle
hand to my feet head to my sonic "boom
blastandruin but I outrun them
because I'm faster" than the poor excuse
for Fyodorov is Dr. Ivan Kintobor
to be Psalm-fi(y-one-ed or eis tous aionas ton aionon distorted hale Earth in chirality
as Mobius spins around no Orient
the Echidna theology hailed knuckles
and bombed the earth with genetic
dark arts during our chymical wedding
and bore a Euler characteristic of four
is a holy number of distress at time's end
everything went better than expected
as a great video game and Saturday morning
cartoons are just as vibrant as the mandala
once burned on the metal sonic tip of a fire escape
I nonplussedly laid merciful Brahmandas
around the judgment seat of God and yawned
until they were Fabergé and Viennese choirs
androgynously electrified heavy metals
to scream the coniunctio of animal and man
and machine made love by difference
not all of us can be speed's yonder the same
(Fitzpatrick Has Got to Move the Ball Up the Field)
I'm I'm gonna tell you a story. I'd I'd like to tell to tell you all a story. I'm
gonna tell you a a story. A story. So, I says to him I says Jim, I says Jim, I says
to him I says Jim, hey Jim I says, I says to him I says I says I says I says to him
Jim I says hey Jim, I says hey Jim I says to him hey Jim, I says to him I says I
says I says I says I says to him I says hey Jim, hey Jimbo, hey, how about how
how about about how about about how how how about how about how
about how how about about how how about how about how how how
about about how about how about about how about them Bills? Them Bills?
Them Bills, how about about how about them? And Jim says to me he says,
he says Joe he says says he says Joe he says he says says he he says he says
hey Joe, he says hey Joe, he says Fitzpatrick, you know Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick
you know you know Fitzpatrick, he says he says says he he he says he says
Fitzpatrick, you know Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick, he's got got he's he's got he's
got to get get to get the to get the get the to get the ball to get the ball to
move the move move the the ball the ball up the the up the the up the the
the )eld the )eld. To move move the ball, up the )eld. And I says to him I
says, I says, I says to him I says hey Jim, you know, know, you know, you
know you know, you, you're right, you're right. You know, you know you're
right. And and that's that's that's m my m m my story my story.
By: Sam Share
By Sam Share
(Liminal Mythopoeisis)
This paper argues that the event, in its plural contingency, cannot, as Ador-
no and Deleuze have elsewhere adduced, be reduced to a calculus of availabil-
ity. If we take the Erfahrung as an a priori metastatic historial ontic phe-
nomenon, it at once becomes clear that the normative othering of the body
qua spatial monad is not a performative gesture but a textual archi-erasure
of institutionality and a modality of specular post-erotic hegemony. For the
trace is always present in its plenary absence, forming the poeietic economy
of the agency of the troping chain. It is the episteme, the hyperbolic ЕΦгфйю
of this liminal erasure, that condenses the telescopic hetero-imagistic seman-
tic disarticulation of the neutered pedagogical recondensation, or instantia-
tion, of the irreducible scilicet of paradigmatic self-referentiality. Now, a sub-
limated post-dialectic of oneiric pretextuality cannot be taken as totalizing
(re)feminine objecticity - but it can serve to recapitulate the desituational
expropriation of the heuristic narrative. Systematicity, in its technical as-
pect, is therefore a broader historico-punitive penal ascription of the Schiller-
ian play-impulse. The historitical 'instanteaneity' of a mythopoeiesis of post-
longitudinal disreferentiality then matriculates. Baudrillard would hold here
that the homostationary umbilicality of the shark in motion presubstantiates
linguistic hermeneutic topological defenestration. Residual splenarity oo-
relates creo-plasticity into an avant-transformative parenthetical intersub-
postpreposttextuality. Liquidized historico-substantial liquidity. Liquidity
ontic oneiric. Predicated empathic disconstitutioninuationanality. Liquidity
cognitive autoaesthetic inscriptive hybridity. Preentral staplary confronta-
neity. Indecanstalrr gimrreel. Ixtipotiel kstlrrrrr rrhxkl
By Sam Share
I’m simply trying to pay attention;
To be a good listener
Patient
Sincere
Eye contact
Attentive because I care
If I didn’t know any better
I’d mistake this for making love
Then I notice my vision plummet
I’m not paying attention
She has my eyes
I’m lost
And class has ended
It’s just an illusion that I can’t think,
That she is every thought,
Every drop of ink.
That every breath sustains her image in my mind
Suspending consciousness like a silhouetted shadow
Now think,
What thoughts are not illusions?
Any of them?
And the thoughts of insanity….
By Mark Zimmerman
Meteorites
By Tracy Chen
to Jarrett the could have been maybe, if I was named correctly. if I like the stars was infinitely willing to collapse. your name fits in the hollow of my cheek melts too slow clack clacked embedded in teeth banners and sleeves (is negative space big enough for me?) my ghostie, my tragic love braced for swallows. words. skies. long split in half, once every 200 days. I am only doing this to myself. I am only an anchor in your heart dragged along the bottom scraping up skeletons. I can only perch and sing at my heart your name a few letters strung with twine. It is too late. I am already drowned in your 365 smiles and one ring of green stars.
Sleep Little Ones
In Memoriam of the Victims of the Sandy Hooks Elementary School Shooting
The little ones lie in peace.
We mourn.
All they wanted was Christmas.
But still, some maniac takes them away.
“If he were spanked as a child, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“If we had more gun-control laws, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“If he had gone to church, this wouldn’t have happened!”
Cement clouds cover the sky and our souls.
He just went crazy one day and took the life
Of the one who gave him life.
She kept the guns in the house.
How would tougher gun-control laws fix anything?
I’m sure Hitler was whipped as a child.
I’m sure Jack the Ripper received the paddle.
I’m sure plenty of maniacs were spanked.
Can we let his mother rest in peace?
I’ve met people who are religious but are good.
I know Einstein is among the saints
John Calvin, Urban II, and bin Laden detest.
Can we lay this issue to rest?
There’s no guarantee we’ll
Ever put to rest the little ones,
The nightmares that divide us.
But to put the little angels to rest
In Heaven blessed,
And maybe one day
We too will rise again.
By Lesley Crawford
A Lovely Remembrance
By Morgan Fallon
The Wikipedia article about Meghan Callahan has no photos of her. It in-
cludes images of two of her prints. They're both of men comprised of perfectly
drawn connected ovals riding bikes. Oval torsos, oval arms, oval legs, oval heads,
oval hands, and oval fingers holding the handlebars of perfectly drawn bikes.
Their creator died because she refused treatment for cancer to spare the life of
the boy she was pregnant with. She died two weeks after his birth. I imagined her
husband imploring her to risk the life of their baby to save her own during the
months before her death.
It wasn't hard for me to imagine this because I've seen it before. My mother
died giving birth to my sister. She was told the pregnancy would be risky given
her age but she wouldn't consider terminating it. My parents argued behind
closed doors while the pregnancy progressed and my mother suffered various
complications. I was fourteen at the time. My dad explained everything after she
died, though I had a pretty good idea. He needed me to be strong to help him
with my new sister. "She looks just like her, doesn't she Matthew?" Looking for
my sister's resemblance to my mother made me realize the gravity of our loss and
the World's.
I discovered Meghan Callahan while at a coffee shop in the Heights. I was
skimming the reviews section of a magazine someone left on the table. I don’t
remember what it was. There was a picture of her playing a violin in what looked
like an art studio. There were drawings hanging on the wall behind her. The arti-
cle above the photo was a review of another magazine. The only thing I remem-
bered about its contents is that it included a, "lovely remembrance of artist Me-
ghan Callahan." I wondered who she was and what happened to her. I Googled
her as soon as I was at a computer with internet access.
Reading the Wikipedia article about Meghan Callahan spawned the ideas
which led to me getting closer to her than I ever imagined. The probability that I
would have ever heard of Meghan Callahan was almost nonexistent, so I won-
dered if there was a reason I had. The similarities between her death and my
mother's made me think that this might be more than a coincidence. This suspi-
cion was fostered by other similarities. My mother played the guitar, a stringed
instrument just like Meghan's violin. We spent our entire lives in this town and
went to the same college. I might have ran into her, but no possible sightings
came to mind. I imagined we would have got along quite well.
These ruminations went on for a week until I saw a poster for an upcoming
gallery reception devoted to the work and life of Meghan Callahan. To me, it
proved that this was more than a coincidence. It would also give me a chance to
see if I was somehow connected to Meghan. They say people live on in those they
leave behind. What kind of a relationship I could have had with Meghan would
be revealed by how well I got along with people at the reception. If things went
well, I might make friends with people who knew Meghan and have a lasting vi-
carious friend-ship with her through them.
I woke up full of nervous energy on the day of the reception. I wondered
what I'd find out about Meghan and if I'd get along with people who knew her. I
took off from work to get ready. I rehearsed what I might say. It took me days to
decide to wear black pants and a grey button down shirt to the reception. It
seemed fitting to wear dark clothes since it was a memorial, but not a suit since
it wasn't actually a wake or a funeral. I stopped at a bar for a drink to calm my
nerves on the way to the reception. I had three. Being fashionably late seemed all
right because I expected Meghan's friends to be artist types who never went to
anything on time.
I stood outside the gallery looking through the front windows when I ar-
rived at the reception. Pictures of people made from ovals covered the walls. Eve-
ryone seemed happier than I expected. I looked for a guy with a young child who
must be Meghan's widower, but didn't see him. I went inside and began looking
for the prints I saw on Wikipedia but couldn't find them. I began looking at the
prints in the gallery more closely. They were depictions of people made of con-
nected ovals waiting by street signs, using appliances, holding tools, and using
silverware. In one print, two oval men are changing a tire on a car. The objects in
the prints look realistic though the people don't. They are really beautiful draw-
ings.
"Hi," someone said to me. "I'm Allison."
"I'm Matthew."
"Did you know Meghan?"
"Yes," I said though I never met her. "It's really sad what happened. My
mother died the same way she did"
"She had cancer?"
"No she was pregnant with my sister and there were complications. She
didn't want to risk my sister's life to…"
Tears welled up from Allison's eyes, "It's so sad and so unfair."
She leaned in for a hug and I told her, "The important thing is that her son is all right and that we all had a chance to know someone as selfless as Me-ghan."
Is everything Ok?," someone asked while we were holding each other.
We broke apart and Allison said, "Yes Katie. This is Matthew. He knew Me-
ghan, he's really nice. His mom died…"
I could see she was welling up again so I explained. Their eyes welled up as I finished
and we all embraced in a group hug.
They told me stories about when they lived with
Meghan. They told me about the shopping cart
bike she built that they all used to haul groceries
and stuff around. "Oh yeah, I heard about that," I
said. They said she stayed in working on her
prints most of the nights they went out. They
pointed out some prints she did while they all
lived together. She focused on her art with a re-
markable resolve. Her tenacity impressed them
though it was sort of a barrier between them.
They were glad for whatever snippets of time they
could have with her. Her artwork was like her real
social life, the only companionship she really
needed. They were surprised when she met Mark
because she was such a home-body. They thought
it would only be temporary and she'd start seeing
him as a distraction. They were surprised when
she moved out to live with him.
"Is he here tonight?," I asked. Allison pointed to
someone wearing a dark brown suit jacket and
black pants. He was talking to a couple of people.
I thought I'd be able to pick him out if he was
here because he'd be holding Meghan's son,
which he wasn't, or would be exhibiting crippling
grief, which he wasn't. He was smiling and was in a better mood than I expected. He
didn't fit the profile of Meghan's widower that I imagined.
"Do you want to talk to him?" Allison asked.
"I never met him actually. Meghan told me about him and he seemed ok. She
was happy, and I was happy for them."
Illustra�on by Mani K-2
The people Mark was talking to left and Allison waved him over to us. I was nerv-
ous about meeting him. He knew her best and he'd be the one most likely to see
through the ruse I constructed just minutes ago. My hands trembled as I ex-
plained how I knew Meghan. I told them we met in college, in some gen-ed clas-
ses we took together. "I hadn't seen her for the past few years, but we stayed in
touch through email. She really spoke so highly of you." He hugged me right after
I said that.
"Meghan had so many friends, and they all seem so great. I'm still getting
messages from people who knew her who tell me how much they'll miss
her."
"Where's the little guy?," I asked. "I was hoping to see him."
"Seth is with Meghan's parents for the night."
"I guess I'll have to meet him another time."
"Sure, that could be arranged."
"Mark, would it be all right if Matthew came over tonight?," Allison
asked.
Before he could answer she told me they were going to Mark's for some drinks
and asked me to come along. I accepted the invitation.
On the walk to Mark's house, we stopped at a store for beer. Katie and Alli-
son went inside while Mark and I waited outside. He told me he was glad I came
and I told him I was glad we finally met. He gave me another hug. The girls came
out while Mark and I were still hugging. "Aaaaawe!," they said and wrapped their
arms around us. I knew I belonged there more than anywhere else. I haven't had
much of a personal or social life because I've been so busy helping my dad and my
sister. I have more time than I know how to use since she went off to college.
After our hug, we walked for about ten minutes before reaching Mark's
house. Allison stayed close to me the entire time. She sat next to me once we set-
tled in the kitchen. She pulled a small candle out of her bag and said it was a me-
morial candle for Meghan. After it was lit, they all started telling more stories
about her. The more I listened, the more assured I was that I was in the right
place. Allison began resting her head on my shoulder at the end of each story. She
would sit up straight again when Mark or Katie began telling another story and
then placed it back on my shoulder to punctuate their endings. I would have
stayed there for years if possible.
"Where's the bathroom?," I asked.
"It's upstairs, the second door on the right," Mark answered.
I began heading back downstairs after I finished using the bathroom but I
stopped at the bedroom. I saw makeup and bottles of perfume on top of the
dresser. It reminded me of how my dad had kept all of my mom's clothes,
The Four dimensions of myself:
Curiosity,
Haste,
Doubt,
And Passion,
Sweltering the facade
And the expression meant to curb it
Meant to relieve, but not to act
Since its action is hollow
Suffocating the feeling that falls to impotence
The origin of paralysis.
To cure:
Inform curiosity of its blindness
Remind haste that it easily regrets
Propose that doubt, doubts itself
And simply let passion, tire itself out
By Mark Zimmerman
makeup, and perfume. Sometimes I would hold and smell them when no one else
was home. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. There were Meghan's
blouses, t-shirts, skirts, dresses, and pants. "I miss you Meghan Callahan," I
thought in my alcohol drenched mind. I shut the door and was about to leave
when I saw a container of makeup powder with yellow flowers on it. My mom
had one just like it. I opened it and lifted it to my face, it smelled just like my
mom's.
"What are you doing?," I heard Mark ask. We stood in silence looking at
each other. Then I looked at the floor thinking about what I was doing and would
do next. "It’s all right, here come on," he said. Then he showed me to the door.
Above! Sweet Jesus— Above! Birds, above; planes, above; skies, above. Surely they must mock us! Surely the rain must fall a manifest statement of their malign fucking intent! And below us? Grass, Dirt, Worms— We stomp their fucking faces in. Above! Oh, Lord, to be Above! To tower above their piss-puddled, craven fucking cowering.
To cast a shadow; to eat their appeasements, their offerings, their prayers. Oh Lord, Lord, Lord— to be Above! (Or so at least a man can imagine, staring into them clear fucking blue skies up there.)
By Metonymically Meta-
Anonymous in Chicago
Dear XXXXXXX,
I keep forgetting/being too lazy to email you. This is my email address for
paypal (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX). I think that's it. I'm at work right now.
My arm is very itchy and I think it might be because I've had some Advil. May-
be it is just legitimately itchy. I've actually completed all of my tasks for the
day and I'm ready for the weekend, but though my boss has offered to let me
go early, it's because she thinks I am sick (though I am. maybe. a little. getting
there) and so I felt bad and I'm still here. I'm dreaming of potential soups to
make for dinner (egg noodles? something with chick peas? chicken noodle from
a can?) Yesterday I had an Elvis sandwich for lunch, that I made out of random
ingredients I happened to have (stale bread toasted to hide the stale. peanut
butter. bacon <two slices>. banana <half of a>. honey.) I built it up in my
mind for a few hours before, and I was afraid I would be disappointed, but it
was very good. If I were to do it again I would leave out the honey; though I
didn't use much it just kind of dripped through the bottom and neutralized the
peanut butter. XXXXXX doesn't like peanut butter because he was allergic to
peanuts as a child, and XXXXXX doesn't like bananas because she is close-
minded, and so I was sad that I had nobody to share in my enjoyment.
love,
XXXXX
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