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http://girlswithinsurance.com/

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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d i s p a t c h l i t a r e v i e w

1 8 J u l y 2 0 1 1

i s s n 1 2 1 7 - 1 9 4 8

l i t a r e v i e w . c o m

s u b s c r i b e @ l i t a r e v i e w . c o m

dispatchers:

Matt DiGangimatt@litareview.com

P. H. Madore

dispatch@litareview.com

P u b l i s h i n g a l l f o r m s o f p r i n t e d

c o m m u n i c a t i o n w h e n p o s s i b l e ,

t a l k i n g a b o u t i t w h e n n o t .

S u b m i s s i o n s r e a d y e a r - r o u n d . L e t t e r s

p r i n t e d i n t h e b a c k o f e a c h i s s u e ( s e n d

t o l e t t e r s @ l i t a r e v i e w . c o m ) . L o g o b y

C h r i s t y C a l l , c i r c a F e b r u a r y 2 0 0 9 .

T y p e f a c e s : M a g e l l a n , A c c o l a d e , &

o t h e r s .

f r o n t c o v e r : P H M

b a c k : " B u t o h " b y D a v i d O h l e r k i n g

http://hourmazd-isnt-here.deviantart.com/gallery/

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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http://cotlb.bandcamp.com/

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D E A R R E A D E R ,

Greetings from Dellwood Avenue (Hampden) inBaltimore. This is one of the shortest streets in thecity, so now you know where to find me. If you werelooking. I assume some of you must have been, but Iwouldn't have been easy to find.

Used to be you could get eighty ounces for fourdollars and get change but now they want six for the same.Anyway, I broke up with her. And her. And her. And her. Mygrandmother passed on. The world ended briefly.

In short, it's been a busy season.But I've lost the fire for this project, so again it's going

on the back burner. This one could be several years.Perhaps the next one will be in print (and still free) so keepin touch.

D R U N K E R ' N U S U A L ,

p h m

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

6/20

T

H E F E D E R A L

R E S E R V E I S A

F U C K I N G L I E .

T H I S F R E E D O C U M E N T A R Y L A Y S I T D O W N .

W A T C H W I T H C A U T I O N .

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-515319560256183936

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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T H E G A B A R D I N E

T H R O N E O F

S A R A S O T A

M ike Ostrov

The whole neighborhood was in love with Ms. Albionsshoulders. Worse than launching war, the beauty of

these shoulders summoned irrational sentimentality in eachadmirer. Philosophy, gossip, sportnone drew theintellectual effort and self sustaining curiosity as did hershoulders.

Debates raged in town hall and taverns over whetherit was because of the curves of shoulders were so sexy, or

wasnt it true that curves arent sexy, curves are just curves,and isnt it the shoulders themselveswhole, angular, and sorhythmically unified as they arethat are the focus of ouraffection?

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Not affection, sentiment, a drinkless man would correct.I d t rade my best coatthe beaveriest, most insulated, and leastlikely to shedfor the chance to skate my fi ngers down thoseshoulders just once, the hatless men would say. I d sett le for oneof my fingers, placed smack in between those blades, the coatlessman would say. I bet her showers full of a mill ion types of bott les,all different lotions, one for each day, one for each color bra strap,one for each degree of humidity.

When it was too hot to go out to a tavern theyd lay,coatless and hatless and drinkless, in their living rooms, five

to a couch at least, and wait. The couch, they observed, hadarms and a back, but no shoulders.Groups of girls pace in front of Ms. Albions

apartment and feel that somehow fingers just wouldnt dofor those shoulders, as the men imagine. They are her fans.They fear fingers are not to be trusted. A fing wouldpotentially be insulting, crude and clumsy, to risk. Where can

we find theappropriate instruments of worship?They try toconjure a sense better than touch.

I havent touched Ms. Albion either, but Im sitting withher now while shes making a decision. That exactdecision. Its a horrible thing to watch, truthfully, but itsrare enough to keep me in the room.

Shes a sharp lady. In all places. Dont pretend thosebonesclavichord, ulnaarent your favorite part. I knewthat I couldnt slip anything sentimental past her, nothingabout my sleepless nights thinking of her or my wakelessdays dreaming of her.

Shes suspicious of sentiment; shes an embroiderer.

You can find Ms. Albions work all over town:The barbers smocks are tie dyed and have Mymemorys as patchy as my beard stitched in wool aroundthe neck. The ceramicists are smockless, but Ms. Albion isbrainstorming ideas for when they get smocked.

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In the dugout, the high school baseball team passesaround an Albion made kerchief on hot, cloudless days thatsays, Gnats are Gnasty.

Shes now been hired by the bank to design the

foreclosure signs. One farm house just inside town has asign that reads, The crops didnt fail, I did. The one nextdoor says, Sad Cow Disease. She did those just for themoney.

So I brought a lot less of myself. I knocked at herdoor and asked her what she might embroider on my shirt

pocket and on my button fly. That was enough to get meinside, for her to offer me a seat on her self upholsteredgabardine sofa. Its made out of old gabardine suits andtailor made Army uniforms from the early twentiethcentury.

While shes making up her mind, I check out herslippers. She embroidered them, of coursethe left says

New Division, the right says Joy Order. I bring up theweather, comment on the torturous asphalt that rises up tosear your feet and the waterless grass. She swears she getsoff on hot grass, which means that she doesnt wear shoesoutside.

Who cares about her shoes! the girls outside the windowscream.

I care about Ms. Albions shoes. Im shoeless. I getaround less than the coatless and the hatless. And theyrejust laying on their couches, remember.

Having decided, she cracks her jaw and gets up topress coffee. Shell soon pour the coffee and let me knowwhat my pocket and fly have been telling her. Coffee

pouring is code for an answer like: It s not platonic, it s notsexual, I just Im relieved, Ill tell myself. It really was neither of

nothing. Which would explain my feeling everything. Theresa lot not covered by platonic and sexual.

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For me, for instance, theres this inner lesbian folksingerism that I wonder if she caught onto. The lesbianfolksinger loves a woman in a certain way, notices distancein a certain way. That part of me is crushing on her

shoulders, hard. When I look at Ms. Albions shoulders, itsthat part that falls breathless and starts thinking in delicateand destructive guitar licks. Normal, shoeless me keepsbreathing.

Theres more between Ms. Albion and me thanplatonic. Theres more distance than the sexual. The lesbian

folksinger turns sentiments into just the way it goes.Hats and coats have started flying through thewindows and I should go. The others are protesting myproximity, that I should be so lucky to even have a coffeeanswer. I should go. Should I leave something? She putcream and sugar in my coffee without asking. I ask her forhoney. Should I leave something for her to remember me

by? I need a failsafeI quickly inspect her self embroideredthrow pillows for clues. She sees me looking and tells methe theme of her living room is Imitation of Life: REDUX.The gabardine sofa makes more sense now.

Ill leave something small somewhere, between thecushions. No, under the pillow, the corner of my small thingsticking out. An earlobe sized silver button saying, Push ForWhat Comes. Then, she pours me more coffee.

What could be worse than if someone looking backsaid that I was not grateful? I tell you, I am grateful.Nothing is merely nothing. This nothingness between meand Ms. AlbionIm grateful that theres a between. I

thought I could rely on her to not mistake gratitude fordesperation, but I was wrong, and its hardly her fault.Those shoulders, theres more weight on them than eyes. Ishould say how heavy eyes are. There are no eyeless men orwomen in this town and blind men just wont do for Ms.

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Albion.She wont go barefoot in her own house. Shoeless as I

am, it hurts me that Ms. Albion is so fond of her slippers.Theyre boat shoes, really, she says.

I dont always mind that Im shoeless. I have niceenough feet. Theyre the feet of a lesbian folksinger, Improud to saytough and dusty, swollen from standing solong, but cornless and arched enough to keep some of mysole off the incinerating asphalt. I mind being the only oneshoeless, though, sometimes. I dont play football with

everybody. I do well on beaches.She is always sleeveless, of course. She was made for80s work out videos.

Over our second coffee, she tells me a secret: she hasno secrets. The coatless and hatless invent truths for her.They handle the concealing also.

Why dont you just wear a shawl? I ask her.

Why dont you wear Wonder Bread bags on your feet?she responds. I dont think that really answers my question.She has options, I dont. She must think the opposite.

She wishes that she lived in a less sentimental town.She points to the statue of the young sailor kissing a youngnurse that stands in the park beside the bay as a primeexample, and also the fact that we have not one, but two

fine arts colleges. The sentiments are built into the town, wecant undo that.

What we can do is decide not to be tragic anymore.Although the fact that she wont let me convince her thatshe deserves to not be tragic leads me to face my owntragicness. But I remember to be grateful. I would rather be

generous than grateful.After our second cup, she stands and says shes nowcoffeeless.

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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Coatless, shoelessthe voluntarily touchless marchersoutside the windowwed all be fucked come winter ifwinter ever came, but wed remain pitiable.

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

13/20

http://frsh.in/oikos

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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H O L I D A Y

Russell Jaffe

Shoulder pads. Smearing rain. A brick effigy of your aunt thatbought you a Nintendo, then a Turbo Grafix, in theholewherethestore was. The X Men cards in the basement truck. Survival. Thesmell of yellow. The dust. Al ien act ion figures came with Facehuggerplastic rings. Wear them today proudly. Wear a capeof your t atteredblanket. It s not a surrender rag, it s a hoisted picture of you brieflybefore it s nothing. Isnt that always the way. Record a moment forthe vault . Safety. The vomit in t he corners. Thesaliva in your Snoopy

sheets. Clothes items with the word power in front of t hem. Hardbookshelf edges and what they would say to the edge of yourforehead. And the shoulder pads. The slope, the fall off. Land in apile of cassettes. The broken driveway under your Huffy. Theneighborhood boy and the T 2 Sour Meltdowns he offered l ike thehuddle of a textbook picture community in a strange land. SourWarheads. The way they galvanize your mouth and the trickles of

milk. You land in lunchboxes and cassettes. Everythings gettingsmaller but you. The most beautiful landscapeyoull ever see is GiantWorld in Mario 3. You stomped around your parents room in momsheels because it was so weird. One more day atop mountains of 8 track tape. Well ruletheworld of thestrewn just onemoretime.

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

15/20

http://alicebluereview.org/

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

16/20

T H E M E C H A N I C

I N V E S T I G A T E S

A L E A K

George M oore

Inside where warmth is a matter of matter bursting forth,the mechanic investigates a hissing leak that detonates

his mind, particles of which spin off into the mechanisms ofa universe lockstep with the fates and the falling of unseenstars. He explores a self reversed into the metals of theearth cautious of the transformations and combustions oftime and equally as hungry for the simple explanation,

something above the noise of the radio which is left on, thatwill make his private life as easily managed as this 392Hemi. The mechanic uncovers the solar eclipse of aircleaner's heart and words in the ear of the tire, andwhispers deep in the cave of the half empty tank, and so

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uncovers the memory of his first real combustion, thedisplaced punishment of his mother's crash, the siren of thegears as they whine his long road shut. And the leak goeson, as if a hotspring in a natural wilderness, somewhere

behind the left eye, goes on finally into his sons life, andmaybe now his sons sons, all the body work done togetherand yet still leaking, the hands just not quick enough to stopup the hiss and whine, or the world unfixed even with thebest chimeric wrench.

http://thievesjargon.com/

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

18/20

G e o r g e M o o r e h a s

p u b l i s h e d p o e t r y

i n T h e Atlantic

,

Poetry, N o r t h

A m e r i c a n Review

,

C o l o r a d o Review,

Orion, a n d

i n t e r n a t i o n a l l y t h e

l a s t c o u p l e y e a r s ,

w i t h p o e m s i n

E u r o p e a n d A s i a .

R u s s e l l J a f f e l i v e s

i n I o w a C i t y . H i s

c h a p b o o k G(*)D

i s

f o r t h c o m i n g f r o m

P u d d i n g H o u s e

P r e s s . H e e d i t s t h e

o n l i n e p o e t r y

j o u r n a l O Sweet

Flowery Rosesa n d

c o l l e c t s 8 - t r a c k s .

i k e O s t r o v

o o m e d h i m s e l f

o b e i n g a w r i t e r

y l i s t e n i n g t o t o o

a n y T o w n e s

a n Z a n d t , J a m e s

r o w n , a n d

e r r o n s o n g s a s a

i d . H e a i m s t o d i e

n D e n v e r ,

o l o r a d o .

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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R e t u r n i n g F a l l ' 1 1 / S p r i n g ' 1 2 f o r

a f o u r t h r o u n d . I t ' s t h e w h o l e

p r o m o t i o n / b u i l d i n g a b u z z t h i n g

n o b o d y t e l l s y o u i s t h e h a r d e s t

p a r t . P l e a s e d o p a s s t h e i s s u e s

a r o u n d . T h e l o u d e r t h e b u z z i n

t h a t p a r t i c u l a r i n b o x , t h e m o r e

l i k e l y w e a r e t o g e t t h a t n e x t

e p i s o d e r o l l i n g t h e c r e d i t s f o r

y o u . T h a n k s f o r r e a d i n g t h i s f a r .

( P . H . M a d o r e & M a t t D i G a n g i 1 3 O c t o b e r 2 0 0 6 )

8/4/2019 dispatch 3.3

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