“hold” one sheet zine — by nate east — january 2011
the cold wind, they say, comes through the thatch at meduseld, comes creeping through the stonework at the libraries, and tar chocks of the inn roofs. time, it finally was, to leave the ridgeline at her shoulder, and feather wands of her arms, crystals glittering like water in her hair. farewell, farewell! to all california girls! thou painted eyes and porcupine quills, eyes of a demon, eyes of a ghost! who are you of the lightning obsidian, who wanders at my side in the forest of dreams, the valley of sheetglass. you are that boy with his arms full of eyelids, of the train whistle, the prairie road home. you are that boy from the shipping container labyrinth, of the hills above berkeley and tents by the creeks, the woods in the ranchlands, the crossroads of elk jaws, the meadows at the treeline and caves beneath pony rock enscrolled with star maps. my own heart? composted already at a coffeeshop on shattuck ave, abandoned years ago on a filthy green lawnchair. and his — hers? i don’t know, seriously, i don’t actually know. as the years passed overhead like northeastern storms, the old theatres all shut down, one by one. but why are you here, he growled, and the instruments clattered as his fist fell on the table, the metallic beads in his hair swung and flashed. why did you end up here? the storm raged on outside and i could hear the raindrops clattering on the aluminum roof and exploding upon the windows at my back with little slaps. and now i was headed back, same states, train lines, same physical bus, probably, carrying me finally home through the prairie. in bryce canyon the sun sets as a hunter, a sprinter fleeing the creeping shadows like the two stags we chased through the flickering pines who kept looking over their shoulders with black winking eyes like coyote spirits.