This magazine was produced by WU (Waynesburg Underground), a group of volunteer students who wished to provide an outlet for both response (to a rather unfortunate, unjust situation at the university) and expression (to publish when there was no other on-campus magazine). We hope that through printing this issue, we have given students a voice when they have felt like they had none. Further, we hope that these voices are heard. Amused & Stoned showcases current and past students on each page. We would like to thank each student who contributed and the alumni for the suggestion of the title. We would also like to thank everyone who helped make printing possible. Live deliberately,* WU (Waynesburg Underground) April 2012
Amused & Stoned maintains First Rights for publication in our journal and Electronic Rights for reproduction of works. All other rights remain with the artist.
“True Success” Photo Collage with photo and text excerpts from The Lamp, Spring 2011
Dedicated to Martin Cockroft for the care, time, & devotion that you give to each of your students.
Please note that this issue is dedicated to Martin Cockroft. He had no say whatsoever as to the content or preparations for this magazine. In fact, he didn’t even know it existed until after it was printed.
Table of Contents Poetry
Room 304, AH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Not to speak in hypotheticals, but what if the Almighty withheld the Bible?, NJG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 From Ashes, BRW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 The Waynesburg Citadel, RP. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Control, AJT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Reflection, MFM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 The body belogs to no one. That’s why It’s “the” body not “my” body, SHM. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Echo of Growing, EJL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Walking, TS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Feeding Domasi, CM. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Jewel Root Notes or the Question that is My First Child, IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 3-Piece Suits, RP. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Pale Moon Rose, CRF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Where to Find Me, MFM. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Poem for a Sister, EJL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Poem for Running Away from You, JP. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 A Knot in the Wood, IV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Fiction
It Really isn’t Hard to Talk About Truth in Fiction, BMS . . . . . 10 Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack, IV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Numb, TEN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Art
Phoenix, BRW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Freedom, SAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Walls, TEN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 This iz Wat Hapens, STU. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Regress, SRR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Chains, TEN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 To Which Mission are You Referring, MG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Good Luck, MG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 We are Wondering the Same, MG. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Tulips’ Time at the Capitol, KBS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Markie, PO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Beauty in Chicago’s Park, KBS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Holding Time, CS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Blossom Up, CS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Waiting, NJG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Rose Impression, PO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Nonfiction Stirring, MP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Rosa’s Nightmares, RB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Response The following are student works that are both responding to and inspired by a particular incident of injustice in Waynesburg.
Amused & Stoned 9
BMS
It Really isn’t Hard to Talk About Truth in Fiction Ms. Suzette was lead into a room coated in prestige. Highly finished cherry wood tables, glass ornaments, and a large landscape painting adorned the room. Ms. Suzette had been called in to defend her soul. “I’m glad we could have this meeting,” the demon said as he pulled out his chair with an air of royalty, sat down, propped his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “I’m sure you have a lot to say, so I’ll let you say it.” He was a strange mix between being too fleshy—with wrinkles dripping off his jaw— and too boney—with hard, brittle bones poking out of his hands and forehead. He was red, like most of the demons Ms. Suzette had encountered in her life, but he was red in a much more condemning fashion than the rest. She couldn’t help but focus her attention on the two, large veins popping from his right temple as if to say, “It doesn’t matter how you behave; you’re making me angry.” “Well, sir,” Ms. Suzette began, placing her sweaty palms flat against the glazed table and producing a steam outline of them. “I’ve presented my issues with your policy; I’d like to talk about those.” “Surely,” this word sounded like smoke rising from a pit of torture. “you have something you’d like to say.” “Yes, sir. I already said it. That’s why we’re in this meeting. I want to talk about these issues with my soul—” “Hold on. Who said issues? I didn’t say issues.” He had somehow managed to rear back in a stance of defense, and yet come forward, at the same time, preparing for an attack. Ms. Suzette blinked, having been caught off-guard by the reaction. She was silent. A pendulum behind her provided an intimidating rhythmic click in the absence of words. 10 Amused & Stoned
BMS
It Really isn’t Hard to Talk About Truth in Fiction
“Do you know what your soul exists for?” the demon asked with a sincere sense of calm after the moment of tension.
“Well, I’ve been working on coming up with that so it’s—”
“You don’t know? I can tell you. I have the reason right here,” he gestured to a thin stack of paper in front of him which had gone unnoticed until that point. “would you like me to read it to you?” A dismal laugh flickered in his right eye, under the throbbing veins, as it caught the sun…or whatever light it was that had fought its way into the room.
“Uuumm…sure. Yes, I’d love to.”
“Now, these aren’t my words, these quotes come from the people in charge of your soul.” Without warning, he had placed a gaze on her devoid of any sympathy.
She nodded slowly. “Right.”
“‘Your soul exists as payment to those you align yourself with.’ Had you heard that before?” Dead stare. “No.” Her heart started pounding a little harder, as if it had been on a leisurely walk beforehand and was now walking up a steep hill. “When you talk about your soul, do you talk about it in those terms?” Dead stare. Her heart was now trying to walk faster up that hill. “No. I didn’t know about that.” The demon was calm to begin with but started seeming calmer as he continued. “Of course not. Of course not. And I don’t blame you for that.” Dead stare. “It’s just that, I didn’t think I had aligned myself with the wrong people. I don’t see where I went wrong.” She could feel herself breathing again. This is the issue she had been trying to get at. “Well, when you meet people, do you let them know your soul will be used as payment toward their religious affiliates?” Amused & Stoned 11
It Really isn’t Hard to Talk About Truth in Fiction
BMS
Dead stare. She blinked a few times to see if the demon’s words would clear up that way. “What? I’m not even sure…No. I didn’t know about that. I’ll do it in the future, but what’s wrong with my current alignment?” “It’s a good idea to do that. People should know what purpose your soul is serving.” Dead stare. “It just seems to me…that it’s my soul, and I should have some say in how it’s used.” That’s what she had been going for. She was on the right track again. “I’ve been in the soul-trade business for over thirty years. Have you? I don’t think so. I don’t think you know how to do my job. Now, you were unaware of the restrictions on your soul, and I don’t blame you for that. I want you to use your soul how you want.” He continued the stare, but his veins pulsed just a little more. “But if you’re going to give it as payment for something I haven’t agreed to—” “I didn’t say that. I never said that was happening.” The veins on his temple engorged.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, these are the terms of your soul, and it is representing the people you’ve aligned yourself with.” Back to the dead stare. The clock took over the conversation for another moment as the demon stared and Ms. Suzette sweated. Ms. Suzette finally spoke. “But…how can my soul stand out when it’s placed among souls with no standing? I just think I have associated myself with the right people to get my soul where it should be.” Yes. She was finally sticking it to them. A hairy purple demon chimed in from the corner, “You know, a lot of fine people have associated themselves with 12 Amused & Stoned
BMS
It Really isn’t Hard to Talk About Truth in Fiction
no demons at all, but by not associating with angels, they’ve condemned themselves to Hell all the same.” He had a pointy, curvy smirk throughout his interjection. Ms. Suzette threw her head back against the finely cushioned seat and pushed her fingers through her hair. “But I’m not one of them!” she said through clenched teeth. “Listen, I’m on your side,” the red demon said. “I want you to be in charge of your soul.” Three little demons appeared on the table after a short burst of smoke in front of Ms. Suzette. The purple demon smiled at them. They finished the red demon’s statement with a chorus of, “But you’re not going to be—not the way you want to!” Ms. Suzette looked at the red demon; it was the look of a warrior. “My soul stands for something! I’ve worked hard to get it in the condition it’s in. You can’t say I’ve acted wrongly—” Fire shot up around the room, and the protruding veins on the red demon’s head popped off and became duplicates of the saggy, boney devil. In unison, the demons around the room shouted, “I’m not saying that! I didn’t say that! You don’t know what’s in my head! I want you to be in charge of your soul.” Ms. Suzette watched the three little demons dance in front of her, she looked at the purple demon’s sad face, and she looked at the three, large red demons with smoke pouring off their thin hair. She breathed in, chuckled a little and answered, “No. You didn’t say that. You didn’t say anything substantial. I understand that I’ve lost. You know what they say, ‘God could never win a court case against the devil because all the lawyers and politicians go to Hell.’ They’re right. The proof ’s right in front of me. After all this, I’m just glad I saw the better days of my soul.”
Amused & Stoned 13
AH
Room 304 We will remember you With distinctions and burning almonds. We will think of you With kisses so black and all Of poems containing the word Jizm. For every old man with herpes Fingering his girlfriend and Every sex scene behind a broken Refrigerator. We will remember you With all of the fat men on ecstasy and Lesbian nuns. We, in room 304, We will remember you. —In dedication to little cats: smack, smack!
14 Amused & Stoned
NJG
Not to speak in hypotheticals, but what if the Almighty withheld the Bible? Student: Why have we been exiled? Why do you not wish to be in union with us anymore? How can I understand? Surely there must be a place where I can find answers. Almighty: I cannot tell you, child. Student: There are rumors of a book that holds stories of the truth. Almighty: It has nothing to do with a book. I don’t believe in covers; books are to be as spineless as their authors. Student: They say that you are the author. Almighty: I didn’t say that. Student: We want answers, and you have them. Why can’t you just tell us? Almighty: If I were to give you the answers, the history of the world would unfold, and I cannot let you know why I really wanted Adam and his wife to leave the garden. For then, the student would see that the Almighty couldn’t stand for Adam to be learning so damned much. Amused & Stoned 15
BW
From Ashes Now rise From the ashes As a phoenix, live on Let not death keep you Hold fast to the lingering flame
16 Amused & Stoned
BW
Phoenix
Digital Illustration
Amused & Stoned 17
SAM
Freedom
Digital Photography
18 Amused & Stoned
TEN
Walls
Sketch
Amused & Stoned 19
STU
This iz Wat Hapens
Chalk Mural
20 Amused & Stoned
SRR
Regress
Marker Drawing
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TEN
Chains
Digital Photography
22 Amused & Stoned
MG
To Which Mission are You Referring
Collage with photo and text excerpts from The Lamp, Spring 2011
Amused & Stoned 23
MG
Good Luck
Collage with photo excerpts from The Lamp, Spring 2011
24 Amused & Stoned
MG
We are Wondering the Same
Collage with photo excerpts from The Lamp, Spring 2011 and “Fact Sheet”
Amused & Stoned 25
RP
The Waynesburg Citadel A Spoken Word Poem
The Waynesburg Citadel The stories it will tell White walls ready to scream Money soaked windows let the light beam Golden chandeliers falling under their own weight Let me end my support, wait no it’s too late Flowers set to bloom slowly burst into flames Justice runs out the door, what a shame Half-filled seats for the wedding banquets The board of directors sure did make it One day the citadel will stand weak Jesus told me last is first, and the winner is the meek Stand for this injustice I will no longer do Now beg the question, what about you Choices made behind a closed door Teachers exploited like the neighborhood whore Now this may be graphic But I ain’t laughin’ Justice is not a citadel on a hill O the dangers behind a skewed free will True life sold out for high class thrills
26 Amused & Stoned
AJT
Control They stand before us, looming over everything. They are the giants, the gods that control our lives. They make every decision, they have every say in what happens. They sit at their desks in suits and ties, using fear as their weapon. They blame others when their plans don’t work out and take the fame when it all goes right. They beat and push until they get what they want. Fear is their weapon, Covering the truths from us. Control they want now. They will murder and take whatever it is they want Without anything getting in their way. They want the world and everything In it. What they don’t know is that one man can’t hold the world in his hand, that he isn’t always right. They can’t rule everything; they are not the masters of our lives. But they are power-hungry and will not give up their positions so easily; they will use whatever weapon They have at hand. No one knows how it got this bad, but they don’t care what happens. In control they are, With their dark glasses, hiding What they truly are. It is time, my friends, when we catch them with their backs turned, then we shall see what happens. It is time that they know it’s not up to them, that we let them know what we want. Although they have many strong powers,t we have something even better, the most powerful weapon. They are an oiled machine, but we will become the rust on their Amused & Stoned 27
Control
AJT
gears, ruining everything. It’s time that we take back our own lives. This is our time, our lives, and our right. If we do not act now, it will not go away; it will not be all right. Some will say we shouldn’t even try, but if we don’t, we know what happens. We need to let them know that it is our life; They keep us locked away, but it is our want, Our need to break free and fly. They can’t take everything From us. They have their guns and bombs, but our weapon Is far superior. We have the weapon Of hope. We will never give up; we will never stop fighting; it is time for us to make things right. Today we will stand up and take back everything. Now they will find out what happens When we have a say in what we want. You are your own person, you are not their slaves, or even the bug that they crush; it’s our life. Freedom is a lie. In a time we once knew is What we want again. They may seem fearless, but truly, they are afraid for their lives. We, however, have nothing to lose, so their weapon Means nothing to us. We shall take back what we want, What we deserve; it’s our right. Revolt is the word now this happens. Never again will they be in control of everything. We want to see each other fall, to see them burn; it is not wrong or right; It’s all about who will be on top. They will continue to take lives, but we are not afraid of their weapon. Now everything happens differently; now we take back everything. 28 Amused & Stoned
MFM
Reflection To a man laboring under calamity, (The words were written harsh, like pins and needles and threads that were made of oxen hair. They trailed the world in singlets, following his labored steps. They cried and cackled in his corn-swollen ears, lashing breath from his lungs. In penitence, he would walk obsidian rows ‘til his feet were bleeding and spines of fire would heal the wounds in cauter. Tracing the steps of an unruly child, he would weep. For those words were crush and tinder, laying to waste his thoughts. ) the heat of his own fire has sadness in it.
Amused & Stoned 29
SHM
The body belongs to no one. That’s why it’s “the” body not “my” body. Vamoose! Here are the things I place in a jar. If you were to go on a trip to the wilderness, one of the thirteen items you could take with you would be cream soda. *Much cheering!* Eighth grade all over again. Mrs. Ganges River. We can take the pistol to the coffee shop. And by pistol, I mean dog. Balloons and chickens and blood and a girl, taking a picture with her iPhone. What does it mean? she asks: What does it mean? There is a time and place for any every such thing. That line brings déjas-vu. Perhaps it has crept up in another poem from sometime. “You ask for mercy?” You will be given a toad and a bucket and a pinch of salt. Nothing more. *Please note, paraphrased.* She does this kind of make-out-with-myself move at the end. See? The Tender Commandments of *the* Poem. (*my*) 1. I will be honest about who I am. 1. Pseudonyms. Pseudonyms. Many false me’s are sorted alphabetically in my spice cabinet. 2. The couplet is divine—I will write in cup-lets, full and contained. 2. I will abandon the couplet! Toss it from the threads of 30 Amused & Stoned
SHM
The body belongs to no one...
the page! I will break away from twos from threes from fours. And then put sugar and milk in my tea. 3. The reader and I are madly in love. I try to please it. We are (env)eloping next spring. 3. Who is “the reader”? I don’t know how to write poems. I’ve never read a book on writing poems. I wrote the book on writing poems. I’d prefer not to. I’d prefer if you wouldn’t refer to them as my poems—they are us poems. I feed off of fingers touching my back. How I hate to be touched. 4. I am asexual. I am a slug. 4. We are fiends. 5. I will lie and say I replicated this onto the computer exactly as I wrote it here. 5. I typed this up in exactly the same way it came out as I wrote it. I am too old for kitchen games. Haven’t you ever just plopped down? My whole day is ruined because I am wearing underwear I hate. It is punishment for owning underwear I hate. And for people who call them panties. I am not artistic because I like to write on a computer. Artsy people write with number two pencils in notebooks that are too small so that when they fill them, they think they have accomplished a lot. I became more artsy when I got bangs. Plus, I cut them myself, so that is even artsier. I am not a good writer because I think about cleaning my house when I am reading. And when I am cleaning Amused & Stoned 31
The body belongs to no one...
my house, I think about cleaning my house. Sometimes I remember why books are so good. Like when I am lying in bed and the ceiling fan is on and it’s late and someone is playing with my hair. That’s when words are most delicious. Lately it has been Kapil, Zucker, Boully, Orah Mark. Yum. Yum. Yum. My tastes are too luxurious to be trusted. I desire aesthetics of pleasure. Especially clean cut line breaks—smooth and liquid on the way down. Oh, enjambment. Mmm. Words should be delectable. You will say, I want to skip dessert and read these poems instead! 6. Never write poems about your life. 6. All poems are autobiographical. I take delight in sound in play in images. There is really only one poem. There are hundreds and thousands of poems!
The poem in my head is different from the poem on the page. A way which makes a release for me—a release of sublimity vulnerability fear.
If you are afraid of something, you should experience it quickly so that you just have it done to you more quickly. This is true for all fears.
You should hold onto it so that it pressure cooks and spills over. I tell no stories here though there are narrative arcs treading across all my poems. 32 Amused & Stoned
SHM
The body belongs to no one...
SHM
I am scared of performance. I want to be the center of attention. Some writing like my writing has multiple personality disorder. It is afraid of getting bored. It is
afraid of
being wrong—that is why it has multiple meanings. Afraid of: offending, of being disliked, of being loved; of publication, of non-publication.
I am afraid of
the readers
and what they’ll
when they’re done. I’ll say
Amused & Stoned 33
The body belongs to no one...
SHM
call
some time. If you are afraid of something, especially
something like a reader, you are not really afraid of
all readers. Just your
mother.
There is something in my I. There is something in my mouth—dirty mind. I do not know what a manifesto is or where mine has gone. It is digging a hole in snow. It is circling and circling, ready to lay down. Manifest-oh! Manifest-oh! in your self. Manifest-oh! yourself into a part of my whole. The day the world lost Caesar, it gained me. Ettu, Brutus? Bless you. Thank you.
34 Amused & Stoned
General Expression The following are student works that are the future of a campus literary magazine. They represent hope that students will continue to have an outlet of publication, while showcasing these current talents.
Amused & Stoned 37
IV
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack The Roe Deer, hooves still, quiet on the roots, breathes—fearful. Beneath his feet are the carbon-eaters, the hushed deal-makers, nudging the Alder trees. Dense thoughts, knotted in his mind, thicker than flesh, wayward, seek points and open air. Primeval, they overawe his timid heart: he stamps on a root. He shakes his head, uneasy. A sound begins in his throat, and he stamps again, this time to keep the noise in. But a jagged, second sound comes twisting from his mind, different from his own voice. Startled, the Roe shrieks, and the second tone, all stone and sky, rings out. His antlers begin growing, thoughts focused and set on the following moments. Those men in the same woods, pursuing him, hear the noise. A man with a bald head raises a spear. The gray fur of the buck’s face quiets, and the red-gold of his hide is hot, hazing, filling the air with moisture. He turns his head, swinging a hundred points on branches of bone. A thousand antlike things—the gray on his face— drop to the ground. 38 Amused & Stoned
IV
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack
The hunters take his ankle bone and inscribe it with a rune. The fire flees from his marrow then, settling in a hare’s eye. They take his rack and hang it in their hall, but the whole of it weakens, flakes away, brittle. * When the sun is on me, I feel new life. That light is perfect for growing. I feel in me a garden of little cells, liquid pebbles that turn solid when they die. They crack over time and dust away. They are a Mecca of meaning. Each one can decide what it will be. * The roe was not entirely distracted. He had his hooves. He could always think about their steadiness and be ok. He wanted to know why he was given these hooves. His hooves were stronger than any thought he ever had. The swan’s approach had put him on edge. Her words made him shuffle. “You don’t know where to put your feet, do you, roe?” “What do you mean?” “You’re always losing track of them. Do they do as they please?” “Swan, you aren’t—“ Her laughter made him sneeze. He felt a flicker in his ankle and decided it was best for him to leave. He had been having a problem understanding himself lately. He could remember being in the woods, lying on underbrush, and the poking and itching. He knew then how soft his belly was. But now he felt wildness in his lungs, as if the Amused & Stoned 39
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack
IV
underbrush had found a place in him to lie out. He had to drink whenever he felt the underbrush inside. Feeling water on his tongue put him at ease. Its trail through his insides left no room for anything else. He could feel it splashing down and pooling in his stomach. If it weren’t for his stomach, he wondered if it would pass right through. He decided it was best to avoid the water for a while, even if the itching inside came. He chose to, instead, look for leaves and puddles. However, he came across the swan again in doing so. She had left the water to see him. “Roe, I had to find you. You’ve been in my wing! And you’re getting closer! How close do you intend to get?” “I’m sorry, miss; I’m very unsure what you’re talking about. I must be going.” He felt a little bit of dry grass fall from between his ribs and collect in his ankles. “You began a while back, visiting me in my dreams. When my head was tucked into my chest, you found the spaces between my feathers. Since then, you’ve shown me many things I had missed before, and I have come to understand them. Did you know that this hill would shake itself free of these trees and animals if it could? He feels ashamed of it. As did I, Roe, when you first came to me. Your visits created in me the terrible desire to see everything burst, especially the lake that I sit on.” The roe’s ankles itched. He felt uncomfortable and started to stamp. After his hooves hit the ground, his ankles caught on fire. He felt no pain but was very frightened and began to run. He was angry at the swan for her nonsensical talk, and he needed a drink. Upon reaching the lake, the roe found he could not slow himself. He ran straight at the water and skipped onto its surface. Coming to a stop, he turned harshly and exhaled through his nose. Standing on the water, ankles burning, the roe let out a bark and was startled by his voice. * Sessile, the polyps’ stalks were dark; their eyes closed, lids slimy 40 Amused & Stoned
IV
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack
with plankton. One sleepy, ancient polyp blew a bubble. Most of their thoughts sunk into the deep: Noctilucent clouds, near stars, will catch sunlight from the other side of the earth and glow pale. Although sand will batter their wax wings, the cochineal will land on the cacti pads and cluster there. They will cover their backs with cotton and sleep. Men will pick at them and squish them between their fingers, staining skin a deep, brownish red. Along the bulk of their stalks, the polyps’ eyes illuminated. The dim sea-light showed their asexual splitting; jellyfish peeling away. Waves full of medusae then began their migration; the only thought in their minds to make it to shore. Their bells had the same glow as their polyp parents. The bloom looked like the sea’s brain, firing little thought-flames. The jellyfish tried to walk on land with their tentacles, but they stumbled and fell over. They tucked into balls and rolled over the land. They stretched over the surface of the earth and flattened into lenses. The light floated out of their bells as seeds, birthing form over the formlessness. * In my sleep: The roe hung his head between his legs, vomiting. A single bone in his spine was lit. He had a moon in his mouth, and it was forcing its way out of him. The puddle by his hooves was putting the earth in flux, grasses first withering, and then flourishing. Once it had passed, a great number of shrews came to eat the moon. The pieces glowed in their bellies, and their trails made the soil yawn. A lunar flower then appeared above the roe’s head, stem sprouting from his spine. Its pedals fanned out in one swift motion. The roe stood stiff-legged and began to shudder. Although there was no sound, it was apparent that the flower was speaking. Amused & Stoned 41
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack
IV
And then a pull. And a readjustment of focus. I found myself looking above my own crowning branches, at an object forming there. That object wanted to speak to me, so I listened. I expected words, but it showed me an image: It showed me a giraffe’s tongue. * The carbon-eaters had begun their mutiny. They had attached to the roots of the Alder trees and grown, but they were discontent. It wasn’t that they planned to leave. They expected to live with the trees—but they knew they could be greater. They bit at the trees’ roots, trying to free themselves. The trees groaned and clenched tightly, sweating resin. A fire came. It burned the trees’ tissues. Tar disgorged from the trees in rolls. It was hungry and would eat the whole forest, pushing a poison path along the ground. All of the carbon created by the tar was a wave that connected to the hands of the sun, reaching into the earth’s atmosphere, which retracted and placed the elements in its core. A prominence shot out of the chromosphere into the corona, and above the trees’ crowns burned aureoles. * I noticed, first, the leaf mold. It was at the base of my trunk, scattered. I then regarded the stock of my trunk, which was crusted with tar. Finally, I realized that my roots were loose, and I was free to walk. * The roe is dead. The color of the giraffe’s tongue has become more apparent. I see it in the water and in the sky. * The remaining Alder trees watched the moss in the rain, its seed being splashed away. They couldn’t be sessile when their 42 Amused & Stoned
IV
Constellations Hung on the Roe’s Rack
roots were loose, they decided, and began to walk. As they walked, they blew pollen puffs in the air, still uncertain about movement. They walked through the forest and onto a beach, where pioneering grasses swayed. They looked at the ocean and were hesitant to go in, but the tide persuaded them. A few trees fell in gorges at the ocean’s bottom. They passed a whale after they had turned back, and they saw in his eyes a certain jejuneness that quickened their shuffle. Their return to the forest was a sad affair, perhaps because they were still trees, despite their travels. Perhaps because they saw now what blue was and could never forget it. They settled into their root beds and slept. Because it was a particularly rainy season and because they had disturbed the earth, the trees were pulled under the dirt. One tree noticed after some time that her previously muddy children were becoming solid. And the trees slowed until still, water leaving their bodies, replaced with minerals. They became blue stone there, petrified, every cell preserved as it was.
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EL
Echo of Growing I did not detect in my open palm the voice unfolding the branches; I knew belief, the notion of a tree. It unfurled into autumn after twenty years of soil, to scatter shells and unrecycled plastics between the roots below, now stone shrines where I’ve worshipped on the hill. I pray to be a dizzy lighthouse built from the elder’s sketches of the constellations.
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TS
Walking: A Sestina I told her, “Quit waiting for the music to start before you consent to dance.” But she shrugged and told me Even when the music starts, I haven’t the shoes to try. Yet she calls herself a dancer. I fell in love with this so-called dancer The moment she tugged on my sleeve, and I turned to her. She was lost, “Could you lead me to the recital?”, “Could you try?” But she had second thoughts and hesitated, nervous of the dance. When the fear starts, She reaches for me. We walked together Matching our footsteps in sync Pressed close like a glove I pity the soul that seeks solace in me. Still, I haven’t the nerve to turn away a failed dancer, Especially when her crying starts. So, in tandem we walk, and I tell her To focus less on the audience and more on what makes her dance, To speak the language of motion on her next try, But there had been no first time. She choked up during her confession, refusing to look at me Excuses, excuses: her bones were too fragile; her asthma interfered; she couldn’t dance. Not a failed dancer, but a pretend dancer. I pointed out our travelling feet to her Amused & Stoned 45
TS
Walking: A Sestina
And told her, “Walking is where the dance starts.” “Today,” I added, “is where your dancing starts.” If the recital can’t be found, don’t try. While she was looking for it, the dance found her She found it with a partner; she found it with me. “Look at the crowd marching by the marketplace; they’re like you: a dancer Unaware that they are on the cusp of the dance.” She was crying less Sahara heat on her face Flushed skin paling She asked me if she had joined the dance. Joined? Show me where it ends, point to where it starts. Aren’t we born into this world convulsing, a dancer? Who is to tell you that it must be practiced, that first you must try? She sighed, “Those whose definition of a dancer does not resemble me.” She meant dancers born to a different rhythm than her. They accepted ‘to do’ and abandoned ‘to try.’ I told her to begin while walking with me. I told her to begin the dance specific only to her. Wound up like a watch The inner machine guides her She moves to its urge
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CM
Feeding Domasi We had a farm 8 acres of sugar cane Tea and tomatoes We had workers on it The community was never so happy Men from Scotland came They created a large system They made farming easier The men started on top of Mulanje And irrigated the mountain He used the natural water To water our 8 acres That farm-fed all of Domasi What Scotland didn’t know We needed educated How were we supposed to upkeep When we didn’t know the process To build and leave Is to do nothing The system became space And the farm became void Domasi is now poor again Scrounging for food
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MP
Stirring I sit here. Time: 16.40. Weather Report: Cloudy, no chance of clearing. Lecture 3 Title: Knowing before we know. “All of these concepts seem pure. We are not giving up on criticism itself. A lot depends on the experience because critical experience happens when secure objectives are experienced.” - Lecturer I write a critical experience of knowledge. Age: Thirteen I assemble a collection of baking materials on the island kitchen counter by aid of my cousin’s explicit instructions. Subject: Boxed brownies, Duncan Hines casting a glare from a high-gloss print. Game: Cooking Show Role: Assistant Personal Aim: To crack eggs. After rationalizing the significance of each task, egg cracking will be the head chef’s job. New assignment: stir contents Assuming roles and taking places behind counter, the stage is set. Head Chef: “Welcome to Baking with Alexa and Mari. Today’s delicious desert: double chocolate brownies sponsored by 48 Amused & Stoned
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MP
Duncan Hines.” The box clearly reads brownies; double chocolate has been added for effect. Assistant: “Please join us after this short commercial break.” In Commercial, Assistant is reminded of assignment. Stir. Stirring is crucial. “It looks like a critical paradigm. Casting off subjectivity will get you to the object.”- Lecturer. Fact: You have to stir to make brownies.
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IV
Jewel Root Notes or the Question that is My First Child The notes of your womb are thirds and fifths; your root notes are hidden, oval jewels. Where I found the last few: one under the seat of an old train, one-half in a dream-pile of opiates, one in the drain of my shower, after running hot water for several minutes with the lights off (I saw a glow at my feet), the other half of one I still haven’t found, and I’m not sure how many are left.
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RP
3-Piece Suits 3-piece suits are what those men wore. It showed their class and dignity. Showed they were important. Answering his phone, He knew he was the man. “Hello” “Fine, yes, if we must” “Go ahead bomb them all” 40-year-old men living in safety Telling 18 year old boys on the Front line what to do. Keeping those boys going With free college and A pat on the back. Well… One front-line Fighter wasn’t having it anymore “Here sir” “You take my gun” “You blast their brains out” “I’m tired” “I’m ready to go home” Finally, the fly tells the Spider what’s for dinner
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KBS
Tulips’ Time at the Capitol
Digital Photography
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PO
Markie
Acrylic
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KBS
Beauty in Chicago’s Park
Digital Photography
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CS
Holding Time
Digital Photography
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CS
Blossom Up
Digital Photography
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NJG
Waiting
Digital Photography
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PO
Rose Impression
Acrylic
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TEN
Numb Alyssa was slipping again. She tried desperately to cry out, but all that escaped her lips were a few unintelligible moans. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Anyone who would hear her either didn’t care or was in the same situation she was in. This bed was her prison, and she was kept there by the drugs she clung to. She heard the door click shut and the muffled sound of a man talking to her before she was out. It was about time, too. She didn’t want to feel, and the drugs numbed her pain. When she came to, he was still there, or at least she thought it was the same man, his sweaty body crushing her, and then she felt it. She wanted to scream, to tell him she was only fourteen, to tell him to call someone to take her out of there, but she couldn’t. Marcus would hear about it and threaten her again. This time he might actually—she cringed to think of it. It wasn’t fair. This sort of thing—it didn’t happen to normal girls. Alyssa had only just been in school, telling Carolyn and Margret about the hot guy she met at the mall, when was it? A week ago? A month ago? It was all too much of a blur to remember. And now, God knew where she was. She had no clue. The room had a single full-sized bed and a window to her left. She vaguely remembered Marcus telling her that it faced east when he placed her there. The curtains were too thick to tell, and she was too scared to open them to see what was out there. The man finished and got up. Her eyes followed his pink body around the room to where he had neatly folded and placed his clothes. He brusquely clothed himself, looked at his watch, and pulled out a comb from his pants pocket. He was a business man, she observed. She studied his face in the mirror as he slicked back his hair and tied a tie around his collar. She wanted to remember him. She wanted to remember all of them, so that one day, when she’d get out of this hell-hole, she could know each of their faces and testify against every single one of these Amused & Stoned 59
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bastards. The only problem with her plan: how the hell would she get out? _______ It was Wednesday, and they were moving again. Marcus escorted Alyssa and another girl by the name of Gabriella to his car, a Mazda RX-8. She remembered being thrilled by the ride when he had picked her up after school that day. It was a beautiful car, and she couldn’t believe this guy would ever want to be with her. He was rich, handsome, and he had everything going for him. She now hated this car, with its tinted windows and all of its sports-car glory. She knew she was paying for it. She sat in the backseat of the car with Gabby and watched another young man bring out two more girls and pile them into the back of his sports car. Marcus and the other man disappeared back into the building and came out with two more girls. Alyssa admired their acting skills and wondered if she had looked just as happy to link arms with Marcus and climb into his car. Probably not. He looked around before getting into the car. After turning out of the parking lot, he and his buddy split up. She knew they’d see the others again at their destination; she just wondered who’d get there first. Marcus watched the rearview mirror for a few seconds before letting out a chuckle. He was an expert at this; avoiding policemen, building up clientele, and keeping the girls under wraps. After hours of trying to remember each turn, Alyssa fell asleep. It was the only time she could be guaranteed not to wake up to another stranger panting over her like a sick hound. _______ Alyssa, Faith, and Gabby were talking excitedly about home. Apparently, Faith had been working as a cook at a diner in her hometown before she’d been taken. She had made pancakes for everyone and was now sharing her “secret” recipe for the 60 Amused & Stoned
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Numb
perfect pancakes. Some mornings, they’d eat breakfast together. It was a sick attempt to get them all to be friends. In some way, the girls were friends. They were going through the same things and sympathized greatly for each other, but it was impossible to really be friends. Alyssa couldn’t stand to let this happen to them if they were. Marcus and Jake sat huddled at one end, working over some papers, occasionally looking up from their work to observe the girls. Everyone was nice to the two men who ran the brothel, but that was only to save their own skins. Alyssa knew that she had to be friendly with them to avoid punishment—a day without vodka or whatever drugs they gave them, or worse yet, a day without food. Rarely did they punish the girls with violence. It tainted them. Alyssa wanted to plan a coup, or a breakout, or something—anything, but she didn’t know how. Anytime the girls were together, the guys supervised them, and it was impossible to pass notes. There was the fact that the girls were refused paper, and even if they obtained some, Marcus would be sure to find any notes and punish the girls involved. Still, she was determined, though she couldn’t think straight. The drugs messed with her logic. “Well,” Marcus wiped his mouth with his napkin, “We’re going to have a busy day ahead of us.” This cruelly optimistic announcement sobered Alyssa up. “We’re going to have some very important guests today, so I expect you all to be on your best behavior. Also, we’ve managed to obtain five clients for each of you today. It seems as though we’ve managed to find a very profitable area.” He smiled as if this was good news. It seemed they always managed to find very profitable areas. “Our first clients will be arriving shortly, so chop-chop,” he stood up. “Get to your rooms.” Alyssa despised his matter-of-fact way of bringing her Amused & Stoned 61
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back to reality. She cleared her dishes with the others and made her way down the hallway and up the stairs to her room. She took a swig of vodka, noticing that the bottle was nearly empty. She hoped Marcus would be around soon with their portions of drugs and alcohol. He wouldn’t forget them, but sometimes he’d withhold his carefully allotted stash until the girls had a few days without anything and were begging for them. She kept her bottle hidden under the bed. It was the coolest spot in the room, and she had learned early on that if she didn’t, a client would surely steal it. She hated the taste. It wasn’t anything fancy, just plain vodka, but she was used to it. She drank it like water. She was only barely buzzed when Marcus came around with his client. She recognized him, but only vaguely. He wasn’t anyone she knew personally, but she had seen his face before— she could swear she had. She just….couldn’t put her finger on where. He looked at her the way everyone else did, appraising her, making sure she was just as described. She seemed to please him because he walked right up to her sitting on the side of her bed and started playing with her hair, oh, so gently, like a lover. She pushed the vodka bottle further under her bed with her foot. He grabbed her shoulders and lifted her to a standing position. His face had been in a picture somewhere—a memory from her former life. Was it in a newspaper? Yes, it was. She had done a current event on this man in social studies. He was a businessman, a CEO of some great company that had just (at the time) merged with another company. He was wealthy, and she wondered why he would be here. His wife was a beautiful young woman, and tabloids spoke of their romance as an undying one. This man who was so in love with his wife was now concentrated on undressing Alyssa, gently running his cold fingers over every inch of her body before taking her hands and making her undress him. She wanted to throw up. Instead, she focused on the button she was unclasping. It looked plain—white—to the naked eye, 62 Amused & Stoned
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perfectly placed and pristine, but Alyssa felt raised letters on the button, and a small bit of thread was peeking out of one of the holes. She worked her way down his chest. She hesitated and swallowed before opening up his pants, closing her eyes. Somehow this was even more wrong than the others since she knew who he was. Why did she have to do that article on him? _______ Alyssa sat on the floor of the bathroom. Marcus was pounding on the locked door. “Alyssa, get out here. Your guest is waiting for you.” She retched. Her fingers clutched the bottle right next to her. It was her only connection to reality. She vomited into the toilet. As she stared at the shadows of Marcus’s feet under the door, she washed down the taste of acid in her mouth with more vodka. He paced outside the door, talking hurriedly to someone on the phone. She couldn’t make out what he was saying to the person on the other line. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to face another man. Sniffling, she gulped down more vodka. There was a possibility that he might get to her before she was out. Some spilled down her face, and she clumsily wiped it off with her sleeve and sucked on the fabric to get as much liquid as she could. The bottle was given to her only an hour ago. Marcus had waited two days after her last stash had dwindled to nothing to give it to her. There was no way that was going to happen again. Her lips tingled as she drained the last drips from the bottle. She was slipping. Shoes clapped down the hallway right up to the bathroom door. Faith was yelling at Marcus, but her voice was muffled by the vodka. She was screaming and pounding on the door. They threw something heavy at the doorknob, and it broke with a loud thump. Alyssa closed her eyes just as the door slammed open, and Faith rushed to her side. Amused & Stoned 63
Numb
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“No! Alyssa, don’t go!” She turned to Marcus. “Look what you did to her! Why are you just standing there? Do something!” She stood and attacked Marcus, punching and kicking him. “You sick, heartless bastard! You fucking bastard!” He stopped her and threw her to the ground, and she cradled her into her arms. She was too late. Alyssa was gone.
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CRF
Pale Moon Rose You are a January sweater, a pale moon rose, a small leaf tip-toeing on wet pavement. You like to think that we are one with one another, how you and tulips mourn the end of summer. You’d live among stars if they’d let you, guiltily, an outsider, but you’d keep to yourself, too dazzledrunk to linger.
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MFM
Where to Find Me The long arms of clocks the ricochet of springs twelve digits tumbling between the nooks of swollen paperbacks lying in the damp pages buckling as they dry Copper and lace and orange peels contained in plastic and ceramic The rest is deposited in a pile of disjointed spoons Here the lacerated tooth of a boar There the skeleton of a sponge An Accordion between Ocarina and adventures of the little prince words tangled written on paper squares braided nest for the graveyards of exoskeleton and pins--to hold the bodies in place And fish, with their children motoring around an endless pool feign interest in a Cat with no tail
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MFM
Where to Find Me
Genes are wound tight round fingertip and hair playing games in the grass and embossing the wheat Shadow on the door living in tectonic plates globes, and a cylinder that can tell what temperature you feel The ghosts of spiders hang dusted in corners cluttering the ridges that define the wall and open the mind to sleep
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RB
Rosa’s Nightmares The hardwood floor is covered with a colorful puzzle mat with numbers on it—not that Rosa can count correctly. Every day she picks a new number to forget. The walls are stone, not a welcoming material for a nursery, and the window is big and gaping, the gateway leading monsters into her room to hurt her, from the dark wilderness that holds everything evil her tiny head can possibly conjure to torture her. Those things do get through, and if the window is closed, they get through anyway. They huddle in corners and climb walls, some of them fly around the room. They never hurt the babies, only her. The babies are too tiny to remember who hit them, ignored their starving wails, left them in rivers or fields. Rosa remembers many things that have happened in her four years of life, some not making sense, some faces combined, some places hazy, some events not in order. But they happened, and even though psychologists say we don’t remember anything from before we were five years old, Rosa will remember them, because they hurt her so badly that they still stand in the way of learning and security and innocence. I hate having to spank her. It’s punishing her for reacting to a pain inflicted on her for no reason. Now I’m just another adult hurting her. We take the wooden spoon labeled Mr. Discipline and whack her boney behind whenever she pushes something—a toy, a ball, her hand—up between her legs. After punishing her countless times, she keeps doing it, and I wonder if she’ll always do something like it or something worse, like finding more efficient and willing things to go up there. And I pray about that addiction to abuse as I watch her hunker under her pink blanket, surround herself with charitygiven stuffed animals and look anxiously around the room, waiting for them to appear again. I’ve spent a lot of nights during my seven week stay here, checking for monsters and 68 Amused & Stoned
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Rosa’s Nightmares
praying aloud over her. Her adopted parents—the parents of all the orphans here—think I baby her and that she needs to go to bed without sobbing hysterically, but I understand the danger of night to little girls. The monsters may not be real, but the fear is, and how can I leave her trembling in the dark? So I wait patiently for her sun-kissed eyelids to cover their huge brown orbs, hoping her whimpering doesn’t wake the babies.
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EJL
Poem for a Sister Her daytime is wrapped in fishnets. Remember the statue of Saint Vincent, kneeling, his dog sitting with its paw in his open palm? I went to the old house a month ago. Kyuss was all bones and fur and there was shit on the carpet. She was eating the empty cardboard boxes in the trash. “I don’t want to have to gather leathers and fruits too full of juice.” We sat next to the toppled train row in Station Square: tires, sandals and miscellaneous cargos spilled onto the surrounding shores. The pigeons hopped through all of it, picked their ways through rubber and plastic gathering red berries. Someday I should be a housewife. I don’t deserve to always dig through this, scraping my nails in the pebbles.
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JP
Poem for Running Away from You I. When she pulled blood from me, I was trembling. I was 17 and wanted to save anybody, so I found a blood bank alone, a Methodist church two long lefts from the ice cream shop. She asked me if I ran long distance, my heart pace was so low. Four minutes was a record, she said, and my veins never hit the air, one pint of violets sucked into a plastic bag. II. Examining the pulse of a light storm quivering in my neck over the console and black leather behind the windshield: You cannot hold me over my sharp ribs or extinguish the crisp fires in my lungs. I want to go where the stars yell down
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Poem for Running Away from You
and trample the crowns of grass and ant hills between the blisters of these heels or pick up a carton of cigarettes to light for the lone driver of the last passing car, which I will smoke myself.
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IV
A Knot in Wood A knot in wood sometimes happens to the sky – a twist where the world looks in. So it is with you. I see you as the sun sees the morning, and I know you are no different because I love you. Boughs of sunlight warm the oil-shine on your cheeks and forehead. I was asleep in a cave through which an ancient wind blew. Your coming dappled the unlit walls with sunlight, woke me, carried me a long way in the upbreathing air.
*Lines in italics borrowed from Adrienne Rich’s second love poem.
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