aries2010
TRANSCRIPT
Aries: A Journal of Art and Literature
SPRING 2010
40th Anniversary Issue
FOUNDED IN 1969 BY SOUTHEASTERN COMMUNITY COLLEGE
VOLUME XXV
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Editor Allison Parker
Student Assistant Editor Carl Kruger
Royce Ray Poetry Judges The SCC Creative Writing Club
COVER ART BY AUGUST TRAEGER
“Aries Ram,” 2010
SCCNC.EDU
A PUBLICATION OF
SOUTHEASTERN COMMUNITY COLLEGE
PRINTED BY
Correction Enterprises
Aries / May 2010 / Volume 25 /Number 1
Thank you to the SCC Foundation, the North Carolina Writer‟s Network, the Juggling Gypsy, 910 Noise
and the Royce Ray family for their lifelong support and contribution to the literary arts in North Carolina.
Aries: A Journal of Art and Literature is an annual publication produced by Southeastern Community
College, Whiteville, NC.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
SASS ROGANDO SASOT
“Blow” ..................................................................................................... 6
“Stars Are Blushing” ............................................................................... 7
“The Faucet of Timeless Leaks” ............................................................. 8
GLORIA STONE
“Plead” ............................................................................................................ 9
“Crow Day” ..................................................................................................... 10
“City Street Mobile” ....................................................................................... 11
DEBORAH DUCHESNEAU
“Wishes” ......................................................................................................... 12
JOE C MILLER
“Click” ............................................................................................................ 14
“Jimmy‟s Bunny” ............................................................................................ 15
“Joy” ............................................................................................................... 16
CARL KRUGER
“Why Trains Have Wheels” ............................................................................ 17
“Untitled” ........................................................................................................ 18
SCOTT H URBAN
Royce Ray Poetry Prize for “Along a Nebraska Interstate” ............................ 19
“One Millionth” .............................................................................................. 20
“Sword Underwater” ....................................................................................... 21
KEVIN DUBLIN
“Memory Recovery” ....................................................................................... 22
“If I Could Find Her and Hear Her Speak” ..................................................... 23
“In Passing Downtown” .................................................................................. 24
BRIAN CAMPBELL
“The Unknown Rose” ..................................................................................... 25
“Athena is Talking To You” ........................................................................... 26
A TRAEGER
“the war mother ............................................................................................... 27
“untitled” ......................................................................................................... 28
“untitled” ......................................................................................................... 29
“four decembers” ............................................................................................ 30
TED ROBERTS
“Lean” ............................................................................................................. 31
“The Boy and the Storm” ................................................................................ 32
BOBBY DZIEWULSKI
“This Morning the Sun” .................................................................................. 33
“Might Be Blind” ............................................................................................ 34
RYAN DAVID MILLER
“Facedown In The Afternoon” ........................................................................ 35
“Streams, Ourselves Dreams” ......................................................................... 36
“Homesick” ..................................................................................................... 38
STEVEN GIBBS
“The Telephone” ............................................................................................. 39
“Produce Section” ........................................................................................... 40
“Torpedo Lick” ............................................................................................... 41
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AUGUST TRAEGER
Pen and Ink Drawings
“Girl” ............................................................................................................... 42
“Things That Watch Me” ................................................................................ 43
“Employability Skills” .................................................................................... 44
“Menaced Assassin” ........................................................................................ 45
“Girl 2” ............................................................................................................ 46
ERIC SMAIROWKSI
“43 Cigarettes” ................................................................................................ 47
“From Soil, Vine and Wine” ........................................................................... 48
VANESSA ROBERTS
“1:32 am”. ....................................................................................................... 49
“11:39pm” ....................................................................................................... 50
“the hum” ........................................................................................................ 51
CRISTOPHER MULROONEY
“Sport” ............................................................................................................ 53
“Town and Harbor” ......................................................................................... 53
“Digital Countoff” ........................................................................................... 53
KATIE FLOYD
“The Things That Make Us Human” .............................................................. 54
ABBEY PRITCHETT
“Cut and Paste” ............................................................................................... 55
BRANDI EDWARDS
“Zeus” ............................................................................................................. 56
JEAN JONES
“il miglior fabbro”........................................................................................... 59
“Andrea” ......................................................................................................... 61
“Cow Skull” .................................................................................................... 62
NATHAN MENDENHAL
“Bop Blessing” ................................................................................................ 63
“Mental Pastures”............................................................................................ 64
RENEE MCPHERSON
“The Gift of Balsam Blues” ............................................................................ 65
STEVEN VINEIS
“Broken Point” ................................................................................................ 67
“The New South” ............................................................................................ 69
CHRISTINA DORE
“Dog” .............................................................................................................. 72
“Unsure”.......................................................................................................... 73
“Un Chien Andalou” ....................................................................................... 74
Royce Ray Poetry Prize Announcement ................................................................ 75
Submissions ............................................................................................................ 76
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This 40th
Edition of Aries is dedicated to the following advisors, editors and art directors who
placed heartfelt effort into publishing Aries over the years:
~Issues from 1970 to 2010~
Betty King
Christine Balogh
Wister Jackson
Heather Ross Miller
Walter Saunders
Linda Lederfeind
Frances Butler
Larry Hewett
Judy Mincy
Billie Jayroe
Paul Dawson
Cele Carnes
Rebecca A. Conert
R. Michelle Conert
Ruby Lambdin
Gene Chestnutt
Steve Britt
Wanda Little
Robert Carter
Jerra Jenrette
Noretta White
Timothy Moore
Fredreka Secrest
Gladys Hayes
Jon Land
Kim Ransom
Marceia Cox
Steve Beck
David McCormick
Ray Mize
Jennifer Keith
Michael McCall
Elizabeth High
Meredith Serling
Pat Bjorklund
Allison Parker
Thanks to All SCC Student Artists and Contributing Writers
Special Thanks to the Royce Ray family, whose contributions through the decades have made Aries: A
Journal of Art and Literature possible.
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SASS ROGANDO SASOT
Blow
a certain moaning
illuminates your spine
with a glow
of a red cloud
at sundown
rising like steam
your body lifts
to the crest
of a mountain
deep in trance
from your toes
a cantering spiral
tickles your neck
your jaw trembles
your cheeks ripe
warmth conquered you
your eyes shut
to everything but
your ecstasy
my tongue strokes
your volcanic reveries
then you erupt
those undulating rhymes
your navel articulates
your every ahs
into spastic verses
and i swallow
everything that flows
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SASS ROGANDO SASOT
Stars are Blushing
stroke my heart
with your tongue
let language grow
as fresh blossoms
from fertile soils
of celestial spasms
let taste buds
of our eyes
taste and relish
the aromatic aura
the pink flushes
of virginal glow
flourish the joy
cherish the grace
let silence burst
from our chests
entangled solar flames
intertwined we blaze
seize the darkness
with light's zest
stars are blushing
the ocean's dancing
the earth's shaking
our souls radiate
light the candles
let them weep
our luminous orgasm
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SASS ROGANDO SASOT
The Faucet of Timeless Leaks
The faucet of timeless leaks;
the oceanic landscape of a living room,
lapping gently on a couch;
everyday mnemonics clipped on the fridge:
lists, pictures, reminders, inspiring words
of unforgettable encounters;
the silence of the mirror, unaffected even by
the reflection of terror;
books whose pages have felt the pulse of your laughter,
kept you warm, and turned your eyes into wings and hearts,
they beat even if the reading has stopped;
windows that never refuse entry to light, crescents, fireworks,
and the motion of days;
stairs whose flights lead you to the basement
and roof of your life, even if home can make you feel lost;
and the bed who keeps your calm even if your dreams
sail through a storm; all this unveiled
in a single twist of an awakened doorknob.
But you forgot your key inside;
and you, who remain forgetful, take comfort
in the frustration of looking for it outside.
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GLORIA STONE
Plead
Pleaded begged borrowed
could not knowingly
remove remonstration wringing
'round remembrances
cursed cried
thoughts thunk
death defined
moving monologued
numbed to knowledge
insanity intensified
frantic fractures.
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GLORIA STONE
Crow Day
Caws crack the stilled morning.
Black flight spreads over dusk's sky.
Swift and soft as wind, they glide…
Perched on wired branch,
stickly legs hold ebony plumage
against sculpted body.
Eyes set in pitch nebulae,
with vision beyond simple watching.
Color-cold-in motion—
stance-stamina…
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GLORIA STONE
City Street Mobile
The sight of her doesn't disturb,
cross legged
in the middle of the store.
Her piles of bags spread about;
she rumages through this,
placing that into another one,
rearranging her being
into new order.
matted brown wild hair
grimmy;
matted patch of dark hairs on the bottom
of her chin,
contrasting with her
pale dingy skin.
Long sleeved sweater
greasy with dirt sheen.
It isn't until one passes by her
that the assult takes place...
Stinging-eye-watering alert
catching in one's nostrils...
Once the desire to vomit subsides,
the stomach relaxes.
The pleading need to flee is nearly overwhelming.
Seeing her did not disturb,
Smelling her acknowledged her
attack on one's psyche...
There was no disregarding That
presence.
The pongy aroma
of the mentally unwell
is overwhelmingly
its own entity.
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DEBORAH DUCHESNEAU
Wishes
Summer in the big city is filled with all kinds of temptations and trouble or so my mother always
said. It was for this reason that I went to the country every summer to spend time with my grandmother.
Granny Elle was my mother‟s mother and she lived in a seaside village in northeastern Canada. She lived
alone in a large, rambling two story house built over one hundred years ago. The old homestead was
nestled in a forest of spruce and pine trees but if you walked through these woods and down the slope you
could stand on the rocky coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Although the area was very picturesque, it had not
attracted many newcomers so Granny Elle‟s nearest neighbor was three miles away.
Granny Elle did not believe in the modern day trappings of society. She did not have indoor
plumbing, television, or a telephone. She did have a large porch with pink rocking chairs and an ample
kitchen with a wood stove and a small pink radio that only received one station. There were electric lights
but when you got up with the sun and went to bed with the sun, they were a bit redundant and therefore
seldom used. This was a fact which suited Granny Elle just fine. The summers spent in Frankville were
long, hot and quiet but never boring. The house was filled with antiques, and pictures and each object told
a story to an imaginative child with lots of times on her hands.
Mornings started early since Granny Elle thought sleeping in until seven was sinful and a sure
sign of laziness. Mornings were a time for chores. There had not been animals on the small farm for many
years but there was still work to do such as cooking, berry picking, washing clothes and saying prayers.
Afternoons were quiet time reserved for reading, listening to the radio and napping. Evenings after supper
were spent sitting on the porch talking to each other, singing songs and calling to the crows. I always
believed that the crows were answering us with their caws.
In Granny Elle‟s house each of the five up stair bedrooms had a designated color. There was the
blue room, the yellow room, the pink room, the white room and green room. Downstairs the bedrooms
did not have specific assigned colors. The one big bedroom was a guest room and that is where I slept in
the summer. Granny Elle slept in a small room at the back of the house. The rooms upstairs had been
relatively unchanged since the children had left home. Only when they came to visit, which was rare,
were those rooms used. The rooms harbored the treasures of the years gone by and memories of
childhoods from the past.
On those long summer afternoons while Granny Elle napped, I would ramble through the upstairs
bedrooms looking in all the bureau drawers and closets. Every summer I found something that held
fascination for me. Old letters, pictures, newspaper clippings, dried flowers pressed between pages were
all intriguing. However the most interesting find was in the blue room where there was a bureau drawer
holding medals, letters and pictures of a soldier. The sepia tones had faded and the edges of the picture
were frayed but you could still see his face and the buildings that stood behind him. I found this drawer of
treasures particularly alluring because it seemed I could never get a good look at it without Granny Elle
waking up and calling to me. It was as if she knew I was looking into something that should remain a
mystery, most likely something that was none of my business.
Every summer on my return to Granny Elle‟s one of my first activities was to check on the blue
room, and the contents of the drawer. Everything was always untouched. I had asked Granny Elle about
the soldier in the picture many times over the years and her usual answer was that nosiness was not
ladylike. She would then change the subject. I got a similar response from my mother when I quizzed her,
so the soldier in the picture remained a mystery to me for a long time. My imagination would run away
with romantic thoughts of long lost loves, war heroes and the events of that time.
As I grew older and continued with my summer visits Granny Elle gradually decided to tell me
more about herself and her life. She also told me about the soldier in the picture. He was her youngest son
who had been killed in WW 11 in Sicily. He was the twin of my Aunt Lynn. I can remember my mother
and her sisters talking about Wishes and I always thought they were referring to wishes like the ones you
made when you blew out the candles on a cake. Wishes, as it turned out, was short for Aloysius.
Gradually over one of those long summers Granny Elle talked about Wishes more and more.
Because he had been the baby boy she had not wanted him to go off to war. Her description of his
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departure day was so detailed it was as if I could picture him in the doorway saying a tearful good bye.
He had just turned nineteen and wanted to do something special and see the world. She spoke of his quiet
personality in a house full of noisy and rambunctious children. She believed that if he had lived he would
have been a priest. She said that of all the children he was the only one who did not balk at going to
church on Sunday. His most precious possessions had been his prayer book and his rosary. In her eyes not
only did she lose a young son but she also lost her chance to have a priest in the family. In this small
seaside village the doctor and the priest were the most important people around. She also spoke of the
medals in the drawer and the letters and pictures. That was all she had left of him. Her deep regret was
that she never received his prayer book and his rosary when his belongings were returned by the army.
She did not know the whole story of his death and all these unknowns left her with a painful feeling of
disquiet. She described it as a longing for peace that she felt would never come.
Her greatest wish was that she would find out the particulars of his death and what happened to his prayer
book and rosary. She knew in her heart that the odds of finding these things were rare given the many
years that had past. She felt this would be a wish unfulfilled forever.
My summer visits with Granny Elle continued until I went to college. As children and
grandchildren grow they also grow away from their roots. My life took me to another city much further
away from the seaside village where I spent my summers. Sights, smells and sounds stay with you forever
and so when I would hear a crow caw my mind would take me back to Granny Elle‟s back porch, her
house and the blue room upstairs. The memories of Wishes, even though I never knew him, remained a
part of me.
My work in a military hospital involved caring for World War 11 veterans. They did not talk
about the war. The majority of them said it was over and it was best that it remain buried in their
memories like many of their comrades. The unspoken rule seemed to be that today was for the living and
yesterday for the dead. However, to every rule there is an exception and one of our patients was that
exception. He was with us on the ward for several months and as with any long term patient they become
like family and open up to the nurses and caretakers around them. He talked more freely about his war
experiences than any other veteran I had encountered. Mostly his stories were about the towns and people
he had met in Europe. I would listen politely but never really took a deep interest in any of the tales until
one day when he told a particularly poignant story. He had been in a battle in Sicily toward the end of
WW 11 and described his friends in great detail. He described a young soldier that came from a small
fishing village and had wanted to see the world. Our patient said he never understood this young man‟s
desire to stay in camp and say his rosary while the others were whooping it up at the mess. During their
time together they developed a bond and as they moved from camp to camp they were usually bunked in
close proximity to each other. Their friendship grew.
On an evening before an advance, which the soldiers knew would be a difficult encounter; the
young soldier gave his friend his rosary and prayer book and told him he knew he would not need it
anymore. As it turned out he was right and the young soldier did not survive the battle. Our patient was
severely injured and transferred to an English hospital and then back home. His belongings showed up at
a later date. The significance of this story to the narrator was how the young soldier had the uncanny
knowledge that he would not make it out of the encounter alive. The significance of this story to me was
the similarity of it to Granny Elle‟s story about her son.
Here we are many years later, five hundred miles away sharing a story with a stranger that might
hold the very answer to a question pondered by a beloved family member for so long.
It had been five years since I had spent the summer evenings with Granny Elle. She still lived
alone in the old house but had someone come in once a day to check on her. She now spent winters with
one of her daughters. The summers were still the same and the only new addition to the house was a
telephone. It was only to be used in emergencies and Granny Elle did not answer it when it rang. She
would only use for outgoing calls if she needed someone. We sat on the porch one evening and talked to
the crows and listened for their answers. That evening I brought out the prayer book and rosary that my
patient had given me. As she sat there with the rocking chair creaking I explained the story as it had been
told to me and gave her the articles. The disbelief in her eyes slowly turned to tears as she opened the first
page of the book and saw the name inscribed “Wishes, 1944”. It would be placed upstairs in the blue
room in the drawer that belonged to her lost son.
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JOE C MILLER
Click
I went to the future
and it was bleak
I told my children
I told my friends
that their future
was bright
I said it had promise
that‟s right
I lied
then I cooked them dinner
and had a party
it was festive
all to celebrate
the glorious future
I seasoned the food
with strychnine
and spiked the punch
with rat poisoning
how fitting it was
to poison the rats
in the midst of their race
I know it sounds cold
but I really think
it was kinder
than having a pistol
stuck in your mouth
and the trigger pulled
until it goes
click
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JOE C MILLER
Jimmy’s Bunny
Where has fluffy
bunny gone?
Did Jimmy‟s bunny
up and run away?
Daddy said
he didn„t know.
Mama sure looked
sad.
There was a
special Sunday dinner,
to help cheer
Jimmy up.
Fried chicken,
it was good.
Where are the wings?
Why do the drumsticks
seem so small?
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JOE C MILLER
Joy
Where is the joy in a mango?
The joy is in Africa
in the eyes of an orphan
who has nothing
or does he have more?
Where is the spirit of giving?
It is In the faces
of two lovers in Africa
sharing the beauty
of God‟s waterfall.
These are signs of hope
for the masses
with unfulfilled expectations
buried in the
graveyard of
Disappointments.
Life is more than just
the fleeting moment of a day.
Taste the orphan‟s mango.
Delight in the gift
two lovers share
in Africa.
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CARL KRUGER
Why Trains Have Wheels
Like all evenings from the vantage point of platform 15, the last glimpses of dusk were lost to
the clamor of the sudden influx of trains and bustle. Each day this was the case, and with a sigh as
punctual as the trains themselves, Efa half wished a peek into the convention that lay on the other side of
her routine. As a child taking the same trains from the same platforms, she‟d made a habit of committing
to memory the things she found ordinary so as to change them. It was this practice that the precocious
young girl first found an innate value in the details of things, in their infinite possibilities.
During her daily commutes, scanning the faces of her fellow passengers provided her with a
wealth of insight into the lives of strangers with whom she shared only a nominal bond. The eyes of the
weathered and young alike spoke to her. It was this ability that seemingly allowed her into their inner
worlds, into the personal places of their psyche.
Efa found great comfort in knowing the kindness of others through their returned smiles. Eyes
had the affect of smiling in such a way that mouths couldn‟t, the assurance of a genuine smile dispelled
the most stubborn of fears. Even so, in her short life she‟d come to recognize the many meanings attached
to them, and they were often a source of her curiosity. From an older gentlemen‟s smile as a door was
held for her, to a younger mans flirtatious grin, the lives that expressions lived were completely their
own.
Oft times, Efa would take later trains to see different faces. It was on one such occasion
that she encountered something entirely new to her. As the sun sunk heavily over the horizon and the
dusk trailed closely behind, Efa over heard a young mother speaking quietly to her daughter. The
daughter was asking why trains needed wheels, apparently not accepting her mother‟s answers. The girl‟s
persistence reminded Efa of herself as a child, as she‟d often quizzed her elders about such things.
Efa approached the mother with a wink, saying , “I might know why the trains need wheels,” to
which the daughter turned and beamed, “You Do? Mother says it‟s because wheels are round. Are all
wheels round?” Efa assured her that most wheels were round, but not all. “Some wheels simply come
round, and others end up round,” she explained. The girl‟s smile widened at the prospect. “Trains are
special” Efa continued, “some bring us places, others take us places. Knowing the difference is what
makes you a part of the life of the train.”
At this the mother replied “I see…” uncertain how to take Efa‟s comments, despite her
daughter‟s enthusiasm. “Trains are living?” the girl asked, “of course, everything we interact with has a
kind of life…” as her sentence continued a conductor announced the arrival of the next train, and the
mother told the girl to thank Efa and say good bye.
Waiting for her train gave Efa time to think on what had just happened and the little girl‟s bright
eyed openness to what some would consider unusual. Perhaps the girl sees the world as I did, Efa
thought, perhaps she too chases clouds and hides the grey crayons.
Through the rest of the day, the image of the girl remained with her. She often thought back on her
younger youth, sometimes placing herself in situations drawn from her early memories. The parallels
between herself and the girl followed one after another: her mother had brought her to similar platforms,
waiting on trains to similar places, she too also had a faith in the whimsical.
That night as Efa dreamt, she returned to the train platform from earlier in the evening.
There she again found a mother and a daughter. As she approached the two, she recognized the face on
the mother as belonging to her own mother, and the child being her at seven years of age. Upon
discovering this, she stopped short of introducing herself and stood within ear shot to hear the two.
“Why do trains needs wheels, mother?” the young her asked, echoing the girl at the platform. As
Efa might have done as a child, she eagerly leaned into answer.
“Trains have wheels because they are round,” her mother replied, as Efa mouthed the words. For
a moment Efa felt the need to embrace her mother, but feared the consequences of doing so. She read her
mother‟s kind smile and felt the ache of missing it.
Autumn was wrapping its arms around platform 15 the next evening as Efa thought back on her
dream and the fragments of it she could recall. Her mother‟s young face came to view, filling her with a
warmth her hadn‟t felt since her childhood.
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CARL KRUGER
Untitled
thoughts for our dearest fawn
earthly pulses and squawk
fan your folding flames
your second winds another skin
adapting bones skewer newness
all slights a custom to kindle
strangeness dims as refrains
pain to reveal themselves
sentimental disparity juxtaposes
imagine on imagine with words
from billboards or postcards,
until from the past a voice comes:
"and the calm turns against the world
forking and pressing its many faces
flat like warm linen into waiting
baskets and open arms to carry
19
ROYCE RAY POETRY AWARD WINNER
SCOTT H URBAN
Along a Nebraska Interstate
I drove alone across those Great Plains
God ironed flat with glaciers millennia ago.
Like a badly lobbed orange, the sun had already dropped below
the silky strands corn husks send up to taste the breeze.
I hadn‟t seen another car for an hour and envisioned
America as an endless field ripe for a harvest that never came.
As I neared it, a dot of white beyond my high beams
resolved itself into a Ford pick-up‟s overhead cab light.
The truck was pulled off the side of the road on
the meager margin reluctantly free of crops.
The engine idled. The driver‟s-side door was open.
A husky figure in flannel and denim sat alone on the bench.
His forehead rested on his forearms which, in turn,
rested on the upper curve of the steering wheel.
I couldn‟t see his face. I didn‟t slow my own car,
so I had less than a second to take in the scene.
But the slope of his shoulders and the arch of his back
led me to believe I witnessed a man at the very edge:
Of what? Exhaustion? Financial ruin? An emotional
apocalypse of straying wife and deserting daughter?
And why couldn‟t it have been a dust-storm of all these
and more, scouring his soul like a sandstone plinth,
leaving him to pull over and say to himself, That’s it;
that’s as far as I can go, that’s the end of the road.
I drove on, although I felt guilty for not stopping
and asking him what was wrong and what I might do.
I have to believe he was beyond consolation: this faceless phantom
who even now materializes in the night and whispers in my ear:
And how many more miles for you, my friend?
20
SCOTT H URBAN
One Millionth
—for Skylar
The boy and I sit on the front porch,
each holding a plastic wand and a nickel bottle
of bubble soap from the kids‟ pizza parlor arcade.
A puckish wind bursts most bubbles before
they can take flight: miniature explosions
of rainbows that stipple the sidewalk and our jeans.
The game, of course, is to catch a bubble
in its hummingbird flight on the end of your wand.
It requires a touch a four-year-old has, but I don‟t.
Some bubbles get blown back in our faces.
One pops on my nose, as if the wind is spitting at me.
The boy and I fall against each other, laughing like jackdaws.
To take these moments: to wrap them in words:
how like capturing a soap bubble in mid-air:
art, luck, skill, the wind in your favor,
the ice-cube knowledge it can never last very long.
21
SCOTT H URBAN
Sword, Underwater
I saw no thynge but wawes and wyndes
—Sir Thomas Mallory
A scabbard lies so deep below the surface
that sunlight doesn‟t glint off its jewels,
yet a swimmer with good lungs could dive to it.
Every now and then perch nudge inset rubies,
then dart off: liquid commas.
Whoever crafted it endowed the sword with
a metallic intelligence. The hilt resonates
with crystalline memories of the men
who have grasped it: men not afraid to use
the honed edge to hack out a crude justice
where none existed before. Its last owner,
choking on his lifesblood, heeded a hazy vision
and had the sword cast into the waves.
Survivors of that unholy day swore they saw
a foam-white hand catch the pommel
as easily as a scrawny-limbed lad snags
a tossed pebble out of the misty air.
In a borough a day‟s ride from the lake,
broken sewers spit waste back into the gutters.
Two men tie a woman to rusty bedsprings
and reach for their collars. An ad hoc committee
in a basement that reeks of someone‟s sick
work out details for bringing explosives into
the marketplace. A mother waits for her
husband and son to return from the war.
She has been waiting for years, yet will wait more.
A boy runs through cat-tails to the lakeshore.
His arms are skinny; his ears are birds-nest big.
But he could touch bottom. He could devise
a pulley to hoist the sword; polish the blade;
train with a master; cut down corruption, deceit.
The boy stretches, then sits. He throws a baited line
into the water wondering what, if anything, will bite.
22
KEVIN DUBLIN
Memory Recovery
A short lady, with short hair, black hair
in a tiny white tank top, with small breasts,
and no glasses, on aisle nine, drops a jar
of jelly or jam and our eyes cross.
When I was young, a lady like
her, but with less teeth, would visit my father
and he‟d find twenty dollars, then they‟d leave
for a “drive around the block.”
One day as she steps from his car,
fixing her shirt‟s strap, she looks
into my bedroom window—
Something in their eyes is the same.
23
KEVIN DUBLIN
If I Could Find Her and Hear Her Speak
I would drink the words from her lips
as if they were liquid flowing,
falling to give me sustenance,
each drip calling before caught
by my lower lip,
meaning massaged until
receiving the true intent
of each phrase she was speaking,
had spoken,
or would speak,
Hoping it would continue—
every splash satisfying,
finding a spot once untouched,
where the shadows are really the body
where we stay awake all night—
and you teach me.
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was
until you taught me
to deal with the pain of
the art of losing
when I found myself
losing farther, losing faster.
That wretched man
that lies in the house of bedlam
is me— one gone mad
only trying to hear you speak.
Your voice is an ocean
and I am in hell,
held only
by the inhibition
you have broken,
are breaking,
and will break
with the next wave
of words that crash.
24
KEVIN DUBLIN
In Passing Downtown
Today, I saw you from a distance
and I wanted to say, “hey.”
Though my lips could not part
and I lacked the energy
to call out your name, I smiled.
I wanted to ask
how you were doing
and where you had been.
Our eyes would cuddle,
covered in conversation
an amazing moment—
and when sure,
I‟d try for a meeting of lips,
placing my hand on your hips,
putting all the intensity
I could muster in the moment,
massaging your lower lip with mine
as the upper pushed against your other
before time would be released from our grasp.
Richard Gere, Clark Gable,
Humphrey Bogart, and Burt Lancaster
would all have been jealous.
I smiled and nearly screamed your name,
but I lacked the energy
and my lips could not part,
so I silently said “hey.”
Today, when I saw you from a distance.
25
BRIAN CAMPBELL
The Unknown Rose
The unknown rose wore the face
Of a thousand charms before
The Hidden Whys of Stumbled Tries
Transformed these charms to chore
In love to stumble hard--
On concrete dreams to crack--
In doing time for unknown crimes
And a kiss that loves to lack
jimi hendrix read my moped
i mean, he talked backwards for a while
but then he found my body in the ravine
between silence and solitude.
he was an enabler.
i was a witch craft.
26
BRIAN CAMPBELL
Athena is Talking to You
It is fine that you read
But read with your tongue.
Give these words teeth,
a blade
grow them their ears
and let honest men drown in their pity.
These words have hands Tale-Spinner,
So leave the mind its mountains
and Truth its Tongues
To weave a world
and survive
Or Else
Be ground to the Honest Dust of your ancestors
27
A TRAEGER
the war mother
her mother
wore the chasm like a shroud
in late decembre
i tore my feathers
out
and
then
d
o
w
n
.
28
A TRAEGER
untitled
we die in empty cars
alone
searching for pastures
greener than we thought
empathy can only bleed
so long a river
before it is lost at sea
29
A TRAEGER
untitled
i wrote this poem backwards
it followed me into the wilderness
always clinging to my throat
i put the sun in my mouth
but i wasn‟t high enough to feel it
i suppose it‟s okay to sell your soul
now and again
(as long as she puts it back on sale)
----------------------------------------------
as long as she puts it back on sale
now and again
i suppose it‟s okay to sell your soul
i wasn‟t high enough to feel it
but i put the sun in my mouth
always clinging to my throat
it followed me into the wilderness
(i wrote this poem backwards)
30
A TRAEGER
four decembers
i t b e
c a m e
l a t e
d e c e nt
a m b e r
w r a t h
e r q u
s i c k l y
an y t h i ng
s y e a
pa r a s i te
d i e d
a l l a h
l o n e
31
TED ROBERTS
Lean
There was a certain man who spent his every day at the top of the highest cliff in the
land. On some days he walked the line at the edge of the cliff, wondering if he would
one day slip. On some days he stood facing away from the edge, looking towards solid
ground; on those days he wondered if he would forget about the height at which he
stood. There were some days he would face the cliff and stare into the abyss. He
wondered if he would one day jump.
Most importantly, there were some days when the wind was blowing and he would lean
into it over the abyss, teetering between the fall and safety. On these days he wondered
nothing.
32
TED ROBERTS
The Boy and the Storm
A storm has been brewed and the sky has become drunken and violent. Lightning strikes to light
up a sky that has already turned into a pale red, a color a little unnerving to those of us who have
expectations when it comes to our thunderstorms; we want dark black clouds, gray at the very least. We
don't like being reminded of the color of our blood when we look up at forces of nature that, despite our
modern ways, still hold some threat to our lives.
A little boy around four years old is in awe at the world around him as he looks out the window.
Every day life is boring, but the danger of the sky outside intrigues him. It is well past his bedtime and
his parents would be outraged to see him awake. Fortunately for him, they are sound asleep. This storm
may be loud enough to wake the dead, but the dead are never so tired as the working class.
A silhouette of The Virgin Mary on his wall, cast there by his nightlight, disappears immediately
after the outside world looks as daylight from a bolt of lightning striking all too close for comfort. The
boy knows no fear of the dark, however. The nightlight was placed there by his parents, more for their
comfort than his. If anything, they only wanted a little religious reassurance to stay fresh in the boy's
mind as he drifted off to sleep every night. The lightning fascinates him more than anything he's ever
known. The driving rain sets the beat for a song more vivid and touching than any piano or guitar could
try to recreate, and the howl of the wind puts choirs throughout time to shame. In his mind, this is
beauty. This is art. He may not have the words at such a young age to describe his feelings, but even
now he knows that he will never feel so alive as he does right now. Unless...
Unless he joins it. What would one enjoy more than watching a favorite film? Listening to a
favorite song? To sing along or quote a script is the closest most will ever get, but this boy has a chance
to do more. He may not be able to mimic the sounds of the storm, and even if he could he wouldn't; he
has too much respect for it to try and recreate it. He knows he could never do it justice. But there is
another way.
He leaves his room and walks down the hall, carefully maneuvering around the bookcase and the
toys he left strewn about earlier. The house he lives in is almost all he knows, there are no other children
living nearby to be his playmates. He never found any merit in imaginary friends because they never said
anything he hadn't already thought. He looks to make a new friend, though, as he steps towards the front
door of his house. The boy fumbles with the lock at first, but doesn't take more than a few seconds to get
it undone. He pauses as he turns the knob, wondering about the trouble he might get in if his parents find
him. Weighing the consequences in an innocent way that only a child can do, he has no doubt that any
punishment is worth this.
He opens the door and, like a spectator taking the stage during a play in the second act, he leaps
into the heart of the storm. The rain stings as it hits his bare arms, and his pajamas become soaked within
seconds. The wind and the thunder scream into his ears, almost too much to take. He refuses to cover
them; however, it is far too lovely. Stronger than him, the storm presses him back against the closed
door of his house. He forces his eyes upward, despite the rain, to have a look at the eerie red sky again.
Seeing it not through a window, but hindered only by the storm itself is soothing. He wishes the sky were
like this all the time, and is saddened knowing that the following morning nothing would be left of this.
People will wake up only to see fallen trees and scattered limbs, power lines to replace and yards to clean.
The boy cries. He can distinguish his tears from the raindrops easily; their warmth is in stark
contrast to the cold rain, for the stream of tears offers no comfort, no beauty.
Still, he wants to enjoy it while it lasts.
He sits down on his front porch steps, crying and rejoicing at once until the storm has passed.
33
BOBBY DZIEWULSKI
This Morning the Sun
This morning the sun
Didn‟t peek through clouds with shards
Of light
This morning was muted but bright
Like a blushing giant and
Half smile
This morning my eyes closed again
My arms around her body
So lonely
This morning was filled with burning coal,
trying to get somewhere or
Away from bed
This morning I walked from my bed,
Closed my eyes again
She was there
This morning I half smiled to myself,
Thought about it and
Wondered if it was real
34
BOBBY DZIEWULSKI
Might Be Blind
Someone is reading the biography of a mangy dog
He understands the fleas and wandering haggard
He processes behind thick-framed glasses that cost a week‟s worth of groceries
But what to buy anyway
Someone pretends they are blind
Says there is too much to see
She throws her hands up because there is no use
She hopes she has plenty to talk about
Someone is eating cake
He can feel the sweetness course through him
The tender moist covered with the consistency of toothpaste
It is all a celebration
She peeks and sees a mangy dog eating cake
35
RYAN DAVID MILLER
Facedown in the Afternoon
It was a kiss of what could have been.
Conversation through the window blinds.
I woke up facedown in the afternoon, recovering
from a love that got away too soon. Mama told me
not to cry, not to worry. She said some girls
get back to their fickle lives in a hurry.
My expression was confused; I still don‟t
understand the beauty of a soft hand or windblown lips.
But it‟s not my fault; I know I‟m not to blame; I always
paid for your time and never said anything when you
kept the change. Must have been asking too much when I
tried to hold you. When I pulled back you dropped me like
the curtain at the end of your show even if the audience
booed. Woman, your face is pretty, but your heart is rude.
The song from your music box is out of tune. I‟m
face down in the afternoon, recovering from a love that
got away too soon. Why do you whisper in my ear when
I try to fall asleep? You never mean to keep me awake.
You never mean to keep me alive. The front door
is open and there are bugs on the screen. I made
dinner for two but refuse to touch it until
you come back through. There is a chime hanging
down. Ring it only if you‟re for real; otherwise
leave this town. If for old time‟s sake you want to climb
the tree and come in through the window, most likely I‟ll be up.
These nights are so very long and time gets short.
Trees didn‟t become forest in a day.
That‟s all it takes for them to be cut away.
Leave them be and they grow stronger.
It‟s not a choice with us any longer.
Leaves scatter and tumble across the floor in my room where I
lay facedown recovering from a love that got away too soon.
One never knows how to end something that never really began.
You must be proud that you figured it out.
It seems you understand.
I‟m left with the garden and purple skies.
The smell of the flowers and the wind.
Remembering the night lightning struck close:
We watched the fire spread. I always knew rain would put it out.
That was something you said.
Now I‟ve come to the age where I need a lot of rest.
Putting down the dishes, I head for the quilt-topped couch.
As I begin to drift, a cloud with your silhouette crosses my window.
I roll over, facedown in the afternoon,
recovering from a love that got away too soon.
36
RYAN DAVID MILLER
Streams, Ourselves Dreams
My passion lies where your beauty lies,
where we lie beneath the sun.
I‟ve been measured in eyes and sung in eyes,
and swam beneath the sun.
Fortunes bailed, ghost ships sailed,
children on the run.
Clear water stream,
our love like a stream,
on our backs we drifted down a stream.
At night owls hooted
the morning colors rooted,
what had to be a dream.
Lightning flashed,
kisses crashed,
exhaling your breath outside the blanket.
Flower pedals dropped,
the clock hands stopped
blankets on the floor.
You were September
lighting flashed
I won‟t surrender
kisses crashed
Find me on the shelves,
where we left ourselves.
Close your coat and blame the rain,
where we left ourselves.
Love needs no words to sustain,
we ourselves were caught in the rain.
Were they the same patterns of blue?
Now patterns of green, what you‟ve seen.
I‟ve seen blue, you thought I knew,
but there was nothing left to be seen.
We are on our backs.
Here,
our eyes are closed.
We are alone.
Here,
our eyes are open.
I can feel you next to me, when I cannot see.
We‟re floating on a stream,
our love perhaps,
perhaps our love a dream
The colors in the sky, the stream it is only,
you and I
The dream, it is only a lighting flash
And when we awake passion has stained the clocks
and before we catch them still-
they tick against our will.
37
Us;
flower pedals,
floating
down a stream.
Could it be for us?
Could it make us smile,
as we dream?
The streams are going no where
If suspicions were to truth,
As sleep is to rest,
Then dreams in truth are glimpses,
Where time is milk and death the breast
The streams are going nowhere
And the streams are going nowhere
If there is one suspicion we promised each other,
it is that we promised each other nothing.
The streams are going nowhere
Cellar doors and wishing wells,
flowers thick have grown.
The streams are going nowhere,
and the streams are going nowhere.
When I was a small boy, I would pull my mattress of the bed,
on to the floor,
so I could fall asleep in the moonlight coming in through the window.
The moon is still full for little boys.
There is a daydream like silence,
found in your heart,
embrace that love, though it is a memory now.
The sun is still up for little girls.
The moon is still full for little boys
The sun is still up for little girls
And streams still flow as far as closed eyes can see,
and as long as dreams can still hold hands.
38
RYAN DAVID MILLER
Homesick
In my frustration,
I wanted to fall through the glass table,
and break it into thousands of stars.
And slightly with eyes closed,
fall through the moment
in which I was surrounded.
If only I was captured in an outside feeling,
of sense of beauty.
But I fell facedown,
cut and bleeding.
Oh God, I miss home!
I just surpassed and missed the moments.
My hair got longer and the house got colder.
How did I get here?
My lifestyle is so far fetched
I‟m not even into any of this
I just fell through glass stars
and I‟m bleeding
take me home
39
STEVEN GIBBS
The Telephone
On the backdrop
of garage flowers
and St. Patrick sleep
The pillow held open
feathers pulled
north bound
Toward snowmobile
mishaps and
pepperoni sticks
Fresh water lakes
cold brick walls
pink carpet
Measuring years
through marriage
and bottle cap wine
Saint George
candles still burnt
in morning sun
the pallet jack
and cereal spoon
a reminder
of worth.
40
STEVEN GIBBS
Produce Section
Staring at cantaloupes
beside bedtime manners
and eggplant steam
He walks with a slight limp
gained from years on the job
Zipper doesn‟t zip
anymore
Shoes rethreaded with
the wrong color laces
An abstract diamond mine,
forged
Fingers don‟t finger
anymore.
Orange slice
pie.
Devoured against
dollar bills
The fold of skin,
a rustling of carrots.
41
STEVEN GIBBS
Torpedo Lick
The coffee‟s weak
lip touch,
vague
Tree leaves cast curtains,
treaded blinds
and family photographs
Vitamin tripod,
multiples
The artist with shoe collection
candy crucifix,
tortured rib
Wrinkled eyelids
Tooth paste smile,
grinning
never letting go.
42
Girl, August Traeger
43
Things That Watch Me, August Traeger
44
Employability Skills, August Traeger
45
RIC SMAIROWKSI
Substance Unbearable
these compulsions live in thin
gray constant pheromone skulk
graffiti the walls of deep alley porno huts
fleshy ravens swarming fetish over fetish
high heeled promises laced up the back
of slender calves until all is a soft flurry
race car red nail polish under black sox
purple iris‟ swirl together while hypnotic lips
coax me into a fear psychosis familiar as a fingertip
loosening my control notch by notch
this time though, I could leave,
but I am numb to forethought
as words she did not think of slither
from her tongue like lavender to lather
my amnesia that each character suicide tattoos me
and it will become too late.
Menaced Assassin, August Traeger
46
Girl 2, August Traeger
47
ERIC SMAIROWKSI
43 Cigarettes
On Broadway
I watch elderly couples
stroll along smug
in their fraternity of dumb deer unawareness
Have these people ever lost?
Ever not known where to turn?
10th
cigarette(((((((((((((((((((((((((((()
gets me into absorption.
Through shop windows I see content ness
and spit.
On attempt of breaking antisocial sentiment
I ask the writer on the bench if he‟s seen anything good-
Always good-he says
I‟m opposite-I reply
Need a good balance-he advises
Yeah-scratches out of my 18th
cigarette(((((((((((((((((((((((((()
Down Lake Ave. in a breeze of cars and humidity
she creeps up on my mind
22nd
cigarette(((((((((((((((((((((()
Nothing fixes the love lost in details
An ex lover goes back to being who she was before I met her
Now I self absorb
making the break my cross
because she is the one I fell in love with before all the details
flamed like each match
that lit today‟s 43 cigarettes.
48
ERIC SMAIROWKSI
From Soil, Vine and Wine
Forget questions like “how many died
During plague
To create such
Plush soil?”
Kiss the sour cork
So it lingers warm in a grand decanter
With no charming screw to serve as a gold round
Quaff the lusty focus
Of California dreams as they
Always make the tongue flower
Into a bouquet of rich night
Come age, befriend the precocious young grape
And she will ferment delicately into
The body of an insouciant hostess
Perfect Pinot velvet mouth
Honey difficult sweet
My
Favorite
Acid
Delicate to the tongue
Medieval
On the
Mind
Barnyard honeysuckle hews
Beehive Cabernet rare Kobe beef
Set the table to create
Great truths and mishaps vibrant
Skimming the eclectic lines of proof
While underneath, foot playful foot.
49
VANESSA ROBERTS
1:32 am
I remember...when I first saw you
surprised to see your eyes
blue as the sky
hair the colour of coal
laugh as big as the sun
Now I see you
the sparrow that alights on my shoe
the hummingbird that looks me in the eye
flitting briefly by
I hear you when the trees creak
and its your harmonica
playing Neil for me in the dark
your head tilted
showered by sparks
Your touch is there in the spray
standing by a rocky shore
cold wind biting through layered clothes
and warm sun on my chapped face
50
VANESSA ROBERTS
11:39 pm
well, we did what we could, didn't we?
we made it for awhile. then you took off.. .... ... ..
. .. . . . specks of memories like fine wisps............ .
pluck the strings of my scattered thoughts....
....my tattered ... . .. ..haunts
............... . .. . .a sprinkling of dingy dust
floats through beams of light ... ... . .... ...
....illuminating .... .. .. . ..ruminating..
...pictures coated in rust.............
hiding things rubbed wretched
... .. . .. . ... . rubbed glaring and raw
baring where this bitter knife is thrust
51
VANESSA ROBERTS
the hum
is in the air
or is it in my head?
the thwack, thwa-thwack of oblivious bugs
hovering above a black top road
with fresh paint to show
as they collect on my windshield of my hurtling car
hurry hurry get there fast
but why? i have nowhere to go
lazy beams of my headlights show me the road
and vagrant wandering animals of the humid night
i roll down the window to hear the chorus sing
and choke on the blanket of air
thick with moisture from the swamp
and heat of a day‟s misery
foxfire, foxfire
through the trees
i slow to see the eerie glow
and feel the night like a heavy overcoat
laying across my neck, my face, my mouth
the deafening sound, the hummmmm of my heads own tune
i can't get it out
nowhere to go and don‟t really care, i turn the left blinker on
and turn past the old cypress tall yet bent
going forward slowly i can hear nothing now
but the swamps loud shout
wheels slowly rotate above black still water
is this real or is it dreamt?
slowly slowly the car makes its way
to the place of foxfire
the inviting green glow reels me in
my desire is strong and true
i hear the sound of water on tire
the soft swift leaking of startling cold water
swirling in above my door
52
im slowly sinking
uncontrolled shuttering sets in
my lips turn blue
rising water all around
picks up trash and hair and holds me bound
to the new land i am going to
dying headlights in the whirlpools in front
show dancing decaying leaves
trapped in their own underwater dance
inviting me in calling me in
the water above my shoulders now
and caught in this nightmare trance
water above my lips shivering and blue
eyes black, I stare forward at the leaves
as they change form
into water nymphs so gay and free
my eyes on them
my eyes on them
the muffled chirrup of frogs and bugs
as water fills my ear drums
at last
the last i see of the world above
is the foxfire glow
and the moons shadowy show
through cypress limbs full of moss
the underworld comes into full view
the nymphs laughing and pulling me down
not looking back, looking down
until my last breath is lost
53
CHRISTOPHER MULROONEY
sport
racked with a brain
on the roadside
to fill an empty tire
silvery pump in hand
town and harbor
it might be a full township
or an empty village
or a company town
or a harbor installation
it might be anything
but what it is
the ships go there
no more
digital countoff
“to absterge the podex”
and what it was unfamiliar
flecked off into the waste
there‟s a good old boy too
54
KATIE FLOYD
The Things That Make Us Human
Forgetting the past seems so easy at first,
That is when it come running up behind us only to knock us over.
We cannot escape the things we‟ve done;
It tears us up inside,
The world stops just to remind us that we are fools.
Slowly everything goes surreal
We have forget the present
Only focus on the past that we were running from.
This is what happened and continues to happen each day.
Insanity in all its fine glory slowly takes over our human forms.
We lose are true sense of self and become the conglomerate of nothing.
Only then do the dark nights come to bring in the dreams,
We wake from the dreams to the confining days that bring us back to our hunted past,
We hold hands to save each other from the things we have done,
Our fingers entwine;
Prevents the tears inside our hearts,
Kisses are sweet;
The fool is forgotten,
This is how we know we are here and nothing is too surreal.
Our innocents; we lost that long ago,
A past we cannot run from,
It seems to drift away here,
It seems to matter not with our fingers entwine,
Our bless love afterglow.
Time is turning as our fingers twisting into each other like vines hold strong,
We cannot let go,
Our love must stay strong.
Death parts the weak and the strong with its siren song that will end all,
But our love,
A love that has been judged,
A love in the dark night,
Love that grew in the confining days,
Our Love will last ever-long.
55
ABBEY PRITCHETT
Cut and Paste
Sesame Street was in an ice fog and refinery haze
You never knowing what to expect
With the broken back war and minutemen loving Calzones
Adding to their own remorse of conscience
The damned will also be tormented by the demons
That is given power for limited time
Looking at Diamonds on Ice,
Is it silver or white gold?
Also weighting and discussing magical realism
And how different sized mouths require a different technique of kissing
For purchase in or outside the United Sates
See your dealer for information, and if you
Have contributed for five years you can receive credit.
56
BRANDI EDWARDS
Zeus
It was dawn in the town and the streetlights that had guided the way through night were just
beginning to fade for the day was coming. There over the river he sat, in a giant bare tree for the wintery
cold had shed it of its leaves. He would arrive every morning around the same time perched on a limb as
if to be the town‟s neighborhood watch waiting for the sun to set high in the blue skies. Well known by
the citizens, he, the bald eagle, was expected. This eagle was named Zeus by the town, for that was the
name of the most powerful Greek God.
Zeus was larger than most bald eagles. He had coal black feathers with a brilliant white chest of
fluff that lead all the way to the top of his head which was bare of any feathers of protection. For five
years Zeus had reappeared just as swiftly as he had left the day before. No one knew why he chose this
very tree over this very river. Maybe it was because he thought it was beautiful or maybe it was because
sitting in that exact location he could see over the town for miles and miles. It was a mystery that had no
intention of being solved for Zeus was now part of this town.
Along the river, wooden benches had been sat along with picnic tables and a children‟s
playground where many days‟ people would come and sit gazing up into the trees while their children
played to wait for Zeus to spread his great wings and take flight into the air straight into the clouds and
out of sight only to return again the next day. It was an amazing sight to see that the people never grew
accustomed to. Josh, the new city manager of the city of Aztec, would pass this very river every morning
on his way to work and look up and smile, for this eagle had been the most beautiful sight he had seen in
his beginning to this new town. Here Zeus was loved by most and respected for this brilliant bird had
become part of the town‟s history and was well taken care of, but there were others who wished to do him
harm.
Jimmy, the meanest man in town, was also the town‟s most notorious hunter. He was well
known to be the town‟s troublemaker and he was frequently causing ruckus for the town‟s people and law
enforcement. He too worshipped Zeus but for a different reason. He wished to kill him and hang him in
his house on the wall where he could tell the story of the symbolic creature to all who wished to hear.
Unfortunately for him, he had openly voiced his wishes to kill the bird to Josh who had therefore set a
strict law with intense punishment for anyone who harmed the almost extinct creature. There were signs
put up all through the town and in all the local papers telling of the seriousness of the punishments. This
did not sit well with Jimmy. He went to City Hall to tell Josh a piece of his mind. He could be heard
through the whole building, yelling and ranting on and on about how Zeus was just a bird and that he
should be fair game for hunters. Eventually everyone grew tired of his mouth and he was escorted by the
chief of police to his truck. He immediately set out to devise a plan that would get him his eagle he so
wished to have no matter what anyone had to say about it.
He drove straight to the only place he felt at home, his hunting club camp. Jimmy was much
involved in this hunting club and had friends in the club who loved hunting as much as he. He was sure
these friends would serve as a benefit to help him come up with a plan, but his friends were not as
obsessed with the eagle as he and they were very aware of what would happen to them if they broke the
law and none of them were willing to risk helping Jimmy. They tried to talk him out of his idea and told
him to just stick to animals that they were allowed to hunt during season without trouble. Jimmy was not
having it. He was furious. He was so involved with getting his way he lost it and called his friends every
dirty name in the book and threatened to make their life miserable if they did not help him. This upset the
others and Jimmy was outnumbered and thrown out of the club and told to never return or he would be
the one losing everything.
Next Jimmy went to the town‟s most notorious museum thief, Billy, who had recently gotten
out of jail after robbing the town‟s library and museum of many of its oldest and most prized artifacts. He
had served his five years and warned by the judge that if he got into any more trouble he would be sent
far away to prison where he would spend the rest of his life, but Jimmy knew that Billy had a soft spot for
the town‟s most prized possessions. He drove out of town down a long winding dirt road to Billy‟s house
with a smile on his face for he was positive that this would be his accomplice in his plan.
57
But when he knocked and Billy approached the door dressed in his Sunday‟s best, his smile
faded. He found out that Billy was leaving, moving two states away to live in a rehab facility for thieves
like himself who were out of chances and wanted to change. He warned Jimmy that he should reconsider
his plan and change his mind, for he was speaking from experience. Jimmy told him Billy he should shut
up and mind his own business and that rehab wouldn‟t help him and that soon enough he would be back
to his old tricks. Billy politely disagreed and asked Jimmy to leave so that he could finish packing his
things.
Jimmy did so but not before he pointed his gun at Billy and told him that if he told anyone of his
plan he would come after him and find him and make him disappear. Jimmy left realizing he only had
one more person that may help him.
Mr. Clancy, who was very displeased with the town for making him sell half his property to
build a road, and who had vowed to payback the city for his sacrifice. Jimmy drove straight to Mr.
Clancy‟s house in a cloud of dust.
He arrived and walked to the door and knocked. No answer. He again knocked harder this time
and yelled, “Mr. Clancy?” Again no answer.
Then the door on the house next door opened and a little old lady stuck her head out to see what
all the noise was about. Jimmy asked her where Mr. Clancy was and when he was expected to return. The
little old lady told Jimmy that Mr. Clancy had passed away about three weeks ago, of a heart attack which
the doctor said was probably brought on by stress. Jimmy turned his back to the lady without thanking her
and climbed into his truck and drove away. Now Jimmy realized he was alone and if he really wanted
something done he would have to do it all by himself.
Later that night, dressed in all black, grabbing only his gun and flashlight, Jimmy left his house
and walked into the woods. He was looking for a trail that would lead him from his house to the river
without being seen. He walked for about two hours leaving flags as markers on the way he had come.
Finally he arrived at the river bank directly across from the tree Zeus perched every day. He was very
pleased. He walked over to the benches and flipped them over into the river. Then he went over to the
playground equipment and unchained the swings and threw them into the river and watched them travel
away downstream. Satisfied with his destructive work, he turned away smiling and headed into the woods
chucking to himself with the image of the people and children‟s faces tomorrow when they arrived to see
the mess that had been made overnight.
Arriving at home, Jimmy sat down at his kitchen table making a list of what he would need to
take with him for his return home with the animal. He would wait until the morning and then he would
pack a backpack with a rope, a bag, and some extra bullets. He would wake early before dawn and before
the town began to stir, then he would put on his camouflage hunting clothes and hat, his water boots, grab
his backpack and gun and head into the woods once again. But this time he planned to return with his
prize. He went to bed excited that he had everything planned out and couldn‟t wait to put it into action.
He awoke early with the fog and quickly sat up in bed. He threw on his clothes and boots, grabbed his
backpack, picked up has gun and flew out the door. He had made a clear path from the day before so that
he was able to find his way to the river with ease. He approached the river where he sat on a branch
hidden behind a tree and awaited Zeus‟ return. He would wait for the bird to arrive and perch on the limb
where then he would shoot him down out of the tree and gather him into the bag in his backpack and
carry him home where he would have him stuffed and mounted on his wall.
Even the thought of this brought a huge grin to his face.
Within just a few minutes, a swooshing sound was heard and magically Zeus appeared perched
on his limb. Jimmy swiftly and quietly got up from where he was sitting. He knelled down and rested his
arm on the branch he had sat upon and aimed his gun through the trees. He began to smile as he placed
his finger around the trigger and prepared to shoot.
Just then behind him he heard a voice yell, “Stop Jimmy or you will regret it.”
Jimmy turned around to see Josh standing behind him with the entire police force with guns
aimed at him.
“Jimmy we warned you that if you did anything to try and harm Zeus in any way that we would
have to punish you” Josh said.
Jimmy chuckled.
“How did you know you would find me here” Jimmy asked.
58
“Billy came to us yesterday and told us of your plan and how you had threatened him. He is
trying to be a better person and he said that he would not have felt right if he had not come to us to warn
us of your plan.” Josh replied.
“Well I guess I will have to take care of him also” Jimmy chuckled.
Then Jimmy turned to again aim at Zeus. He pulled the trigger but missed because just as he
shot he was tackled by Josh. They rolled through the dirt fighting each other for the gun. The gun went
flying across the ground. Both Jimmy and Josh jumped up to try and be the first to it. Jimmy made if first.
He grabbed the gun and pointed it at Josh. Jimmy was now blinded by fury. He was so involved with his
plan and killing Zeus that he was just completely crazy. He aimed the gun at Josh and started to pull the
trigger when all of a sudden Josh grabbed the pistol that was strapped to his leg. In one quick movement,
he pointed the gun at Jimmy and shot. Then it was silent. Jimmy was speechless and terrified. He was
stunned that Josh had shot his gun right out of his own hand. Within seconds the police squad had taken
Jimmy down and had him handcuffed. They pulled him up and grabbed his things. On his way to the car
Josh stopped Jimmy.
“Why do you hate Zeus so much?” Josh asked.
“Because he‟s been here five years and already he is treated in this community as if he‟s lived
here his entire life and he is just and animal. I have lived here my whole life born and raised, and I have
never felt as if I‟m part of this town” Jimmy said.
The cop then led Jimmy to the police car. Josh, who had only been here for a few months,
realized this to be true. But how could anyone know that this was the reason behind Jimmy‟s hate for
Zeus? Jimmy was a hunter. For this reason everyone believed that this was the reason Jimmy wanted
Zeus dead. Whatever the reason may be Zeus was saved today and Jimmy was on his way to jail where he
would spend some time for the attempted slaughter of an endangered species. This day was saved and so
was a part of the town‟s history. Josh heard a sound and looked up at the limb Zeus was sitting upon.
Zeus was looking right at Josh and it almost seemed as if he were smiling. The day had begun with some
complications but had been resolved safely.
Zeus‟ job here was done again today. He spread his magnificent wings and flew off the branch
right over Josh‟s head and into the clouds. Josh smiled knowing that again tomorrow he would return to
his spot above the town watching over it, keeping it out of danger, and returning again as history.
59
JEAN JONES
"il miglior fabbro"
—For Ron and Joe
By sheer force of personality
you demanded court and asked others
to listen to your proclamations
whether it came from the newspaper
or from whatever else you were reading.
Everything was a lecture to you,
You were Pound the teacher at
"Ezuversity" and you held court there.
James McLaughlin was spellbound by what you
proclaimed: Jefferson economics,
or Mussolini, the benevolent
dictator, who was going to lead
Italy out of this usury
mess, this problem with the Jewish
bankers who ran the whole show- You were
tired of it- That was why you were
in Italy in the first place.
But then World War II happened:
There were your broadcasts, and then there were the
camps; something you never would have guessed-
Fascism died along with Benito
and you were imprisoned in a cage
and you were contemplating your fate-
You expected to be hanged-
And then there were your Pisan Cantos:
"the ant's a centaur in his dragon world,"
"what thou lovest well, shall not be reft
from thee, what thou lovest well. . ."
And what did you discover about
yourself as you contemplated death?
What you love, lasts. As the Apostle
Paul once wrote, "Love never dies."
You were prepared for your fate.
And what was this fate? What was coming to
you? Something you never could have seen.
A mental ward. St Elizabeth's.
As friends visited you, they could hear the
screams near your cell everyday. It was
torture, but like all things you bore it well.
And you cast it as judgment against you.
Instead of execution, you saw now
that all they saw was an idiot.
You were really a political
prisoner. Now, Amnesty would have
listed you as a prisoner of
conscience. But you believed their lies.
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You became silent. You said nothing.
In the end, they broke you, which is what
they wanted from the beginning.
You are an Orwellian hero to
me, part of a new generation
that picked up your banner and cried out,
"Study. Learn. Before you write, know what you
are doing. And remember those before
you. They wrote for a purpose. Recall it!"
61
JEAN JONES
Andrea
Bitterness was not your calling card.
Neither was regret.
If you had not lived
These last ten years
My memories of you
Would have been filled
With bitterness, anger,
Regret and frustration.
The anger is not totally gone.
Neither is the regret.
But watching you deal
With less and less power
In your hands, under your control-
To accept these losses
Without bitterness and regret has taught me
How to grow old with grace
And fall in love with you
Perhaps for the first time
Since I was a little boy
And loved you as my mother.
62
JEAN JONES
Cow Skull
In a room filled with potato smoke,
a red-eyed boy listens to a woman with gray hair
tell a story of watching stars in Missouri.
The woman‟s eyes have the gravity of black holes.
She cannot blink and stars rush towards her, like hawks, stooping.
“Will you grow old?” the boy asks.
“When the hair goes,” she says.
Nothing changes. Pictures remain the same, year after year,
and the cow skull near her bedroom is the same color it was,
63
NATHAN MENDENHAL
Bop Blessing
“Keep in time!” them cats say
rolling out the blues
notes take on their certain hues
& act as clues
in the chorus crossword puzzle
horn floats in, saxophone
piano as metronome
blasting bop till it feels
like time stops
no clocks in the smoky bar
& too many drinks to read one anyway
drum solo
floor tom sound huge, hollow
the bass blasts by
& the band catches up
two or three beats later
bandstand rocking
back & forth
the wood floor creaking
& shuttering
under the footfalls
of rhythm infected dancers
so poet reads quietly to himself
in the back corner
minor chords call in
the next movement
trumpet blares
could swear it was
Gabriel himself
spreading wings & singing heaven
aromas of cigarettes & tea
mix into the blue haze
soft & silken in the stage lights
where even the darkness
can‟t hide
& here comes the beat again
chorus by the piano man
crawling low moans give way
to the soaring crescendo melodies
so pure
in their sense of longing
beads of sweat form on forehead
neck veins bulge, reeds crack
long ash hangs from butts
forgotten in ashtrays
beers drip as they warm undrunk
all them cats too caught
up in the jam
with a harmonic master plan
that has all of them stuck together
trying to find the end of the tunnel
before the bottom of the hole
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NATHAN MENDENHAL
Mental Pastures
Smoke rings encircling the open sky.
Horizon line drawn crudely
with dull coloured pencils
same utensils used to chase
old demons away
to make way
for the new ones.
Following the glowing yellowbrick
road to nowhere
tho it leads thru
the hills & dales of childhood
rhymes sung to the rhythm
of morning winds
thru the baby pines
making a Christmas nursery.
Birds build their homes there
only to have them torn down
so as to string lights,
shiny balls, angels
& whatnot.
Wishing to be left alone
after realizing I forgot
to tell everyone
I was dreaming again.
Playing in my own mental pastures
worth more than mere words.
I discern Truth from sunrays
moonlight coming in waves
& I pretend I‟m on a midnight
rooftop in old Mexico
waiting to see if the sun rises
again today.
Looking for emotions I left
long ago buried under Iowa snow
that seems to have mostly
melted now
some years since.
Passed my obsession
with the present tense.
I‟m more intent on
what‟s to come
distracted by
all that I‟ve left behind
half-believing I‟ll never know
what any of it meant
don‟t know why it matters.
Just left alone wondering
what will happen
when I have no one to turn to
but my divided self.
65
RENEE MCPHERSON
The Gift of Balsam Blues
As the minutes slowly pass in silence, it becomes painfully obvious that I am getting nowhere fast
and the last vestiges of daylight seem to have faded into night. The cursor seems to taunt me as it flashes
somewhat expectantly upon a screen still void of possibilities. My eyes begin wandering across the contents of
my desk, searching for some sort of inspiration, but even the tiny straw rabbits on either side my pen holder
seemed to be sneering at me knowingly, as if they were privy to some secret I knew nothing of. The candy
dish that was full of M&Ms a half hour ago is nearly empty now; it's official, I have a serious case of writer's
block and it couldn't have come at a worst time. Perhaps I should try a different approach I wondered. Just
then the phone rang again, no use in prolonging the inevitable any longer as I read the name on the caller I.D.,
"Hello?"
"SAM! How are you? Are you well, sure you are. I bet you've just been so busy pounding away at
the keyboard, working on the final draft that was due on my desk yesterday, too busy to talk to your agent,
right?"
"Hi Vick, how are you?" I tried my best to ignore the sarcastic babbling my agent was so prone to
developing when a deadline was on the horizon and hoped my irritation did not travel through the phone line.
"I've been better Sam; tell me you've got something, anything! I've got publishers breathing down my
neck and a deadline that is fast approaching." He cleared his throat, "And you Sam, seem too busy to take any
of my calls."
"Vick, stop worrying, you always do this. I'll have it to you in plenty of time just like I always do,
have I ever let you down?"
"There's a first time for everything. Sam, just do me a favor and keep in touch, let me know what's
going on and if there's anything, anything I can do just let me know O.K."
I took a deep breath after hanging up the phone and an impending sense of doom set in. Vick was
right; there is a first time for everything. He was worried and at this point, I couldn't really blame him. In a
matter of weeks I could be finished, forgotten as some writer who failed to deliver like so many others had in
the past. Writer's block is nothing new to me; I'd struggled with it in the past but always managed to pull
through, but I'd never been so far behind, so close to a major deadline. It was as if some sinister thief came in
the night and robbed me of my creativity. I was stuck and I knew it. How was I going to overcome this
obstacle? I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my weary eyes when the phone rang again.
"Vick, I told you not to…"
"Sam?" My mother's voice sounded through the line frail and broken, "I'm sorry to call you so late
son, but I have some bad news about your Grandpa Noland…"
As she spoke, her words seemed to fade in and out of my subconscious mind as I sat slumped over in
my chair, my head hanging low, trying to concentrate on her voice, and not wanting her words to be true. The
sense of loss was sudden and profound. He had suffered a massive heart attack, and just like that, the vibrant
man I knew and loved was gone forever. I'd never again hear his contagious laughter or engage in the
conversations that only skimmed the surface of his infinite wisdom. I was unable to hold back the tears.
The next morning, I packed a few bags and headed home to Miller's Creek, a small tight knit
community settled in the pristine beauty of the Appalachian foothills. I arrived just in time for the funeral
service and as I stood among the polished stones in that old familiar field, echoes of the past seemed to be
everywhere. I lingered long after the others, taking in the serene sounds of that sequestered solitude like a
healing balm, welcoming the warmth of the sun upon my face as a gentle breeze whispered by. The old
homestead was a bustle of activity when I returned. Friends and family had gathered from all over to pay their
respects. Many of the men folk were gathered outside smoking their pipes on the porch rockers while the
women busied themselves inside. There was enough food for a small army and tears were met with comforting
hugs and warm handshakes. Slowly though, the company began to disperse and the unsettling quiet of his
absence descended.
I received a return call from Vick that evening informing me I'd been granted a short extension due to
a death in the family. It wasn't much of a break, but at this point I'd take what I could get. The next day,
family gathered at the lawyer's office down town for the official reading of Grandpa Noland's last will and
testament. There were few if any surprises but one caught me off guard. It seems Grandpa willed me the
property of Balsam Blues, a cabin retreat far up in the hills. It was Grandpa's escape, the place he went to get
away from it all and he left it to me. I was confused as to why but my mother reassured me that Grandpa felt I
66
would benefit from it more than any of the others, and that I would have the same appreciation for it that he
had.
Maybe Grandpa knew I needed an escape, a place to find myself again, just maybe he knew this is
what I needed. It was fall in Appalachia and a kaleidoscope of rich and vibrant colors erupted from the hills
like painted tapestries. I left the homestead two days later and took Grandpa's dog Sadie with me; I was off to
find my own escape in the place Grandpa led me. The air was crisp and invigorating as I drove along the
winding curves, windows down grasping at the clouds. I've often thought it impossible to see these mountains
without falling immediately and forever in love with them. Sadie must have thought she was in heaven as she
peered out the passenger window, wind in her face, anxious to explore the smorgasbord of sights and smells,
"Soon girl," I told her.
The main road was easy, but as I turned off onto the narrow pass, the incline became more severe and
the tires of my 4x4 truck would spin every now and then as they grasped for traction. The pass was
approximately one mile up the mountain and opened into a large clearing overgrown with grass. The cabin
was set high up on the hill and there was a creek to the right that served as its main water source. I was
surprised at its condition having not been there in years. It appeared just as I remembered it, perhaps even
more magnificent than I imagined if that were possible.
Named after an old bluegrass song, Balsam Blues was a special place. It wasn't fancy by any means,
but held a sort of rustic charm unequaled by many of the other cabins in the area. Its simplicity is what made it
so beautifully appealing. Before venturing into the cabin, I walked over to the shed that housed the generator
and prayed it would come to life. After a swift kick or two, it hummed to life and I grabbed an armful of
firewood that had been stacked neatly under the shelter. It would be cold tonight and a fire would be nice.
Sadie had found her favorite spot on the porch beside Grandpa's old hammock, still hanging loosely from the
rafters, and she eyed me as I approached, fishing for the keys in my pocket.
I'd always admired the oversized barn wood door that served as the cabin's entrance. An identical one
was on the opposite side of the house. Its delicate ironwork added to the cabins rustic appeal and as I turned
the key, it gave a great creak as if it had been awakened from a deep sleep. The interior was laid out in an open
floor plan that invited you in. There was a single bedroom and bathroom with a loft upstairs that served as
Grandpa Noland's study. The old stone fireplace brought a warm glow to the place as the flames danced across
the logs and weary as I was from the recent events and travel, I feel asleep to the soft crackling of the fire.
When I awoke the next morning, the fire had died down, and the rising sun was radiating through the
windows. I rummaged through the kitchen and managed to make myself a nice hot cup of coffee before
walking out on porch. Mornings in Appalachia are beautiful and serene and I sat watching the wind carry
clouds over the mountain tops. The morning dew still had everything covered in its glassy sheen and I began
to understand why Grandpa left me the place. Already, I could feel myself becoming relaxed and increasingly
inspired by my surroundings.
I ventured upstairs to the study with a fresh cup of coffee. Grandpa's study had always been one of
my favorite places in the world. From it, you could view the mountain from nearly every angle with few walls
to close it in and large picture windows on the other sides. He had an impressive library up there. I remember
us spending hours up there reading and talking. I dare say I became a writer in large part because of him, and
he was always proud of me and my accomplishments. His journals, of which there were many were scattered
about the loft, the most recent still lay on his desk. I thumbed through it smelling its pages laced with ink and
elder wisdom and smiled that I might finally have the chance to read them in detail.
Yes, there is a peace that comes over you when you are resident at Balsam Blues, a sort of magic that
makes everything seem right with the world. After just a few days there, my block began to wither away, and I
knew what I needed to finish my final draft. There were no computers, no typewriters, just thoughts flowing
from my inner conscious like a waterfall onto paper. I remembered the art of writing, the ease at which
thoughts can flow from pen to paper. Computers are wonderful machines, but they are cold, mechanical things
that are not tangible like the papers of old. For a solid day I wrote like a spirit possessed and I found my
ending. I owed it all to my Grandpa and the gift of Balsam Blues.
My days at Balsam Blues were numbered now; the outside world beckoned my return and it was with
a reluctant but rejuvenated spirit that I returned to the fast paced conformity of society. Vick was overcome
with joy at my return, though I think it was more the final draft he was glad to see. I take comfort in knowing
that while I'm stuck here in the real world, Balsam Blues waits patiently for my return.
67
STEVEN VINEIS
Broken Point
It was the bag of chips cliff-hanging from the coiled wire
of D-2 as he tapped on the glass of machine,
and the desk clerk's refusal to return
the quarters with a smug smirk
across his pimpled face.
It was the bugs on the pillow
when he pulled back
the bedspread
in the last available room
at the motel.
It was the choking, humming man
on the bench in the breezeway with two
bags of chips in his lap and
a satisfied two-for-one look.
It was the long night ahead of
clipper ship shapes across the ceiling,
reflections of light against the
nervous backdrop of the
empty green pool,
and the sweeps of a faded
flag heavy with the rain
as it clapped against the
window.
It was the Mexican maid the next morning
strangling the clock for more
pay, laughing with her foreign
thralls and hollers,
chewing loud
some chips the guest must
have left in the sheet-folds of the
unmade bed.
It was the cold water he shaved with,
the dangling broken shower head,
the clink of the key in the drop box,
his stiff thumb up on the side of
the slick drenched highway,
the cars passing by,
the brakelights flashing like
teeth when someone laughs when
they know they got the better of you.
68
It was the blonde hair of the
shirtless beach bums with girlfriends
in rebel flag bikini tops and
denim cut-offs,
outside the gas station. Filling
up their daddy's truck
as they drank nearly frozen beer
from the cooler in the bed.
It was the melted candy bar
that fell from its silver paper
carried off by the flash
of a wild dog.
It was Katherine moving to Chapel Hill,
Kelly‟s abortion in Atlanta,
and Hannah‟s possession charge.
It was the muffler dragging
and the oil leak, and the fan belt breaking
and the tape snapping in the deck.
It was the unrelenting sun shrinking
his sweaty coat and his
suitcase full of poems.
It was the gentle erosion of
the coastline, the slipping of
a rusted bike chain, a catch/stop in
the trigger pull and the hollow
click of a dummy round.
It was the last line he spoke after
he looked around
at the ill-practiced ballet of
bodies halted to watch the water
and the waves and the tragedy
of a rip tide with a man in its hands.
69
STEVEN VINEIS
The New South
How it looked that night—
The world as if arranged for the closing scene,
windows buckling inwards from the
rough 'long time, no see' welcome of the wind.
When I watched the final cut of the memory
I recalled the errors on set.
How I attempted a trick with a match
and ended up
with a palm full of ash
and my star was replaced by
a double who may have wondered
(but never asked) if
I was indeed the kind of man
who could undo her blouse buttons
with an injured hand.
And I acted to a blank stare the camera couldn't see,
making a case for reform by likening
cross-country trips to a deaf dog chasing his tail
in his own yard as if it was a part of him he'd
never seen before.
I tried so hard to cry, right there
on the spot,
the climax with
the lens stretched wide
closing in on my eyes
like a summer heat that
bakes the skin to a burn.
But I couldn't make it happen before her,
this substitute love,
my stare up and down the endless lanes
of her pale face
with a hesitation
in my lust
like I was aiming a revolver down range
at a mirror.
The credits rolled over a black screen
and the audience left before I could protest,
I was just as dissatisfied
with its portrayal
of my way of life
as I was with winters
that don't cross state lines.
70
This is how you can talk to people from Chicago
like they were immigrants,
in this Kentucky-fried America for the first time.
They speak the language just well enough
to say they don't like how we live around here.
The theater like my bedroom on
nights long with longing,
tracing figure-8's in my mind like tracks
left in the dust by muscle cars. Each line
curves inevitably through the same point
of truth which is what thinking about
the past does to you.
A past
like a prison tattoo or a bright side -
things that fade with time but
matter most when you're inside.
There's a reason why
angels are only real in snow.
The same reason it is
a perpetual July this side of
the Mason-Dixon line.
Why all the schools close at the first
hint of white and how it isn't strange
to see divides falter and dissolve like
tides when we all settle on the ground
with a little claim of weather
we can call our own.
And we rise and look out at the ground and
we see our imprints show
familiar short grass through.
We feel proud and a little godlike
because we can watch our true image
pure before it fades.
The scenery rearranged, stroked company
for our shadows,
safe because
we know we're just a little cold, we'll survive.
Life is comprised of tiny miracles
like buzzer beaters and
river cards
and amends.
71
I wish that break in the monotony
of these intolerable years could be
extended back to that table,
back to that final scene
on the boardwalk with the star,
because there's something I've been
meaning to say since then
that I've been left to repeat
over and again to her company -
those ticket-punch holes in the
midnight black which complements
the strange
wandering parts of me.
The camera will roll again on her
silent there in a red coat
with a button missing because
it's pinched in my teeth. And like
the simple man I am, I'll
motion with my hands for
her to dance under the lemon rind moon
which peeks through
the clouds like a bone jutting
through the surface of soup.
I'll charm
her mouth into mine
with shared champagne spit
from a New Year's toast
before the scene draws to a close.
72
CHRISTINA DORE
Dog
Dylan Thomas was a dog
blindly smoking a limp cigarette and eating
women with quiet words that would ultimately be
converted into loud verses sung by a group of artists
and crying alcoholics in the White Horse.
What the hell happened to the good boy?
Where‟s the loyalty? The curse—-the genius‟s egotistical
mask protects the loose chains and
the self loathing-—Capote, Poe, you. All you
could do was smoke and drink shots. Like a dog, you
could communicate in a rough universal language
that sometimes we wondered about and begged to understand.
73
CHRISTINA DORE
Unsure
Running my hand through my hair, I clutch a chunk of brown strands.
Then my agile fingers barricade my chapped, but slippery lips.
You make me nervous.
I like to think of myself as God, or some type of deity
where I can construct a miracle, and sometimes assemble a devastation.
Pillaging, and I feel utter disappointment,
and your smug eyes, even when your back is facing me.
I still let you walk ahead of me.
74
CHRISTINA DORE
Un Chien Andalou
Let us proudly display death on the cross and in
our dreams—a stigmata of infestation and decomposition.
A lone hand has been severed from life and
affection. In the midst of an angry crowd, everything
is broken apart and a grip is lost and released. Left
alone, it needs more than a quick tap of the needle. A
hand gropes for nourishment, as a man drools blood from
hunger and a woman's resistance. Like St. Teresa—
her breasts carved from Bernini's ravenous hands—
a fusion of tragic pain and murderous ecstasy. If only
a man could reach a woman, as he drags death and its
requiems like an emaciated horse. But ants crawl
across a broken palm, as fingers threaten and demand.
Where is there escape, from the hammer and rusted nails?
A lone hand is enclosed with another, as the water washes
and feeds the sun bathed rocks. An exchange of kisses
and skin accelerate time. Springtime freezes you in
the sand, immobile in a shallow grave. She buries you and
cries rain drops as she leaves you blooming sympathy flowers.
At last, there is some repose, and consensual compassion.
Always exhaling, smoke drifts into serenity. A monk
chanting tranquil prayers, his breath is like the smoke, or
the cloud that slits open the moon's eye. The thin eye
that spills its gutted heart—it weeps cool, fat tears.
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ROYCE RAY POETRY AWARD
$100 PRIZE
Scott H Urban
“Along a Nebraska Interstate”
The Royce Ray Poetry Prize celebrates a poet‟s work which
encompasses the humanist tradition of the celebrated Columbus County
poet Royce Ray.
Ray has published two collections of poetry, Gallberry Honey: Pure,
Unrefined Poems (1992) and The Flip Side (207). His poetry has
appeared in Aries One, the Brunswick Free Press, the Federal
Reporter, N.C. Poetry Society, Award Winning Poetry, Orphic Lute,
and Thoughts For All Seasons.
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SUBMISSIONS
Aries: A Journal of Art and Literature is published annually and
accepts submissions of art and literature year round.
Send submissions as an attachment to:
Allison Parker at [email protected]
Accepted poetry submissions will automatically be considered for the
Royce Ray Poetry Award. The winner will receive a $100 prize,
an announcement in the journal, and reception upon publication.
BACK ISSUES
Back issues of Aries: A Journal of Art and Literature are available.
Please send a $5 check or money order to:
Aries PO Box 151
Whiteville, NC 28472