Sunday, August 10, 2008
Featured Poet: Nathan Logan
"Nathan Logan is the editor of Spooky Boyfriend and a MFA candidate at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His work has appeared in/is forthcoming from Literary Tonic, No Posit, The Scrambler, Sir!, and Superficial Flesh." Spooky Boyfriend is an awesome, hip, kick-ass journal and I suggest everyone read it, memorize it, and commit revolutionary acts, citing it as the catalyst. Please enjoy the poems. And the reading is SATURDAY! $2 CHEAP! Florida A cream-colored llama stares at me from under a string of non-blinking white Christmas lights, so I know the neighbors are home. That llama is only outside when Betty and Ted go to Dutch Delight Party House, which is the safest swingers club in the state. Their kids are cool with it apparently, but they’ve got issues too. Their oldest runs an alligator beauty contest from the middle of the Everglades. (The winner becomes a nice pair of boots.) The second child haunts Daytona Beach in the spring, tries selling vibrating condoms and seashells to the oily, overexcited Midwestern co-eds. As if they need the help; all kinds of shit, palm trees, tangerines, etc., take to the air whenever hurricanes get lonely for people. …But it’s A Dry Heat Conquest is a type of quest, Tori hardly explains. We’re both standing in the bedroom, her hand clawed over my heart. It doesn’t sound like a nice kind of quest, I tell her. An overhead fan spins, the sheets sputter. Her little Pomeranian sits motionless outside the door, waiting. Waiting for what? A jeep cruises past the window, pounding some beats into our bloodstreams. Palms across the street wave goodbye. At 12:47pm on June 15th, 2004, in Gilbert, Arizona, I get what is meant by “dry heat.” The Grapecrushers The grapes have grown grim. Grapecrushers around the county are sad. With no grapes, they spend their daze in the beauty salon remembering "the good 'ole days," whatever those were. I don't remember any time in which grapes were happy, danced off their vines under moonlight, enjoyed fancy cocktails downtown. Maybe the season has made the grapecrushers delusional, altered their memories so that they think that at one time, forty years ago, they enjoyed their work and relished any occasion to get dirty among the rows of succulent fruit. They're so convinced of this, I almost forget the truth myself: there are no grapes in Howard County. Only squash patches.