#justine basa

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Artist Justine Basa has a beautiful new zine up on Scribd. Check it out and pick up some of her drawings. Email her at [email protected].

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Gelb by Justine Basa.

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Three Poems

by David Feinstein

from Gelb by Justine Basa

Pastoralia

The weather is an adolescent pink. It is okay it is unspeakable This disappearing into the woods off hours is a privilege In the draft of someone else’s body Soft hands humming at the edges of design. It’s good to have so many pockets. To feel like feeling awe feels possible Once you know you have gotten it on film You settle back into the idea of living The fantasy of not being here today or the next It is unspeakable this life Reflected in every piece of silverware A baseline for facial recognition having already been met. The still creeping haze an additional filter Lending the evening the atmosphere of a window One has just breathed on what’s behind it fading back into view. Escaping to that landscape after the trees Sleep comes in timeless expected prohibitive waves To sweep over the classical architecture All its well-intentioned ideas of the future To reinforce seeing and thinking As two primarily distinct activities. Once again you’ve passed out in the middle of a book On a park bench funded by wealthier ghosts. The park is a branch of a department for recreation The lawn is a space for the evocative shadows of others You wake to a child’s impression of the sky The grass looks soft for you.

All That is Colossal is a Fraud

Life come in I repeat into a microphone of bedside blooms come in all fleshless pink and gray things suddenly taken into a hallway of light that could only be described later as everywhere where reason bleeds my throat has grown thorns in this aftermath of sky I’ve yet to be contacted clone blue funneled down to a single ear here come the waves coming in waves to resume description a stubbornness that pulls from me what I call out to it

◦ ◦ ◦

No Good

Isn’t it terrible in fall how the leaves remind you of all the money you will never have not ever cool millions raining from the hands of those big shots you never see in person living up there in the glamorous trees so casually housing the grass every side of flame isn’t it exhausting recording all that’s been on fire for little or no pay bony arms of light to poke your eyes from a tricked out sky another day in baggy gray sweatpants isn’t each day shorter than short isn’t it one kind of life and not another hearing what the dead have to say directly saving every receipt picking out what doesn’t belong between your teeth just to have it return as expected like no other

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"No Trouble in Finding the Place"

by Khaled Khlifi

from Gelb by Justine Basa

There are no lines on the interstate for all the construction. It’s like the goddamn Wild West. The traffic moves real irregular, putting the spook in my horse. We get out there and she hems and hems and won’t hum up. Not much to do with a horse like that, not once they get old and a little of the fright in them. We all each of us find a way around our limitations, or maybe sometimes we don’t. I know this isn’t doing much to explain why I’ve arrived at your porch, or how I came to have this shovel in my hand.

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Thin Ice

[excerpted from Get Down, Claude]

by Gabriel Bump

from Gelb by Justine Basa

Bubbly and Nugget

Ms. Bev asked if our parents loved us. She was crying again. We all said yes, like we always did when she cried. She wore gloves because she couldn’t get her rings off.

When the divorce started she brought three lunches to class each morning, eating them throughout the day. Big lunches, like dinners.

“That’s good,” she said. “Love is good.”

She put her head on the table and motioned for us to leave. We didn’t have anywhere to go. We were ten. There was a foot of snow outside.

“Think she’s going to kill herself?” Bubbly leaned over and whispered to me. “I think she’s going to kill herself.”

“What does that look like?” I asked. I loved Bubbly.

She stuck a finger up her nose, moved it around, and ate what she found.

“My parents think she’s going to kill herself,” she said.

Nugget turned around with an eraser in his mouth.

“Haven’t you guys ever been sad?” He said over the eraser, spit coming down his chin. “I’m sad now.”

Bubbly raised a fist at Nugget. Nugget didn’t know anything about fear. When he got older he found out. He jumped out of a plane and his parachute didn’t open. It was on the news. Back then he couldn’t tell fear from sadness. He didn’t know anything about either. Back then he talked about both like they were never ending. He was probably right. He took the eraser out of his mouth and rolled it between his palms.

“Nugget,” Bubbly said. “You smell like bologna.”

“Thank you,” he said and turned around. Nugget loved bologna.

“You’re nice,” I said to Bubbly.

I was going to ask her to marry me. But Principal Big Ass walked in.

“Mrs. Beverley,” Principal Big Ass said. “May I speak with you in the hall?”

“It’s Ms. Bev,” Nugget said.

“What was that, Jeffrey?” Principal Big Ass asked.

“It’s Nugget,” Bubbly said.

“What, Tiffany?” He asked.

“It’s Bubbly,” I said.

“Claude? What?” His face was getting red.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Nugget said. Everybody laughed. Nugget put the eraser back in his mouth.

Ms. Bev followed Principal Big Ass into the hall. She looked at us over her shoulder before closing the door.

“See, Nugget,” Bubbly said. “That’s fear.”

“I’m always afraid,” Nugget said.

“I know, Nugget.” Bubbly patted his back. “I know.”

Ms. Bev wasn’t fired. Just on thin ice.

◦ ◦ ◦

Fog

Coach and Dad tipped buckets in the sixties.

They snuck up and tipped over buckets of fish in the harbor, hauling ass through the golf course before the guy in a Nellie Fox t-shirt could catch them. That was when South Shore was still Jewish and everybody wasn’t just a Sox fan for the sake of being a South Sider. You could steal nickel candy from the corner store and nobody gave them a hard time because they were black, because all the kids stole, black and white. When the guy in a Nellie Fox t-shirt caught Dad and couldn’t catch Coach, he dangled Dad by his ankles over the harbor and promised to drown him quick. There was a moral to that story, but Dad was never sure of it. Coach thought the moral was that he escaped. Dad thought it was that he never thought of Nellie Fox the same way.

When they grew up and Harold Washington was mayor, Dad and Coach recited poetry by the water. The Jews were almost gone, a few stubborn old men clung to their stoops. Coach and Dad could feel themselves changing also. They felt their hopes evaporate and swirl into fog. Dad wasn’t a poet; but he wanted to be Langston Hughes.

Coach wanted to play in the NBA. He coached junior varsity at South Shore High.

Grandma and Mom were from The Highlands, a three-block chunk of South Shore reserved for doctors, politicians, and lawyers.

When they were young, Dad and Coach rode their bikes through The Highlands.

Before they met and got married, Jeffery Boulevard separated Mom and Dad.

When Dad started taking me to see Coach, Mom thought Dad was toughing me up. There wasn’t anything tough about Coach. His wife left in late-May. She moved to Florida and left Coach with their two babies. Dad took me to see Coach because Dad thought Coach was capable of murder-suicide. Dad said Coach loved ferociously.

We met in Coach’s apartment every day, five of us in three plastic chairs that refused to shift on Coach’s shag rug. Dad bounced the babies on his knees.

The empty fireplace was filled with dusty trophies. When Coach started crying, Dad made me go in the bedroom with the babies.

Thanksgiving, Dad invited Coach over. Paul hung out in the living room and grunted when Coach pushed his pink stroller through the door.

“Paul?” Coach asked.

“Paul’s Grandma’s friend,” Mom took the babies in her arms.

“Hey, Paul,” Coach slid past Mom and sat next to Paul on the couch.

I don’t remember who played that year, but the game was enough to get Coach and Paul drunk off excitement. Paul drank when he got excited. Coach always drank. Dad wanted to keep pace, but Mom and Grandma kept yelling from the kitchen.

Dad gave me a beer at dinner, which turned into a fight.

“What do you want my grandson to be?” Grandma said.

“What do you want our son to be?” Mom said.

“I don’t want him to feel left out. This is a party and he should be included,” Dad said.

“My grandson will not follow crowds,” Grandma said.

“My son will be a force in the world,” Mom said.

“A father can give his son a beer whenever he wants. I can give my son a beer whenever I want.” Dad slammed the table.

Nobody looked at me. I chugged my beer as fast as possible and felt lightheaded and sick. Grandma, Mom, and Dad looked at Coach, who was flinging mashed potatoes at a giggling Paul. He used his fork as a slingshot. My first sip twirled against my cheeks, mostly spit. I was too afraid to swallow. Mom slammed the table. Paul wiped the potatoes from his face. Coach turned toward Mom, raised his weapon, and hit Mom on the neck so clumps fell down her blouse. Grandma gasped while laughing. Dad went to fill his glass and catch up. Paul called Coach a bastard.

The babies started crying and Thanksgiving was over. Mom held the front door open, tapping her foot. Dad told me to get my coat. I stumbled on the way to the closet, but everyone was too busy trying to get the babies situated in their stroller.

Jeffery Boulevard felt quiet. Cars moved slowly around potholes. Coach stood at the stoplight and didn’t say a word. That was the first time I drank with other men. We all smiled. We all waited for the light to change.

Outside Coach’s building, Dad handed me the stroller. I knelt in front of the babies while Dad grabbed Coach behind his neck.

“Are you going to be okay?” Dad said.

“Can you come upstairs?” Coach said. “Please.”

Dad carried the babies. I carried the stroller, folded and pink. Coach hummed like mad over his jangling keys.

Who said, God hates me? Who wanted to cleanse themselves of responsibilities?

Who opened the bottle? Who sat there drinking all night and who paced around the room with their arms raised towards the ceiling in forgiveness? Who forgot I was standing there? Who didn’t hear the babies crying?

Dad woke up the next day with a hangover.

Coach disappeared around Christmas.

The babies ended up in Kentucky, or Pennsylvania.

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Whale Watching

Grandma went to an art opening in Harlem. Paul had to babysit.

We sat in the living room watching Michigan State. When the score was 41-9

Paul slammed the table and decided to take me for a drive. He hated babysitting and was drunk. He didn’t care about Michigan State but when they went down by another field goal I thought he would hit me.

He hadn’t hit me before. But the fear didn’t seem unreasonable.

In Grandma’s old Mercedes Paul adjusted the rearview mirror and said, without looking at me, “Can you drive if I get too drunk?” He briefly fumbled with his seatbelt before giving up. I didn’t have a seatbelt. That’s why Grandma never let me sit up front.

I laughed. He pulled out straight-faced.

On the way up Lake Shore Drive, at each stoplight, Paul asked questions I hadn’t considered.

“Should we give up meat?”

“If Chicago went underwater and we were at the mercy of killer whales, do you think they would be kind to us?”

He didn’t give me time to answer. He turned the radio down to ask the questions, turned it back up after asking.

The lake wasn’t frozen yet. People walked along the beach in short sleeves shivering. I knew there weren’t any whales in Lake Michigan.

We passed Soldier Field. Paul asked me if I loved him. This time he kept the radio down. I said of course. He looked through me and studied the lake. I followed his lead.

Paul slammed into a Volkswagen Beetle. I broke my nose. He broke most of his face.

The driver, a large woman dressed in black, put up her palms when Paul stepped out apologizing.

“I’m sorry, Madame. We were whale watching.” She took offense.

Grandma came home early. She used to date a judge. Paul settled for a DUI. We ate dinner in silence for weeks. I had to breath out my mouth. Paul couldn’t eat solid foods. Grandma cooked medium-rare steaks and took pleasure in our suffering. Paul didn’t apologize.

One morning he cornered me in the kitchen. He muttered something I couldn’t understand through his wired jaw. I nodded. He winked. We hi-fived.

Now, when I stare at the lake, I wonder if Paul was reincarnated like he wanted. I wonder if he’s lonely.

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Carrots

by Michael Burke

from Gelb by Justine Basa

I was pulling up the last of the carrots from my garden when I heard my neighbor’s pickup truck turn into his driveway, a hundred yards up hill from our house. I was still wearing the hunter orange jacket I’d had on when I took the dog out for a walk in a large open field a few miles away. I pulled up a few large carrots, scraped some of the mud and a bit of ice off them--it was deer season, early November, the ground starting to freeze--and looked up towards my neighbor’s house.

I like pulling out the carrots this time of year; the ground clings to them, reluctant to let them go. I have to pull carefully, to keep from separating the green leafy tops from the vegetable itself, which would make it hard to lift them from the ground. It’s a bit of sport, where I try to gauge the force I should apply steadily and firmly, so the carrot will come, but I’ll not lose the top.

Another man, who was not my neighbor, had gotten out of the truck and was leaning against the bed of it, looking inside. Living here for more than 27 years has trained me in the implications of that particular gesture, so I knew that he was looking at something dead in the bed of the pickup. I walked out of my yard and up the road towards my neighbor’s house. As I approached the driveway, I constructed the proper greeting in my head, one that would sound unjudgmental, as though shooting a deer was something I would enthusiastically endorse, never criticize, or that would sound as though it might come from a Mainer, but wouldn’t sound as though I were an outsider trying to sound like a Mainer.

I hailed the man. “Did’ya get one?” I asked. He turned around slowly, as though he wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from, then nodded. “Yep,” he said.

I came up to the truck and looked inside. A young buck was laid out there, head towards the front, feet against the left-hand side of the truck bed. There was a gaping hole in the lower part of his belly, which I thought at first was where he had been shot, then realized no, he had been gutted. He had small, thin, beautifully smooth and matching antlers, and the blood still dripped from him. It must have been running out of the hole in his belly and underneath him, because I didn’t see any in the truck itself, but the blood was dripping slowly from under the tailgate, forming a brilliant crimson pool between the feet of the man who wasn’t my neighbor and mine.

My neighbor came out of his house, in hunter orange coat and cap. He didn’t say anything; he doesn’t usually say much. He came up to the bed and we all looked inside, my neighbor, me, and the man who wasn’t my neighbor.

“Where’d you get him?” I asked, trying again to capture the sound of someone without judgment.

“Over in Farmington,” my neighbor said.

“Really?” I said. “Where can you hunt there?”

“Behind the high school.” The local high school sits on the top of a ridge with a grand view facing northwest, towards Quebec. There are woods to the west of the high school.

I hmphed. I am good at hmphs. “Was it a long shot?” I asked, thinking it couldn’t have been, given how narrow the woods are there.

The man who wasn’t my neighbor turned and pointed across the street, to a tree halfway into the apple orchard on the other side of our road. “About to there,” he said, and then turned back to the deer.

“Oh, that’ a pretty good shot,” I said, impressed. It must have been seventy-five yards to the place he’d pointed, which seemed like a long distance for such a clean kill shot. But what did I know about it?

I was still holding the carrots in my hand. The bright green tops had not separated from the carrots and I was holding them by the greens, banging them softly against my leg. The blood dripped from beneath the tailgate, the deer was perfectly still. His antlers were small, and seemed polished almost, and utterly symmetrical with one another. The man who wasn’t my neighbor stared at it.

My neighbors’ wife came out of the house and joined us. She is a big woman, moves gingerly like a big woman will. She looked at the deer. “Those are nice carrots you’ve got there,” she said to me.

“Yes,” I said, “I just pulled them. They’re good sized.”

She nodded. “You didn’t take them out of my garden did you?” she asked, referring to my notoriously poor gardening skills.

“No, I got a good crop for once.”

She went back inside and left us there. The man who wasn’t my neighbor continued to look at the deer. He didn’t have much to say. The blood dripped onto the ground. The pool was small, but brilliant in color, and it didn’t soak into the ground but stayed on top, like mercury on a pane of glass.

“Where’d you hit him?” I asked, having run out of anything else to say about our situation.

My neighbor reached up high on the deer’s left flank and felt around for a spot. “Right here,” he said, indicating a hole on the deer’s chest, near its shoulder. “Got him through the heart, I think.”

I couldn’t see the hole but could see where he was pointing. It must have been a smooth, clean hole, and the deer probably died quickly, if not instantly. I didn’t have any feeling for the deer as I looked at it. It was a dead deer, in the bed of a pickup. Remarkably still.

The man who wasn’t my neighbor lifted one foot onto the rear bumper. I tapped my carrots against my leg. My neighbor looked at the deer. The blood ran onto the ground. My pant leg was getting muddy.

My neighbor, the deer, the blood, the man who wasn’t my neighbor, the pickup.

The man who wasn’t my neighbor. The carrots. The deer.

The carrots. The blood. The deer.

The deer. The carrots. The blood.

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Two Poems

by Dennis Finnell

from Gelb by Justine Basa

Today the world is through

the beleaguered window screen, drowsy as any               guard. All the fine interstices trapped a               powder, a residue of days. Do you see real mountains where you are? Do you               say to your other half,, "I think I'll take a               nap. I could hear birds—maybe that wren               who makes a wayside out of the trill in her               throat"? What comes in with the wren's fable might be a               whiff of balsam—kissing cousin to balm—               enough odor until tomorrow's afternoon               respite, replete with really blue blueberries. Then you'll be in a queue of versions of you               carrying their heads to what must be.

Tomorrow will present

as a beaker of blue fluid. It will rest against lichen               clinging to a maple's trunk. Grass beneath               it, browning from two memories, one               chronic. Outside a window yellow leaves, or . . . ,               gerrymander the blacker conifers. We have               suffrage in the shade of white pine, the light               of yellowing leaves, which are mitts. The flask o' the future beneath shines briefly, good               friend. It's winking bitter news. Where               metal meets a man, most injury done, the               handle as good measure. There was a man, about half this century. Now air,               where metal tastes like a big man named               Junior. Lived about half. Swallow No.

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Aquarium

by Steven Tagle

from Gelb by Justine Basa

Both boys brought cameras to the aquarium. They photographed jellyfish. They photographed sharks. They photographed sex-changing basslets gliding along the tank bottom. They photographed the same tanks, photographed in turn. They photographed each other. They photographed each other photographing each other. Lucas photographed Craig in the shark tunnel, gazing at the undersides of sharks. He photographed Craig turning the camera knob, turning the lens barrel. He wondered who had the better eye.

Craig stopped photographing the shark tunnel. He stopped photographing the basslets, the jellyfish tanks. He pointed his camera at Lucas.

“You’re a shark,” Craig said. “Be a shark.”

Lucas wondered what to say. He turned off his camera. Took it off.

Craig behind the camera. Craig’s eye the roving lens.

Lucas glided down the tunnel. He hardened his face into a shark face.

Craig released the shutter. He pointed and shot, pointed and shot.