Mason's Stoup 1

8/6/2019 Mason's Stoup 1

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mason's stoup",.-

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may nineteen ninety- " J issue one

." mystic.


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a n h o z o m e e n p r e s s p u b l i c a t i o n .

c o m p i l e d a n d e d i t e dby m . a . t a r b o x

a n d r i c h a r d m a r t i n


4/22

masons stoup74 algonquin drivemystic, connecticut06355

7 bleckner9 kevin debe11

11 dawn estabrooks12 gorey13 michael fitzgerald16 beckett1 7 richard freitas19 susan hennessey20 vasarely21 rachel jones24 webster25 richard 1. martin28 irwin29 matthew mclaughlin32 riley33 s. alexander pellish35 jeffrey shiffer36 robert sidur37 matthew austin tarbox38 mask39 tami zezulka40 bleckner

thanks to kim, elaine, tooth, the drawback,lowell tombstone visions, tseh!. and allthe latenight port grooksters everywhere. contents

magnetism and instinctive sympathy.

additional copies, submission information,and any correspondence whatsoever,may be addressed:


5/22


6/22

kevin debell

delicate construction

the fear you give me is areflection of your history, i know.with every promise i return,my words' own negation ismore apparent. i cannot waitfor your liberation muchlonge~, it tears me at all timesand everydayness is theprimary struggle. i couldwait forever.the way i live becomesinternal, breathing when you cannotsee me. i bless the outlineof your ribs when you areasleep. i choose my existencecarefully.believing that one more momentis the most i can possibly beg,because what if J change my mindor you yours and'it is all a voidof energy and time that consumesthe afterwards completely.i sense my own investment and iunderstand your reluctance. sittingfor hours because the light is cbangingand it is as close to the truth ~s i can come.you are not here, and i do not dareretell the procession.all i want is your most precious.i want to be sensitized.i am sick.when i come to you, everynext second rests on the last one.our future is likebuildinga column of tears.

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7/22

rawness

there is rawness from bothsides

bare naked lying therewaiting for it

and tellingplaying with it all

i need to get upmust leavethis vaca.ncy

thisw omb

in my thighit is sacredit is not sacred.

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dissolved in pairsgears are grinding. i livein time. i know i am onlydestroying. your will, myconstancy, this love.without regard, i ammaking sure. the suddencold pushes me back

insidefor that long.i know.

pushing the boundariesof universal controlbeing the string ofinstance that broughtme here.

affecting the cause.

d aw n e st ab ro ok s

milky supple bends, bowscurvy creamy bell-o shapeblows peachy grains overhilly hip dunedowels out crescents curve, moonmeander and glowingsugar crystal coatingfrosting shoulders, napewashing waves of ripplebitter trickle and daub hOllowsplay veins veer near swells-slope, swirl over cream stonedoughy dunes gathered glowed rolledinto (w)hole.

blood-suck

guttural concave and collapsedbreathing sucking inwards,blistering ripping outwards,tear the drumswell and suck

deep guttural depths drain, drawn outstrings attached to all inches of skinpulled--"give me it".

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8/22

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michael fitzgerald

smothered

Remember so one Sundaysmothered to thefloorBeneath the stumblecrushed against thefloorI can't see myselfNever knew what scotch wasIf you like it, why addwaterNo conception of drinkingFill your mind and drink itwholeI led myselfStared at your smileI could tell in theeyesI knew whatI was talkingabouthere I am

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9/22

A Truck Drove off of theNew London Bridge This Morning

The truck was headed north.The driver felt his left sidego numb.The driver pulled the truck to theright and it rolled like acrooked log.The cement truck ripped throughthe metal barriers as if they werepaper and crashed to thepavement below.Chester had seen it all.He stood by the wreckage as thepolice wrenched into the twisted metalto rescue the driver.Chester stared as they pulledthe body of the driver fromthe truck.

The driVer's face had been split in two.Chester wasn't bothered.He had seen many things. This was justone more.Chester felt privileged that hehad seen it all. When people talkabout the accident, Chester would tellevery detail.

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once tired

This mother did not wantto see. the new year.It plagued her days.She would be older thanshe wanted to be.This mother grew frustratedas she cleaned someone else's house.She could not see what philosophyhad to do with her life.This mother filled her emptinesswith cigarette smoke.She was too worn outto have a birthday.This mother had raised two sons,along with a head of prematurely grey hair.She could not worry about them any longer.This mother had always belongedto someone else.She needed to be her own.This mother was tired,and once tired shewould work no more.

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10/22

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richard freitas

the width of a wallsmoke from the burning incense stick

is in the treeis in the air

wood floorboards i grace with a new appreciationfor physical and interior

motives always won me over ubiquitouSlyi suppose moving oh yes we were always movingi couldn't help but want to stop

an~ stare and figure my mind floating free aboutthe shuffling too fast attorney fingers

through seeping endless reamswhich all reminds me of a sleight of hand, a child'swhere the baby first pulls up its night bound coversand the singer clenches the song and

the lover begins to love wide open.

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11/22

listening to rainspool on that silltiny frail lifelinefingers hold

pause

flipping over signposts in reckless pure randomof thinking men and romance, this allhappens so quickly it escapesnow.i have run down on options and solutions andoption, fearful of the might of others icensor myself, abbreviate my persona.i'm hoping that there you grabtightly to religious answers where wefind exception and release. i'mdrowning myself in a cerebral knowledgei learned second hand and pass off as my own.i've never been qualifiedfor truth, my language blinds and negotiatesits own selfish endeavor.part with me now and feel a cool linear whisperflOWing painlesslyunder fire romantic ideals.

sound painting here inroom full of new reallights--gardening thejuices for a realfantasia as my lifestrips down to itssacred.

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1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 susan hennessey

II I

Gurgled brook ponds far deep stretchedbeneath my powdered white hands that\sting like a beast. My four favoritecousins all diapered in poo come forlow old aunt to the zoo plankton zoo.Let gallopped red horseflies eat feaston our bibs for in our fresh rainthe kicks come in our cribs.The mountain forgives us our coldwinters too with a bounty of colorin cold fusion blue.

Firefly, fireflydip yourself intothe dewy grass.

1 9J


12/22

,

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J1

rachel jones

Poem

),Watch me withercrumble like a dry leafbrown sorrow that falls through fingersthe sky was gray as I drove towards yourealizing with siCkening edgethat movement through space and timeis really just circularnot even, just the illusion of movementand we all stand stillmouths ope~, watching,from the moment we are born.you would tell me this is not truethat I must unravelthe wires I use to hold myself in placethat I must ungluethese ragtag puzzlepieces that I put togetheras me when I first realized that I was alone,noone there to listen or cry or carebut i've decided that reunion is not possible,and that is not really methat stands at your doorstepand it is not you who comes to the door.for i'm lost in the the gray blurthat is time and spaceI've disintegrated into images and wordsthat mean something onlyto myselfi've given myself to the windrecognize this surrender?it means I've learned to fly.

,}

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13/22

Inheritance

this inner population is killing mefootsteps echo off the walls of my head,tiny fingertips pull at my earlobes,the murmurs of distraught little girlshuddled behind bedroomdoors.I tell them, my memory can't be trusted,but they want to hide in its soft, crumpled folds,I can only itch while they draw pictureson the back of my skin.

One chants, ~tight hands balled in pulled down pocketshut down, turn off, turn on and leave it behind,although it's always there in every eye and in everycaress the flinch comes up like vomit you can't helpit, animals pull away from bared teeth and I'm nowhere near God".

I tell her she's too old for her age.Beckoning me like a little whore, her daughterwhispers in my ear,

"Indecipherable, we all spiral down and alone likespiders or drowning flower petalsthat whirlpool downstreamtender crush.Alone, alone and hands can't reach,they're unrecognizable,like blurred COlors, and love can only confuse uswith its contagious angers".

and I realize time is crucifying medust fills my mouth as I am pulled backinto their skeleton arms,gravity tightens while they push the picturesinto my mouth, burn them into my brain."You are the keeper", they tell me.So I opened my mouth and let these words drip out,leaving luminescent streaksthe silvercolor of antique photographsor snail tracks.

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Birds

listen to me and i'll sing in tiny charactersthe name given to me by the leavesonce, i crumbledin front of river reflectionsi felt too smalllost in the sky behind me ,afraid that i would turn gray too and dIssolvelike so many raindrops that dry in the sunIIke a memorybut the trees and the sky loved methey taught me to stand before the windand grow rootsand call the moon my sistertouch the horizon with my fingertipsand kiss the sunonce, i wanted to diewhen the universe cut around me like scissorsleaving me silhouetted, speaking unspeakable ~ordsnow i only smile and use my shadows to draw birdsi've learned to be aloneand the opening gray skies smudged with brancheswrite poems for me today

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14/22

richard 1. martin

Fury

iShe collapses from the gut. Stomach suckedin and through bends the spine. Hips pullback, down. Knees forward, impact releaseof air, shrill gust. Blurt and gasp. Painand cold metal, stark pupils wide. Clutchand grab of hands for sleeve, my sleeve.Clutch, grab. Release. My back is turned.I am in the street. The air is cold, damp.Dank fall air, burnt metal. The Maverick'sin her eyes. It's back: careening, slidingliquid rubber on tar, the sputter of lightsas wheels strike median, throw machine upand over at her then me then him. Him.Pinned. Splash of impact: bodies and glassstrewn about the street. The road whereshe kneels, cheeks taut with silent scream,Maverick eyes wide.She laughs, nervous. Suspicious.

Stoup (def. 1)

L iStrobeslightswhites chasethe blues and reds to blur.Unsheathed,cleanbladesslashslicethe soulwith fluorescent rotations,.Auditorium operating rOom.The tragic comedy of a bus stop.(Laugh)tear.

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15/22

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iiiDead souls (like the electric-statics thatwatch over me as I write) are rubberneckers.Death is their fetish. HUmans are cameras,collecting data that lights the Screen ofmemory. Dead souls hold remotes: selectingsifting sorting.The Death Show.Wheel of Death.The Death Bunch.Twin Death's.Thirtydeath.Death Television.Married with Death.

We animate our Dead before we lay them to rest,colored faces cosmetic masks,ignoring the snickers behind the screens.It gets hard to breath.

vHair does not exist in the scream,nor flesh nor bone:only the voidand its vibrations.Cheeks are bellows: Blowing and feeding.Eyes: timepieces clocks shatteredholding the instant eternallywith frozen hands.The brain: a theatreplaying--again and again--her personal Zupruderslowlyframebyframe.the heart: a chamberthat echoesthe hideous cackling of the aUdience:a newly hatched beast within her gut,doubt.vThe screamisferocious.It bites, burns, unfocuses.A diversion firstand thena reference.Pulling and SUcking,it forgets(no, it shades)and,in the lapse,it numbs.

Vision telescopes,pupil depths separate reason from reality,rip soul from bonesfleshblood.Soul look down:All you do is head straight for the grave,a face just covers the skull awhile.Bodies are compartments, containersto be brokenfor the release.What's the worth of a hand, foot. leg, arm?Pain. The pain of the soulreturningto a carcass. Stretch and ripof new understanding.She can hardly bear it.

viHospitals are sterile asylums of shOCk.Bitterness and rage are masksthe afflicted don to disguisethe stutter and stall of sanity.Questions of date, weather,. and familyare pointless daggers stabbed repeatedlyat the intellect.Rising from wheelchairs,stumbles are bound to occur /repeatedly.

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16/22

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matthew mclaughlin

tv

twisting and coiling around your thoughtsgreyness leaks into your souldriving out the blacks and whitesleaving nothing but bile emptinessgrandeau promises and ideals never foundviolently shaking your headslamming neck against groundagonizing punch slamheadspinsnecksnapssoulssscreamsstake your limbs

and bend them around your necktake your thoughtsand twist them around your soultake your brainand twine it into a ropecoil it around a poleand chop it down.

ending in san francisco

a beautiful world to be born intoif you don't mind ferlinghetti's happinessbut if you dothen don't try to escape itbecause you can't.


17/22

seasons

schoolgirl skips horne june afternoonwhite blouse flowing ripplesribbons painted goldenin summer sunsettomorrow she will reachfor a newnow the red leaves fallturn gravebrown and diein the gutteredge.

jazz

twisting and gyrating to tunes whichnever heard in sad far gone erasstir spirits that never beforewould have beenwithout which those kidswho dOD't get itnever would have itwithout jazz.

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the stone 'vall

crumbling wall's cold grey selfcenterstonevein-marred craggy jutout in middle,weedtufts on top, dankooze at bottom.moist under rock breeds the lechers:smiling snakeworms fester sliming,lizards grin 'n grooze; widen rupturesunbalanced juttings disrupt supports,uncertain structures shift and fumble,undermining tremors and parasites permeate.

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18/22

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! s. alexander pellish

TRAGEDY IN MYSTICAS 4 DIED ON RIVER ROAD(STOOD UP AND LEFT THE INCIDENTTO THE SKY AND HER FRIEND THE SUN)BECAUSE THE YELLOW STANDARDRUINED THE BOYS CALLED "HICKS"JOKEWHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE SO FEWARE CALLED "HICKS"IN MYSTIC(TOGETHER LEFT ETHEREALTO TALK ABOUT PRECISE APPREHENSIONOF PASSING)AND TOGETHER LEFTCROSSES THE MIND OF SO FEWTHE TELEVISE CROSS DESCENDSON PAGES OF PASSAGEOR REGRET AND LOVE OF THE

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19/22

,

WALLOWLESSJADE NECK FRIEND I MUST ADMITIF TWICE THOUGHTYOU SOBERWELLPORT POST GRAVE KEROUAC ARTISTPOET WRITER DRUNK GENIUSFUCK UPNOTMUTUAL EXPERIENCEDAFTERTHOUGHT HINDSIGHT KNOWINGEXCESS HAUNTS ME AS WELLAND DISTANCE TO HEAVENSMILED LOVED SHARED CREATED LAUGHEDWALLOWLESS

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I j ef f rey shif f er-

Indian Hill Cemetery(Central Park R~collection)

Although I find myself on the skepticalside of d~j~ vu,tombless parks evoke scentsof childhood adventures.Grave memories, Roman candles, and aninsatiable appetite for knowledgedominate this background in discovery.

Struggle to imagine--What happens to young boys ...raised with the dead as next-door neighbors?Who are the neighbors of those without homes?Bloodshot from a bottlecrippled nomads in sheep's meadowand more recently, tombstones in Central Parkare felt in the futurebut blind in the present.Homeless are the neighbors, residence in limbo--Too often the simpLest answersprovoke the hardest of solutions.Destitute are the neighbors, devoured in parks--Again I ask--What happens to young boys ...?unfortunately, they foresee the sad truthof reality lost in the eyes of homelessneighbors, as they flock to Central Parkto become one in soil.In more than one wayparks are graveyardswithout epitaphs.

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20/22

robert sidur

I stopped to ask an officerthe directions to a place where I mightfind the answers to what I sought,but the only thing he was looking forwas the nature of my SObriety

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matthew austin tarbox

rhabdomancy.one.the loafers and dreamersof smokelung antiquitybottlecan the damnationsand asunder the sacrosanctvisions of a portersvillemystic (a teenage bacchanalwas how it was reported)so praise be to the loafersand dreamersof a smokelung antiquityand to the rimesters of a failed visionand to the beergoggled tasteof the tagalongbecause divinity always requiresa little hUmiliationto keep it saintly, you knowtwo.the recommendationsof past prophetsand the overearsof young men:with atavistic accentswe dismantle the doorknobsand mutter the antique prayersof a new england,and neVerthe Illinois of what is expected,three.the wallownessof a stumbled youthand the realizationof the thus decadenceawakens the temperanceof a drawback sobrietyand the divinationof things to corne. 37


21/22

tami zezulka

On a snow-shoveled sidewalka handsome fair-haired mansaid 'hello' as we passedand then he ran to catchup with us saying thatit was a long walk towhere we were going andbe would walk us.

Old scratchand phrygian dreams:Lots of bloodLots of feathers (black feathers)Lots of glass

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I told the black manthat sometimes it was hardfor me to move my feetI was very friendly; talkingI would just stand there forand then my feet WOUld startslowly at first.to everyonea whilemoving,


22/22

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Mason's Stoup 1