Number 8, January 1999 IN THIS ISSUE... Mourner in Kohl by Jane Carr Purple by Justin Elga Smokewagon by Alex Vermeychuk Eating Flounderly by Megan Gilman Dissection by Justin Goldberg

MOURNER IN KOHL They pay me to stand over the grave and beat my breast. The tearing of the hair is for effect, a gesture to complement the water on my cheeks; they catch the light in the mirrors of my silver false lashes. Today, I am a widow, tomorrow-what? Perhaps the daughter whose duty wails, Oh mother the Achaeans take me away lonely (waiting) before I flee for my cigarette break, shifting With the shadows that dart between buildings, structures, crumbling, looming slanted against the stilted light. I am the best, I know it. My hooker friends lay tricks without a smile but I know better. Dig the nails in, just so, at the tip of my scalp, pulling the memory with the hair, All is a thrust of downward motion and created sound. The tears dry dark like mascara diamonds in dry cold. I am the queen of Cooper Avenue and not one of them knows my secret. That I would powder my toes with sand or eat live chickens from a paper bag to forget. Every gig it's all the same, your face in another box wood and crumbling paper. --Jane Carr