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Cosmic American Muse
Brian BeattyÂ
The green rhinestone shimmering in the desert sand was too bright to be from one of the late Gram Parson’s famous Nudie suits so many years after his death. In the spirit of outlaw country music, I pocketed it anyway. But first I weighed swallowing it like a glamorous prescription pill that somehow knew my name and what ailed me.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The Decoy
Brian Beatty
The swim trunk mannequin toppled backwards off the edge of the high-dive board as if passing out drunk. Judges splashing around in the public pool’s shallow end scored him consistent tens. They’d never
witnessed such a takeoff, flight or entry in all their childhoods. Would-be girlfriends wrapped themselves into their sunbathing towels
then lined up to ask for the decoy’s autograph if not a kiss.  Â
art by ms. neaux neaux
Ears
Brian Beatty Â
in memory of Denis Johnson
Squalling babies on airplanes exist mostly to pierce the ears of businessmen flying home to visit family for the weekend. Polyester ghosts (angels?) send their cocktail cart up the narrow aisle, handing out small bags of peanuts  more or less the size of the adult human soul.  Thursday afternoons in the sky, it’s true there’s not a lot to see. Unless you want to count clouds or farm plots square as the state of Ohio. Which I don’t now that I’m no longer under pressure — cabin, heart or otherwise — to address the symptoms of clinical depression, a.k.a. life. I open a new paperback like an undersized emergency exit door, angle that tiny spotlight above my head just so, then ease back my middle seat an entire inch. I’m ready to go.
"Finding a method for physicians to diagnose heart disease sooner could be life-saving for many...cases in the future."
Today on The Academic Minute, Brian Beatty, Associate Professor of Anatomy at the New York Institute of Technology (NYIT), looks into a surprising part of the body that could hold clues to your heart health.
http://bit.ly/BBeattyAM
Railroad No. 1
Brian Beatty
A passing train shakes the skeletal birch trees along the tracks. I can’t save myself. Darkness weighs too heavily on my bones.
This is the wrong dream. It must be. The night isn’t actually a gun in my hand. Damp chills run up my back anyway.
My tent and sleeping bag  catch fire in the woods behind me. Lightning.
The train brakes. What am I supposed to say?
art by desligamiento
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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How Romance Works
Brian Beatty
For a jukebox with neon cowboy boots that kick back and forth in time with the music, it plays
relatively little country. I always notice/hate the plaintive cry of steel guitar. That’s my talent: I have a real ear
when it comes to what I hate. I know it as soon as I hear it. Meanwhile,
drunk women line up to go dance on the moon.
art by k mackowick
Kentucky Folklore (A Sucker’s Evening)
Brian Beatty
True-ish story: Alone one night in a rented cabin along a creek owned by local stoners up the hill I killed enough meek little mice to fill one poorly sewn pillowcase. Using just a hat and a boot. Unfortunately  there was no going back to sleep or facing my sorry self in the cracked mirror above the wash basin after that. So I did what you or anybody else would’ve done next. My white sock foot stomped a dirty gray anyway I dragged the whole infested bed outside onto the shining blue grass to light it on fire from what I thought was a safe place in the water. What the hell had turned me into such a bad man? Even under the best of circumstances, I’m no prince, but I’m telling you that was the night I discovered the coal black darkness of my soul. The sham ripping at the seams with my squashed dead from before I left hanging like a zero-star review or an invitation not to follow me home from a nail hammered more quickly than well through the back of the cabin’s slamming door.
Scarecrow Poem
Brian Beatty
In between twilight and the night
of the aurora borealis I climb up
onto a stone about the size
of a small brown bear
or old tractor engine
at the edge of nearby farm’s
open green field as if I might
somehow become a scarecrow.
I’m waiting for what's likely
an impossible view of the horizon
where I might be able to watch the stars
quietly slip away
when their exhibition ends.
What happens instead
is that clouds of magpies
swoop down
like trickster friends
pecking at my outstretched
arms — mocking me
with their cackle songs
dropping blue-black wings
like so many shimmering shadows
where my feet used to be.
It’s not long before I can’t see my boots.
art by giveawayboy
