Tag Archives: Writing

The Undoing by Marcia Aldrich

The Undoing by Marcia Aldrich

The Undoing
(The Great Michigan Ice Storm)
Marcia Aldrich

12/21, 10:42 p.m.: the power goes out—

Comes on, goes out, comes on,

Goes out for good. We wait.

Freezing rain pelts the skylights above us, holes to the night sky, no moon. Trees along the river creak and groan, black branches twisted in ice, hiss and split, undoing themselves all through the night. 500 pounds per quarter inch of ice for this glaze event, this silver thaw. The weight breaks whole trees, snaps them like tinder. Sometimes one bad thing happens after another, everything I touch and everything that touches me is a poison, a toxic thistle no one should brush up against much less eat, an invasive species that can’t be stopped. I want to pull this bad spell out at the root, yank it to kingdom come but there is no at the root; the tendrils of misfortune, spiny and studded and tenacious, have spread underground all the way to the river and neither fire nor flood nor ice can destroy them.


12/22, 7:59 a.m.: with trackers strapped to our boots, we walk the iced-over ground, find post-apocalyptic trees ripped open, gaping, split down the middle the way my mother’s hair turned grey in one streak of lightening after her husband died, caught in a collapsed steel mine.  A million little matchsticks are strewn across the frozen wastes, dogwoods and serviceberries bowed down and sunk into the snow. There’s something about not being able to do a thing that makes me let go, step out of myself, give over and give up the idea that I control anything. I am at the mercy of the storm; I am not entitled to a happy life, to food or warmth or berries at my feet. I can make nothing happen.  I am but an honored guest at the ice buffet.

Begin descent

from the plateau of yard

down the canal of railway ties

cut into the snow-crusted hill;

slide unceremoniously

in an epic push

to stand on the frozen river,

a new birth story;

See the gap between

the river’s ice


exposed tree roots—

a thaw zone.

A rusty drain pipe

2 feet in width

down the side of a yard

hangs over the river’s edge

a frozen waterfall

stillbirth in its mouth;

uprooted trees sprung free

sprawl across ice:

abandoned vessels.

One winter when I was seven, skating on the river below our house with kids from the neighborhood, Mike’s dog Rusty fell into a hole, a thaw zone, near the stone bridge. I fell in after him, the ice splintering all around me as I tried to pull us out. The hole got bigger and bigger until no one could reach us and the kids receded to the banks.

We see no one on the river—it is as if we are the last people alive, the last couple. No one ventures out to survey the damage, to clear the glass trees lit through with sunlight, to see the spun, blown glass arching over the river. The field’s maize-colored grasses, heavy with ice, kneel over—whole fields of them bowed in submission. We walk on the river, not the land. Why do I feel melancholy walking in the middle of the Red Cedar River? Has my mood been created by my memory or has the river created it? I remember what it was like to swim under the ice, to be unable to touch bottom, to wait for rescue.

Too cold, the footing too treacherous.  Not even the squirrels are out and the deer are bedded together deep wherever deer go in a storm front. They aren’t ready to venture out yet. Not more than a week ago, when I was washing dishes, I looked up from the sink and saw a herd of deer across the river in the snow-filled woods.  They were running in wide circles, looping round and round the horizon.  No one was chasing them, but the chase was in their blood.

There, the concrete remains of an abandoned bridge: a face to be written on.

Under the new bridge on Dobie Road, a carcass of a deer. Recently enough killed that the blood still mixes in the snow and ice: mess of fur, bare leg bones, and a fleshless rib cage. No stink in this cold. Was it hit by a car, did it limp to the river to die or did it fall through the ice and drown? The coyotes found it—the coyotes whose existence some people dispute here in mid-Michigan—but I’ve seen at least one coyote running on the edge of the bank by the river, an outlier. Sometimes the deer want to cross from one side of the river to the other. Last winter one stood at the edge of our yard for the longest time looking out at the river. She wanted to cross—I could feel it. I wanted to cross over too. She was wondering if the river was frozen enough to support her. The snow had formed a bed over the ice, making it hard to tell how thick the ice was. If she ventured across she would fall in and then I would fall in too.

12/22, 5:03 p.m.: darkness falls. House lit with candles. Standing at the sink in the faintly-lit dark, I feel something outside my windows in the backyard.  Sometimes before seeing I feel a change in vibrations, a rearrangement of the atoms in the air. I walk outside to the balcony and below me a large herd of deer, come out of hiding at the end of the day, gather and look up at me in a strange kind of healing on this winter night.  A motley crew, scruffy and winter-dark—the edges of their separate bodies disintegrate, undone by the night.  Waiting for a sign that the storm is over, that the creaking and groaning and splitting will cease, they look to me as if I am their patron saint.

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Scuttled in Their Stalls by A. H. Jerriod Avant

Scuttled in Their Stalls

Scuttled in Their Stalls
A. H. Jerriod Avant

(for Bob Kaufman)

every throat     a hose rusting inside out
live on the heels of panic     blackberries

luring us into thickets     none would
remember this if it were not for the hole

in his lie she blew     his voice launching
through the car windows     the brain will

always gather before it explains anything
even these rhythmic arms beg genuine bone

connected to     bone     connected to the
dwindling cartilage     sand in an hourglass

it takes years to shatter     a trial against an ego
a stronghold rising     a parched knot

in the neck she strokes     these braided straws
she walks across the floor     with hands of work

much too torn     for     any of this holding
that she does     at every house party she is

this candle we like to light     her flicker     we frame
her wax     we swallow     with our cold mouths

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Apostate by John Keene

Apostate by John KeeneFeatured in Issue 1 of Madcap Review

Miles Dewey Davis, Jr.

Unbroken, yet the pain of lifting
your right arm remains unbearable,
some terrible shit going down in your blood,
these young dudes, trying to be helpful,
can’t understand what you mumbling,
so they nodding, painting traces
of tired melodies that sicken you
to your soul—where the fuck am I?
following whatever it is
they think they hearing
cause you a legend, and you recall
how astonishing and cruel you once were
towards your elders and peers, still are, tearing
out thirds from Bird and Diz’s circle,
cutting lesser trumpeters, scolding Trane,
strafing tracks by Haden and Evans,
disassembling modal systems,
driving that sweet group with Herbie
and Wayne in the early 1960s,
then fusion, dropping out, funkalating, walking in
late, blowing whether you cared or not,
turning your back to the audience
when you felt it, chords
so cold they would send brothers
and Swedish gals into paroxysms
cause they could never get enough
of what you withheld.  Now
you struggle to cop a breath
to shape a clean note.
Death, keep on stepping.

Truth is, they don’t know a goddamn thing
about Alton, Illinois.  They don’t
know what really went down
with the wives and children,
the other women, all those sidemen
whose shadows you carry around
like passkeys inside your harmonies,
how like the tonic in sonata form
what comes around
goes around and payback surely
is a bitch you’re paying
premium right now.
They don’t know what it means
to be a Black dentist’s son,
a scion, trained at Juilliard
and in the dream logic of Harlem,
returning to your daddy’s farm
long past grown, him leaving
you to live or die
in the sweat of your nightmares
in your room above the barn
as you battle the past,
your ghosts and junk,
wrestling like Jacob
the relentless angel that yearns
to slay you, lay you out
so you keep swinging,
burning in those hazy blues
of backrooms and burning spoons,
turning back to every word
and tune that ever sustained you—

Don’t fail—
finding the breath
to wield a grace note:
Death, not yet.

Tonight: amped to decibels to blow
the eardrums clear of hearing,
bassists and keyboardists
whose names you never learned
or cannot remember,
ancestors and mojos and Ju-Ju
protecting you
even though your heart
keeps popping like a snare drum
and your ears register
only a red buzzing,
you mount the stage—
or was that yesterday,
when you prepared to state
with your horn what your lips
refuse to bear away,
how it’s not about being a genius
or merely surviving, how nobody ever
sees what goes down in the head
of a brother striving so hard
to make something beautiful
and impregnable and lasting
out of the margins of this blue life,
how the dues you pay never suffice,
and you play and play and play
thinking that moment will come
but it never does, or it came so often
you realized it only too late,
like now, so you’ll always blame
yourself, assume responsibility.
Passion is a song you sing
on your own terms: the set opens,
and you hold your breath
to map the evening’s destiny: sound.
Death, get ready.

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23 Questions for Jonas Kaufmann by Alison Kinney

23 Questions for Jonas Kaufmann by Alison Kinney
Featured in Issue 1 of Madcap Review

Besides English and Italian, Isabella speaks French and Spanish, hates big groups.  What kind of big groups? Carola asked.  This kind, Isabella said, waving her hand to indicate the Viennese Opera Ball.—Donald Barthelme

Dazzling audiences as a post-apocalyptic holy fool, gunshot bandit, or lovestruck suicide, operatic tenor Jonas Kaufmann is no stranger to catastrophe.  After losing his voice while performing a bit part in Parsifal, he struggled to transform himself from an airy lyric tenor to a master of the French, Italian, and Wagnerian dramatic roles.  Kaufmann’s singing is baritonal and darkly colored, with seemingly effortless top notes and ethereal pianissimi.  While some critics feel distanced by his originalist interpretations—and the box-office vaunting of his Byronic good looks—others are seduced by his musicianship and soaring lyricism.  Placido Domingo has called him “one of the best singers I ever heard.” We discover the real Jonas Kaufmann:

Q:  Before pursuing your vocal career, you studied mathematics.  Think fast, Kaufmann!:  If the accursed Kundry mocked Christ in 33 A.D., how old was she when Parsifal baptized her?  If Arizona Governor Jan Brewer proclaimed “Jonas Kaufmann Day” on February 24, 2013, how many Not-Jonas-Kaufmann Days will elapse by the 2063 quinquagenary (including leap years!)?  Multiply by the number of times Anthony Tommasini of the New York Times has called your voice “virile”?….  Well.  Wasn’t it smart to follow your strengths?

Q:  Paris Opera’s 2007 La Traviata imagined you and Christine Schäfer as 1960s chanteur Théo Sarapo and his wife, Édith Piaf.  With Sarapo’s journey from adenoidal hairdresser to pop superstar so suggestive of your own career, can you discuss the possibility that God gave us your dusky, distinctive voice to resuscitate Sarapo’s oeuvre?  If not in Théo:  L’Opéra—which you of all people, Bayerischer Kammersänger, could totally commission—then in a song cycle, capitalizing on your success with Winterreise?  From Schubert’s “Gefrorne Tropfen fallen / Von meinen Wangen ab: / Ob es mir denn entgangen, / Daß ich geweinet hab’?” to Sarapo’s “A quoi ça sert, l’amour?”:  an organic progression, nein?

Q:   Why, sure, you have other options.  Having already portrayed so many innocently smoldering virgins—Parsifal, Lohengrin, Werther—might you consider bypassing Otello and Tannhäuser to steer straight for the dirty old man roles?  Milan may be gunning for a Kaufmann Don Pasquale, but I envision you as Rosenkavalier‘s Baron Ochs, fondling Sophie:  “Tender as a pullet!  Not very plump—no matter—but so white.”  You may not be a bass now, but we’re talking five-year plans.

Q:  Or…in the William Kentridge production of The Nose, Paulo Szot nearly got upstaged by the strutting papier-mâché nose.  Only imagine:  Jonas Kaufmann as The Nose, the rare artist to transition successfully from opera to mime!  Shouldn’t you be considering your place in the annals of opera history, and not just coasting on Werther?

Q:  Werther:  a young man who kills himself for love of a married woman.  The Act III aria, “Pourquoi me réveiller?”—that’s what I ask the cat every morning.  You sing it like you have a cat, too:  “Why awaken me, o breath of spring,” a lilacs-out-of-the-dead-land lament for one’s meaningless existence, fed and then blighted by vain hope, ringing the rafters with agony, then whispering, beseechingly, for it to desist.  There’s no way you don’t have a cat.

Q:  You debuted as Siegmund in Robert Lepage’s production of the Ring, mingling demigodly vigor (that high A!) with the balmy, vernal tenderness of “Winterstürme.”  Tell us about the time that Deborah Voigt (a gleaming, irrepressible Brünnhilde) sneaked you backstage for a midnight ride on The Great Metropolitan Scream Machine, that glitch-prone, 45-ton, seesawing set piece that morphed from Rhine to Rainbow Bridge to flying cavalry:  HOJOTOHO, HOJOTOHO, HEIAHA!….  Get out!  Lepage told you to get off his fence?  Doesn’t he realize that you’re J-Kau, and you can fly like a Walküre any time you damn well please?

Q:  Elizabeth Peyton’s many paintings of you, in balsam-and-ether-flowing-through-your-veins mode, joined those of Bowie, Kurt Cobain, and Leonardo DiCaprio at Gavin Brown’s enterprise last year.  Critic Peter Schjeldahl called them “points of ardor in the cold world.”  Yet, can we agree that the showstoppers were Peyton’s portraits of Met General Manager Peter Gelb, whose Valhallan exorbitance and avidity for under-65 audiences shone from every lick of rosy, nacreous flesh?  Didn’t his potency hammer all the rest of you into Nibelungen insignificance?  I messengered him a silver rose once, but he never responded, so I tried poisoned violets.

Q:  Do heldentenors avoid the Lohengrin “Bridal Chorus” if they marry, lest they raise hopes that they’ll divulge their true identities as Grail Knights, get stabby, and vanish in their feathery boats, because, let’s face it, no bride wants an ordinary wedding night when she could have, instead, a Bayreuth-debut-worthy “Mein lieber Schwan” of floating, otherworldly pensiveness yielding to burnished sensuality and regret?

Q:  La Scala made you wade in a marsh for Act III of Lohengrin.  Parsifal featured a lake of blood; can it be an accident that The New Yorker‘s Alex Ross said you “gave a fluid but disappointingly indistinct account of the title role”?  Emphasis mine.  Don’t you get waterlogged?  Oh, prosthetic feet—like The Lord of the Rings?….  I hadn’t considered, but your sound does have a Númenórean muscularity, and there’s your lovechild-of-Frodo-and-Aragorn hair….  Well, writing opera-hobbit slash fiction isn’t my bailiwick….  Of course, constantly stuck in airports, you’d need creative outlets….  Sure, “Au fond du temple saint” has some hot Björling/Merrill/Galadriel threesome potential, but do you mind if we get back to discussing craft?

Q:  The intimacy of your stage presence is simultaneously its strength and drawback.  We’ve witnessed your earnest, minutely observed correlations of line to action, more introspective and natural than traditionally operatic, in the unhinged grin belying Don José’s pleas to Carmen (Royal Opera 2006); the unfocused gaze of Florestan, imprisoned in the dark (Fidelio, Lucerne 2010); and Don Carlo’s teasing grab of his portrait from Elisabetta (Salzburg 2013).  How about the Met Shrug, that masculine, New Yorky gesture separating the boys from the men?  Every time a hero does a heroine wrong at Lincoln Center—in Norma, Rigoletto, Tosca, Les Troyens—he shrugs:  whaddya want?  Notably, Peter Seiffert as Tristan, accused of invading Isolde’s country, murdering her fiancé, and kidnapping her to marry his uncle, retorted, “That was resolved,” and did the Met Shrug!  With mounting anticipation of your debut as Tristan, what will you bring to this acting challenge?  Will you play it big or small, adding the hapless whole-head wobble or the defensive chin jut?

Q:  A BMW promo shows you driving and singing “La fleur que tu m’avais jetée,” sounding like anybody who sings in the car and happens to be the International Opera Awards Best Male Singer of 2013.  Does it embarrass friends when you join in on “Happy Birthday”?  Do you karaoke?….  I can’t believe that the man who sang Faust and Siegmund back-to-back is scared of karaoke!  Look, we’ll hit Koreatown, and we’ll start you easy, with a duet:  “Ebony and Ivory,”  “I Got You Babe,” “Leather and Lace”….  You can be Stevie Nicks; I’ll be Don Henley.  Or vice versa!  Don’t be silly:  either way, you’ll acquit yourself like a Meistersinger.

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Man Ray by Cecile Ceuillette Berberat

Man Ray Cecile Ceuillette BerberatFeatured in Issue 1 of Madcap Review

Man Ray for breakfast. Man Ray for lunch. Man Ray to bring the
mimosa and a single flower to your sickbed, on Valentine’s Day,
like your mother used to do in winter when the steps of the
mason temple were filled with snow and your dog was young and
joyful and you could not make it once around the block without
As Lucille Ball as it is Frieda Kahlo, lips blood red
and impaled in the worst of places. Mexican too, like the sixty-
year-old cross-dressers you sat with on Fridays, when the
express 333 was full to Venice Beach and their red hair was
thinning in front and in back. Like the colors on your road trip
to Texas where New Mexico’s skies were a baby blue also, and the
winds at the rest stops were whipping and twirled you, in your
yellow/white jersey, eating pancakes alone. It’s the postcard
your lover made, with her girlfriend before you, in Scotland, as
babies. Her cheeks in black & white. The red rose in the
foreground was a magician’s prop, or was it? Go search and see,
in your bags of evidence and memories that you hate to look at,
just waiting for fire, or instead for the Polaroid of her,
rosebud nipples in your sister’s apartment, summer in Brooklyn
and all that must mean. Or use a fucking telephone where she
lives now, in Oregon, with that other nude model, the one in oil
pastel who posed as a bowler and a baseball player and was
impaled also, much later, same location.


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Little Creatures by E. E. Lyons

Little Creatures EE Lyons
Featured in Issue 1 of Madcap Review

At night the mice run wild inside our walls, breeding filthy nests of young. They keep my mother from sleep.

– Did you hear them? she says in the morning. She’s wearing a quilt like a chiton, and palming bales of wire wool.

– I didn’t, I say.

– You didn’t see the spiders either.

Last week, at supper, there was a hatching. Tiny, translucent spiders trickling up from the corner. It was just the two of us—all the men have left. She got them with a napkin before they got very far.

My childhood bedroom is in ruin. She says she is over fixing up, but she’s agreed to put the mattress back and patch the drywall where the mice were heard. I found a box of my picture books stashed like smut in the crawlspace. And my old desk, cobwebbed and cowering out in the shed.

She called me down the other day. I was writing. I haven’t written since the split.

– There’s a woodchuck up in the cedar. He’s so fat. He’s going to fall.

He was gone when I got there. She was standing by the back door, radiating light. I’ve noticed lately that the sun will come through her and she will glow all over the kitchen.

He looked like a tunneler, she said. She scratches her braid when she’s strategizing. She’s stopped dyeing her greys.

– We’re losing the deck to the chipmunks. I’ve seen their hole. I’m going to stuff the hose down it this afternoon.

There was a time when she loved the chipmunks and had a name for each one. There was a time when she read The Mitten to me and sewed finger-puppets out of felt. Now, she keeps an owl at her arm. It snatches the swallows from under the eaves. I hear their little guh and my pen goes off the page.

– I’ve been working on the same sentence for weeks, I say at dinner.

– What’s that? she says. She’s pulling some kind of roast out of the oven.

– Do you ever hear from Dad?

When she looks at me, her eyes are marble.

– The war against the wild is unwinnable, she tells me.

She eats and reads schematics for a system of spits.

– I might have to kill this novel, I say.

– Even death is a thing that Nature wills.

-Who said that? I ask. But she is looking out into the night.

When the eating is over, the whole house becomes quiet. The air echoes itself, as in a temple.

I go up to my desk. I keep a picture in the top drawer. An image of an echo: just a bit of tissue that used to nest inside me. I feel another sentence rising, ready to burst whole from my head. But then, a sound. A tiny scratching. Just inside the walls.


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