One Night Stand: A Biblical Epic on Mastication

By David Moody

Lord, forgive all my foxiness. Remember us humans, us cruising
to nightclubs and not braking to dead stop, us stepping—
no hand rail—in black pumps and boot-cuts up to the slut box
then forgetting to dance. Us keeping secrets. Our leaving no tip.
Sometimes in a good fuck I speak carpentry—spackle and jack
tape, Jesus rib, caulk. I awoke this morning naked as a jay bird. Buzzed,
wearing glasses, I held on to no one but my body pillow, Sacagawea,
keeping her warm. Almost a godsend, God, almost.

I confess I want guidance. Guide me to the country of Charity,
that hard-knuckled woman, her deep ankle boots. Can she have red
hair or is black a must? I imagine her hips as I often do hips—chisels
and axes that hack at a crowd thralled to some DJ.
This woman shapes through body’s rhythm her own thrumming
god. Fox beast, incisors, torso warped thing. Its own twisted shape a way
of confessing. To choke without a throat, slowly, on praise.

From what is this thing we have gnawed happiness? How
has it tasted all of our lives? God of Smudged Chins. God of
Half-Virgins. We wedge fingernails into the gaps between backboard screws
and corner beams. With a wonderful quickness we know bed as world.
God, what I’m saying is that I suspect heaven
was planned with a right hand drawing blueprints on napkins,
the left hand still-buried in some idle fur.

Forgive me but nightclubs are like your mouth, like my bedroom
with its ceiling too low. The off-kilter whir of fan blades replace
any belief in collar-starch morals. Forgive the room’s stucco.
Forgive the drunk nothings this tile floor revibes. No,
nothing’s wrong with yesterday’s meats. Sometimes, though, I am
little more than gaps found between words—good and then
morning. A click-click that lingers. I cannot tell if its high heels or teeth.
If I am flea, Lord, and not a fox, I insist one thing: you must bite, hard.




David Antonio Moody writes out of Tallahassee where he pursues a PhD in poetics at FSU. Former poetry editor for SawPalm and Juked, David is production editor of Cortland Review and Southeast Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sweet, Eleven Eleven and Spillway.

An Interview with Pranas T. Naujokaitis.

By Max Evry

Pranas T. Naujokaitis (pronounced Nigh-O-Kite-Us) has been my friend for something like a decade. We both went to the same high school, are both obsessive comics nerds, I even helped name his cat “Ripley,” after the heroine of “Aliens.” It was apparent to anyone with eyeballs in front of their face that the guy was destined to become a cartoonist of epic proportions, but when Pranas announced that his first major published work was going to be a children’s book titled “The Totally Awesome Epic Quest of the Brave Boy Knight,” it took more than a few people by surprise, myself included.

“Here’s the problem: I have a very kid-friendly style but I don’t do kid-friendly stuff.” he tells me,”In “Inkdick” I draw myself in the shower with my cartoon penis a lot and deal with adult situations. Just don’t tell your kids to go to that site.”

“Anyone who’s seen how you draw noses pretty much knows how you draw a cartoon penis,” I reply.

After a long pause, Pranas sighs, “Yeah.”

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