Sticky Heart

push myself down the flight of stairs to unwind

July 2022

Bedlington In Red by Craigie Aitchison (2012)

Singles
by Jon Leon 

I drink ginger ale with a lemon in a short glass. Crystal and Tiffany are here. We watch a Gregory Dark film. Totally sober. The endless refinements don't make us more relatable, but we're past worrying about the simple, the mean. Look at nature. See the  equal tones—in here; and out there too. I was a writer. For as long as it took to get out of it. I stopped reading around 2005. Thought is a waste of energy, and I'm not playing. What did they say, "Master of the Game." But I fulfill the promise. Crystal and Tiffany fulfill the promise. They leave the body with me because the sense plane echoic. I come out of the body and into the body. It's like a reeling tape.  Cosmopolites, they never leave their boundaries. And we know the stories, the hard copy, so we stay underground, or in heaven. You know the environment is like a seal. Tiffany, like these flowers on the table. They're pure being, like Crystal, revealing all things in perfect refraction. The source of all my poetry, the interior of the set—the TV and the vase, opening just enough to find the narrow way. I saw the veil and everything  behind it. Over and over. Crimson and clover.

Jon Leon is a poet based in New York City. He is the author The Malady of the Century (Futurepoem, 2012).

Doll
by Shelby Hartness 

a soft kiss on the bare shoulder where 

you found something new you thought 

wasn’t there before 

i felt it like a feather landing on dust  

in the dark where it was  

the only patch of skin  

exposed beneath the blankets 

i thought it was a dream i didn’t know 

you were capable of such tenderness 

i had to ask you twice if it was real 

the first time  

you made me think 

i was a doll whining  

un-sanctimonious  

ignoring my question  

i cried  

when life becomes  

the only obsession 

i turn into a pile of twine i have to push 

myself down the flight of stairs to unwind 

it is a careful but necessary violence  

to forget you

Shelby Hartness is a writer & poet based in Half Moon Bay, California. 

she stands in front of the mirror and looks at her face and sees his face. i know he's the one, because when i look in the mirror at my face i see his face. she leaves her apartment. a black cat crosses her path. she unlocks her phone and googles black cat, good luck or bad luck. the results are 50/50 depending on the culture. she always related to eastern philosophy. good. on the way to her last session, a bird pooped on her hand. good luck. 

riding fast down metropolitan on the racing bike again, the one that would be stolen a few weeks later. you're going too fast would be the message, but she’s still accelerating. it's chilly enough to wear gloves. she feels a small amount of pressure on her right hand, a little wet. she looks down. this must be the right thing to do. i'm on the right path, she sees his face again. she sees it everywhere. 

hops off and locks with a hefty chain, which would soon be lost too, after leaving it on the counter of an air bnb of an untrue friend of an untrue friend’s. that friend would leave the chain in her lobby when she wasn't going to go pick it up, she never said she was going to go get it. 

she uses the code sam gave her. once in the lobby, dark wood and smelly, she calls the number sam had last used. there were a few. they pick up. she says she's looking for sam. who is this? they ask, she says i have an appointment with her, they say who is this? she says i have an appointment with sam, can you tell us more about that? for a cleansing. they say ohhh and laugh nervously. it's just your caller ID says [company name]. 

try this number. 

sam's phone. hey, i have an appointment with sam. sam left her phone at home today, i'll see if i can reach her. 

phone rings, where are you sweetheart? im at the office um [address] i think that's the one is that the one? yes. the walls are bending. sam is upstairs, you can go knock on the door. 

she glides up the curved staircase and knocks. nothing. slinks back down the stairs and paces under the stairwell. a door opens above. hello? a man is at the top of the stairs. hey, is sam home? hmm no sam lives here. ok! sorry. do you need anything? oh, no, i'm just going to wait for my friend here. 

two minutes pass and she calls the number again. i knocked and they said sam didn't live there. did you try the door at the top of the stairs? i think so. ok, i'll try her again, hang on. i'm sorry. no, i'm sorry this is happening to you. 

a door opens at the top of the stairs. she swears it hadn't been there before. had it been there the whole time? sam comes out of the door in a bralette and a skin tight mini skirt. hey love, did you get in ok? yeah!

a few more things happen and then they are in the bathroom turning on the shower. take your bottoms off. actually, take anything off you don't want to get wet. 

everything in a pile on the floor and she is staring at it, warm water on her chest, as the door bursts open and then hurries closed again. hey! sorry about that, love. sam takes the sickly pink salt out of the ziplock bag. with an open palm she rubs it on her genitals rigorously. this will get rid of the bacteria for good. but you have to be intimate as soon as possible. he's the one we have to go after. oh love, your eyes, so sad… do you have pictures? 

on the couch she shows sam a dick pick. veryyyy nice.. sam says, send this to me so i can meditate on it. 

i told my boss what kind of progress you're making and that's why she's giving you such a good deal on this. so we have to have another session tomorrow, ok love? 

how much? 

sam opens her mouth and the waves bend. it's ok, she thinks, it's ok. her phone is in her hand, her hand is sending the money, it’s sending and it sends. 

she bikes home. she looks at his pictures again. she scrolls through his instagram on the burner account she made to view his stories. she had found his handle by searching in the followers of an instagram famous artist. he was at the studio today. he posted in-progress pictures on his story. good excuse to not text back. she lays back in the bath. she closes her eyes and she sees his face.

by Violet

Violet makes art, stories, noises, and coffees in the outer boroughs of New York. 
@violet.reached.here (instagram) & @violet_indigo_blue_ (twitter)

Bunnies 
by Owen Carry

Behind shades on porches into bungalows along the sea shore. Seven neighborhoods lined the south coast. Pouring a  plastic juice handle into a glass. A tiled countertop. And the sun just rising over their hair.

They take a sip sitting on the carpet. No one sits on top the couches. Their bunnies jump around the floor in front of them. Towel to towel in the living room. Soft pink on light blue. And it’s breakfast time for the three of them.

They eat salad in front of the TV. Salad for breakfast. Criss-cross. Like a bowl of cereal. Their beds are on the other side of the bungalow. The bunnies share a cage there. It’s open in the morning wind. A drippy water bottle stuck through its metal. It’s almost winter here and it’s windy.

Flags in front yards flap at different speeds. Metal poles poked into front-yard sand. Jeep tracks run the length of the main beach here. They don’t own a Jeep. Someone could take their sandals off but they’d be cold. A tunnel through hair. Gloves are needed on the beach right now. Little soccer ones. The headwinds make you feel as if you’re walking on a leash.

With the bunnies on the porch right now. They’re underneath them. Their toes are hanging off the hammock. The bunnies are eating carrots. Swaying above them. Another layer is needed like a sweater.

The screen is moving with the wind. They’re swaying over knitted oval carpets. They could be reading but they’re not. They’re just staring at the peeling paint. The bunnies stay inside the porch. Playing. Sipping tea.

Now they’re on the hammock with them. Sitting in their lap. Thinking about those last warm days of summer. In a beach town. Like today. They look out over the houses between them and the beach. It’s closed on a Sunday. They’ve always lived here.

Ropes are stretched out around the beach. Preventing anyone from getting in. They’re not doing a good job though. No one wants to be out there anyway. They flap in the wind like the flags do. The early morning. When someone comes to put the ropes up they’re not often seen. 

On a Sunday. They bring the bunnies to the water in a tote bag. One for each of them. Like today. Sunday is when the beach is empty. Like footballs in their armpits. The bunnies hide under the purple of their sweatshirt. 

From the parking lot. There’s only one other person on the beach today. They’re flying a kite in the headwind. They’re sitting on a blanket that’s also flapping. Holding it down with their butt. Like a magic carpet.

The bunny’s ears stay close to it. Aerodynamic in the wind. Their heads stick out each tote bag and a PB&J is being eaten above them. Crumbs fall down inside the bags. So when they get to the beach they’re too busy nibbling to scurry out. They’re on the beach with no towel. Lumps inside loose tote bags on the sand.

As they come out of their bags they are solid and sturdy on the sand. They hop around. Barely moving. Like bunnies do. Advancing all at once. For no reason. And then they stop. Keep on going.

They’re looking around when they stop. Like bunnies do. Looking for eagles in the sky. There are just clouds though. They’re sitting behind them. Looking at how long their fingernails have gotten.

They’re watching them play. In their boxer shorts. They kick up sand with their little feet when they move. No one’s texting. No one’s saying anything. The sky is grey and the water’s almost. It’s that color it gets when the sky is grey.

If they stayed there long enough they might understand how each wave rolls in. How each one starts as two. Curls. At first they’re two curls curling in. To meet each other in the middle. Then they crash and another starts again.

The bunnies are still in the foreground. The brown one gets an idea to hop over the other. They laugh when it happens. 

They lay back and watch the sky. Their baseball cap flops from all the pressure. It’s hard to believe summer was two months ago.

Owen Carry is a writer, artist, and associate editor at Know Your Meme, living in New York. 
@heyowenhere (instagram), @wenswords (twitter),  owencarry.com

Office Space (AI collab)
by Jasmine Johnson

I'm here in a nondescript, anonymous office, in a large parking lot.

Surrounded by a bunch of boys in suits, but none of them would dream of admitting they’re here. 

I can hear the soft whir of the computer servers.

It's eerily quiet.

From time to time one of them will glance at me, and they will do it in an unconscious way. At least they're trying to look unconcerned.

I'm just a girl with a laptop and a face that some people aren't sure is a face at all.

I sit and type, and never once read.

I've never seen anyone read here.

I don't know what they do.

They all have accounts on porn sites, I assume.

It is the Internet, after all.

So I sit, and they click.

I do a little clicking, myself, sometimes. I would have been fired ages ago, if my company knew I was here.

Jasmine Johnson is an American dilettante based in Los Angeles.
@Jasmine.Johnson (instagram)

Sacrifice
by Amanda Galemmo 

For a long time, she had fully believed true love was the complete sacrifice of oneself for the sake of the unit. But her beliefs were inaccurate; she had never truly devoted herself to someone in that way until she had, and when she did, she hated it. The idea of finding her sense of purpose in her commitment to another, to their emotions, to their every whim… this turned out to be a false hope. 

She was quite naïve when she was young. She had met her husband when she was 20. He was an embarrassing number of years older, but that wasn’t really an issue, and she had wanted so badly to prove that she was an adult. Once she graduated school, they moved in together quickly, and her budding artistic career eventually became an afterthought. For a little over two years, she put her nose to the pavement. Every gallery opening within a 36 mile radius was graced with her presence and she took any and every shitty job put in front of her. But he hated the hours and wanted her to settle down, so she soon found herself married and needing real money. 

So she took an easy job with lax hours as a project manager. The company emphasized its work/life split, and she imagined a thoughtless day of emails and meetings followed by evenings filled with painting and contemplation. In reality, she did have thoughtless days at the office, but they led to thoughtless nights spent watching terrible television for seasons and seasons at a time. But even though she never got her idealized life of a moonlighting artist, the fights about her not being home enough or over who she’d spoken to in the day had stopped. She had managed to forge a tentative peace with him, and found a routine that felt like happiness. In fact, her changing of focus proved to be so necessary to the preservation of her union that for a while she didn’t even give it a second thought. Even when a door she had struggled to open for years did so, she denied the opportunity for the sake of love. 

Soon, she’d regret this decision, but ultimately she had no one to blame but herself. When her partner had expressed displeasure with her flirtation with the job, she did not have enough of a backbone to stand up for what she wanted. For her, comfort was more important than taking a chance on herself. 

Her partner offered enormous comfort, special in the way that domesticity is special. Someone to wake up next to, someone to depend on. But however much can one depend on someone who did not want her to pursue what she thought would make her happy? He had asked her to forsake herself for the sake of love, but the love didn’t even prove itself to be worthy of the sacrifice. And so she found herself younger than she thought she’d be with a family, wondering what she had done wrong along the way to lead her to this position. 

Before him, she had been a woman dedicated to her job, putting in absurd hours for the sake of her own professional improvement. Of course, she had made mistakes on her own that kept her back from being on the top, but she had frankly worked her ass off and eventually earned an apprenticeship with an artist she deeply admired  that would have changed her entire professional life. But ultimately it was her that made the mistake to deny the offer, and, again, she really had no one but herself to blame.

So, she resolved to care for her family, for her little unit, to give her child the best life she could. She resolved to be a constant presence in the child’s life. If she could not find happiness for herself, she’d resolved that her child would not be so unlucky, so foolish. This was now her purpose, and her fulfillment of it, no matter how much she hated to admit it, it gave her happiness. And in a lot of ways, I think that was enough.

Amanda Galemmo is a writer and software engineer living in San Diego.
@galemmo (instagram & twitter)

Wayney by Craigie Aitchison (2009)