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 Fathom 1985

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Pam Heaven (4)
Lex Gigeroff (2)
Joe Blades (3)
Andrew Little (2)
Babila Mutia
Lord Byron (3)
Ajay Heble
Margaret Heneghan
Robyn Gladwin (2)
Sean Bedell (2)
Marin Acker
Thorn Wells
Shandi Mitchell
Moritz Gaede
Lesley Wilson
Jane Everitt
C.M.M.
David E. Ayer

Prose

Ajay Heble
Lori MacLean

Commentary

Elizabeth Stephen

[PDF]

Lex Gigeroff

 

 

Neal’s Last Words
(A Cornball Ode for a Mexican Morn)

Seven thousand, five hundred and fifty-three
Seven thousand, five hundred and fifty four
Lord, lord, my feet are sore
My brain is dry and my soul is worn
Railroad tracks and housewives, lord
Deeds done long ago –
I hear drum beats, heart beats, lively city streets
And every grain of cocaine is pounding in my feet
Tappin’ out the strangest jesus code I ever heard:
“Neal, man, keep at it man, you gotta keep mavin’ on”
But where, man, where? Into the rosy-fingered dawn?
(Aw, that’s a trip for college kids
If they ever learn the words).
Railroad tracks and housewives, lord
Bathtub gin and saxophones
I wish there was a girl out there
That I could call my own.
I’ve seen the good ol’ U.S.A in naked technicolor
I spent some time in prison and lived to tell about it later
I survived a year in Frisco smokin’ dope and wearin’ sandals
I fueled the mind of Shakespeare and the soul of Mickey
    Mantle
Now I guess I’m just too old to play Lord Byron Styrofoam
And I’m too far down Ihat lonesome line to find a country
    home
All I see is faces, man, and the lights are getting dimmer
The road is gelling longer and the air is getting thinner
And every achin’ step I take strains upon my heart
And these battered tracks in Mexico is as good a place to start
To find out what its like to go through hell and survive...
Seven thousand, five hundred ... and fifty-five.

 

+Neal Cassidy, who was the model for Dean Moriarity in Jack Kerouec’s On the Road, died beside a railroad track in Mexico in 1968.

 

After my Bath I am ready for Bed

having forgiven the world for its tactlessness
i perform the last of my nightly rituals
looking out and over the top of the church next door
to where the moon should be
i pass once again through the rubble of this evening’s waste
recalling the fragile gift of one man’s drunken love
and the wound of another’s truthfulness
until the memory has been all-but-buried
and i sense the futility of my faith
in these unstable surroundings
succumbing to the loneliness of this late hour
and the nagging harbour-horn
i exhale an evening’s expensive deceit
and crawl, like a bug, into a bed.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul