Prime Number Decimals 3.5

Terry DeHart.jpg

Outcome #31

by Terry DeHart 

followed by Q&A

He often dreamed about winning, but in his deep-down he was all Eeyore and shit. Hailing from Gloomtown, USA, weighing in at slightly too much, he scraped the moss and lichen and nettles from his skin and exited, stage south. Then he met her and she liked him, god help her. He didn’t know why she was crushy on him, but maybe she was all about Eeyore, too. And they hooked and made another and another and another, all girls, and they loved each other very much, even when ducking incoming I-Hate-Yous and You-Sucks and I-can’t-wait-to-leave-this-shit-holes, and one by one their others did leave. He didn’t believe it would ever work, his career, but he had love and health and just enough success to fill the fridge, and still he dreamt and still the walls and trees and clouds said No, buddy, you don’t fit our needs at this time. But he kept working, cold and muddy, and he emptied his word packets into mailboxes and electron streams. He cluttered the world with evidence of his passing, but no one read it, until they did begin to read it, and then he got an agent to sell his weird goodies and the agent did sell them. The feeling was good but he didn’t believe it. He was still half-in-Portland, his middling-poor neighborhood where nothing ever improved. Not really. People came home with slightly newer old cars and roofs were repaired but never replaced while the firs grew taller and more ragged as it drizzle-pissed for nine months of the year and the summers felt like passing lies. It was in him, still, that patient despair, even though he’d hauled ass to California with its own no-thank-yous and we’ll-keep-your-resume-on-files and its highways fisted with get-the-fuck-out-of-my-ways. But he loved his wife, all healthy from Los Altos sun-running, and his precious girls, and they still loved him, god knows why, and then success came and it screwed with his head. He could afford to live without unenjoyment insurance and COBRA charming, but he sat in his corner and he couldn’t work because his dreams were never meant to come true. All he could do was sit, sit, sit, sit, but then something went bump in his head and he played the game of hey-everyone-look-at-me and he rode his memoirs bareback and his wife still loved him and he still loved her back and front, and his girls phoned from their cozy get-the-fuck-outs, and he lived long enough to survive the No of his upbringing as he floated all sun-spotted above his deathbed, coughing up the last of the drizzle-gloom as he rose above it.

 

 

Terry DeHart’s first novel, The Unit, was published by Orbit Books in July 2010. His short stories have appeared in The Barcelona Review, Zoetrope All-Story Extra, Night Train, Vestal Review, Opium, and other literary magazines. He is currently writing a sequel to The Unit.

 

Q&A

Q: What was the inspiration for this piece?

A: This work was inspired by the wonderful “do-over” possibilities provided by the theory of multiple, and perhaps infinite, universes.


Buzz Mauro.jpg

2 Stories

by Buzz Mauro

followed by Q&A

Actuarial

I was running some dismemberments at my desk, incidence of above versus below the knee. No easy task when you have a brother over there at the moment, but you have a job to do and you do it.

Some of this must have been showing on my face, because Sheila started coming by and leaving things for me when I wasn’t there. The first was a printout of a cartoon that I discovered pushpinned to my bulletin board when I got back from lunch. One of those Far Side rip-offs, this stereotype of a Native American woman standing at a blackboard inside a tipi with a bunch of little braves sitting Indian style at her feet, and she’s pointing to a right triangle on the board, and it’s called The Squaw of the Hypotenuse.

Just as if that meant something.

I knew it had to be Sheila. Her mother was only fifty-two when she died of liver cancer, and the day Sheila got back from the funeral, I could tell she was still in a state over it so I told her how sorry I was, but she only smiled at me and said, “Chebyshev said it but I’ll say it again: There’s always a prime between n and 2n.” I always felt like I was missing something with her.

About an hour after I noticed the cartoon, I came back from the bathroom and there was a slip of paper on my keyboard that said, “Find the volume of a pizza of thickness a and radius z.” I threw it away, a little pissed. But it’s hard to keep a thing like that out of your head when you’re doing bell curves on pedal amputations. 

So eventually the significance of π z2 a      dawned on me. It spells pizza. But who the fuck cares? 

A little later she came by and stood there leaning into my cubicle until I looked up. Her face was flushed and a little acne-scarred, but beautiful to me, as it always had been. 

She was holding up an equation, like a sign:  .∫ex = f (un )

I wasn’t sure how much she meant by it, but it opened up possibilities, the way equations sometimes do. 

 

 

The Paradox Paradox

She finished the hooks on the low-cut burgundy while he pulled on the pants to the light gray pinstripe.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked him. 

“Apparently,” he said.

“Apparently?”

“This would seem to be what I’m wearing.”

“You mean you’re wearing that?” It was old. People were starting to know how old it was.

“Of course. What I’m wearing is what I’m wearing. It’s called a tautology. Everything is equal to itself.”

“It is, is it?” He’d been reading odd things lately. Science. Books about people reading books by Proust.

“A truism,” he said. “So true it couldn’t not be true. I’m wearing what I’m wearing. How could I be wearing something I’m not wearing?” He did the eyebrow-smirk, his nailing-one-shut-on-her.

“I see what you mean. As in, I’m wearing a dress.”

She handed him a tie, the opalescent she bought him for Christmas, but he pointed to one already laid out on the bed. The paisley.

“But no,” he said.

“Look over here. Dress.”

“Yes. You’re wearing a dress. That’s true, but not so true it could never not be true. Sometimes you wear pants.”

“That’s true. Though rarely to such a formal dinner.”

“But it wouldn’t always be true. If you were somebody else, who never wore pants, for example.”

“But I’m not, am I?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You could be wearing something else, too, you know.”

“But: I could never be someone who’s not wearing what they’re wearing.” He looped the tie in the mirror, and looped it again. “And neither could you.”

“So, the opposite of a paradox, you mean.”

He did his thinking-for-a-moment, the I’m-so-reasonable. “Sure. I guess.”

“Like, I’m lying right now. One of those.”

“Exactly. If you’re lying, you’re not lying. So it’s never true.”

“And never false.”

“That, too.”

“I’m here with you and yet I’m somewhere else. With someone else.”

“Well.”

“What?”

“Except that you’re not. You’re only here, with me. That one’s just false.”

“Ah.”

“So it’s not a paradox.” He bent for the usual shoes. She was wearing the double-strapped, thinking of not wearing them. Maybe the gold, something dazzling.

“But that would be a good one, wouldn’t it?” she said.

“What would?”

“A paradox that was not a paradox.”

He finished the tie and wagged the tip of it at her, half touché, half don’t-start-with-me. That one always made her laugh a little, and she laughed a little.

“Now that would be a paradox,” she said.

 

 

Buzz Mauro has published poems and stories in River Styx, Tar River Poetry, Tampa Review, Poet Lore, New Orleans Review and other places. He lives in Annapolis and works as an actor and acting teacher in Washington, DC.

 

Q&A

Q: What was the inspiration for these pieces?

A: I love math and I love stories. Years ago I took a fiction class with Rick Moody and he said I should write a book of math stories, because no one was doing that. I decided he was right, and I’m having a great time working on it.


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Persuasion

by Frankie Drayus

followed by Q&A

Any muscle—

it’s my strengthmy lease on life

My agreement now official though only relatively binding

(lease being a temporary thing) 

every agreement temporary

time being the thing which is always running

out

diaphanous

~

--breathing in

~

Not every organ is also a muscle.

Honeycombed stomach, ciliated lung— 

Not all agents.  Affected.  Effect.

But heart is binarymuscle/organapplied not abstract:  

Heart not love but strengthdeterminationthe resolve to keep

contracting, releasing, ignoring the futility

of the lease’s finer print

~

Where you decide to stop your telling of any story is

arbitrary

~

Breathing out—

~

I have no use for weakness.

Abstract

Theoretical

where is the texturetincturethe sound

~

“Unique” means I cannot duplicate this

in a lab

means “unsafe”

philosophy, not science

If there is no proof

~

If has no clicking

Sounds likebreath

~

To what exactly have we agreed

Each moment being agreement, a negotiation

Accept or rejectaccept or reject

~

These days my body’s in the business of 

rejection

Does not believe / has no “faith” / is all 

action

which has a clicking sound

which can be trusted

acceptance / rejection

that is if a body could believe

At any rate does not cotton to it

~

My esophagus—

the way it opens—

this is something I adore

~

Polarity reverses every 500,000 years

But the heart keeps working exactly the same

A little engine travelingin the same direction

What you want to know is whether this universe is

closed

or open

~

I don’t remember

I don’t remember signing anything

~

If—--ifif—

~

The squeezing the squeezing is an argument

for which I’m ill-prepared

yes in this caseis what is forcedis the disagreement

The muscle saysgo with your heart

This is not an articulate argument

but rather one of feelingof brute force

Force does not care for the fine printforce says yesyes

~

I strength you.

 

 

 

Poems and short fiction by Frankie Drayus have appeared in Ninth Letter, diode, Per Contra, Third Coast, and Boxcar Poetry Review. Her manuscript has been a finalist for the National Poetry Series, May Swenson Poetry Prize, and a semifinalist for the Walt Whitman Prize. She graduated from the MFA program in Creative Writing at NYU where she was poetry editor for Washington Square. Recently she was Poet in Residence at Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center. Since 2008, she co-curates The Third Area, a reading series at an art gallery in Bergamot Station.  

 

Q&A

Q: What was your inspiration for this poem?

A: The shapes of words in the mouth, how they taste and feel, and the breath they require— these are as much of interest to me in this poem as the subject matter. Just like in music, I think it is important to leave enough space for the reader or listener to move about and reach her own conclusion.  Sometimes that even means being silent— quiet places have a shape, too. As for what inspired this poem, I’m always thinking about mortality and the matter of what stays and what disappears. In this case there was a particular life-or-death crisis. This crisis found a voice which bothered me at inconvenient times until I wrote something down. 


Timothy Black.jpg

2 Poems

Timothy Black

followed by Q&A

Slave River

Be careful when you cross. Those bodies

just might tumble and spill you into the river.

Those bodies don’t make too gooda

stepping stones, do they? They’re like logs

in deep water. They’ll spin on you.

 

Be careful when trying to span Slave River.

Be careful of the things flushed there:

sewage

shame

old ID badges.

 

Be careful of the thick-lipped nigger, 

black Poseidon. He can breathe the water 

and has strong hands that will grab your hair, 

grab your nose and pinch.

 

 

Elegy for the Moon

The sky, it seems,

has begun to decant the moon.

To make it purer, to attempt

purity. Hear the Snowy Owl’s lament:

 

fish scale moon, thumbnail moon,

butter moon. Your forehead

was the moon, and this

is my way of saying Good-bye

 

to you and your forehead

and the moon. Witness the face

on the face of the moon:

howldog face, preacher face

 

crater face. How can I say Good-bye

to you? How can I say

Down to the dogs, Heel to the dogs?

I will use the moon:

 

Good-bye, moon. Sorry to see

the sun swallow you, moon.

I’m sorry I wasn’t awake

early enough, aware enough

 

to wave ‘So Long’ to you, moon.

I’ll miss your hair, moon.

The way I brushed detritus            

of day from your hair, moon.

 

 

 

Timothy Black’s first poetic novella, Connecticut Shade, is in its second printing through WSC Press. He teaches poetry at Wayne State College, and is a Cave Canem Fellow. He lives in Nebraska with his wife and two sons. Timothy’s work appeared in The Logan House Anthology of 21st Century American Poetry, Great American Roadshow, and Words Like Rain. His poem, “How to Finally Cry,” won the Maravillosa Contest from Caper Literary Journal. He’s published in Platte Valley Review, has poems forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs and Decanto Poetry, and won an Academy of American Poets prize for his poem “Heavy Freight.”

 

Q&A

Q: What was the inspiration for these poems?

A: “Slave River” is part of a series of poems on slavery I was inspired to write after my inaugural Cave Canem retreat. “Elegy for the Moon” was written as a love poem for my wife, author Cynthia Black.


Dennis Mahagin.jpg

Triptych of the Eternally Equidistant Variable

Dennis Mahagin

followed by Q&A

A parallelogram 

shimmies when you squint, 

wags its hips, reticulated 

as any chromium 

crucifix 

for catching 

sun glint. A Pixar

desperate to fit 

in, rather than 

admit  

 

to loneliness.

 

And poor Isosceles, 

only one quarter 

of a man. Sadly, 

endlessly horny

as a right 

 

freaking angle:

 

... dreams all day 

of a hot sexy Rhombus 

with curves from here

to infinity... yet 

she always gets

 

away.

 

~ % ~

 

So I washed out 

of my MFA 

 

at UCLA. Sue me?  

 

So often, in my final 

semester, sequestered

in a study carrel with

this hot trapezoid 

named Bonnie 

on my lap, I kept 

trying to say 

to her 

 

what the square 

root of key lime pie 

did for Dorothy 

Parker ... what 

William Tell 

meant to Sigmund 

Freud... She understood 

a little yet never let on. 

She had a way 

of whispering entropy 

in the ear, her art 

of avoidance, apple 

for an arrow, split

infinity, citrus 

mist cools 

the callow 

downward

spiral, oooh

baby baby

 

ooooh.

 

A policy runner

in the making, 

even then 

was I, by 

the numbers, 

a collaborator for X - Y 

continuums they never 

talked about in advanced 

Calculus. I packed my 

bags for an oddsmaker’s

gig in Laughlin 

Nevada. Crossing 

myself, I waved 

to all 

 

goodbye.

 

~ % ~

 

Try 

instead, good old 

fashioned visualization

of a control group, canted 

axis makes the world over

 

equator by 

equator, one half

Theory, the other

 

Practice.

Pentacles, 

perfect rods and higher

arcana, the sound of high heels 

clicking across a pink

marble foyer, 

man moans

for an autumn

romance, bucking 

hedge trends, slim

chance, slim 

chance distilled 

by an April 

gimlet maker 

at Pimlico.

 

Make no 

mistake, hearts

must continue to 

sub-divide,

 

break

 

from tectonic

to atomic, 

the only 

common

denominator, 

 

tending

to repeat, 

tending  

toward 

 

baleen 

and saline,

sunshine paddlewheels 

in a Time of Gabriel, 

 

of Cholera.

 

An ocean 

of proofs

-- what I 

mean

 

curve, nothing   

we ain’t seen,

and solved 

already

 

or later.

 

 

 

Dennis Mahagin’s poems and stories have appeared in publications such as 

Exquisite Corpse, Stirring, 42opus, 3 A.M., Pank, Night Train, Thieves Jargon,

Juked, Slow Trains, Clean Sheets, and Underground Voices. He's also an editor 

of fiction and poetry at FRiGG Magazine. Dennis lives in Washington state. 

 

Q&A

Q: What was the inspiration for this poem?

A: This poem was spawned from the memory of a doomed love affair between an English major and a physics major. I wrote a draft, and set it aside. Then, I happened upon the film version of  “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and was struck by the paddlewheel images which I remembered from the novel. I wanted to see if I could get those paddlewheels into my poem. The triptych format seemed a fine means toward this end. Shortly a voice of Javier Bardem, as Ariza, called a title, it was on.