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Identifier
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cpj0267
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Title
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The Cooper Point Journal Arts Issue (December 7, 1981)
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Date
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7 December 1981
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extracted text
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DECEMBER 4
.. 1
SUPPORT COLLEGE DAYCARE: DRIFTWOOD IS HAVING A TOY PARTY! II Open to
all parents, friends, faculty and stalf. Learn
about toy safety, appropriate toys for different
ages, and even buy one or two for Christmas
presents . PLUS!! a party for children 2-6, with
games, pinatas , peanuts, popcorn and juice.
3-5 in CAB 110, 50t donation is asked to
cover refreshments .
Arts'andEntertain
DECEMBER 12
Saturday, December 12, from 8:30 p,m, to
1 a_m.. In library 4300 dance to tile sounds of
THE NORTHWEST ORIGINAL ELECTRIC BIG
BAND . . _"THE NATIONAL BAND, " straight
from Seattle, for a celebration of the Christmas season . Let's not forget what Christmas
is all about-peace, love and unity . Come and
hug your fellow greeners, get mellow, and
celebrafe! 6:30 p.m. to 1 a.m . Lib . 4300_
$2.50 at the door. Refreshments aVailable . ..
all ages welcome!! I !
DECEMBER 15
Mar!< Papworth in a discussion entitled " The
Dimension of Man ." Tea , coffee and cookies
wi ll be served in the Rotunda at 3 p .m. before
the colloquium . The lec ture will start al 3:30
p .m. in Lectu re Hall 4.
MUSICA VIVA CHAMBER PLAYERS PRESENT: A Ch~istmas Concert-seasonal seleclions featuring DUE VOCI (Barbara Colfin,
soprano, and Caro lyn Mia, meuo-soprano)
with Henrietta Mastenbrook, piano . Also ,
BRAHMS lIebeslieder Waltzes for vocal
quartet and piano . Concert begins at 6 p .m .
1153 John SI., Seattle , corner 01 Fairview N .
and John .
Stop the World, I Want To Get OIl? If not
tonite.' Donny & Marie Osmond will be playing
In Seattle at the Paramount Theatre . Special
prices for students are in effect for thi s show .
Just think , you can get $10 off any $19.75
ticke\. Donny and Marie w i ll be playing
through the 6th .
opened last night at TESC Ex perimental
Theatre is the show of the season, " Stop the
World, I Want To Get 0" ." The musical that
captured the hearts of Iheatregoers in London
two decades ago plays ten performances
under the direction of Evergreen's own Ruth
Palmertee . Known tor its classic hits. " What
Kind of Fool Am IT "Once in a Lifetime," and
"Gonna Build a Mountain," this enduringly
popu lar musical by Anthony Newtey and
Leslie Brincusse brings "lillie Chap " to life
with a cas t and chon .s that appeals to audiences of all ages . Tickets : $4.00 general ,
$2 .50 students and senior citize n s. Performances are scheduled for Thursday through
Sunday, December 3 to 6. and December 10 to
13 at 8 p .m . ptus 3 p m . matinees Sunday the
5th and 13th . To get yo ur lickets , ca ll 8666070 dUring bu s iness hours. TESC Experimental -Theatre_
THE ARTISTS' CO-OP GALLERY . at 524 S.
Wash i ngton . in dow ntown Olympia, will be
featUri ng as their Artists 01 the Week. oi l
painter s, Catherine McSweeney and Tom
Sholly , through December 5th . Hours of the
gal lery are 10 ~ m . 10 5 p .m .. Monday through
Saturday
0119 '. ,a l pianist Jim McGuiness will be at
Carnegies Th ursday th ro ugh Saturday, December
4.5 and Decem ber 10. 11 . 12 . 9 P m _
no cove r FO l k. blues: 12 -st ring guitar and
plano . 7th & Frankli n . Ol y.
YOU'RE A GOOD MAN , CHARLIE BROWN!
8 p .m .. December ' 4.5, 10.11 . & 12 _ At th e
Cabaret Theatre , Chinook Center for fhe Performing Arts . Bldg . 12- 6-14 . N . FI. LeWI S
0 00" open at 7 :30 p.m . For advance tickets
and " , Iormalion call 967 -3085 Ti cket s are ' $3
rn advance and $3 .50 at the door. Produced In
coope rat io~ wr tn Tams-Witmar!< Music Library ,
view progress on the Speaker Committee and
to discuss any subjects that the students care
to show up and express an Interest ·fn .
Photo by Carrie Cevirtz.
FRIDAY NITE FILMS PRESENTS: Notorious
1946 B&W 101 minutes. Directed by Alfred
Hitchcock (YE AH! I) . Cary Grant , Ingrid Bergman , Claude Rains . This classic Hitchcock
(YEAH!! ) film is abou t WWII Nazis, atomic
bombs, fugitives in Brazil , and romance,
naturally . Come early for good seats! Plus :
Mr . Magoo color cartoon WHEN MAGOO
FLEW.
THE ART ISTS' CO-OP GALLERY , at 524 S.
Washington, in downtown Olympia, will be
fea turing as their Artists of the Week watercolor painters , John Cash and Claudia 'Marsh
Hours of the gallery are 10 a.m. to 5 p .m .,
Monday through Saturday.
The Graduation Commltt. . will meet Thurl10 In CAB 108 at 5:30 to re-
da~ DecernIMr
The Sleepy J will be on vacation this' month . We will be back in mid-January and
we hope you will join us then ...
DECEMBER 6
REGISTRATION AGE PEOPLE, an anti-war
group of draft age men and women has begun
a new fall meeting schedule . They meet Sundays at noon, at the UW Ethnic Cultural
Center . 40th NE and NE Brooklyn , Seattle .
They meet every Su nday at 12 noon.
The Olympia Film SOCiety presents on Sunday, Dec_ 6 : STEELYARD BLUES, USA, 1973,
91 min . , Color. directed by Alan Myerson.
Starring : Jane Fonda, Donald Sutherland,
Peter Boyle . An ant i -establishment romp,
complete w ith music by Paul Butterfield ,
Michael Bloomfield, and Maria Muldaur .
Fonda , Su therland and Boyle, as outlaws, join
together in this comedy about America's
military- industrial comp lex . Showtimes at 7 &
9 : 15 p.m . at Capitol Cily StudiOS, 911 E. 4th.
Tickets : $1.25 for members, $2.75 for nonmembers .
This ne xt Wednesday evening, fall quarter's
"Wor!<s in Progress " dance performance will
be in the CRC at 8 p .m . The show will inc lude
performances by Evergreen students, choreographed solos and group dances . All are invited to come and enjoy some new TESC
dances . Donations will be accepted to raise
funds for a major show next year.
MEDIEVAL, ETC. FILM SERIES PRESENTS :
THE LION IN WINTER . 1968 134 minutes .
Color. Directed by Anthony Harvey; produced
by Martin Poll: screenplay by James Goldman , based on his play; photography by
Ooug las Siocombe ; music by John Barry.
With Katherine Hepburn, Peter O'Toole, Jane
Merrow , John Caslle, Anthony Hopkins .
Twelfth-century England is the selting for this
story of love, ambition, conspiracy and politlics . It is the tale of the lusty Plantagenet
family , specifically the rivalry of Henry II 's
lour so ns as they scheme for control of the
throne. Playwright James Goldman'S dialogue
is swift and authentically medieval without
becoming labored or anachronistic . The New
York Film Critics voted this the best film of
1968.
The Artist in Residence Program presents :
WORLD WATCH, Through the Eyes of Dr_
Bish . A "Newsreel " collection of films by
Evergreen students . Potluck at 6:00 , COM .
Bldg . 322. Film show al 7 :30 in COM . Bldg .
Recital Hall. FREE .
Alun Francis and The Northwest Chamber
Orchestra present "Messiah ." An authenti C---Baroque performance of Handel's masterpiece
with SI. Mark's Cathedral ChOir, December 10,
11 , & 12th. Northwest Chamber Orchestra,
1205 E. Pike, Seattle . For more information
call 326-2550 .
I
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,
,
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F
B
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E
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Presents
Friday and Saturday, December 4th and 5th
THE AUZZIE GRABBER BAND
Rock 'N Roll
$2.50 Cover
2410 W_ Harrison, Olympia, WA 786-9290
L
j
R
Join David Grisman at the Moore Theater
in Seatt le al 7 p .m. l or an evening filled with
an explosive int erp lay 0 1 innovative , improv; ·
sa ti onal jazz
Tickel s for this concer t are $9 .50 reserved
on sa le at all u sual Ti cket Place
25e Schooner, 9-10: 30,
every Wednesday and Thursday
t ,
M
A
THE RETURN OF PRESTO CHANGO: A
so und ·v!s ua l exposure featuring : Robert
Heywood, Jeffrey Morgan and A. Woodruff.
Wednesday, December 9 at 6 p .m . Admission
i s $2 at the Gnu Deli.
THE STEELERS
Rock 'N Roll
J
DECEMBER 10
The Wilmar 8, a documentary concerning a
unron fo rmed by eight apolitical women who
start the first bank st rike in Minnesota history
The him deals with the grassroots of feminism and is a relevant study of condi tions that
are darl y evenls in Ihe lives of working women .'
Direc tor : Lee Granl. 55 minutes . Shown at
7 : 30 . Lec ture Hall 1. also Tuesday , Dec . 9 at
noon . CAB 110.
THE VACATIONS
with
MILLIONS OF BUGS
Thursday, December 10th
f
i
r
DECEMBER 9
Sunday, December 6th
STUDENT NURSE
and one other band
Wednesday, December 9th
M
I
L
,.
STOREWIDE SALE!
25% 0 FF list price all records
$5.98 list and up
Everything else in stock 10% OFF
Sale ends Sunday Dec. 6, 5:00 p.m.
THANKS for your support these last 9 years!
Olympia's only locally owned record store
Westside Center, Division & Harrison 357-4755
T ABLE OF CONTENTS
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Sestina
The Boneyard
Shall I Compare Thee To A Triple
Play?
Holland Blue
The Dancer
Dust In The Corner
Haiku
Too Many Windows
Pa~cal Wagers At The Two-Mile
House on A Wednesday Night
Harbor Storm
Photo , "Reflections of a Sailboat"
Photo
Photo
Photo, Strassburg, France I
Photo, Strassburg, France II
Photo
Photo, "Madame Butterfly"
Photo
Blithering Slights
A True Baseball Story
In The Margins
Getting To Sleep
Laudanum
Agoraphobia
Sight
A Woman At The Laundromat
Pegaslls
The Face
Rocks
Donald Nitchie
Bill Gravengood
Keith Eisner
•
Allison C. Green
Donald Nitchie
Carrie Gevirtz
Cara Bryar
Kate Crowe
Steve Hunter
11
12
12
Curt Marsden
Steve Hunter
Geoff Kirk
cristine c. gilmore
Carol Tucker
Bill Gravengood
Carol E Butler
Carol E. Butler
Nathan Jones
Evetree Tallman
Michael Helms
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24
25
26
2b
27
27
28
28
29
29
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THE CPJ ARTS ISSUE December 7, 1981
/
7
7
8
8
10
Julia Taussig
Jennifer E. Knauth
Brian Williamson
Peter Mumford
Jennifer E. Knauth
Jennifer E. Knauth
Suslich
Petrina Lynn Walker
lI
t
5
6
Edited and Designed by
Carrie Gevirtz and Kate Crowe
co ver by Jacques Zimicki
This publication has be e n made
possible by a grant from The Evergreen Fow/dation . We will be publisl,il'g again next quarter and w e
w e lc o m /! s llhmiss ion s at th e CP]
Office , C AB 104 . W e wish to extend
a special tl,aliks to tI, e artists w ho
13
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18
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20
SESTINA
By Donald Nitchie
Take any six words you find in the heart .
(One or more of them perhaps will be broken . )
That's O.K .; language, like America , hea ls
itself by momentum - making a road
where there was none, following it hom e .
In this fashion we encircle a world.
Slag heaps in the rain. Barges from another world
of commerce and coal tar push into the heart
land up blackened rivers past the battered homes
on the outskirts of cities . Broken
men, mute and defeated , litter the road
to the ocean . The town where you come from heals
to a scar. Follow the tracks to where the healing starts: the bitter ends of towns - worlds
of shanty-time and low-down - gravel roads
that turn to dirt. where girls from school , (with good heart s)
ride porch swings, crochet samplers saying: "Home
is where my love lies" -still pretty , unbroken
after two kids . Maybe you liked one o nce, broken
muc;ic from a juke-b'o x whining down the heart
of Frid"y night :,\lain strel'l .:J;O thp world
in a girl's quick eyes in the maldl tIMt' . Home
by twelve, she likeJ )luu too mu ch to heal
your eager silence with a word . Roads
you never drove down, and familiar roads
you did, will someday intersect like broken
promises that come true years later. Whose heart
knew it all along? Though tendernesses heal
not always tenderly. But faith in this world
is always a question of coming home.
When you arrive, the lit windows of anyone's home
will beckon through the trees . Exhaustion heal,
us in its lap of deadened-ends - broken
fences that the storm knocked down. In this world
of aimless acres, windbreaks of poplars till the road
comes clean, I know what we travel on is heart.
Take any well-healed way to the junk-yards,
word-heart, worlds with nothing left to ruin ,
while the road back home forever breaking before you.
)
SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A
TRIPLE PLAY1
(Thou Art More Lovely With Each Passing Day)
THE BONEYARD
By Bill Gravengood
Wendy felt good beside him. For
the first time in her life, she felt as if
there were someone who understood
her completely. She took his arm and
led him slowly along the gravel path
past the old warehouse and down to
the railroad tracks. They walked past
stranded boxcars where working men
stood, laughing and smoking, and
further down to where . the 'tracks
moved outside the base of a high cliff
and all the way to the river. The night
was clear and cool, and the stars
glowed white over the darkness.
She could hear the sound of ·feet
tapping quickly behind her. It was a
sound she'd heard many times before,
but never quite like this. Tonight it
was different - more pronounced,
affeCted, almost as if someone were
dancing.
Her hands came tight around
David's wrist. "Do you think they'll
notice us gone," she asked. Her eyes
shifted from his face to the tracks
ahead.
''I'm not sure they noticed us in the
first place. Besides, what difference
does it make?"
Wendy turned to look at the river.
Her dark hair fell over the shoulders
of her wool sweater. She could feel
David looking at her body.
"None," she said softly . .
They climbed the scrawny hill to a
plateau where the grass was dark and
brittle from the heat of summer.
"Look at the water," said David.
"I've never seen a river so inviting.
Does anyone ever swim here?"
"When I was ,little," she started,
"my father would bring me here on
Sundays. There was never anyone
else around. We'd dive in the water
and follow the current down to the
abandoned mill. There's a stream that
comes off the main, and leads round
back of the house where there's a
little clear pool. It was 'always warm
in summer, we'd stay for hours someti·mes. But you can't do that now.
The water's dirty. There was a big
flood a few years ago."
"A flood?" said David.
"It was a bad one. It dug up all the
land along the banks. There were
fence posts and old tractor tires float-
ing in the water, a lot of things.
People's furniture, dead farm animals,
some of the cottages were ripped up
completely. People had to sell what
was left and move away. I haven't
been swimming since, nobody has."
After another small climb, they
reached the top of the hill. David saw
what it was she wanted to show him.
It was a boneyard-a small cemetery
that had been in disuse for several
years. Many of the graves were
ragged , the weeds were overgrown
and some of the stones were on their
backs . In the tall grass a cricket sang
its usual night song. They saw lights
from the refineries and distant towns.
Wendy guided him slowly through
the shadows, her hands were dry and
calm. They brushed old leaves from
tombstones and read the names out
loud: Grace, McMicheal, Owens,
Mirlano.
"Sometimes I come here alone at
night," explained Wendy. "I look
through the graves with a flashlight
and wonder about the peoples liveshow they looked, what they remembered, if they loved their kids, all
that,
I feel a little out of place you
know, like I was meant to live some
other time , I stand by the tombstones
and think about the bones beneath
me.
David was quiet, ""atching the ex~
pression on Wendy's face. She pulled
him down to a grassy spot where the
moonlight came through the leaves of
a cypress tree.
"How did you come to this place?"
David didn't answer. He pushed her
back to the moist ground and guided
his hand over the curve of her belly.
The sound of the dancer's feet were
loud in Wendy's ear.
"How did you come to this place?"
"I heard there might be work," he
said . ''I'm looking for work."
"What do you do? What kind of
work?"
"I work in the oil fields," he said.
''I'm a roustabout."
"What's that mean? What's a
'roustabout'?"
''I'm the low man - the gopher.
connect the pipes that dig the wells,
carry the heavy chains. Anything the
toolpusher says , 1 do."
She asked him if he liked it, though
she already knew the answer . She
thought by the way he spoke he was
much older than he seemed. He was
confident, worldly, she admired that.
''I'll be twenty-one in August," he
said. "But I've been away from home
for almost six years. My mother
threw me out."
"What for7" she asked. "Why did
she do that?"
"We never got along at all 1 guess.
Not really. One day we had a fight. 1
said some things I should never of
said. She screamed for me to get the
hell out of there, so I did."
For a long time they lay watching
the stars and listening to the wind
blow through the graves. When he
reached over and placed his hand beneath her cotton dress, the dancer
started up. It's steps were loud and
erratic, and Wendy thought surely
David could hear them.
But David was not there. Uke all
the boys before him, he was some_
where else ,
By Keith David Eisner
Yes, they cut down the flowers in the
outfield and the flowers grow again;
a miracle under our feet everygame,
everyday; and the power that grows
in the green grass grows in you.
Yes, the infield rests with power; on
the clean dirt and over the basepaths,
the air is sweet vibrancy. The infield
rests like God. It is a grace and that
grace rests in you.
You are tender and soft and kind and
warm and hard when you need to be
and this has nothing to do with the
baseball poem but it's true.
Down below us on the field - the real
field with sunlight and clouds and
warmth on the wet grass and the little
flowers that have escaped the mower
and the breathless infield-down
below us on the field dying bodies are
dressed in bright colors; close your
eyes almost shut and they merge with
the grass, the bodies leap out of the
grass like birds like dreams without
names or regret-it touches my heart
-it takes me away from sorrow, and
this, too, is you.
r
r
I
We sing the anthem and the game
begins and I am amazed at your kisses
that are as direct as line drIves. You
stretch 'singles into babies, you bang
the doubles into the alley, triples off
the waU. And then as delicate as
breath, you place the bunt where no
man can reach it.
Out in the field you know what to do
with the mean hit, the low drive, the
ball over your head. Your glove is
new and oiled and old and true .
And now you hit the ball so hard and
so high and so deep that it leaves all
gloves, strategies, fences, parks, cities,
shadows and gravities. "It will fly, fly
away!" Everything is changed. No
body moves except the one mdn
rounding the bases. And that man is
nl(: <,I,lggpred with jov
running and
rUnnll1t; ,.111(\ rUllning around the bases
as long as I live .
HOLLAND BLUE
By Allison C. Green
smooth the edges of this cracked and
broken bottle
as you smoothed and soothed the
jagged blue chips of china
My father told me, once this island
was not of saints
but when the saints rose
their robes were woven browt;l
and soil
and they spun the holland blue
in their earth hands
it shone like the polished bones of
their fingers
'
blue saucers
spun and sung through the air
great discs of holland blue
spinning and spinning
and everywhere a blue confetti
that now
the celebration would begin
My wide blue eyes
saw the saints dip in the ocean
swells
and still the polished
smooth
stones
of holland blue,
washed over by tides,
lie glass-faced up
with the round brown bottle
stones
and· the green glass bottle
stones
and some clear violet bottle
stones
once they were the crust of this
platter island
now the shiny steppingstones
of saints
all cloaked in
holland blue .
• •••• J
THE DANCER
By Donald Nitchie
She could have been a good ball
player. I should know because I'm not.
Sometimes what is clumsy intrudes
like offensive words, pick-up games
we played for keeps, fouls that left
me bruised and stiff for days after-
0
wards. And then sometimes the world
is a back-court play. Men on the make
don't hesitate, but move right in
their own glad graces: Frazier
greased angelic down the center
like a beautiful lie I learn to love
to believe. The truth is not always so seductive. All I know is,
music tumbling through the hall,
we move to do just one thing
well . She moved because she didn't
care, though I could never prove it.
DUST IN THE CORNER
By Carrie Gevirtz
From behind thf> book · he reads a
sentence or so and then pauses. He
holds the tattered pages in one hand
and strokes his face with the other.
But the words fade . The anger that
builds in the blurred letters is sparked
by the dust in the corner near the
stereo speaker. He had only vacuumed
yesterday and he must have missed
that spot. He rubs his cheek firmer
now a~ if the friction would clean the
dust from the comer . But the dust
takes him to the women.
The women aren't clean like
vacuumed floors. Especially the
young ones. They have fantastic
energy and enthusiasm for life. They
don't have to worry about dirt in the
comers. Why can't he have complete
control over them? W.hy should they ·
have the freedom to go around with
whomever they please? He wants
them all to himself in a secret way.
None of them can know about the
as the pages in his b ook. They fall
out with abuse. He tries to bring himself back to his book, the words. But
they blur without his full attention.
And with half-attention he grabs
words here and there that inspi re
thoughts.
Now he compares his constant
woman with the enigma. They are
both vivacious. They both s tand
strong with what they think. But does
the enigma really ' think original
thoughts? Or does she latch onto
ideas that walk into her life? She
doesn't seem very trustworthy. He
remembers the project that they all
worked on. She seemed at the beginning to be a drifter, and then to be
struggling to be consistent. She listened with wide ears. And he loved it
when people listened and treasured
the words that he spoke. He' felt that
he knew how to use words more se ri ously than most. He likes to be a sage
to people. They always swoo n at
him . He's used to it and he thinks he
deserves the speciality . And he isn't
afraid to argue hi s insights into truth .
Arguing . Ah, yes. The conflict between the thoroughly youthful. starryeyed woman and his normal woman.
The sensitivity in the mystery is
wrong to begin with . It doesn 't seem
real. But then it goes further. The
enigma falls at hit; arguing as if he,
and only he, knows what is right. He
likes to think that the world , life has
order like that. It's like the dust in
the corner: if he'd been as orderly as
he could be , the dust wouldn 't be
there . Although the du st and th e
vacuuming are different. He wasn 't
vacuuming alone . Again he delved
into another aspect of youth: th e ten
year old thelt boredly helped him
cleanse the rugs . She reminds him of
his time that runs o ut. It runs elnd he
chases. He is exhausted and flops
deeper into the chair, losing his lo ng
limbs to the leather .
These thoughts are o ut of control.
The women that motivate him aren 't
normal. How could they be normal?
Maybe if they were like his first lov e.
If he could be oblivi ous like he was
with his first love. But the woman
herself brought th at on . They have
the power when he gives it to them.
And he gives it to them when he
can't see the pocket they keep th p
others. They won't confuse him because he will have the power to
demolish confusion. He will keep
their lives clean. They won ' t have to
run for shelter when th ey make mistakes with other men. There won ' t be
other men. And he will have them in
unfrightening amounts.
All the women are young. His flings
with youth, as the psychologist says.
Yes, and he is growing out of it
rapidly. But the current ex trav agances
that grow in his mind make him hope
that he won't grow too mature for
this type of satisfying lust. It 's the
kind of lust that makes masturbation
exciting; the dreamy unclarity .
But she's coming for dinner tonight .
He feels protective toward her even
though he never has anything to say
to her. But she will get broken soon
and he can't stand th e thought of her
spi lling out, bloody , on someone
else's sheet s or the cold sidewalk. This
picture makes him scra tch the bumbly
skin under his chin that got abrasive
and itchy from shaving . His nails
move in quick , circular strok es th a t
relieve th e peeling sensation and release his anxiety toward the destroying of this young woman.
The motion slows. He sees the
color of her hair in the streaming sunlight o n the pile of dust . It falls just
short of her neck and he imagines
nuzzling her untouched skin with his
freshly shaved cheeks. And he can't
let go. He can't speak either. Her enthusiasm melts into naivete and he
sta ys buried in her soft, floating hair.
S h ou ld h e even fantasize about
seduci ng thIS young woman? Or is
that get ting sick?
It's n(lt only the hair, but the close
way th a t she looks at him . The sun
on his shoulders reminds him of her
breath as she tells him about the
existential novel. His head lifts higher
than the book and he realizes that his
knowledge is superior to her beauty.
Maybe he shou ld just leave her as a
physical enigma.
The my~I~'1 y in thi~ woman ' ~ n<.llvete
pull s him toward her. It '., hard to tell
is she\ as innocent as she ,lppears. He
sec!'> hi s l'gll <1<' if it w\'rl' as se nsitive
power in. Those women are sly. They
aren't to be trusted. Instead he should
let th em p lay their moody, passionate
games and take from them only what
is offered.
The dirt and the women. Where
had the book gone? The dirty women
and their power over him to stop him
from reading; his real passion.
When would he take control of
himself anyway? This addiction to
... women was go ing o n too long. They
walk into his mind and he can't find
a place for them to exit. They are
poison. And ye t, laying in the arms
()~ one that has become comfortable
makes the uneven fut ure roll instead
of jag int o hi s mind.
W hy did he invite her over to dinner tonight? He is tired of people and
boosting him self up to their levels. He
is exha usted and no matter how much
sleep he ge ts he still feels tired .
The ex haustion comes from trying
to contro l the women. He tries to
organize them in his mind but he falls
off th e tra ck into a sed uctive fantasy.
Again , why is she coming for
dinner? She is much more exciting in
a bank line than for a few hours at
hi s h<..)me . And the ot her woman will
be there . They wi ll walk on each
oth er and touch, nuzzling like cats.
But the y hate each other. And he
wi II ha ve to wa tch, humorously.
What else can he do? He could just
leave th em a lone to be kitties. He
eith er gets a ll or none. The one will
wa lk on the. other. And he will have
to sweep up their messes like the
dust. That goddamned dust. Why did
he mi ss it?
He s tand s up, lanky and long
again . The women fall to the bottom
of hi~ pockets and he feels the weight
around his groin . He walks over to
the du st with his arms still in the air,
stretching, alm ost hurting. And he
bends down very stiffly. The stiffness
reminds him of the many hours that
he spends in chairs behind books .
The dust won't sit in his hand . It
sprinkles ont ( the clean rug like the
yo un g \-" o men when they leave his
h nLl~l' c.l ft e r d inn er.
•
HAIKU
TOO MANY WINDOWS
By Kate Crowe
By Cara Bryan
Spelling comes breaking,
Through syllogisms of windows,
We are partners,
While dark dumps its load,
The pain has not arrived,
He wants to cry with me. . but
beneath the sparrow
the tombstone faces the wind
and forgets to cry
Doggie on the stairs
Doggie on the stairs
I fought with old bones
Skirting his beard
Be good chocolate
For Christmas sake .
My only black suit
Will remember his face
On town sidewalks
My brain would chill
To cellophane
Seeing him
In Winthrop town .
the summer suns died
the autumn rusted and bled
and the snows blew dark
Never will happen.
Never will happen.
Black trains move through blue .. ..
Why can't we?
We murmured and murdered
In the Paris bordello
Saucey spoons of us
In mid-morning gravity ..
Straw earrings on male sheets
Snoring, snowing and pink
A slit of satin.
Pillows off to sacredness
V\'hy can 't we sneeze capers?
Snickers do last in that booth
I caught envelopes there last week
A fever of fools
Took forever , then croaked.
the lover's heart sighed
and like the drizzle of rain
chilled each heart that heard
a harvest moon dripped
slivers of diamond crystals
through the nights dark cloak
Mirrors do hold
Mirrors do hold
Smells of smallness
entered his mind
He loved her anyway
Underwear picnicing
Through Thanksgiving minds
Prayers imploding
In those shoes
Wickedness Whistles I
So fly it!
Take the big ride to
Moo-train madness
The farm loved rock and roll
Potatoes out back
Trucks held up front . . rumbling
the fl ower petal
lay torn in the statue's hand
the wind looked away
Through basement windows
We stacked piles of purple / black pieces
Monsters from below
Big thick chunks of meanness
Thundering amid
Sock-stink smells of
Grandpas relievings.
Grandma canned cherries,
For March wind screams.
l1ucket it up!
Bucket it up!
I like the color ,
You can't go wrong with relivings,
So rumbles are nice!
Knock me some cabbage
Over here!
And some beer goddamnit!
I'm German this afternoon,
Come groan with me
Summer memories
My birthday was the ocean
and kelp didn't die in her
die in her .
Come .. . Lome .
Make smirks by me
The moon might roll
Into our mouths
Someplace in motel gristle
Our love will glisten
Neon trains .
Pulsing toward Jupiter
Whirly-o's of domination
Flying left corners
Hearaches braked by engineers
Pulling love through the
Cell-block guts of tomorrow
You can't spank me tonight
You can't
Maturity lies hidden
B~hind TV's and .. .
The waves are too high
Slapping,. slapping
Against the glass, .. .
I could break!
I could break!
The house has too many windows .. .
Too many windows ...
To gather the dark
From our true true minds.
11
...
,.
.~J
PASCAL WAGERS AT THE lWO-MILE
HOUSE ON A WEDNESDAY NIGHT
By Steve Hunter
Rutabaga-Rutabaga
Bromo-Seltzer Bromo-Selt zer
Dice
The Dice!
Probability
in coatlinings and carriage rides,
triple pot winners:
Buy the House a Round!
Buck-toothed and lard-asses Gracie ,
I love you and our incantatio ns
over the dice table .
Rutabaga-Rutabaga
Animal Pleasures Animal Pleasures
We become more than the sum of our parts .
Oh, can't we buy a thrill Gracie?
Can't We?
HARBOR STORM
By III/ill Tli lI SS is.
When the air st<lrts tu move
They SWJY sof tl y
Tethered to baybottnm
Riggin g pi cked d eem
Tlwn with the blow in g . the blowing ,
Like star tl ed horses th ey fight their leads
Lifting and dancing , pulling a nd plunging ,
Ti l th e shroud song becPll1es a cry , a wail,
And they keen o la III 0 la lu
They are ch ildren in a crowd
Only hand on mother's hem
To keep from drifting , lost
In knees and boots and hips.
And S ll surel y comes the fe ;) r . that they loose their grip
And they weep , dnd weep ing fills the day,
And they keen 0 la lu 0 la lu
.
12
And one, in middle , weakens and she cries:
"I am weary, ! cannot hold! " bursts free
And she spins like a leaf in swift rivers
And she whirls, and she soa rs until caught
By the reef she is eaten
Chewed and spi t, chewed and spit
And bits co me back to rub the others,
And they keen o la lu 0 la lu
Jennifer E. Knauth
13
I,
Peter Mumford
14
1
.
.
II II
,
"
le nnifer E. Knauth
knnifer E. Knaut l ,
Petrina Lynn Walker
"Madame Butterfly"
19
BLITHERING SLIGHTS
By Curt Marsden
Brian Wi lll amsl)n
20
1901- I have just returned from
completing the registration procedures
at Earnshaw Community College. If it
were not for the fact that I have already invested my savings in the purchase of my tuition, I would not be
bothered with the place! When leaving from just beyond the moors, I
dreamed of arriving at a place which
would tantalize my senses with unceasing newness. Instead, I arrived at
Earnshaw Campus-a dreary place
devoid of anything stimulating, (>ither
physically or intellectually. The
Earnshaw Building itself is unusually
small for college use. It is well structured, however, as it must need to
be, imagining the moor winds billowing upon this area in times of storm.
The stone foundation and reinforcement beams projecting throughout the
primarily cedar construction supercede their intended purpose and tend
to significantly <;:ontribute to the air
of oppression. The situation was not
improved upon at my first confrontation with Professor Heathencliff. An
odd man, his eyes are almost completely concealed beneath bushy, unkempt eyebrows. In addition, he went
as far as to pick his nose just to avoid
shaking my hand.
"Prof. Heathencliff?" I said.
A blank expression was the answer.
"I am to be a new student hert: at
Earnshaw Community College. This
is my first opportunity to complete
my registration requirements, and my
first chance to meet you, my new
professor. I heard yesterday that you
would be available tor acquaintance
today at the Academic Orientation
Fair-"
"I am the head professor here at
Earnshaw Community College, sir,
and I do not wish to be inconvenienced by any damn freshman, but if
it must be-enter my office!"
The "enter my office" was uttered
with a scowling, twitching upper lip
which consequently exposed an array
of rotting yellow teeth and gray lifeless gum tissue .
We walked up a set of cold, dark
stairs.
'What is this cold, dark feeling I
experience as I walk up these cold,
dark stairs?" I ejaculated.
"Perhaps it is caused by the fact
that old man Earnshaw (the original
dean here) died on the spot, practically where you stand now, Mr.
Balsawood." He read my name tag
with beady, soulless eyes, for he did
not know my name, and Mr . Balsawood is what it is and is what is
written down there.
"How did he die?" was my inquiry.
"You ask annoying questions,"
hissed the dark, ape-like devil, "and
if I was to hear that you are not a
paying student and consequently a
contributor to my salary, I should be
inclined to shove your long, zitty
nose in an electric pencil sharpener
until it was reduced to a chewed,
bloody piece of offal." (We did not
have electric pencil sharpeners in 1901
or did we use the term, "zit," but
Prof. Heathencliff was ahead of his
time, as I was destined to discover.)
We entered his office, and there
was a pacified old dunce sitting near
the large desk.
.
"This is Jowlsuff, my assistant,"
snorted the villain.
"Zo, y'is anuuderwan uv doze
vvrezsamin dat de pruffessa iz
alaways coisin' aboit!" babbled the
old dunce . Don't ask me what he
said, because I certainly did not
know!
"What is that you wished to confer
about?" belched Heathencliff.
"Well, I am not exactly sure!" I
ejaculated, "I was hoping you would
be in the position of offering me information that I might find useful in
preparation of your classl"
"Ass," he wheez(>o, "I have no inclination to 'indulge your sophomoric
endeavors. "
"Sophomoric? But I am a freshman, sir.
.
"Get out!"
"Blugmuknasoodal" said Jowlsuff.
I got the hint, and quitted the
room. In fact, I quitted. the whole
building, and the campus too, but it
was my initial inclination to assume
you would derive these points. I returned to my dormitory, nearly two
miles away.
'"
Upon my arrival to my room, I
settled down to examine my new
books for my classes. Many of them
were, in fact, not new but used copies
(which were cheaper than the unused
equivalents). Inside of one of the
more ancient volumes was written the
name Kinky Earnshaw. A little ways
underneath it was also written Kinky
Lintbasket. I was unmoved and tired .
Then, at the back, I found an amusing cartoon drawing of Jowlsuff. Suddenly, I was obsessively interested in
Kinky . I thumbed through the book ,
examining all possible doodles in the
margins until I collapsed in a restless
sleep . (I even forgot to brush my
teeth.)
It was then that my mind floated
into a bizarre nightmare . I heard a
scraping at the window and was
startled to see a young lass in a ponytail, cashmere sweater, poodle-skirt,
and bobby-socks with color-coordinated pom-poms . She was strange,
even ghostly-looking . I could not
comprehend her clothing, since none
of these things were due to be in style
for another fifty years . I grew quite
frightened of her, and opened up my
windo,w to shoo her away. This did
not work, and I proceeded to violently rub her mascara into an unsightly
mess. She did not budge, but instead
met my eyes with an unceasing gaze
of demonic want!
I screamed and awoke to discover
the noise was being caused by a
swaying branch just outside my pane'
I was not able to return to a state of
unconsciousness again that evening.
I was aroused by ' a maid lettmg
herself in to clean my room .
"Excuse me, Mr. Balsawood! " said
the old hag, "I did not realize . you
had arrived as yet!"
"It does not matter, old-weatherbeaten-one, I compel you to commence your activities." I retorted .
Soon, I was seized by a desire to
question this wench.
"What is your name?"
"They call me Smelly, "
"Are you or were you ever familiar
with a girl named Kinky?"
"Miss Earnshaw? -oh, I mean Mrs.
Lintbasket?"
"Why yes, I suppose. I had a
terrible dream last night, in which I
think she was present."
Uh, I wish you had not told me
that! I don't like to hear of such
things. I"
"What?" I ejaculated.
21
"Mrs . Lintbasket is long since
dead-at least physically. I have been
an attendant of the area for many
years, and it would be difficult to
relate her story without going indepth."
.
"I am interested in hearing it," and
I walked over to wake my roommate,
who was unusually still in his bed .
He was dead.
"Too bad penicillin hasn't been invented yet." said Smelly.
The carrion was removed from the
room by some cooperative members
of the maintenance office. I was not
too alarmed, I hadn't got a chance to
know my roommate, and people die
a lot in this story.
"Please, Smelly, tell me about the
Earnshaws," I reiterated.
"Certainly, although it goes beyond
merely the Earnshaws!"
She commenced.
The year was 1869, and a young
girl named Kinky Earnshaw was one
of the first students to enroll at her
father's newly established Community
College; in fact, she was the only student disregarding her brother, Spindley Earnshaw.
One morning (it was a Saturday,
and there were no classes) Master
Earnshaw, the self-appointed dean
announced he would be taking a trip
to Liverpool in order to recruit some
students for the college. He did, however, leave his children with the
assignment of reading Burrough's
Tarzan of the Apes, which was
strange, considering it was not due to
be published until 1914.
Master Earnshaw did not return
until late Sunday evening. With him
he dragged a bound and gagged
youth.
"It was quite a job bringing in this
loutl You thinkhe would have happy
thoughts regarding a pending college
education," he expelled.
The youth was freed and stood up.
He started yelling curses in a foreign
language .
"I did not realize he was foreign!"
cried the Master, "I suppose I might
have guessed at his dark complexion
and Algerian headgear. Oh well, 1
presume he shall be our first foreignexchange student!"
To avoid problems concerning the
unwilling youth, Master Earnshaw
chose to grant him a tuition scholarship for the year. Also, having no
regard for the boy's native tongue,
the master created a name for him:
Heathencliff. In an unfortunate accident shortly thereafter, Spindley unavoidably dropped a large slab of
granite on his head. Upon his recovery, he didn't seem to recall any
of his memories, and any desire to
return to his native land had subsided.
The three students studied diligently and learned quickly. Master
Earnshaw spent extra time with
Heathencliff due to his deficiency in
the English language . Spindley Earnshaw resented this, as he had resented
Heathencliff's pretense from the beginning. And, although Kinky's initial
instinct was to also resent Heathencliff, she grew attached to him. As
the second year approached, and
Heathencliff had no scholarship to
lean on, Miss Kinky found it stimulating to help him with his expenses
from out of her own savings. Soon
after this, Heathencliff discovered
some small but valuable gems among
his original clothing. So, for a time,
he and Kinky basted in each other's
mutual wealth .
Finally, the second year came to
pass . That spring, Master Earnshaw
died. Spindley Earnshaw appointed
himself the new dean of the Earnshaw
Community College, despite the fact
he had only had two years of unorthodoxed post-secondary education.
Aware that she could not learn anything from Spindley, Kinky transferred to the nearby Thrushcross
University. I, as her pers,o nal maid
went with her. Heathencliff was
unable to pass the admittance examination to TU, and was forced to
remain at Earnshaw College, hoping
to gain proficiency in the English
language.
Thrushcross U was a new experience for my lady and I. Kinky was
befriended by the institution's president and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Lintbasket. They were very nice, and had
a fine accumulation of material
wealth, but died. They had a son and
daughter both enrolled at TU; Vulgar
Lintbasket and his sister, IIIizabitch
Lintbasket. All of them being fine and
preppy, the three young Republicans
grew fond of each other and talks
concerning money.
Heathencliff came to visit often,
but it was apparent on each subsequent appearance that his finances
were quickly depleting. I guessed that
Spindley must be draining him quite
thoroughly, considering HeathencliH
was the only student, and was the
only person putting any money into
the place.
Two more years passed . Both
Vulgar and Kinky graduated. They
coincidentally were voted most-Iikelyto-remain-wealthy . The night following the graduation ceremony, Kinky
came to me.
"Smelly!" she ejaculated with a
nervous flutter in her voice, "Vulgar
has asked me to marry him! I love
him very much and I have accepted!"
"What about his money?"
"Of course he has admirable funds
at his disposal!"
"I realize he has been receiving a
monthly supply of money since his
parents have died, but isn't it true
that a final settlement of the estate
will take place only after IlIizabitch
has graduated also?"
"It is a provision in the will. but I
am not worried for our material comfort!" cried my companion.
"What about - Heathencliff?"
"Heathencliff?! I could not marry
Heathencliff now, for that would degrade ,me! 1 realize it has always been
Heathencliff who was first to share
his wealth with me, but as you know,
his funds are depleting!"
It was storming outside, but 1
clearly saw Heathencliff running
away from the complex, out into the
dark. He must have been listening in
on our conversation. I was startled,
but said nothing to Kinky.
"Smelly," continued Kinky, "1 had
a dream the other night. I dreamed I
was in heaven, but it was full of poor
people! I did not belong! Finally, the
angels grew so disgusted with my
love of material wealth, that they cast
me out! Down' I fell and I lit upon
Earnshaw Campus. I awoke and I
wept for joy, for I was once again
among tho,,"E' ih'ms of luxury which
meant so much. HeathencliH understands this too, for we both relate to
comfort in the same way, and have
enjoyed spending money together.
Smelly, I am Heathencliffl We will
always belong together, in the hallowed halls of Earnshaw Community
College, impractical and lasciviously
decorated! "
Despite 'the fact it made no sense to
me, Kinky became Mrs. Vulgar Lintbasket. Heathencliff had vanished!
That following spring, Illizabitch
graduated. What a shock it was to
find that 95 % of the estate had been
left to her! The explanation given by
the deceased parents was that they
felt Vulgar, being a man, was capable
of creating his own fortune, and that
IlIizabitch was indeed such a bitch,
no man would ever marry her and
support her. What an incomprehensible tragedy! Vulgar and Kinky had
a true love , but what can that buy?
They were virtually penniless! I took
a position back at the Earnshaw
campus .
Years passed . But ' the day came
that Heathencliff returned! With him
he brought a horse , Minny. Heathencliff was still a pauper , but did not
suffer lack of "pleasures of the flesh" .
as he admitted to being an avid practitioner of beastiality.
The brute 's return upset Kinky
greatly , for I overheard one of their
conversations at the Earnshaw Col lege .
"Come with me , Kinky ," moaned
the devil. "apart , we have nothing,
but together , with our combined
ingenuity , we could gain and create a
fortune of material treasure! "
"No , Heathencliff , for I am married
to Vulgar! " sobbed his ejaculating
companion , " I did not wait and
marry you , I know , so punish me, if
you must! "
"I will punish you, bitch, " he retorted , "I will marry Illizabitch , for
such is her desire . And I will spend
her money , and each time 1 hold the
bills and coins in my hand , 1 will
imagine them to be ours! "
I knew as well as they did that
material wealth gained through such
a marriage would be ultimately hollow to . Heathencliff , for he would
not be sharing it with the women
who loved it as he did. Only Kinky
could brin g any meaning to Li ~
wealth, not llliza bitch .
Nevertheless, IlIi za bitch and Heathencliff married, and with her fund s,
they bought the Earnshaw College
and its campus from Spindley, who
had hardly any money left , and died
anyway.
The college declined, for it meant
nothing to Heathencliff without
Kinky . The day came when Kinky,
like just about everyone else, died.
She had a cold, or something to that
effect. And I do remember Heathencliffs words!
"I do not pray at your death,
Kinky , for you are not one to go to
heaven! Once there, you would no
longer have the chance to enjoy
wealth! You would never again see
the shine of pure gold, or the curvature of fine, carved crystal! You must
wait for me, Kinky, for it is only I
who would be willing to share my
material wealth from beyond the
grave! This is my college, Kinkyl Let
the other fools go to heaven, but let
us stay here and own foreverl"
Since that day, Heathencliff has
led a lonely life , After his wife, Illizabitch died, Heathencliff went back to
school and gained the proficiency to
become a professor. This has done
little to enhance his hollow life,
however .
At that moment, Jowlsuff burst
forth into the room. Smelly was
startled .
"Mr . Baaliofheyb kifjjry jh j ieudn
hi y lopon! JoPP se d'jiounbbgtu
yoiishegvbyr . 1 waathdcedd za tim
lop din a hootl" blubbered the fool.
"I understand!" exclaimed Smelly,
"Mr. Balsawood, it seems that Heathencliff is dead! Jowlsuff found him in
the vault, counting money, with a
young lady at his side, - but at a
's econd glance, the lady had disappeared , and Heathencliff was not
active , but dead! Don't you see, Mr.
Balsawood? HeathencliH and Kinky
have just begun to live! Heathencliff
isn 't really dead, and neither is Kinky!
Their <;pirits will continue, in blissl"
1 left the college, trying to figure
::l ut what the hell all that crap was
about , and trying to decide if I really
cared. I came to the conclusion that I
had been using too much marijuana,
and have been an avid user of cocaine
ever since.
•
,v
IN THE MARGINS
A TRUE BASEBALL STORY
By Geoff Kirk
By Steve Hunter
.. A Blackball and a Beanball" hollered
G. MulHalland, my sixth-grade teacher
balding unto death
from behind homeplate,
Which he managed shortly thereafter,
but not before
he sold me his swell '62 aids
with electric antenna and six-way seats
in which I tried inexhaustibly to diddle
Jenny P,
became practiced in the art of skipping school
and accustomed to Winstons.
As Dougie Dew,
president of our class,
reclasped his hands frustraneously
'round the base of his bat
hoping he didn't blow it in the clutch.
Dougie was breeding cats in his spare time ,
personally, with an eye-dropper,
(l never did understand why he couldn't
hang on to a bat better considering
his interests outside of baseball.)
IJougie swung,
with the furor made infamous
by rumors of his dick-fights
with Jim Swenson
in the bushes of Scout-O-Ramas,
and missed.
Dougie swung .. . and missed .. .
and let go of the frustraneously held bat
wielded in rumorous turor
striking my then balding, soon to be dead
sixth-grade teacher and ump
on the left ankle,
to which he responded by chasing Dougiewho being no one's fooL
was already running like hellthrough right field
to the diamond at the other end of the playground .
24
A great artist died last week . As is
the case with many, he was alone,
and in poverty . Many of , the details
of his life would have forever remained unknown except for the
patronage of his brother." This paper
will discuss the man and his art on
two levels, the level of an art critic,
in which lengthy prose with lots of
visual words will · be used, and the
level of the biographer, in which
under the cover of a shield of objectivity, a series of rendering melodramatic interludes will be explored
for the purpose of finding the "cause"
of his art.
We shall never know exactly when
he first began to draw, the first
records begin in the later junior high
school years . Before that he passed
through most of the "normal" stages
of development . Birth , childhood in
the Midwest. Suburban aluminum- '
sided houses were among his first
sights. Those who knew him remember an ordinary-looking boy with a
passion for reading. He can be safely
imagined walking home from school
staring with probing eyes at the
scenes which would one day form the
basis of his art.
Looking at his first draWings now,
they still seem as fresh as when he
first scrawled them in the margin of
his notebook during some boring
biology lecture. Already his distinctive sty\(' is present although his
subject matter is still limited to
doodles. The curling lines and jutting
angles speak to one across the barriers
of time and space. The lines are bold
..md debnik , with subtle shadings and
nuances that tell of the talent to
come. Thl'y pn""ess the intensity that
was t(l h 'come a trademark.
A" I~ commonly known today, he
r lInted nothing and scorned m~dern
drt to the point of never using artists'
pencils or paper. Yel his legacy (a
total in excess of 1000) will forever be
linked with thl' nnteb()()ks of eternity " All nt hi s work is untitled and
mu ch i... /I'rl'ver Ill,,!. About 75% of
t Ill' pill ( .... III rll ...... (·... :, llIll hd Vl' been
l<l l a l ()~l'd ,tnd it i" hdbitual to refer to
thelll by nllllliwi Numbl.' r 321 5 is
tl t;I'. " I " , \I : '"
t~ I( ' ,I : IH '(\ lI11prl·""\lln i"ti e, ('(\11 :, 1111 It 1.1nd ... , . q l( · ... . '1" ::1\ Helds
of grass flow into the distance, breaking on a peasant's house. Trees bend
and twist in the unseen breeze and
whispy clouds float in the sky. Beginning with abstracted scrawls and
moving into the now well-known
landscapes, small twisted trees, tiny
houses and people, vast miniature
panoramas, covering no more than
inches in space yet encompassing
acres of land and infinite vistas of
human experience, that ebb and flow
on the consciousness of the reader,
his total output boggles the mind.
Never popular in school, he was
now openly scorned. An incident
occurred with a neighbor girl, and
while the details are sketchy it is
known that she rejected him. He
never recovered.
In spite of the personal depression,
it was here that his art matured.
Everyday his margin was filled with a
new masterpiece . His work turned
maniacal. Trees which bebre curled
gently now were bent and broken.
His skies, formerly so gentle and containing only a few puffy clouds now
became filled with black evil lumps
that loom over the charred tree
stumps and houses. One of his last
drawings was recently found. An
immense· work depicting a school of
fish with a bearded devil in the
center.
After high school the outpouring
abruptly ceased as he began to work
in a department store. His brother
secretly planned a small book of the
drawings but he never lived to see it
finished. Just two days before it was
to have been completed he drove
over the line and crashed into a highway wall. He made life here a little
bit more beautiful.
"Without whom's assistance this
paper would not be possible.
.. It is a pity
where he
the almost
SOO-person
ture.
he never reached college
could have experienced
tribal-like intensity of a
Business Dynamics lec-
.. Almost six inches across.
•
25
AGORAPHOBIA
GEITING TO SLEEP
tor Laura
By cristine c. gihnore
BI/ Bill Cravengood
1
A
tomato.
Ripe red flesh
bursting seedily
with each
downward
thrust.
2
Thick-nailed fingers
press firmly into my stomach.
These yellow nails seek
pelvic boneI dreamed last night: teeth
loosened, ready to fall.
My flesh gives like blanched
onion skin.
You trust. You don't trust. You trust.
Sweat (frozen) beads
across my back.
Is the window open 7
I would have gestured
through the filmy, muslin
but. ..
the brush
my shoulders,
shivering.
Relax.
Your skin is translucent, fruit.
The moon is digesting
all-Yet, I do not see a shadow.
I am here, at "the still point,"
world is turning.
I open my eyes and don't know
where to look.
3
They were slit, I remember,
as he pushed. Then open.
Slit. Open
as he breathed.
Fluorescent lights as they burn out.
He wanted breakfast.
Thick oatmeal, raisins.
He ate.
Oh, the smell-I pressed my cheeks high.
Clogged the sink.
The thistle creep, the flurry
of flesh along my backlike a hummingbird, a soft chemise.
So hard to deny,
ignore.
My hair, my skin ... his fingers
and the damp porcelain
dug to bone
again.
LAUDANUM
By Carol Tucker
Mama, 'member
we'd bring pillows out
on the porch
and sometimes you'd say
get the salt
when another slug
oozed onto a step.
You'd talk long about slugs
and about your brother.
Then we'd shadow tag
in the streetlight.
Those hulking Cotoneasters
by the porch
attracted cat piss
like the last long shadows
attracted moist dusk.
Lift up your thin gown again,
I've returned for your favorite game.
One will play the slow red summer,
one, the deep revenge of fall.
Draw the curtains back and watch;
our bright. sun falls over every thingover lawns and rooftops,
over the silent men that gather to work.
Over shoes, bedposts, blankets,
over the forests and oceans
that isolate this room.
Our own pasts are covered with light,
mothers and tat hers naked, mute .
If you remove your dark glasses
you will see our disfigurement
with your own eyes:
we are the shadows of hands and feet,
WE.' are the caretakers
ot a place long abandoned,
in league with a distance
we could never afford.
Listen :
there is no small mystery
for the confusion you feel,
look again at the black crown
between your thighs.
Another shadow.
Now we are half way home,
so close the sweat runs again
that was coated, minutes ago
o~er the length of your belly.
Take hold of me here.
Will you take hold of me here?
Polish this until we gleam,
we move toward something:
the heart ot your fragrance,
tht· heart of your fragrance.
SIGHT
By Carol E. Butler
women
when not in love
when without a man
suffer themselves insufferably
I want that pain of freedom
that torment of selfness
twenty-four hours a day and at night
too
when the moon smiles taunting
watching my bed and the
white sheets spread smooth
when the moon moves to see it all
but sees me instead
quiet breathing steady
I want the moon to know my dreams
of close elbows and touching faces
through resting eyelashes
on green and purple and blue pillows
that my\ hands have woven
with threads of cotton pain endless
27
...
A WOMAN AT THE LAUNDROMAT
THE FACE
By Carol E. Butler
By Evetree Tallman
A woman at the LaundromaJ
near the river which was meant to be
a diversion
and isn't
said, No, Adrian, shut up." and looked
at the clock instead of at the
little girl with a nun's name .
not the sound of a stick thin bored
mommie's helper
Everything kisses and burns.
There is light on the face
in blistering night, so cold
you could snap
but such wind and sweat you hang on
to the face, to ice and sharp stone.
In the night your face blisters
with cold. And everything burns,
everything kisses; you bend to the face
made of stone and you're cold,
beyond reach, and you're glad .
It is you who lights the face;
there is no other place
you'd rather be.
The woman's face never smiled
spirit weary eyeing the machine
then smoothing, folding, creasing
a man's shirts
clicking clogs say smartly "Adrian!
Get away from the door!"
On her face a visible absence of youth
in the heat moistened pores
above tightened lips bitten
while folding, folding
It seems this bitterness was with her
even in the beginning
to have gifted her daughter with so
forbidding a name
the lights on the machines go out
leaving her with boxes of folded
sadness
to be put away neatly at home
PEGASUS
By Nathan Jones
is a horse. One
riderless in a field
unfenced. His feast
is bee's plume and blue lupin:
the blossoms of the deer.
The stream of things, although
occasional and broken
comes from the undoing of ice,
comes from that hot breath
that steams the flanks
of Pegasus
as his tongue sweeps
in the crevice of salty stone.
You can see how
conversation here would be
meaningless,
how under the sun
even a horse in brightly flowered
meadows
must fly a flag of shadow .
(for Karen)
28
I
ROCKS
H.lI Michael Helms
Rocks are big
And rocks are hard
You sometimes find them
In your yard.
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i
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