The 25 cent Masseuse

The 25 cent Masseuse

I still remember the skin that stretched
across my mother’s sinuses. Alexa Doran

This tells us something
about the things we hate.

My mother’s nose was knobby and delicate
at once. I stood over her
and massaged the bridge of her
nose for a quarter. I felt naked as I kneaded
her and kneaded her.

Why concern ourselves with my mother’s glands?
Why fixate on the blissless grip of an 8-year-old girl?

I could focus on the eyelet lace across our couch
or the snow that lay its blank body beside the bay
window. I could cast about for my father’s mouth,
mutter my millionth save me.

But the brain is a dirty thing
and it knows what I know

so let her surface, awful and center
as she is — we will always know her
tenderness. We will go away and spend

forever knowing the eggshell arch of her nose
rose high and soft, your newborn’s breath, and everything else

collapsed into valleys,

the station wagon saturated with crumbs,
the hours connected to the cordless, the screen
door and cherry smoke that cling in her wake.

 

The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review was founded in 2010 as an online and print literary and arts journal. We take our title from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and include the full archives of our predecessor Moon Milk Review. Our aesthetic is eclectic, literary mainstream to experimental. We appreciate fusion forms including magical realist, surrealist, meta- realist and realist works with an offbeat spin. We value character-focused storytelling and language and welcome both edge and mainstream with punch aesthetics. We like humor that explores the gritty realities of world and human experiences. Our issues include original content from both emerging and established writers, poets, artists and comedians such as authors, Rick Moody, Cris Mazza, Steve Almond, Stephen Dixon, poets, Moira Egan and David Wagoner and actor/comedian, Zach Galifianakis.

amphibian logbook

we still played

with dolls

when names were multiplied

            seventy times seven                 heteronyms                 

            slept

            on the same pillow

 

we carried in our bodies

the sum of all our ancestors                 :

violence                       intimacy

converted into chamber music

            the danger is               

            where end

our arms were therefore a higher                                

                        algebra

than metaphor

 

Manifesto II

chuck palahniuk was

            buddha the late show host sang

                        lullabies

and we knew nothing

            we knew

                        nothing

of what would come

            afterwards because we neither read

                        the terms

and conditions of use of the world´s

            pace of the human

                        stain

we children of our time confused

            -of course-

                        language´s

binary opposition

            to talk or to remain

                        silent

verbal action or abstention

            with binary code

                        we atrophied

our tongues overloaded our

            thumbs and sealed the hormonal

                        howl

in text messages

            by the mid 2000´s

 

                        in some corner of silicon

                                    valley

                        our verbs will endure

                        once we´re dead

 

with us beati will be multiplied

            —antimicrobial preservatives prevent

                        degradation

by bacteria—

            our nails will be

                        relics

but the calendar won´t be elastic

            there won´t be altars mausoleums

                        statues

and the incorrupt

            bodies won´t be

                        venerated

because we

            offspring of the tower of babel´s

                        collapse

first witnesses of the end

            of language

                        will scratch

with these surving nails

            the hollow of each

                        niche

and in a language

            post language

                        —the digit´s

emporium reduced us—         

            in a tongue that won´t be

                        a tongue

we´ll reclaim

            our right

                        to oblivion