Pom Pom

An online journal of poetry & prose, published twice a month

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Jenny Forrester

SOCIAL MEDIA AND REVOLUTION

A man broke into the garage and came running out of it just as I got home.

Our eyes met as he ran so fast – away, around the block. And gone with my bike and some things.

I froze.

Was he alone? Was there someone else left behind – maybe in the house?

My socially conscious programming said Don’t call the cops. He left behind a knife – a hunting knife, fake bone hunting knife handle, fake hunting knife swirls on the sharp-enough metal, fake Celtic symbolism, but the sharp point and bloodying hunting knife edge are real.

It’s symbolic – his breaking in that night. Another man stealing what wasn’t his because he wanted and believed he should have it. The knife freaked me out and the man who broke in was white so I called the cops, too late, they said but they took away the knife. Not very revolutionary of me. But I can breathe because that knife is gone.

I’ve heard that if you’re NOT on social media, you will miss the revolution. I’ve heard worse, too. If I don’t retweet this message or repost that, I’ll be just as responsible as they are. Log off and I’ll be complicit.

I’m new to particular battles. I was born at the right wing of the war bird, to the philosophy of judgment, to the AUTHORITY of a Jesus who required more love for himself than a man could have for his children. I’m from the Second Amendment Constitution and the Edicts of my Father and the Waving of a Particular Kind of Flag. I lived where running under the trailer were skunks and cats and raccoons and a dog sometimes. A coyote or three. Terrifying sounds from last cat fights. Smells we covered our mouths for. If something befell us, it was god’s plan and if something good came, it was his blessing.

My mother’s mixed messages in quotes raised me.

I may not agree with what you say but I fight to the death your right to say it but Don’t argue, it isn’t polite. Judge not lest ye be judged but Your reputation is the most important thing. My mother’s salve after bullies was ever Think about what they’re going through, minding their tears as much as mine – a message of injustice I despised.

My mother could wring a chicken’s neck and render deer and sew a hem and plant a garden. She whispered to me separate things from my brother because I needed separate things for this world. She said Don’t give in to hate and she said Words have power. She used soap to wash out my brother’s mouth but never had to wash out mine. She raised me to become a city girl so I could find my people – my true kin.

I am trying to connect all these threads to create something to catch up all these wrong things, to have a flag to weave, to wave, to wield.

There’s revolution here right now with these threads my mother saved for me with this voice my yelling father gave to me with this temper my brother stirred up in me and with the wildness the animals breathed into me.

I offer up these threads, the power of rage and the trajectory of this particular flight not to Facebook or Twitter but hand to hand to ear to heart and mind to protect those more vulnerable, minding NOT the tears of bullies.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that battles for justice can be contained in a series of tweets or an insightful post but having been born before the information highway was installed, I know that The Revolution, the one this generation didn’t start, the one my ancestors didn’t start but were the cause of, the Revolution that’s so close to being won for all time: that’s the one - THE Revolution is bigger than that.

Jenny Forrester has been published in a number of print and online publications including Seattle’s City Arts Magazine, Gobshite Quarterly, Nailed Magazine, Hip Mama, The Literary Kitchen, Indiana Review, and Columbia Journal. Her work is included in the Listen to Your Mother anthology, published by Putnam. She curates the Unchaste Readers Series. Her debut memoir "Narrow River, Wide Sky" is forthcoming from Hawthorne Books and launches at Powell's on Burnside on  May 5th, 2017.

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Juleen Eun Sun Johnson

JJ

Crush a cigarette on a tree. No one knows anything.

We all know coffee tastes as cold as coil in winter, When the afternoon takes a bow.

A Golden Hawk sits in wait                                         waiting for a squirrel to feel a tire for the first time.

We stress the importance of falling off,                                                                                     Time But time is a construct.

           Like the time    JJ brought a dead Bob Cat home to the dorm.

                                       JJ hung the carcass outside my window from a tree.

           At night                                        JJ asked Brandon if the body could live in his refrigerator with his dialysis bags.                                                                     Brandon said, “What the Fuck Dude!” The next day                                                                            JJ skinned the cat for a taxidermy class. He accidently threw the cat carcass in the dumpster

                                                                                  on a homeless woman                                                                                   looking for bottles and cans.

Juleen Eun Sun Johnson has been published in printed publications, including Cirque: A Literary Journal, Nervous Breakdown, The Rio Grande Review, Yellow Chair, Apeiron Review, The Round, Unchaste Anthology Volume 1, and other journals. Johnson attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop Summer sessions. During this time Johnson studied with Professor James Galvin and Mark Leidner.  She read at: Prairie Lights and The Mill while she resided in Iowa City, Iowa. Johnson currently writes and creates art in Portland, OR.

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Goldie Negelev

CRAWLING, HEADFIRST

The angel inside my bone, drank dark red marrow to an early grave. Self-honesty was bad for the both of us because I was born wrong, whatever glow she had she drowned in. But my hair shines like butterscotch underneath the cold light of a firefly. I love him like this, without the ability to fly. When his sea-black eyes look inside me I know I am good. & when the water collects into a swamp I trust he will dig me out

Goldie Negelev is a poet living in Oakland, California. Her poetry has appeared in Reality Beach, Fog Machine and Bottlecap Press.

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John Michael

HOMESICK BRINKSMANSHIP I know a place where we can leave the streets A black blanket cafe that leaves no room to breathe But the entry fee it takes to get in I got by stepping on weakerthans Bar-soap-washed hair running under my palms Forty backward notes to trenchant psalms Hearts still struggling to beat in sync Your scratch-ticket fingers feel coarse, she says Well your red-stained lips may still look sweet With a smokestack accent overdue a sweep But from across the street You felt more like home John Michael doesn't have a Boston accent. He is a New England separatist, a Red Sox diviner, and a writer of prose. He is currently seeking a publisher for his novella. You can find his work in journals such as NANO Fiction and The Finger, or read more at www.johnmichaeltxt.com

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Eric Baker

SELECTED STATUS UPDATES

Now seems like a good time to retreat into the woods for a couple of months and avoid all human contact

Out in the woods I can sell immaculate weekend chalets in the Poconos

Out in the woods my inherent and undeniable worthlessness will not be readily apparent to all the wildlife

Out in the woods I will be the squirrel I want to be in the world

Out in the woods I will learn the ways of the squirrel, befriending them and adding them on social media

Out in the woods I will be alone and thus will have nobody to disappoint anymore

Out in the woods I won’t have to sit next to other people in the train, won’t have to feign interest in my coworkers, and won’t have to dress up for work, rather I can let my appearance gain a rustic hipster vibe

Out in the woods I can listen to Fleet Foxes and it will feel really authentic

Out in the woods I can communicate with people at an extreme distance.

I won’t have to feign enthusiasm in person I can do it from the leisure of my phone.

My emails will be formal and emotionless.

Everything will be bright and pixelated.

None of my emotions will matter they will be washed with glowing screens indicating nothing.

The Internet cannot process pain it is just a highway of information that is mostly concerned with clicking on things, scrolling down to click on things, and typing words into fields to get things to click on, it is my kind of world and it is so kind.

Out in the woods I shall greet the morning sun wordless, with a cool nod like I see in movies.

Out in the woods the morning sun will nod back at me, which typically it can’t do without feeling self-conscious about it.

Out in the woods I will meet other real estate brokers also learning the ways of the squirrel, but I will learn the squirrel ways best.

Eric Baker sells real estate in the tri-state area. He has a loving wife, a libertarian cat, and that's that.

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Ben Powell

WEBS

Lost my savings in a Bitcoin scheme, so money's becoming an issue. Had to open two hundred credit cards to net the necessary frequent flyer miles to visit mom on X-Mass. Thoughts of moving back in with dad aggravates the rash behind my knees, under my gut. I itch & then I scratch.

Obsessing over my shitty WIFI. Decide to make appointment with Verizon. Guy can't come today, but set the date for tomorrow. Feel giddy thinking about rapid streams. Makes me feel hopeful & unafraid, which tempers the sad necessity of closing my accounts on Netflix, BangBus, & Spotify for funds.

Remember that dad used to be petrified when people would be coming over. Still is. Plumbers, electricians. In our old apartment, he would position a chair inches from the door, waiting, on-guard. He'd complain about how hard it was to get a gun. Like that would've helped him. Tried to tell him that a gun isn't a gun anymore. Most dangerous weapon is a crushing Yelp review, a forum smear, an anonymous claim of assault. He doesn't get it. Hasn't been on. Have U? Been on Reddit? Been on 4chan? U seen this? Know what they're saying?

Hillary’s reptilian: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHa9uHQltW8

Beyonce’s illuminati: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hltAf8Bijdc

Kanye’s god: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ge33hrlN2Uc

Ever looked at the back of a dollar bill? Ever actually thought about Bush doing 9/11?

Sometimes I just wanna cover myself in the slime of it; sometimes I wanna be the savior. I add my voice to the chorus. Why not? Comments under hundreds of usernames attached to hundreds of proxy email addresses I keep indexed in an excel file. I'm Gristen13 & PurpleDragonFly4 & Ebony66HazeLSD & SpacedOUTer3 & 4Dsando4 & xxRillyHixx. My username on Christian Mingle is Peter St. John. On Grindr I'm MisterPipe44. My face is a 32-year-old white guy with adult braces that I pulled from a friend of a friend on Facebook. My face is a stock photo of a black guy working behind the counter at a bank. My face is yr face if it's out there.

Visited dad the other day. Delivered groceries. Nice to be out. He still calls me Fat Fuck. We both laugh. He hasn't been out of bed in years. Least I can still walk.

Better WIFI will do more for me than porn, but there's that too. Always craving new stuff like its Cheeto dust. U seen some of these videos before? Starts with u watching girl on girl. Then guy on girl. Then guy on girl dressed as squirrel. Then girl dressed as squirrel on guy dressed as girl. Then I'm watching half-guys on half-girls. & then it's actual squirrel on actual squirrel. I'm googling Discovery Channel footage of ape sex, elephant sex, tiger sex. Shit's unbelievably gorgeous.

Look at myself in the mirror by accident. Well, not the mirror, but the webcam puts my face on the screen & reflects it back to me. Can't fit my body in the frame. Not when I roll back from my desk on the squeaking wheels of my chair. Not when I'm backed up onto the edge of my bed. Only when I'm all the way back, kneeling on my pillows, back against the wall. Then I can see it all. Starting to think I'm beautiful, u know? & not in a lame-ass body positivity sort of way, but in a mythic fashion. Like a crater or mountain or ocean or moon. This night I'm a monument & till tomorrow I'll be still.

But then I stay up too late & accidentally watch the sun rise outside my window: a gold slit between neighboring apartment buildings. Wonder why I haven't done it more often, so then I do: hooking up to my projector & bringing it into my bed. Sandwiching the device between my legs & aiming its bright shine at the ceiling, playing time-lapsed footage off of Vimeo: 1,000 sun rises condensed into 10 minutes of footage played out above me. High def. Soaring orchestrals projected & booming through my bluetooth speakers. Wish I had the energy to get up & shut the shades.

Must have slept, because dad calls me & my cellphone sets my pillow vibrating. Woke me up in a savage way. He wants to talk about the groceries I've been buying him. Real disappointed. Makes me think about how mom always seemed to be dialed straight into his system. Knew his cravings like they were her's. Bought him things he'd never tried, knowing he'd love them. & he did. Saw pictures of her on Instagram a couple weeks ago posted by Kenny. Had to unfollow. Can't stand to see her against green grass, happy & thin. Makes me sick all the way down to fibers of my motherboard.

Tell dad I'll be over in a bit. Just have some things to do. Verizon guy should be coming soon. Setting me up with faster access. I like to think that things will get better. That I can keep lying back in my bed & the gossamer strands of hundred-dollar WIFI will pull me up, suspend me so I'm weightless & free.

Tonight I'll be expansive online. I'll deny the holocaust in the comments section of David Blaine magic tutorials. I'll talk eugenics on clips of Rolling Stones live shows. I'll send pictures of my penis to recent college graduates who are unfortunate enough to swipe right. I'll edit Wikipedia so that Lance Armstrong is a saint again. I'll hack into mom's emails & send another email to dad, saying she still thinks of him sometimes. I'll have her send an email to me, too. Telling me I'm generous and knowing and kind.

Knock at the door forces me out of bed & I have to let this poor Verizon guy in. Could have cleaned but didn't. Wouldn't matter if my favorite flavor of Pringles wasn't Salt & Vinegar. Keep the cylinders stacked against the wall like trophies. Whole place is violently sour. I do love it here. This WIFI could drive me to broke, though. But it's a staple. It's food & clothes & shelter, all in one. Whatever.

I'm sure the Verizon guy has seen this sort of shit before. We're all monsters in this part of town. Seems like a pretty nice guy. End up following him down the stairs on my way out for dad. He makes conversation about team sports & I think about tripping & falling on him, how he wouldn't survive the pressure of me, how no one could.  

Ben Powell is a writer, teacher, and musician based out of Worcester, MA. He is currently seeking a publisher for his first novel.

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Celeste Perez

THE FORECAST MADE NO MENTION OF YOUR PECULIARITIES

Disintegration breeds in bile.

The clever bleed skyward.

A temple is only a temple

Because we call it a heartbeat.

We become singular in breath—

A fraction of something is still

A whole of

Its fractioned self.

Medicate limbs one pulse at a time,

Motion might be the only certainty,

But we are inherently liars.

         That cloud, just below us?

Has gone.

         It is not so lost as you.

Celeste Perez is a senior in the undergraduate English Literature and Creative Writing program at Marylhurst University, where she is the 2016 recipient of the Jackie Mosier Emerging Writer Award. She has been published in M Review and Elohi Gadugi Journal. Recent literary endeavors include collaborating on a children's book about gnomes with her boyfriend, and translating Spanish poetry with her father.

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