*`!THE HOLD!`*
Issue 15 January 16, 1999
-------------------------------------------
1998 by Shadow Wall Press
All works copyright their individual authors
Yo. Uh...not a whole lot to say about this issue, except that it is most excellent and full of great poetry.
Oh, and the soundbite is from They Might Be Giants.
Contributors:
Dave Gitomer
Scott Holstad
trellis
Cait Collins
Columnists:
Dolomite
Cait Collins
Editor: Daev
RANTING
Welcome back to another Ranting. I know it has been a while, but since I do
not send out the freaking' mag, blame someone in Washington. You know who I
blame for this catastrophe? Of course you don't, I haven't told you yet
smart-ass! Anyhow, I blame the fucking plows for this. Now, if you don't live
in the hellhole of Erie, then you may not know of the plague that the plows
are in the winter.
However, before I begin the bitching about the plows, I must first bitch at what
they spew upon my driveway. I hate snow when I must shovel it. That's
right, shovel it. I do not own a snow blower, despite the fact that everyone
else on my freaking block does. My neighbor owns the newest of the new,
thus making it the newest. He owns the Snow Blower 3000 Deluxe. I even saw
an ad for this piece of machinery on the television, more or less. Here's a
description of it (care of Dolo-memory*):
…..Yes! that is right, you can own this beauty yourself for only ten easy
payments of $29.95. But that's not all. Not only does the Snow Blower 3000
Deluxe blow away snow, it also mulches your lawn at the same time! It can go
through a tomato as easy as a knife through butter after cutting a can in half
and snow blowing your driveway. It slices. It dices. It makes pounds of
waffle fries for only pennies toward your electric bill. And if you order now,
you can receive this handy set of earmuffs to block out the snide comments
from your jealous neighbors.
This infuriates me to no end when this jackass decides to snow blow his drive
way in under sixty-one seconds while all the snow spewed from his man-made
drifts onto my driveway. Then me and my 99 cent, plastic, red, Value-City
shovel (guaranteed to break within the first five seconds of usage) make the
attempt to at least clear some tire tracks to get my little piece of "American
ingenuity" into the slush clogged streets. Can my little-shovel-that-could
make it through that tiny task? The chances for that are the same as an
intern to not be seduced by a Viagra fueled, Penthouse dreaming, tax dollar
spending, ugly wife having Congressman or woman (it is the 90's). So after
four shovels, a backing up of the car several times, several spoons, and five
hours of my time, I finally finish with this arduous task. Then what happens?
You all now the answer. I CAN'T FEEL MY FUCKING LEGS!!! So what do I do?
I go inside, put some water on to boil, and prepare to enjoy a quiet evening of
warmth through hot cocoa and many blankets. Within an hour, I am finished
with the cocoa and am lying in the comfort of my recliner when I pass out due
to the massive exertion of energy.
Around 11 p.m., I hear an ominous noise, like thunder eating a herd of
elephants. It's the fucking plows! When else do they plow the residential
streets? Why late at night, that's when. So I must get up to shovel/spoon
my driveway, for if I don't I will be forced to exchange the
spoon tomorrow morning for the power drill that is rusted to the point of
needing a tetanus shot from just holding the damn thing. When I get to my
driveway, I see neither plows, nor any snowy ice upon the driveway. Hooray, I
am saved from more hard labor. Then it hits me. It being a piece of ice
going 50 mph at, and two inches into, my shoulder. This painful shock gives
me the notion of the plows finishing the other side of the street and moving
onto my side of the street.
So on through this slush I go. After a few minutes, I notice my neighbor is
finishing with his driveway gunk. I notice this in my crouching, "I'm
breaking out of prison through this ice" position when his entire driveway gunk
lands on the small of my back and continues to cover me as I lay helpless
under its sheer weight. "That's it dammit!" I manage to muffle through the
feet of slush covering me. In a moment of rage, I bust out of the slush
Gargoyle style and proceed to carry as much of the filth over to my neighbor's
doorway as my arms can carry. After several loads (which included much of my
own), I covered most of his front door. Then I spot his precious snow blower.
I then haul it off to the corner of his driveway. I go into my house, grab
the nearest piece of paper, write a small message on the piece of paper, and
put that piece of paper on the snow blower. That message read as follows: To
any who desires it, fill it with gas and it is yours. I am moving to Florida.
Next morning, I am pleased when I see the bastard trying to dig his way
through the now-solid slush with screwdriver and hammer. Times are good for
Dolomite. Then I notice that the snow blower is still on the corner and my
car has two pieces of paper on it. The first turns out to be my note. The
second was from a perspective "buyer". It read Sorry, but I like my cars to
resemble cars, not large-scale plastic models of apocalyptic ruin. Picky
bastards.
Dolomite
*Dolomite does not watch television. Rather he reads TV Guide and makes weird
collages out of the pictures and crosswords.
**********************************************
THE FORUM
BARTENDER'S VISIONS
life: sweet life or is it
tormented tortured life?
tendencies toward strife:
vengeful strife and hated strife
mangles the soul, then muses
or is it just amusement?
sally forth or avail fifths in
the barroom and saloon.
could it be salon? seeing
naught or taking onslaught
slivers slip through the cracklings
or are they just cracks?
upped in emptiness by crinkled
crevices alas the sheep do follow
holding the wolves at bay or
are they baying in temptation?
this crime scene reporter eyes
the evidence and fingerprints.
saturated streams spill pass the
embankment as the river rises and
the levee is overflowed. in the distance
the train whistle howls in harmony
with the steamboat's bellows and
shatters the stoic silence with almost
was held sacred in denial of the
television's pontificating. another beer?
the sleeping fish nod yes and
stir patterns anew dodging the
prevalent sharks. the eddies spin
then recede into the big muddy.
who just turns browned and brawnier
while the sunshine speckles the
short crests and saturates the eastern
sky streaking the blue and white haze
with fiery red-orange kisses. this
raging sky goes unnoticed as the
next round is poured. another beer?
Dave Gitomer
email: dogentao@villagenet.com
websites:
http://villagenet.com/~dogentao/index.html
http://members.aol.com/freeme123/index.htm
*********************************
The Words
My wife despises me.
I'm a broken toy, to be
Cast aside. Take me to
Hell - that's all I ask.
She's 35 and wants kids.
I never did. Thus, the
Quandary. At what point
Does she dump my sorry
Ass? Can't say that I
Blame her - I'm broken,
Seeking wholeness or
Death, whichever comes
First. Perhaps they are
One and the same. She
Simply wants a family.
One where she comes
First and children follow.
She'll never get that from
Me and she knows it now,
After 8 years. The words
Come first - the poems,
Stories, non-fiction,
Technical articles, books,
The pain and the words
Take me down their
Love/hate path where
They leave me, wanting
More, suffering always.
impotence
they've taken away my
weapons
my guns and knives
yet i want them
desperately
i want to stalk
follow
who?
doesn't matter
i simply want to
Torture
Maim
Murder
i feel like i'm eating
broken glass sometimes -
it's there for the taking
but the pain is enormous
Scott Holstad
***********************
it seems i didnt get as wet
from this bath
as I did with the last
drying off
not so much water
as I have before
I ponder if it was
the hot hot water
I don't often use
as I have today
Goo
**************************
i was born on a clear and starry night
a long long time ago
as i emerged from my silken cocoon
an owl began to hoot outside the window
the doctor slapped my back to make me breath
a train screamed in the distance
my mother softly cried
as soon as the doctor and nurse left the room
i stood erect and clapped my hands three times
this got my mother's attention
i recited a long chanting litany
in a strange language
which she did not understand
then i bowed to the north and the south
and i bowed to the east and the west
collapsing back into her arms
i reverted to normal newborn infant behavior
never to walk or speak again
until the usual time many months later
when i was five years old my mother left our family
to pursue a glamorous career in a big city
years later when i was eighteen
she told me what happened the night i was born
as her way of explaining why she was afraid of me
i had always wondered why she called me a monster
i had always wondered why she ran away
now i sit
alone and cold
no longer young
but not yet old
outside the night
is starry and clear
an owl is hooting
a distant train screams
they are reciting a litany
in a strangely familiar language
i stain my mind to hear
but i am unable to understand
--------------------------------------------------
sunday taught me to love the sun
looking up from my pew through that high window
nothing ever looked more alluring
than that sunny world denied
--------------------------------------------------
words have no meaning
no intrinsic inherent reality
until we reach semantic accord
agree to define our terms
we are merely up so many trees
apes chattering at the sky
trellis
********************************
**no, I don't do Oprah**
no, I don't do Oprah;
she's like soooo
10 minutes
ago
and who gives a shit
if she visited the local
WalMart
in her area
and made a big
ta do
about their smock?
I could do
the same thing:
borrow an imprinted
company shirt
from an employee
there
and point
at me
towards my tits
and say:
'this is an official
WalMart smock'
fifty times
within
an hour
too.
so, big fuckin' deal
like I think
the latino's
at the WalMart
on the corner
of Van Nuys and
Roscoe
would spit
mexican beans
else
bullets from
a semi-automatic
at me
I'm sure this show
made the ratings
soar
(d
o
w
n)
since you seem
to be the only
person
I or anyone else
knows of
that viewed it
gotta hand it to those
Walmart p/r people:
they almost
think!
and if that
was the highlight
of the show
you now know why
I don't
do
Oprah, but...
the only advantage
she may have
over me is:
bigger
lips
hips
and tits.
and that might
make a fuckin'
difference,
bitch.
©cait collins 01.20.99
***************************
BEDTIME STORY
I don't know, people, do you want me to get rid of this bedtime story thing and just let The Hold be an all-poetry mag? Because I wouldn't really mind as long as you'll tolerate the occasional outstanding work of prose when i run across it.
**************************
FROM THE DESK OF DAVE
GRAFFITI
This issues Topic: Pork
Daev: Good old Denny's. Home for the bigot in all of us. Have you heard of their latest inequity? Two Muslim men order dishes and request that they be cooked in a clean pan to prevent contamination by any of those insidious pork particles that like to hide in unwashed cookware. Well, when they get their food, they discover, after enjoying some of it, that not only is there pork contamination, but pork infestation. There is a veritable pork orgy going on in their meals, and unfortunately for one of the men, in his stomach as well. He's understandably perturbed, seeing as how he cannot pray or read the Koran for 40 days until he is ceremoniously clean. So what i'm asking you two is this: Pork or No Pork?
Dolo: Daev, me being a Pagan(Catholic) I say Pork and more pork. Smother it all in
bacon, I say. The more fat and pig "particles" the better. As far as the
Muslim guy that ate the pork and can't read the Koran for forty days, I have
this to say: I for one would not find any objection to not being able to read
the bible for forty days (months/years). If I couldn't read how everyone was
a sinner, I don't know what I would do. All I have to do to know that is look
around me, and BOOM!!!!, I suddenly realize that everyone is a fucking sinner,
especially those damn pedophile priests and their altar boy obsessions, yet
they avoid the altar girls (makes you wonder when the pope will authorize the
introduction of the female priests) If some model was telling me I was a
sinner and I was going to hell, then I would jump up in my seat and scream
"I'll go to hell thinking of those great titties". Of course, it is presumed
that I could stand to be in church long enough for my feeble imagination to
picture those hooters.
Cait: I'm telling you right now, those two Muslim men: they are
'plants'…they run pork plant and own Dennys restaurant chains….
they are there for the sole purpose of dragging customers inside
THEIR place of establishment…and pushing pork instead of meat;
advertising free vanilla sundaes w/a choice of three toppings with
any pork product or by product…
pork is cheap in Koran as well as here in the US and the particles that
you are talking about
are roach legs, antennae, fuzz and the
fumunda cheese aka: the sweat beneath their sweaty testicles…
a filler guaranteed to addict without notice… so as suddenly as you
feast, fart, pay and leave pork,
it's already the next morning and you're there craving for a pork: pork
rolls,
pork salad, pork soup, pork pork pork!
these people have connections with the so-called hoity-toity tobacco
higher-ups and the pork mafia…
they know what they're doing…cheap meat makes big $$$.
YO DOL: why don't you stop reading about all the sinners and go out and
sin, like I do…
it's more enjoyable! but I have to tell you as of late, I too have
resorted to masturbating to books, porno flicks
dirty magazines and the like because ever since I started writing, they
all think I will write about IT.
(maybe I shouldn't tell them that to begin with, I might have more luck,
dammit..but I only want them to be good!)and as for those
priests…they're bi…ask me., I remember!
so, GOD BLESS THOSE PAGANS!
PORK PORK PORK pork GRIND GRIND GRIND yes, infest me with PORK! the name
alone turns me on. PORK, the heftier, the better! christ, I'm going to
Denny's
I'm in the need for grindin on someone's pork…be back the day after the
40th! yes.!
ppppsssss dol…I might not have big boobies, and I miss out on a lotta
tit-fuckin that way butt
remember my name, you'll be screaming it later!
yodeling
cait
Daev: Oh...god. Uh...back...to...pork. That, incidentally, is one thing i haven't done in a while. Stupid girls and their monogamy. "I'm married!" "My boyfriend is standing behind you right now." "Why does your shirt smell like pickles?" will they never learn? Porking is the only thing left that can't be taxed, at least not in Amorica. Now, in china they have a tax for all the children you have after 1. But that's neither here nor there. My point is this: about 6 inches and wide as yr wrist.
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The Rest of This Issue - lost