The Cenacle | 101 | October 2017 *Just Released*

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The Cenacle | 101 | October 2017 *Just Released*

Post by Cenacle » November 21st, 2017, 5:18 pm

The Cenacle | 101 | October 2017
Reading link: ... _20october
Free Download link: ... r_2017.pdf
[Size = 8.9 MB]

Hello everyone,

And here comes autumn & Cenacle | 101 | October 2017! Absolutely chock full of great writings & graphic artwork, ready for your perusals & enjoyments.

Samples of the issue’s contents are below to entice you. The Cenacle is, of course, like always, free to read online or to download, via the links above.

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
I lived in this town north of Boston for some years, years ago, & used to come here well past midnights, with my notebooks, with my Stephen King novels, with my Walkmans & rock cassettes. Laid off, few nearby friends, poor.

Feedback on Cenacle 100:
[Tamara Miles]
Charlie Beyer’s “Prostate Panic” is one of the most honest, vulnerable, brave pieces I’ve read. Anybody who loves a man needs to read it. Any man facing impotence needs to read it. The many approaches to the narrator’s impotence problem (Viagra and its Indian alternative, medical pump, porno pump, penile injections), and his descriptions of the ongoing problem (“the flopper stays flopping,” for example, and my favorite, “like a dog with its head out the car window”)—as well as his somewhat alarming episode of success.

Poetry by Joe Ciccone:
What’s real has vanished
the leaves of these skeleton trees

the bones of the whales
and beyond the pasture

the tall masts fading

Same Moon Shining [Memoir Excerpts] by Tamara Miles:
Before Dad ended up at the Kansas City Cradle, he lived for about three months with his birth mother, who at nineteen had found herself pregnant by a husband who had an itchy foot. When she went looking for him at his parents’ house, she was advised to move on, and when she did catch up with him, he wasn’t in the mood for decorating a nursery. She had him arrested for cruelty and desertion.

Many Musics [Poetry] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
I discover that within love, within want,
within shadows of shadows, there may be
cruelty. Wished for, made upon.
A sweet ass smacked rawly red, then
fucked with the pain still fires wild.
Hands binded, mouths gagged. Will
to possess, completely be possessed.
Will to eclipse the mind of wonder & woe.

Psychedelic Summercamp [Travel Journal] by Nathan D. Horowitz:
A little wooden crate serves as a table. Atop it lies a paperback I bought in Quito. The following description is complicated, so bear with me. The cover has a picture taken at a ceremony in 1969 of a yagé drinker puffing a cigar and staring contemplatively at the viewer. The book contains two autobiographies. Above the photo are the words El bebedor de yajé (The Yagé Drinker) and Francisco Payaguaje. That’s Maribel’s deceased older brother, the last shaman-chief of the tribe. Below the photo are the words Raíz de medicina (Medicine Root) and Serafín Piaguaje. That’s Maribel and Francisco’s nephew, the one who told me last year that August is the best month for shamanism, when the dead who live in the sky in the form of stars descend to earth in the form of birds to feed on ripe fruits in the tops of the trees. Raiz de medicina is his Spanish translation of his Paicoca name, Ecora’sa.

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
Prison-white sneakers, last remnants of a past
no man should remember or forget. Cracked,
broken, they held on like mean drunks
in houses that never belonged to them.

Sapphire Sins [Travel Journal] by Charlie Beyer:
I’m off to save the future. My future and the future of this planet. Naturally, I can’t do this without money. I’m no charismatic Ghandi who can rally thousands with a diaper on. I need cold cash. I need everything, starting with a new truck. Then I need thousands of dollars for experimental materials to save the world. One of those materials is a piece of Florida coastline. It’s a race against capitalist poverty before I can institute CO2 absorption with algae. Before I can build land in the sea with electro participation of dissolved calcium. Before I can genetically cross-heat resistant coral with the wimpy stuff in the Caribbean. It’s a race in life between abject poverty and grandiose salvation of the earth.

Poetry by Colin James:
A t-shirt rack close by
began to disassociate.
I could tell by the run-on Rs
and quasi-proletarian Ps.
Calming down was like
laying in a bed of used tissues.

Notes from New England by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
But just then an old, old man burst through the door. Short, indistinctly shaped beneath his winter-heavy coat. Crying out from his ancient depths upon arrival. “Saloon-Keeper, the days grow shorter & darker! The trials of man more cartoonish, more desperate! Even in the golden sun we are become a cold, self-obsessed kind! Dreams of plastic molding, vague, crumbling, & the next, & the next, & the next!”

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
a flock of birds
just before sunset
mottled pink sky

Notes on Fate Versus Free Will [Prose] by Jimmy Heffernan:
I feel that if the circumstances of my life—the events and their chronology—had been different, the arc of my personal being would still have been the same. In other words, I don’t think the experiences of my life define who I really am. I think this particular self would have, sooner or later, shaken out in any alternate universe in which the initial conditions were the same (barring any major traumas). That’s just how it feels.

Poetry by Pablo Neruda:
What a world! What deep parsley!
What a ship sailing through the sweetness!
And you, maybe—and me, maybe—a topaz.
There’ll be no more dissensions in the bells.

The Shoe in the Wall, or Viola’s Place [Fiction] by Tom Sheehan:
The wood I was salvaging this time was for a complete re-do of our kitchen, much of it as requested by the lady of the house: “More cabinets, more shelving for dishware, food stuffs in their containers, countertop for work, a little more character for a room in this house erected in 1742, a real Colonial.” She knew what she wanted and I knew I would get it done, as cheaply as I could; you know, most expenses to be spared, or something like that.

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
Every thing we know,
we’ve already said.
Our only hope is
to un-know it and begin again—
maybe a little quieter this time.

Bags End Book #7: The Inspector is Coming! [fiction] by Algernon Beagle:
One story I knowed I had to go after was one that never ends & that is the strange doings of that real live Bunny Pillow named Betsy. She is back in Bags End now & I suppose finding out about her crazed plans & new schemes would be a good story to write about. Or even better, a interview. So I put on mah reporter’s fedorah & found mah notebook & pencil & set off tramping along to find the unimitable Betsy. An trouble traipsed happily alongside me.

Jasmine in 3 Parts [Classic Cenacle Fiction] by G.C. Dillon
How many of you reading this recall the final scene of Annie Hall—the one where Woody meets Diane on the street a year after their relationship has ended? When I recently saw it on an obscure cable channel, I wondered: is that it? Why doesn’t he take her to an out of the way bistro for bagels and cappuccino? Why doesn’t she invite him to her apartment for a glass of white wine? But no. It is gone, what they had. Sure, they liked each other, but “it” was gone. Call it love, call it eros, call it some genetic urge deep within our genes. “It” is gone. Her antics just aren’t so cute anymore. You know, the way her head tilts when she tells a joke seems more an affectation than it once did. You wonder if it is the same person, not some strange twin, or a victim from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. No, as I said, it is gone.

The Most Beautiful Death (Letter) by Laura Huxley:
Once in a while my own emotion would overcome me, but if it did I immediately would leave the bed for two or three minutes, and would come back only when I could dismiss my emotion. The twitching of the lower lip lasted only a little bit, and it seemed to respond completely to what I was saying. “Easy, easy, and you are doing this willingly and consciously and beautifully—going forward and up, light and free, forward and up towards the light, into the light, into complete love.”

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
I was at someone’s house, it was a friend, she had this large jug of LSD, it was brown-tinted, it was kind of a pretty brown, almost like a dye but I don’t think so. She was very generous with this LSD, every time I came she made sure I got took care of, that I got risen up, that I got high. She knew I was struggling with my worry about paying rent. Then what happened one night was that, I don’t know, I didn’t get high, it didn’t work, maybe it did, & I just didn’t notice, the worry had overcome me. She was tired, she had to go to work the next day, she went to bed, & so I went into the little refrigerator where she kept all her medicines & chemicals & do-dads & I poured a little more LSD from her jug into my cup of orange juice, maybe a little more after that, I just had to finally evict this worry from my mind & not worry about rent except for the first of the month. But I must have poured out too much because now it looked like there was a lot less in the jug than there was, & so I got panicked & I brought the jug over to the sink & I filled it up with water a little, but now that beautiful brown color was gone. It was watered down & I just didn’t know what to do, & it’s like in the course of trying to expel one worry, rent worry, I’d taken on another, so maybe there’s a lesson in there for you or, honestly, maybe there isn’t.

Comment here—or reply to me directly at

Last edited by Cenacle on November 22nd, 2017, 1:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: The Cenacle | 101 | October 2017 *Just Released*

Post by judih » November 21st, 2017, 11:51 pm

big like!

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