Cabildo Quarterly #10

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Cabildo Quarterly.
Issue number ten! Fall 2016. Pittsburgh PA; Cape Cod.
They’ll crucify you, you’re not part of the establishment.
Dance to the Music
an excerpt from
Medication Time: An Epic Poem
by Kat Georges
The local college bar deejay
plays the current hits
including one dubbed
in a review that went viral
as “kinda rape-y.”
Kinda rapey.
The uncensored version of the video
featured naked young women in heels
dancing with men in suits.
“Nightclub lotharios.”
The song used a riff ripped off
from another song popular in an age
where no songs were dubbed
“kinda rape-y.”
A women at a college bar
who had read the “kinda rape-y” review
informed the deejay playing the song
that hearing it made her “uncomfortable.”
She suggested that he stop playing it immediately
and instead play more pleasant songs, aligned
with her identification of the bar as
“a safe space.”
A bar with 20 shelves of liquor
filled with men and women eager
to drink, get drunk, have sex,
and sleep in late the next morning.
In another era, the leader of a popular band
was quoted as saying,
“The purpose of a bar band is
to make people relax on Friday nights,
dance and drink, and feel so happy by
the end of the night that they just
want to go home and screw.”
The purpose of a bar. A band.
Music. Kinda rape-y.
The deejay told the woman that he
refused to stop playing the song.
The woman complained to the bar owner.
The dee jay was fired that night.
Word got out online and soon
the name of the woman did too.
She was condemned.
Vilified. Shamed and called
filthy names for years.
The deejay remains
Who’s right?
Who’s wrong?
We keep pointing fingers
at each other these days
while the real villains
stare down at us from afar,
chewing gum and
handing out pills.
Medication time.
Time for a change.
Medication time.
Spit it out.
Then run like hell.
KAT GEORGES is the author of
Our Lady of the Hunger
and co-director
of Three Rooms Press, a fiercely independent press inspired by dada,
punk, and passion. She lives in Greenwich Village, NY.
Karl Berger, Ingrid Sertso, Ken Filiano
an exceprt from
The Other Night At Quinn’s
by Mike Faloon
“Sarcasm is the week at work. Snarky shouldn’t even be a word.”
—Minus 5, “Sweet”
I have a morning flight out of LaGuardia. It leaves too early to
take a train to the airport and a taxi would cost too much. My friend Pedro
has been working near LaGuardia for the past several weeks. He usually
leaves for work long before sunrise. He offers me a ride and before I know it
his headlights are gliding up the driveway at half past four. I offer him
money for gas, but he declines. I’m extremely grateful and tell him numerous
times. He politely changes topics. He’d rather talk about the Mets.
Vocalist Ingrid Sertso gestures, places her fingers to her lips, like
a chef who’s found the right blend. Karl Berger’s glasses rest on the tip of his
nose as he moves to his left, dances behind his vibraphone. He finishes a
run, then bounces, skips, back to his right just in time to reel off the next
one. Sertso pauses, tunes into Berger’s vibes, and lets her fingers move across
an imaginary keyboard. Between them sits bassist Ken Filiano, tethering the
lighter-than-air sounds of his bandmates.
I arrive at the airport to find that my flight’s been delayed, which
puts my connecting flight in jeopardy, which makes me wonder if I’ll be able
to contact the friends picking me up in L.A. I’m tired and hungry and grow-
ing impatient. I’m starting to feel the day slip away when I drop my water
bottle and accidentally spray the woman standing behind me. I kneel down
to clean up and notice that her bag is wet too. Before I can apologize she’s
handing me a tissue. Then she takes out one for herself and asks if I got any
on me.
First Pedro, now the water bottle lady, at every turn the day is
marked by uncommon generosity. Even the book I’m reading, Mike Sacks’
Poking a Dead Frog, fits the profile. Much of the book is devoted to young
writers and performers. It could easily slide into a series of chats with the self
satisfied, but his range of subjects and ever-present curiosity are too great. He
interviews sitcom pioneer Peg Lynch, 96-years-old and still writing each day,
about Ethel and Albert, the radio and TV show she created, wrote, and
starred in back in the ‘40s. Later, when he references old television shows, he
provides bits of context (“Taxi (1978-1983)”) rather than presume he’s
preaching to the converted.
Sertso sits on a stool. A black scarf rests around her neck, a half a
dozen bracelets on each wrist, her purse hanging from a music stand. She
often sings with her eyes closed, like the notes are there to be sensed, felt
more than seen, found rather than created. She guides the lyrics, shepherds
language into the world. Her lyrics are unflinchingly earnest but the rhythms
consistently connect.
“Time is in this
Time is in
Time is
She loops back to the first line and repeats the sequence:
“Time is in this
Time is in
Time is
Seeing that pattern on the page reminds me of a computer class I took in
high school, probably ’85 or ‘86. Dave Finney and I were trying to skate by.
We typed up a list of our favorite groups, including his band:
10 Kinks
20 Yes
30 Minutemen
40 Moody Blues
50 Milk Cow Pumpkin
60 Traffic
70 Eric Clapton
80 Black Flag
90 Monkees
100 Go to 10
It seems that we spent all of our class time running that simple program,
watching the names scroll over and back across the green-on-black screen,
then adding more band names. This is the future, we thought dismissively,
distracting and fun and useless. (If only we’d started developing apps.)
After each song Sertso, Berger, and Filiano grin at each another.
They reach out and clasp hands, call out each other’s names. My old punk
bands used to exchange looks of pleasant surprise whenever we ended a song
in unison. But this trio has been active for decades, landed thousands of
songs, and yet each one still merits a momentary celebration. They are un-
commonly generous and supportive. Tonight it’s not about bending time sig-
natures or displays of virtuosity. It’s not about venturing into the
unexpected. It’s about reframing the expected.
During my layover in Dallas I step aside to charge my phone. Still
no word from my friends in L.A., but fate insists on reiterating its “People
are inherently good” theme for the day. As I’m checking the phone’s
progress I hear a gentle voice over my shoulder. “Excuse me, am I in your
way?” I turn to see an elderly woman’s kind face. She too is holding a
charger. Hers is attached to a portable respirator. A few minutes later, walk-
ing away with her family, wheeling her respirator, she stoops over to pick up
a candy wrapper that someone else has carelessly dropped.
Sertso and Berger, synch up, voice and vibes. They match
rhythms but it’s the combination of their timbres that floats to the fore-
ground. Meanwhile Filiano thumps along, a sound so sweet and reliable and
there, always there, providing the fulcrum on which everything balances.
Their music is light and breezy, yet grounded.
It’s like seeing my kids fly kites on the beach last summer. Watch-
ing from a distance the kite string was invisible, as if their hands alone ma-
neuvered the kites. They sprinted across the beach, kicking up puffs of sand,
working like mad to keep those flimsy plastic sheets aloft. The whole thing
seemed magical but it was sweat and exertion that yielded that beautiful
sense of verticality and stretching, that sense of trust and release.
“The joy is in the existence / To know love is to know” Taken in
isolation, Sertso’s lyrics give me pause. Combined with the bass and vibra-
phones, though, they yield songs that stimulate rather than numb. In lesser
hands they might tumble into the ravine of hippy naivety. But there’s some-
thing wiser, time-tested that keeps them on terra firma. I see another glimpse
of this after the show. A fan approaches Sertso to buy a CD. She says the
disc costs $15. He has a twenty. He waits for her to offer change. They chat a
bit, chanteuse and fan, and moments later he’s saying “keep the change.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. He is now, and glad of it. It’s not a hustle. Not a
mind trick. Just part of the routine for a seasoned performer. The exchange
doesn’t detract from the band’s idealism. To the contrary. Moments like
these provide contrast, round them as people.
I arrive late in Los Angeles. My friends were stuck in traffic so
they’re late, too, just pulling up when I get to the curb. My worrying was for
naught. They ask if I’m hungry and minutes later we’re in a burrito joint in
East L.A. They let me pick up the tab and I’m finally able to return a favor.
MIKE FALOON is the author of The Hanging Gardens of Split Rock and the
co-editor of Fan Interference. He has contributed to Cashiers du Cinemart,
Razorcake, Submerging Writers, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn. His next book, The Other
Night at Quinn’s, is due out next year.
by Katelyn Kenderish
Voice can be the fact of structure. Cell by cell,
trees know to elongate, replicate and stretch
so leaves unfold. Chlorophyll knows nothing
but thirst to turn light to sugar that surges down,
while roots braid thicker, spin thinner
at the tips, netting ground.
Urge built by unconscious calculation,
signals determined by need, measured
by intensity of hunger for change.
Branches arch towards the lightest sky.
Filament roots plunge to stratospheric
substrate, recognize in the place to pause
its total rest, relief of cool damp.
KATELYN KENDERISH lives in Seattle, writes, and collects images and
stories about earrings at the Lost Earring Archive.
by Robert Walicki
A tiny lobe crusts,
stuck with a prick
of metal. Little hole on my left
where I kept diamonds
stainless studs,
then I let them close up,
waited for a bus
to sell my my Thompson Twins
and Dead or Alive’s for five bucks.
New Order and Joy Division
for in store credit.
I checked the display case
for my reflection
and rare Bowie bootlegs,
cut my hair and washed
the color from my face,
The ghost in me, breathing.
“I want everything you’ll give me
for six Erasures and The Smiths”.
“Do you have anything harder?”,
I say, “Something loud.
I want it to hit like a fist”
Something to turn me into a man.
ROBERT WALICKI’s work has appeared in journals in print and online.
His latest chapbook is The Almost Sound of Snow Falling(Night Ballet Press,
Dear Dave In Human Resources
by Wred Fright
Dear Dave in Human Resources,
It's been a few years, hasn't it? I imagine that you have resourced many hu-
mans since you resourced me. As a result, you probably don't remember me.
Frankly, I barely remember you. I recall a thick head with blondish hair and
a plump body filling out a polyester suit, like a creampuff where the baker
sneezed and squeezed out a little extra in the puff. Otherwise, you were al-
ways indistinct like a figure crossing the street far off in the background of a
photograph. I only had to deal with a few human resources types in my time,
but blandness seemed to be part of the vocation. Perhaps it made it easier to
deal with the streams of human beings flowing past your office door and
them I remember. They were quite something. I liked some of them like the
Elvis fan whose job was to pour in vats of chemicals. I don't remember his
name, but we had some nice conversations discussing our favorite Elvis
songs. And I do remember Bootsie's name. You probably remember her also
since she seemed like a lifer in the factory. She probably was there until the
end. I even went on a couple of dates with her. It fizzled out when she re-
fused to have sex. She said that she was saving it for marriage. She wouldn't
even do oral because she thought it was gross and she seemed to push my
hands away anytime I reached inside her pants. She said there was only one
thing she would do, but I never figured out what it was, and she wouldn't tell
me. I was a more innocent lad in those days, and she seemed innocent as
well, so that was a puzzle. What else was there? Looking back now, I suppose
she meant anal. What do you think, Dave? Did I miss my chance to peg a
factory hottie?
Anyway, I digress. The point is that you had your college stu-
dents, your immigrants, your trailer park dwellers, and your down on your
luckers like me. You even had your old people that that eccentric owner kept
foisting on you. I never quite understood why the company had an assembly
line staffed by senior citizens. And, of course, after that horrible accident
with the stuck walker and the lost hearing aid, the company didn't any
longer. How did you decide to hire them though when you did have them?
Whichever one had the most infirmities? It sure seemed that way. My fa-
vorite was the guy who used to crawl to the breakroom on breaks. I re-
spected his perseverance but never understood why he bothered since by the
time he reached there it was usually time to head back to the line.
Anyway, you get the idea. You've seen a lot of people in your
time, so you probably don't remember me. I do remember you though.
Mainly, I remember one annoying thing you did. When I left that job to
jump on another opportunity, I wasn't able to give you two weeks' notice.
This seemed to vex you, though I sincerely apologized. I couldn't let that op-
portunity pass by though. Personally, I didn't see what the problem was. Just
find another human being to plug in the line. It's not like anyone needed
any skills to work in that place.
Just look at Walter. I bet you remember Walter. He was probably
there when you got there, and he was probably there up to the end. God
knows what's become of him now that the factory's closed. I doubt many
other employers are eager to hire someone who likes to have loud arguments
with the ceiling. I used to especially enjoy when he would threaten to forni-
cate the ceiling's mother. Some of the women in the factory seemed dis-
turbed by his behavior, but I thought of it as a benefit, free entertainment.
One much better than that chintzy health insurance you offered by the way.
Anyway, with workers such as that, I couldn't understand why you couldn't
have had a fine employee such as myself come back when he wanted to. In-
stead, you said I was banned for life. That was quite distressing to me. I al-
ways like having a backup plan. I mean it wasn't like I enjoyed the factory or
anything, a man just likes to have options. I didn't appreciate the fact that
you wouldn't let me go parttime or return if things didn't work out with the
new job. It was all quite disappointing. I did form a grudge against you.
Not so much the company, just you. Even though you said it was company
policy, I suspect it was actually your policy.
Anyway, so. Isn't it annoying, Dave, how everyone likes to start
off sentences these days with "so"? But it seems to fit here. So, I heard the
news. I read recently about your recent misfortune and decided to very de-
cently be decent about it. Thus, this letter! By the way, don't waste your
time dusting it for fingerprints or doing detective work. You might note that
the return address is that of our former employer's, which is currently an
empty building up for sale. I can't imagine who wants to buy a factory that
looks like a horse farm, but maybe there's someone out there. Maybe a glue
factory will move in, and they can house the horses in the fake stables,
though I suppose they would be real stables then. What do you think, Dave?
Never mind. Let me tell you what I think. I did dream for sev-
eral years that our positions might be reversed, and you would have to come
to me for a job. I put aside this unlikely fantasy, but I did nurture my
grudge. Why not? It's always refreshing to have a hobby and revenge is just
like any other hobby really, something to tinker around with in one's spare
time or when an opportunity comes one's way. Fortunately, I never had need
to return to our place of employment, so the grudge was never actively devel-
oped. So, if anyone ever slashed your tires in the parking lot, Dave, it wasn't
me. I had other concerns. Like I wrote earlier, I barely remembered you.
For, since I left our employment connection, I did have several jobs, and, in-
deed, I met many other human resources professionals, but, for some reason
that I cannot precisely identify, you always stood out to me as the human re-
sourciest. Probably because you said that since I didn't give two weeks' no-
tice, I couldn't come back and be employed again there ever, and that
irritated me. I was a model employee. Some of those people weren't. Hec-
tor. Jesus, Hector. He used to go to the bathroom ten times a shift. Some-
times he'd fall asleep in the middle of a bowel movement. We'd have to go
wake him up when we got tired of filling in for him. You tolerated many a
Hector over the years. But me, I was good. I did a good job. I just couldn't
stay there forever making widgets for the company and making a pittance for
Still, a fellow likes to keep his options open, so that's why it
bugged me. Anyway, whether it was company policy or just your policy, it
was still a dumb policy. Not that it matters now. The company's gone. That
idiot owner finally ran it into the ground, huh? That must have been a bum-
mer for you. You had been there, what, 15 years? That's a big chunk of your
life. It's probably been a decade since I saw you, so I thought I would fill you
in on what I've been up to. I worked in some more factories since I worked
for you. Then I got into the office mode. That paid better. It was easier too
generally, which was kind of weird. In any case, I haven't worked in a few
years, not because I'm unemployed or anything like that; it's just at the last
job I went in along with everyone in the office on a lottery ticket.
Yes, I rather know that lotteries are a tax on the mathematically-
challenged. I just gave in out of peer pressure. I mean it was only a buck
anyway. What's a buck? 10 minutes of my time? Five minutes of my time? I
can give that up if it keeps the ladies of the office happy. Actually, I really
only bought the ticket because I found fetching the woman who was going
around collecting the money.
Hey, Dave, you ever hire anyone just 'cause she was hot?
I bet you have, you little minx. That's probably how Bootsie
ended up there.
I sure would. I mean I know work has to get done, but it's nice to
have some pleasant scenery along the way.
Anyway, back to the lottery. We won.
Someone's got to win, right? It might as well have been us.
We all quit, except for Marion.
Ugh, Marion! Who would want to work when one doesn't have
You don't know Marion, so I'll stop mentioning her.
Anyway, I was done with work. I had no need for a job anymore
and no need for human resources humans. Indeed, I barely have a need of
other humans in general, except for distant commercial transactions. I'm not
growing my own food, so I do depend on other humans for products and
services such as that. I spent enough time wearing ties and grinding it out on
the line. I had better things to do with my time.
Except I didn't. After some time, just being able to do whatever I
wanted to, whenever I wanted to, got a little boring. I needed some purpose.
I wanted to do something good for the world.
That's when I thought of you.
Not that you're good for the world or anything like that. I just
thought of your type, you know, the h.r. person, the personnel manager.
I never liked you folks. How does one become an h.r. person any-
way? How do you get hired to hire people? None of you h.r. folks ever
seemed to have any skills whatsoever; it was puzzling to me. Yet,--by the way
"yet" is a cooler word than "so"--you all had jobs and I wanted one so I had to
make small talk with you and answer really dumb questions and take it seri-
ously just so I could put some food in my mouth. I mean, "Why do you want
to work for us?" What a stupid question! "Because I'm not independently
wealthy and I need a job!"
Plus the landlord wants cash, despite my frequent entreaties to
pay the rent by sex.
And I got angry because of thought of all those people in the
world who were just trying to get a job, who weren't going to go out and rob
a pizza store or some nonsense and instead just spend eight hours a day
doing some mundane, boring activity that someone getting paid money
would only do. And those poor people had to go get interviewed by some
h.r. hyena like you.
Ah, sorry, Dave! I'm getting a little fired up. Please keep reading.
I promise it will be worth your time. And, you're unemployed now, right?
So, honestly, your time is not worth much. No one's paying you for it. So
you might as well keep going. Maybe you will learn something about what it
is like to be a job applicant nowadays and how hard it is for you to find a po-
Anyway, I thought of all the people that really couldn't tell the
h.r. hyena what he or she really thought, or tell the boss what he or she really
though. Instead, they just had to take it. Worse, they had to pretend that
they liked it. Whenever someone tells me that they loves their job, I know to
get far away from that person. Either they are lying or delusional. Whatever
the case, I don't want to deal with them.
So, anyway, I decided to avenge them all, all those people who
had to work for a living. If they couldn't stand up for themselves because
they needed to make a paycheck and feed their families, then I could do what
they couldn't.
I don't want to get all voice for the voiceless on you, Dave, be-
cause it wasn't all that.
It was also fun.
Like the time I went to an interview, said, "It's hot in here," and
started taking off my clothes one by one until I was just sitting there in my
underwear when the interviewer--a skinny blonde--finally called security.
I didn't get that job, Dave, let me tell you.
That was fine. I didn't want it anyway. I had plenty of money to
live on. I didn't need a job. I just needed a purpose. And my purpose was
putting the human back in human resources. You'd think that people who
have a job where they have to deal with people all day would like people, but,
Dave, I'm telling you that isn't often the case. But, anyway, I went on a lot of
interviews, and I had a lot of fun.
Looking back, I probably did take things to a pretty far limit. For
example, there was the time I defecated in my pants during an interview.
The interviewer--a portly, balding white man who reminded me of my Uncle
Gus--oh, you don't know my Uncle Gus. He was a character, let me tell you.
Never mind. Anyway, I shat myself, and he didn't say anything.
The smell was pretty bad, but I give the old man credit. He kept going
through the paces anyway, explaining to me all about some stupid job I had
no interest in anyway. Finally, he just puked right on his desk.
I felt a little bad about that one, Dave, but revenge isn't pretty.
I'm sure he tormented a few jobseekers in his time.
Another time, I got up on a table in the middle of an interview,
pulled my pants down, and had a nice poop, right in the middle of the table.
That was a group interview. They all ran out of the room.
By the way, that was my response to the question, "Tell us about a
challenging situation you had at work and how you dealt with it?" I bet
you've asked that one in your time, Dave. Is there some stupid website where
h.r. types all get their stupid questions from? Please let me know, so I can
hire some hackers to launch a denial of service attack against it.
Oh, that's right, you don't know who I am, so you can't write
back to me Never mind. I'll put that on my to-do list.
Anyway, some interviews I don't remember because I showed up
too drunk. Some of the drunk ones I remember though. This one time I
was taking a personality test, and I just kept giggling and doodling penises on
the answer sheet.
Security escorted me out that time also. Security and I tend to
get along real well, so that's not a problem. One guy even thanked me. He
said everyone there hated the h.r. department anyway, so they were glad
someone was punking them.
Another time, I picked up some homeless guy, bought him a
forty, and we went to the interview together. I told the receptionist that he
was my therapy animal.
I didn't even get to the interview on that one, but the homeless
guy had fun. He wanted me to take him on more interviews, but, since I did-
n't even get to the actual interview, I didn't.
Falling asleep was another good one. One time, this plant man-
ager was giving me a tour of the factory when he got called away. I found a
supply closet and took a nap on some rolls of toilet paper. They were all
boxed up, so I just emptied out the boxes and made a little pile to lie down
on. Surprisingly, no one ever woke me up. I just woke up on my own, stum-
bled out of the closet, and left the plant.
I think the one who got the most angry at me was this old
woman, and she was mad that I was chewing tobacco during the interview,
especially when I started spitting into her trashcan.
That was a quick interview, Dave! Now, Dave, I don't want you
to think that I think it's all right for people to shit and spit and do disgusting
things on job interviews. I really think people should be polite and thought-
ful and take care of one another.
But this is war, Dave, and war is unpleasant. So, when I take the
war to h.r., I can't always use the finest of etiquette. It's humiliating enough
having to work for a living; having to grovel just to get some work is just too
much for me to bear. True, it's a one-man war, but it's important that even
though the job applicants of the world are going to lose, have their time
wasted with inane forms, inane questions, and other timewasting stuff since
no one cares about their time, it's important that it's not a shutout, you
know. So I took my shots. I bet those h.r. folks were different after meeting
Maybe not. I might be crediting the average h.r. drone with a bit
more humanity than he or she is capable of
In any case, I tried to spice things up. I remember during one in-
terview I started hitting on the interviewer, chatting her up. I think it was al-
most working too until the department head showed up to interview me as
well and I started hitting on him also. That was quickly the end of that,
which I was quite relieved about.
I'm no switch-hitter, Dave. Despite my fondness for doodling
pensises, I only like the ladies. Unfortunately, they don't like me, so I have a
lot of time on my hands, which works out, since I have this important project
on my hands.
Well, did. I am retiring. Too many close calls with law enforce-
ment, plus the h.r.ers seem to be tightening up demanding i.d.s, blah blah
blah, security cameras, biometrics, yadda yadda yadda. It isn't as much fun as
it used to be. I mean there's only so many times one can answer a phone call
in the middle of an interview and have a conversation about venereal disease
test results or what brand of cat litter to purchase. At this point, I think I've
gotten the entire range of reactions from the h.r.ers, so it is a good point to
call it a career, er, noncareer.
Which brings me to you, Dave. You might be wondering at this
point, why such a distinguished human resources professional with your ex-
perience is having such trouble finding his next gig. Well, Dave, I don't
know how to gently put this to you, so I'll just put it to you roughly, the way
Bootsie probably wanted it, but in all those years when I was defecating on
desks, showing up drunk to interviews, and so on, I was using your name on
the applications.
So no matter how accomplished your human resourcing is or
how demonstrated your success is, probably no one's going to hire you.
I mean somebody out there might, but I was interviewing pretty
heavily for a few years. I would sometimes do two or three a day.
Hey, everyone needs a hobby, right? You know that resume you
just threw up on Monster a few years ago, I just used it mainly. I changed a
few details such as the phone number, but you are still "a Human Resources
leader who can provide" oh, I can't recite that resume tripe even in this case.
So I do apologize, Dave. It was nothing personal. You were just a
human that I needed to resource.
WRED FRIGHT is the author of the novels The Pornographic Flabbergasted
Emusand Blog Love Omega Glee.
Sound Spirals
by Saloni Kaul
Sound like a breathing spiral moves both ways
Has its all-highs and has its lows.
Tight-ribbed spine and bone curled clays,
At either end when you’d imagine it would come to blows
The ear has had its fill and reels under silence’s sway.
Coining Silence
Sounds blaring loud as in pretence,
Sounds soft as muttered oath,
Coaxed into a coil tense!
For us who’ve had enough of both
Breath lithe and bone dense,
Someone coined Silence.
First published at ten, SALONI KAUL has been in print since. Saloni
Kaul's fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent
volumes include Universal Oneand Essentials All.
Cabildo Quarterly, Fall 2016. Issue number ten! (This quarter: a paltry seven months. We’re stepping up out game!) First press of 609 copies, 10/15/2016. Lisa Panepinto: side silver; Michael T. Fournier, side black (ask your phone). This
issue’s tag quote: Link Wray. We’re available online via, and Hard copies available for free in and around greater Pittsburgh and Cape Cod. For additional hard copies or for back issues (of
which we have plenty from our entire previous nine-issue run), write [email protected] They’re a buck per, or five bucks for a big stack. Hell yes we’re looking for your submissions: send 3-5 previously unpublished poems to
[email protected]; or previously unpublished fiction up to 3000 words to the aforementioned [email protected] Simultaneous submissions are okay: we know how it is out there. Please include a bio of 25 words or less.
Please don’t send us .pdfs, as they are murder to format. The vault is pretty well empty after this issue, so it’s a good time to submit. While you’re at it, check out, where you can find additional work from Kate-
lyn Kenderish and Bob Walicki, as well as reviews and sound clips and tour dates and whatnot. Longtime readers might’ve noticed our change in geography: after spending the first four years/nine issues of our existence in Belchertown
MA, we’ve moved CQHQ to Cape Cod, of all places. We’re still looking for a venue for readings and general hoo-ha, so drop a line if you have any leads or hot action. Mike’s hard at work editing his next book, which will hopefully be fin-
ished and out soon; Lisa’s working on new poetry. There’s starting to be talk of summertime capers for 2017, which is funny because it feels like 2016 just started a little while ago, you know? Ah well. Stay posted for said capers, and for our
imminent fifth anniversary issue, which will be summer 2017-ish. Five years means it’s probably high time for some shirts. Anyway: thanks to Ryan and Bec for putting up with us/this, as always. And one more thing: listen to Dead Trend!