Spring 1997
A Student Publication Sponsored by the Department of English Murray State University Murray, Kentucky
Notations Staff Managing Editor ............................... C. Todd Schartung Editors
...............................................Lesley N. Patterson N. John Proctor Dee Vinson
Art Editor ........................................Mitchell Bradley Faculty Advisers
.....................................Squire Babcock Ann Neelon
Table of Contents Two Telepathic Ladies . Leslie Patterson .................cover Laundromat . Stephen Dorsett .........................................5 Hospital Room- Dee Vinson ........................................ 6 Distracted From Life . Scott McCullough .................. 7 infinity's golden rowboat . John Calvin Murphy ..... 8 Vigilante Trash . Andrew Carlson ............................... 9 There is a Ghost of an Old Man Lesley Patterson .................... 10 in the Basement . Lines . Mike Carriglitto ................................................ 11 Postex . Daniel Pfalzgraf .............................................. 12 Sandbox . Ken Allgood ...........................................13-21 Ode to a Championship Football Team -John Proctor ........................................ 22 4thof July, Lone Star Lake . John Proctor ............. 23-25 Jerald . Stephen Dorsett ..................................................26 Beginners Ballet Class . Tonya Basinger .................. 27 "Slingerland" -Josh Garcia ........................................ 28 Boy in Blue . Rachel Bryan ......................................... 29 Late Afternoon, Border Checkpoint, Del Rio, Texas . Cheryl Weed ......................... 30-31 No Adonis -Joy Mattingly .......................................... 32 Shiny Metal Boxes . Liz Morley ................................ 33 ArkansasIFlooded Rice Plains . Jeremy Weis (Center) 34-35 From the Enlightened Redneck Chronicles: A Redneck's Widow Prays for Her Man; Just As I Am . Jack Fuqua ...............................36-39 Linger . Michael Smith ................................................ 40 I Know The,Force That Bends My Knees . Greg Hagan ....................... 41-42 e.r. . R . Greenwell .......................................................... 43 Untitled . Matthew Bradley ........................................ 44 Can I Ride It Again? . Ken Allgood .......................... 45
Cerulean's Crimson Crush . Michelle Maxwell . 46.47 A Redneck's Ode to a Tin Roof -Jack Fuqua .....48-49 Lesley Patterson ...................................50 Great Uncle . Panic Disorder . Dee Vinson .......................................51 Barbara Kern .......................... 52 Alive In Your Grave . Stick Pin Poles and Boyish Dreams . Marilyn Shoaf .......................... 53 Matthew Button ......................................54 Silver City . Night Fishing . Michael Smith ..............................55-56 This Ain't About You . R.L. Hibbit .......................57-64 Chronic . Kathryn Graham .........................................65 Watch Me . Mitchell Bradley .......................................66 Tonya Basinger ............................................. 67 Kitchen . The Masque of Red Death -Joe Welsh .....................68
Laundromat - Stephen Dorsett
5
Hospital Room March 16, 1973, and the Ohio landscape was waking from a four-month-long coma. Our mother studied the window that hung like a painting from the sterile wall of the hospital room.
A perfect arrow of Canada geese, progressing slowly northward, was etched into the canvas sky, cutting death from every budding branch. Shaking the steel bedrail, she cursed and blessed the whirring, pumping, hissing caricature of vital organs that prevented her daughter's flight, but the frozen blue lakes staring into the glowing tip of the doctor's penlight refused to crack or thaw, not even beneath a stream of salt tears. The fragile skin, like a blanket of deep purple and black irises stretched over a hollow coffin, wept and angry, vivid red into the winter white sheets. The lids suddenly fluttered and lips formed a desperate question: What day is this? Our mother's voice melted the ice from her eyes. They turned their heads and searched the window that hung like a painting. Progression had ceased. The Canada geese were landing.
Dee Vinson
Distracted from Life Sitting on the couch touching her belly. She touches the skin on her hip. Light blue jeans with a safety-clipped hole. The small hole exposes her hip. Blond hair falls just past her shoulders. She pulls at her mane, breaking off the split ends. She wonders about her future and boys. Dark green body suit accentuates her figure. Speaking like Yoda in anastrophe. She thought to live but did not live to think. She thought about life but was distracted by vanity, a thing that is passing. "Lovely I am? A goddess I am." Her foot tapping in iambic pentameter. A prize among men, a prize to herself. Never copes with the life that grows within. Scott McCullough
There is a Ghost of an Old Man in the Basement No rat that was born in the warm dirt behind the furnace could stir up such stenches. No cricket resting in an ancient, rusting coffee can could chirp cryptic morse code messages under the floor. Age could not cause the sweet lead paint to quit clinging to the cellar door. Ever since he left, long before we got here in this house, the paint has been jumping off the wall. It laments in chips on the floor. I know the old ghost is peeling it on purpose. He is jealous of us. We use his toilet. We drink from his pipes. We look at our faces in his mirrors.
Lesley Patterson
Lines Vines are twisting through the diamond-shaped holes Of the battered and rusted chain link fence Stretching along the line of tall gray poles, Each pole the same, showing no difference, Except, they grow smaller in the distance. Can you see the mountain from this flat plain On which this fence sits and the grass dances? Can you hear the high whistle of the train That is running round that distant mountain? So far away, the engines are churning. So far away, the wheels are all turning. Everything: engines and rusting fences. Mike Carriglitto
Postex -Daniel Pfalzgraf
12
1
Sandbox To the untrained eye, the worn area around a group of blackgum trees on my parents' farm could simply be a place that sunshine has a hard time finding. To my brothers and me, it is a place of some of the most memorable times of our childhood. It is a place where three armies gathered to do battle. A place where ammo for our fights with the neighborhood bullies could be made by simply combining soil and water. A place that acted as a base for our many games of war. A place where we used to plan our days of terrorizing the next-door cat or the old lady down the street. A small group of bearded irises in the far corner of the bare area also reminds the three of us that this is the place where we killed our sister. Although the still present two-by-fours defining the bare area don't form a square, my older brother, James, my younger brother, Aaron, and I decided to call it a sandbox anyway. We still remember the day dad came home from the lumber yard with the pickup running close to the ground, straining under the weight of the stuff in the back. My brothers and I came running out of the house as soon as we saw dad drive up. A large, muscular man, he lumbered out of the truck cab and greeted his running recruits with open arms. I remember dad could easily take all three of us into his arms with room left over for more soldiers. He kept his strange haircut from his days in the military simply because he loved military life so much. In fact, he still wore much of his old attire while working on the farm or coming home from the factory. He always reminded us of some great leader from a long forgotten war. His face was square and his eyes were cool and piercing, often looking as if they were staring down an opponent. Everything about him seemed to be masculine. Even the combination of factory soot and Army green gave him an odor of importance. My brothers and I often caught ourselves smelling the old, tattered uniforms that he gave us to wear, reminding us of his importance. Along with the old uniforms that he gave us came responsibilities, all of which we were expected to follow. With our "new" uniforms hanging from our small bodies, we stood in a line facing dad as he began to bark out our orders while he paced in front of the truck. "O.K. boys, listen up! I only want to say this once. This 'sandbox' that you have requested has been taken into consideration by your mother and myself. Obviously we have accepted your request. Now it is up to you three men to take the raw materials that you have been issued and build the finest sandbox in the neighborhood. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" we yelled out. "David, I want you to take these two-by-fours and arrange them in the order that you and your men have determined. Make sure that these small pieces of wood can withstand the forces of your enemies and protect those inside." "Yes, sir!" I shouted. "James, once I have driven the truck to its predetermined location, you will be issued a shovel and proceed to fill in the area that your brother has laid out." "Yes, sir!" he said, while his chest was thrust outward. "What do you want me to do, daddy?'said a small voice from the end of the formation. James and I held our breaths as dad quickly stepped to where the unauthorized voice had come from. Aaron, with his large blue eyes much like dad's, stared up smiling into the stem, one-eyebrowed face of our leader. Dad slowly lowered himself so he could talk face-to-face with one of his men and, with a slight grin, explained to Aaron his orders. "You, sir, will be in charge of supplies." "What are 'supplies,' daddy?" "It's stuff we'll need, stupid," said James with a look of disgust. Dad quickly threw James a look with his cool eyes, causing James to realize that he had mistakenly broken formation and was spreading bad morale. He quickly snapped back to attention. Once James had been disciplined, dad turned his attention back to our ever inquisitive fiveyear-old brother. "Come with me, soldier," dad said as he took Aaron's small hand. They walked around to the other side of the truck, opened the door, and began to lift something out of the cab. James and I looked at each other and began whispering. "Do you think he got us those BB pistols we've been wanting?" I asked. "With Aaron playing with us? Are you kidding? I'm surprised he even let me use a shovel." "Quiet!" said dad's voice coming from somewhere inside the cab. We jerked back to attention and waited for them to bring to us whatever it was they were looking for. Soon our wait was over. Aaron came teetering from the other side of the truck carrying large burlap sacks and trying not to trip over the extra-long military pants he was wearing. Dad took the sacks from Aaron and gave one to each of us. "What's in these?" asked. "Supplies," Aaron said proudly. We stood there for a minute, not exactly sure what dad had in mind
or what he wanted us to do. "Well, don't just stand there, open them up. We've got a sandbox to build," dad said, laughing at the confused looks on our faces. We each cautiously untied the cloth strings that held the sacks' contents and peered inside. We all let out loud gasps as we violently dumped our "supplies" onto the ground. We were beyond being excited. These were the first presents mom and dad had given to us "just because." As if it were Christmas, we began jumping around from one pile of "supplies" to the next, wanting to see what the other had gotten. James showed us the tank that he had gotten, with a large white star painted on the front and one on the back. James had also gotten a vast supply of little green soldiers all posing in various attack positions. Some of the little men were crawling, some were standing, some searching for mines with a detector and some running. Aaron began to show us what he had gotten. Cradled in his arms were three of the largest ships we had ever seen. Gun barrels were pointed toward a shore, helicopters were on the decks poised for action, black plastic flags were waving in the ocean breeze and tiny soldiers stationed on the ships were running about with some undetermined mission. Proudly, I showed my brothers my own strong troops. I had received a squadron of eight planes of different sizes and made of either plastic or steel. Each plane had different symbols on its sides and different weapons underneath. Some had propellers while others had jet engines. In all of the planes rode at least two brave men ready to take on anyone opposing them. James and I looked at each other with excitement. Aaron, however, eyed one of James' little green men and was obviously confused. He reached down, picked up one of them and then gave it to dad. "This one's broken, daddy," he said with a concerned look on his face. "Oh, great! I just got the stupid thing. Do you think you could fix it, dad?'James said, worrying that he'd have one less man to help fight a war. Dad took the little man and began to laugh. "He's not broken, guys. He's being shot by the enemy." "What's an emeny, daddy?'Aaron asked. "Enemy, dufus!" James retorted. I back-handed James in the stomach, trying to keep him quiet. I wanted to know what an enemy was, too. "An enemy, men, is anyone that has excessive power. An enemy is anyone who is out to change who you are. An enemy is anyone doing something that is considered wrong. An enemy is who we call the 'bad
guys."' "Dad? Are we the good guys or the bad guys?" asked. "Why, you men are the good guys!" We were relieved. We thought for a second we were the bad guys and dad was about to punish us for something we had done wrong. "You boys will always be the good guys," said a soft voice from behind. The four of us whirled around to see two people my brothers and I thought would never understand the military as well as we did. Our mother and sister, both covered in dirt and canying several different gardening tools, walked toward us. Our mother, we thought, was one of the most beautiful people in the world. She was small and thin with long, thick dark hair and cool piercing eyes like dad's. She was very graceful. Sometimes it appeared as though she were floating about instead of walking. We could never lie to her or certainly never disappoint her. It would have hurt us just as much as it would have hurt her. Angie, our seven-year-old sister, was a carbon copy of our mother. We often wondered if mom was like Angie when she was younger. We mostly liked our sister, which was strange for any brother to do. But there was something about her that we didn't like. Sometimes it appeared as though she got anything she wanted. My brothers and I picked up our supplies and moved farther away from her. We thought she might want to take them. Then we saw it. Angie was getting "that look" on her face. She wanted something and went straight to dad for it. "Would you look at dad! Anytime Angie goes within ten feet of him he goes goo-goo," James said. "Yeah, it's gross. 'Oh daddy, I love you! Can I have that?"' I said, fluttering my eyes and puckering my lips. James and Aaron began making kissing noise and prancing around, laughing at the fact that dad couldn't control his daughter as well as he could us. She was asking dad something. He nodded and came over to us with a concerned look on his face. "Men," he said, "duty requires that you give a small portion of your sand to Angie." "What?'James said, snorting and stomping his feet. "What the heck do you need any of our sand for?" said. She walked over to us, opened a small bag and said, "These." We jumped back at what we saw in the bag. "What are those ugly things?" said. "These," she so smartly said, "are flower bulbs." "They stink!" said Aaron. James and I nodded in agreement.
"I need some of your sand to plant them in." "Plant them in the garden!" I pleaded. "I can't. The ground is too hard." We looked at dad, our fearless leader, for help. He did nothing but stare at us with those eyes and that one eyebrow. "I think I'll put my garden on the other side of those trees," she said. "You can't do that! That's too close to where we wanted to put our sandbox!" we shouted. "You boys will just have to share," said our mom, knowing that if she said something, it would get done. We knew we had been defeated. We gathered our troops and headed to the small group of trees and waited for dad to bring the truck and its load to us. After slaving to build the sandbox and filling it with sand, we began to do what we had originally planned. We built forts, bombed villages and chased the enemy, winning every battle we waged. After a few weeks of fighting, we grew bored and our minds began to wander. "I can't believe dad would give in so easily to Angie. I mean, he was a soldier. He's supposed to be strong. It's not fair. She took something that was ours," protested James. "Yeah, ours. How the heck does she do it?" I said. "Do what?" asked Aaron. "You know, get what she wants." "Cause she's a girl?" "No," I said, "there's got to be something else. She doesn't get everything,just more than we do." "Yeah. And what she can't get, she gets from us," James said. "It's like she has some stupid spell over him or something," I said. "She has a power," Aaron wisely stated. We sat still for a second while no one dared breathe. "Power?'I said. "Power," James said, "and she took something from us." "And that's wrong," Aaron said, finishing our thought. We sat there, our faces white from a combination of fright and anger, and understood what dad had told us. We had a new enemy and we had to get rid of her. We jumped when Angie came out from behind the tree, smiling and carrying a new bag of bulbs along with her gardening tools. She said nothing and went about planting her new bulbs, singing softly to herself. We sat in our sandbox, holding our troops, eyeing our enemy's land with each of us calculating its size. We soon determined that Angie's garden, with the sand that was originally ours, would make a good second military base. We watched as she planted each flower bulb
gingerly inside its grave. The more she sang to herself, the more she smiled; and the more she planted, the more we realized the importance of our new mission. We could smell the sweetness and goodness as it reached out to us from her small garden, and we hated it. Our souls grew black as did our smiles and our minds. We stopped watching Angie, got up and headed back to the house and began to plan for the attack. We gathered our armies and took them to the faucet on the outside of our house and washed them. We took each piece and gently ran it under the rushing water to cleanse them of anything on the inside or out. We then took soft cloths and dried and polished them to show that their drab colors could shine bright. "You boys are going to rub the paint off if you keep that up," dad pointed out. "We can't afford to buy you more," mom added. We said nothing. Mom and dad watched intently, trying to figure out why young boys would be cleaning their toys. Without a word, we finished, gathered our respective men and marched toward the sandbox, sternly staring down our opponent. When we were about two-thirds of the way to the battlefield, something unexpected happened. We received reinforcements. We watched as Angie said nothing but quickly jumped to her feet, grasping the back of her leg, and came screaming toward us. We stopped cold in our tracks and nearly broke formation. We couldn't figure out if she was launching an attack or simply trying to scare us. The latter appeared to be her objective until she stopped short in front of us and stared, crying. "What's wrong, Angie?" Aaron said, concerned. She tried to speak, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was garbled and panicked. We stared into her eyes and saw a look like none we had ever seen. Her eyes were no longer piercing but showing terror and confusion. Even though she had a large bloody area on the back of her leg, she was able to run toward the house while trying in vain to scream for mom. "What was that about?" I said. James looked scared. "Musta been a bug ... er something." "Maybe she scratched herself," I said. Aaron said nothing, but stared toward the grove with his mouth open and his body half turned away in fear. "We have to do this. Remember what dad said?" James said, trying to hold up the morale. "Yeah, that's ours," I said, not really sure if I wanted the sand back now.
"Power," mumbled Aaron. Like frightened first-time robbers, we ran toward the sandbox, unsure of what to do next. I looked down in the sand and found Angie's trowel. I picked it up and began frantically to dig for the bulbs, hoping to stop their growth. James and Aaron found sticks and began poking at the ground, tearing the topsoil and looking for their victims. We began to find the bulbs and yank them out of the ground, putting them in a pile outside of Angie's garden. After we figured we had found them all, we were left with the task of disposing of the bodies of evidence. James picked up one of the smelly objects and hurled it down the hill where it landed in the open field. Aaron and I looked around for witnesses and did the same. There the bulbs would dry out, their precious organs crumbling to dust and their papery shells eaten by the crows. Once our mission was complete, we dropped everything and ran for the house, not looking back. We were happy with what we had accomplished but were afraid at the same time of being found out. When we finally reached the house, mom, dad and Angie were in the bathroom. The only thing we were sure of was that Angie was screaming. We looked down and saw the obvious trail of blood leading from the back porch door to the bathroom. "What's going on? Why's she crying like that?'Aaron asked as the tears built up in his eyes. "Shut up!" James said, pacing and holding his head. "We didn't do anything!" I said. "Yes we did! We tore up her garden. Dad'll beat us for sure for that!" James said. Aaron began to cry while James and I were not far from doing the same. With a loud slam, dad came running out of the bathroom. We stopped and snapped to attention, waiting for the inevitable. James' eyes nearly popped out as dad grabbed him by the shoulders. "Son, I need you to be a good soldier and do me a favor. This is important." "Um ... sure dad." "Take care of your two brothers. Your mother and I have to take Angie to the hospital." "But, dad, that's in Collier." "I know, son." "That's over an hour away! Can't you get Doc Mitchell to come patch Angie up?" "Mitchell can't help Angie with this one. The doctors in Collier can deal with this better." "But dad!"
"Son, please, be a man and help me out. We've got to leave now. If we don't, Angie may get worse." Mom came out of the bathroom, carrying Angie, now red, white and blue at the same time, with one of the bathroom towels tied around her leg. The three of us watched as they piled into the truck and sped off down the road. Aaron and I stood looking at James, waiting for him to tell us what our next order should be. He was breathing quickly and deeply with a look of confusion on his face. He said nothing and sat down in dad's favorite chair and flipped on the TV. Aaron and I looked at each other and sat on the couch where we eventually fell asleep. In the morning, we were awakened by a sound that was not familiar. My brothers and I cautiously got up from our seats and began to make our way toward the source of the sound. We looked inside Angie's room and saw something that we thought could never happen. Our father, the once mighty soldier, was sitting on Angie's bed with one hand over his eyes, crying. We slinked away from the room and made our way outside where we sat on the porch. "She must really be hurt," Aaron said, hoping one of us would prove him wrong. No one said anything. On the day of the funeral, we found out what had caused the death of our sister. Dad told us that a small group of snakes had found their way into one of the small foxholes we had dug for our little green men to hide in. We had filled that particular foxhole with water which hid any of our men from the enemy if she were to launch an attack. Upon planting the last of her flower bulbs, she took a few paces backward to admire her work and stepped in the foxhole. The men were quick and thorough in their attack. As we all gathered around the small, brown metallic box, I tried to piece together what had happened in the past few hours. Just before we left home for the funeral, dad had tried to convince us to wear our little uniforms. "C'mon guys. Where are those little green men that like to make their father proud?" "Little green men ... ," James mumbled. "Roger ... don't," our mother said, trying to hurry the moment along. "I don't wanna be proud anymore, daddy," Aaron said while his face was so distorted from sadness that he appeared to be melting. Dad said nothing more. He walked over to his troops, put those big arms around us and shuffled us out the door to the waiting truck.
The visitation at the funeral home was over and done with as quickly as we had all hoped for. Once at the burial site, I took a long look at my father. He was a proud man indeed, but seeing him in that dull green uniform sickened me. It made us all sick to think that we once wore something like it. The uniform, the standing at attention, the "yes, sirs" and "no, sirs" and everything else that went along with the military appeared to have lost their glory. My brothers and I were no longer proud to be soldiers. Regardless of who or what killed Angie, we felt as if we had done the deed ourselves. Our mission was complete. To the victor belonged the spoils. Ken Allgood
Ode to a Championship Football Team Let's show our support for State U.'s team Those big 01' boys who bust their butts Bringin' home the bacon to the president's budget We care for'em all, those crazy cusses And a trifle a' trouble ain't cause for disturbance About their behavior becomin' a' hoodlums 'Cause hoodlums ain't makin' the money they might If they just pass their classes and keep catchin' passes And break into the big time like last year's boys That ring they flash from a first-place finish Cost better than my brand new bike they stole I wish life went the way they play And I wouldn't have to walk to work.
John Proctor
4thof July, Lone Star Lake The sun rises over the water. Yellow fire burning from the east stretches from the edge to the middle of the lake. Concentric sunfish rings are all that's left of an unlucky skeeter. Rip-rap-ripple the water laps expectantly. Coffee grounds and bacon steam summon the early risers from their slumber. Tents, hammocks, coolers, Winnebagos, etc. dot the shoreline as the holiday awaits. BANG, Tommy greets the wakening day, with two grosses of salutations to come. The lake's edge shudders as mothers, brothers, fathers, lovers, sisters, and others rise. The celebration is high.
84 already, feels like 90, as the father puts lotion on his wife's weathered back. 3 boys run tiptoe across the gravel road and feel the cool, wet sand of the swimming area between their toes, then walk out slowly into the murky water. They yelp individually as the cool water surrounds and engulfs their gonads. Grandparents lounge on K-mart lawnchairs, Grandpa sucking a grapefruit, Grandma with her prescription sunglasses, swatting flies from Grandpa's pruney legs. And then there's those kids. They assemble slowly in packs of five to twenty, intermingling sporadically in the neverending search for more drink and better herb.
First freedom. Dude, it's noon; time for a swim. The swimming dock's loaded-bikinis with bodies oozing Coppertone stare up at the sun dropping rays on Billy doing a cannonball, splashing his sister Roxie running falling crying for Mom with Dad on a paddleboat 15 yards away yelling Stop that Billy the water's too shallow! But Billy's not listening he's going under the dock where Wes and Kristen are fertilizing the water with 16-year-old fervor while Wes's friend Spencer is supposed to keep watch and Spencer's watching but not the dock he's watching the bikinis while Mendy watches him wondering if he still loves her best, and Grandma's watching Mendy wondering why a pretty girl like her is sitting all by herself on a big towel. But she'll find a man someday soon Grandma tells herself while Grandpa spits Red Man in the sand and picks a tick off his leg, and John sits with his baby sister on a Garfield beach towel wondering how long it's going to take for him to grow up when another kid asks him if he wants to make sandcastles John says No I'm busy so the other kid Sarah decides to run into the water as fast as she can but that's not very fast once the water reaches her waist so she stops drops and flaps her arms like she's drowning but the lifeguard's eyes are closed beneath his mirrored shades he's getting a nice tan and so are the many figures on the dock the symbols of salvation for the white bodies hidden beneath the water or wrapped in towels on the shore but the bodies white brown and golden are being clothed now as the sun is turning red and the smell of burning meat finally reaches the shore. Baked beans, potato salad, corn-on-the-cob Seager, Bruce, the Doobies the beer, the liquor, the doobies are ingested with Oscar Meyer on Sta-Fresh buns and washed down with no-name pop in multi-colored cans to the whirs, whistles, screeches, and fizzles of escaping gunpowder and the amused yelps and cackles of releasers young and old. Paper plates, plastic, burnt parachutes and assorted human waste dot the campground. But their originators are elsewhere gathered on the dock and in the sand to watch the concluding ceremony of bursting stars and chest-thumping thunder Tommy quivers and laughs uncontrollably Grandpa tightens and cries silently
Grandma sighs violently Mother eyes the fried-out kids at the lakeside talking mindlessly. The people and the powder now lie still near the ground. All is silent again except the lake. The rip-rap is back. The fish still eat. And the full moon shines its light on a woman in the water weeping for the loss of her love.
John Proctor
JeraM - Stephen Dorsett
26
Beginners Ballet Class We are little winter morningsNot yet long and graceful. Not yet moving in rolling white curves Over quiet hillsides. We are still bare branches, Grey and gnarled. Our movements stiff. Our faces yet twisted as the soft flakes of our teacher's words fall around us. We lift our dark limbs Towards skies it seems hopeless To reach. We tilt, sway, And lift, and only make mud-puddles All over our first landscapes. We are not that cool, crisp, We think as we watch our teacher. Her white hands rise and fall Like doves leaving a warm nest. Her feet move as if carving themselves quickly From solid ice. She crosses the frozen lake Of herself with her arms. They come to rest at her side Like tree boughs heavy with snow. We will ourselves white and icy Like that. We take more pale Steps in pirouette. But this time We begin to feel some coolness Around our trembling ankles.
Tonya Basinger
"Slingerland" The limp percussion of the light jazz loafer made to keep time like a melancholy referee. The beat that swears on singapore swings and gets the juke joint hobbling like blood-gorged ticks. It's a rhythm with no syncopation manufactured with an hourglass sour mash. Yes, my brother, it's the stroke of the hand that cripples every man, the rat-a-tat-tat of the styx.
Josh Garcia
Boy in Blue -Rachel Bryan
Late Afternoon, Border Checkpoint, Del Rio, Texas Trucks idle in line, engines clattering, stack caps tap staccato, releasing foul puffs of exhaust. Between the two countries like a plaque-choked artery lies the Rio Grande, Rio Bravo, Bravo del Norte-one river of many names. A light, April rain falling from a gray sky makes me feel lonely but does not remind me of any other place or time. The land, river, sky, and rain all seem to blend, perhaps this land needs.brilliant sun for definition. On the Mexican side on such a night, darkness must fall fast and black as thunder clap, on land that is barren, desolate, rocky, dry, high desert, foothills of the Eastern Sierra Madre Mountains. A land of mesquite, creosote bush, cactus, yucca, rattlesnakes, and Gila monsters. The Texas side looks more hospitable in its foreignness but across the river the land looks timeless, as if it was created old, to savage youth from its people, leaving only a faint hope of something better burning like a guttering candle. A truck roars up the highway from Mexico, one form of conversation between the two countries. I know that people also come in uneasy pilgrimage from small villages and barren farms in Mexico, moving like tired spirits, always searching. Their voices quiet like on a summer night when it is hotter than Hell, or quietly urgent and desperate when frigid winds blast over the open range. Proud people who ask only for a chance. Men come alone, wives and children left behind. The miles between heart and heart long and lonely. They come as families-their shy children hand-in-hand. Sometimes their small bellies are swollen with worms and hunger. Always their clothes are ragged, dirty, and either too big or too small. If they are lucky enough to cross over to the American side, they stand and stare with dark, serious eyes at the brightly colored, clean, fast American automobiles. All of the adults are poorly dressed too, some wearing all of the clothing that they own in layers. Their eyes are dull and watchful in faces sometimes leather-wrinkled from long hours under a punishing sun. The women usually have their untidy black hair tied back with a bright bit of cloth. Sometimes a gauntness of frame and a harsh cough foretells of the TB which will kill too many before they work on dreams of a better life. They do not carry many possessions, but they have left few things behind in a homeland that drains humanity and does not sustain even a simple,
yet comfortable life. Their hearts torn, but needing something, something else. More food, clothing, shelter, something pretty, shoes for tired feet. The river broods between heart and need, silent, slow, and silting. Hasta maiiana . . .Hasta maiiana . . . . Life may be better tomorrow. But the Border Patrol and the human Coyote waits. Many prayers are murmured to Our Lady of Guadeloupe, patroness and protector. The wind here is a ground wind, moaning low. Slowly two flags, one American, one Texas state, on metal poles beside the small cement block building swirl outward briefly and then continue slapping gently against their poles. I look across at that little bit of Mexico and from a newly discovered fearful, irresolute center I know that I am not strong enough or brave enough to cross over the border line. Cheryl Weed
No Adonis You are not the beautiful youth I imagined you were. Though I am no goddess of love, Aphrodite is my sister you know. And I imagined you flawless marble image, Greek statue of smooth perfection.
I see the cracks now, and chips, and, oops you are missing an arm. The heavy scars of abuse and heavy use mark the innocent whiteness of your body. Joy Mattingly
I
Shiny Metal Boxes -Liz Morley
Arkanasas/FloodedRice Fields - Jeremy Weis
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From the Enlightened Redneck Chronicles: A Redneck's Widow Prays for Her Man; Just As I Am Lord God Almighty, Maker and owner of the universe, and me and James Henry. I pray that since you took 'im He's doing well and enjoys the salvation The Precious Lamb came to bestow on people Like James Henry and me. I'm sorta confident that Precious Little Lamb Can shepherd him through eternity, Even though my man's a kickin', bitin', stubborn, Fightin', rank, head-buttin', thick-skulled ram. A black sheep in that Pure-White Little Lamb's herd. God have mercy on him. Now God, You cut my man from a proud tree, And pride won't let a man ask for forgiveness, Confess his sins, or seek salvation, When he needs to. And Sweet Jesus, that man was just ignorant And way too healthy to avoid every temptation. So I feel it's my job to ask for James Henry, Just now, Just as I am. Lord, I don't think he meant to drink As much as he did. It's just that he was always in the rough crowd. I feel sorta confident that they caused A lotta James Henry's binges, Though I never heard of anybody holding 'im down and pouring it in. So please, Dear Lord, forgive 'im the sin Of taking a little more than he needed to drink. And yes, Lord, he liked to gamble a little on ballganes and cockfights on Saturday night, But he worked hard all week, and James Henry said Be needed a little release. His little release sometimes got a little rough.
But I never saw a stranger stranded that he Wouldn't stop to help get started Back on the crooked way, Or a stray he wouldn't take in-man or beastClaimed You might be trying to trick him; Coming in disguise. So please forgive 'im the sin of gamblin' And the women. Lord knows You made James Henry a looker And a mighty powerful lover. So he can't take all the blame For the women. I caught 'im only once With thar red-headed witch, Virginia, And he was drunk So I rolled him up In the very blanket that he had spread Under the ass of that redhead, And beat him half to death with a broom. I forgave him then, and ask that You do Just now. I'm sorta confident there were others too, like: Nancy Carol, and Bobbie Jean Carter, and Vonda Kay, And Norma, the milk-man's wife, And Kathy Lynn, his cousin, And Alice, who was always at the cockfights, And Miss Varner, his school teacher, And Elizabeth Friendly, the preacher's wife, And that blond-headed bitch Barbara McClusky, You know how I can't stand her. So Dear Lord, please forgive me and James Henry Our sins, Just now. Just as I am. But Lord, I do miss him so; How he'd laugh And take a bath standing up in the tub, Bring home the meat from the hunt, And how he'd make love. We'd be down by the creek, Where he'd spread a blanket over the grass,
And on my back the trees would become Heaven. Water rushing, and my Angel touching me, His lips brushing my nipples, Painting my skin a blushing pink, With kisses, And Sweet Jesus, my insides would ache with release Of flood after flood after flood Of blanket-staining water. Water ripples Down by the creek on a blanket In the tall grass in the ground. Now I know I can't touch his body Just now, The muscles, the blood, and the bone That tore his essence, But I pray, Holy Father, That if I can't have him here Just now, Just as I am, Could you please, in the name of the Lamb, Send him down in a dream To whisper to me, "You're the one, you're my love." And if his breath is just the breeze in the curtains, And his touch melts like fog on the field, I don't care that these things might happen, If he's only a shadow, then Lord that's enough. Just now. Yes Lord, I do miss him so, But I can stay down here below Trusting I'll meet him again when this life is done. So, till I come bustin' through trees, sky, and cloud, You use my man, so ignorant and proud; Even up yonder things likely can get real rough. So, if Satan comes thrusting a butcher knife, Or one of his slaves points a pistol, Or a shiny-haired angel gets too drunk to drive, Or if You just need some strong somebody. Then James Henry, my man, is Your man on the job. Your dark angel and mine. He's the one, I'm sorta confident, that's been Drinking wine anew with you on that far-off mountain.
God save him for me, Just as I am. I ask it all in the name of Jesus, From this hard ground, For my man Forever. Amen. Jack Fuqua
Linger I watched the neighbor's kids, beneath a veil of grey, one frigid day, construct a chap of snow. A hoary Frankenstein of pale design who guards the vacant lot of scrap behind my grocery store. He sports a gold fedora and an ice-cream cone as a nose. His arms, two rusty pipes, and lugnuts cold for eyes adorn his icy face, exposed. But then the sun returned and chased its prey, the frost of yesterday. The sentry white began to cry, to die, and melt away. No old silk hat revived, nor Aphrodite arrived to bless pre-school Pygmalions. Moss green blades assimilate the winter's gloss. Michael Smith
I Know The Force That Bends My Knees I know the force that bends my knees. So prayed Father O'Rourke each day. He lifted himself from prayer and watched And looked at us expectantly. At the knell of the bell he dropped a Rome To the floor and class began. He taught Physics. What he taught he hurled at the speed Of light. We returned the mass of what He taught with equal weight. He ruled The class from the core to the power of ten. Our desks circled him like shells that sweep The nucleus. He dressed in black; He hung a flashing cross at his side; He wore his hair so short his skull Blazed like St. Elmo's Fire; he said That Isaac Newton never ate A fallen apple, but Adam And Eve did, that Copernicus Had spun the earth away from God, That electrons dance with fallen angles On the heads of pins in a field of strings, That Einstein was his relative, That sinners cannot flee the hold, The power, and dominion of black holes, And that when one mass exerts force On a second, the second suffers. One day he scrawled across the board: Surface tension permits insects
To walk on water By Jesus! I said. Chalkdust mushroomed throughout the class, Spinning down in vortices, covering Our desks, heralding a nuclear winter.
Then arcs of light flashed throughout the room: He paced and paced across the floor: He moved through space and time at warp speed: His arms swung like pendulums: He torqued my wrists. (Butterflies trembled In Brazil like Galileo, penitent Before the Inquisition.) I cried: I know the force that bends my knees! for Ron Watson
Greg Hagan
It's funny how your life can change in a brief moment, When adrenaline and instinct take Over your body, and all your Knowledge is at your fingertips. There is no time to think, But the greatest decisions are made, There is no time to act, But the greatest actions are done. We are standing at ground zero, All the attention of the world Focuses in on that tiny room, on that tiny body; After it is all over, For better or for worse, All you have left, is the pieces to pick up. You close your eyes Knowing you could never be somewhere else; Perhaps you will stand in the rain, Hoping it will clean out the images and baptize your heart with fire, And be ready for tomorrow.. . Then, you have done well.
R. Greenwell
Untitled - Matthew Bradley
Can I Ride It Again? The small jockeys, smiling, laughing, being simple pick their steeds and the race begins. The race is without purpose, prize or goal, but the small jockeys do not care or realize how small the track they run can be. Horse chases rabbit chases duck chases boar chases horse as the organ plays a fanfare waltz, urging them on. 'Round and 'round the track they go not noticing the finish line or the brass ring. The small jockeys don't care about the race or where it goes but only that it be. Unexpectedly, the owners call out to the jockeys and they dismount, ready for a new race on a different track. The race is without purpose, prize or goal, and the jockeys do care and realize how long the track they run on will be. Rat chases rat, rat chases rat, rat chases rat, rat chases rat without a note to urge then on, and the brass ring ... missing. 'Round and 'round the track they go, a finish line they finally see. They cared for the race and where it went but sorry it ever had to be. Ken Allgood
Cerullean's Crimson Crush At school Cerulean wore Red instead much to her own chagrin. Down the lackluster halls those Red lips screamed against the slate lockers. Boring. It was all boring so Coco McCarthy wore Red instead. That Red made them take notice, stop in their muddy tracks and take a look back at the only color on campus. It rained and rained and our umbrellas matched. Marching to lot of their cars, we didn't need to wait for the buses, we weren't packed in like rats. I had friends. And we'd get to the caf6 and I had barely enough allowance to get through the door let alone sit down; had to pay even to sit, you know. A would-be prima donna in occupied territory. -That's the portrayal, right there, coupled with more Red lips and fingertips, toenails too, looking like a horde of vampires with nothing better to do. We had room to ruffle our feathers, even in the perpetual rain. But I never wanted to be like that, the way I was, but that was the way. And then that Coco McCarthy took it too far thinking she was reinventing the Red Scare and all. But that's not the half of it, with twenty-seven different languages uttered in this melting pot of a school and invention of the twenty-eighth based on color and hairProzac should have been on the menu at that foggy feeding trough at least every other Tuesday along with the mini-pizzas and ham melts. Enough additives to keep those leaden walls preserved for years. No need for touch ups around that lurid place. And to liven up that stale murkiness the cooks made that gray mystery meat. And even they were gray over what the mystery was all about. All they knew was that meat was tough enough to use in self-defense and it complemented the no-color scheme. No one got excited when it rained; it rained a lot. Coco McCarthy didn't care, she marched her Red unit through the deluge. For morale. For the cause. And the Red went to her head. She drank that rain like the elixir of life. I cursed it. It felt like death. She drank the sewage, as she proselytized on purity, integrity, and the importance of discipline within the Brotherhood of Women taking alternate swigs out of that Red enviro-cup of hers, further filling herself with those disgusting mint lattes.
She almost drowned herself as she drank and waded knee-high in water. I surprised myself one day when marching, when I imagined her fatal drowning, her being sucked under all of that water and liquid and diluted. Spread so thin that all of that Red would just melt away. She annoyed me as she slithered like a copperhead in a bog in and out of people's lives. Twisting and turning their minds with her Fascist fashion sense and damned militaristic obsession with old dead women. She saw things. She felt things. Believed that she was special. "All women were special if they weren't really women." And Red was the color to wear! Red screamed victory, Red meant power. Coco was possessed by her obsessions and she wanted to be something. She wanted something from every body. -And one morning when I arose, the sun was actually out. And I hadn't seen the sun rise in months nor the sky's other color, BLUE, which the sun hadn't seen too. -So that is what I wore: I broke away. Gutsy move. Especially in the middle of the school year. I wore all BLUE from head to toe. No painted lips, or fanciness. I wouldn't get all gussied up in Red like some old hen, just because everyone else was doing it. Enough. I would face her like a woman, like she said we should all be . . . not girls, but women. I thought that when she came up to me I would just give it to her, sock her in the mouth, let everyone see how fed up I was with her, and that marching. Oh how surprised she would be when I didn't do what she wanted. She would throw a fit, and scream, and act like a baby, and all the while I would just fold my arms and grin. And that day my mom dropped me off at school, at just the perfect time. (Moms were like that half of the time you know.) And when I turned around to wave good-bye I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the car window. That BLUE bow was beautiful, the way it shone in my gold hair. I was so proud, and Coco the Wanna-Be Chanel would be so embarrassed. I walked into the courtyard, and saw my former Red comrades surrounding the Fuhrer. This was my moment; I had dreamed of the secession for months now. -At last the parting of the Red Sea, the China Doll was coming into view, and independence would be mine. -At last with my Heart pounding so fast ready to scream NOT RED BUT BLUE!!! When, I looked at my mirror only to see that she had gone blue too.
Michelle Maxwell
A Redneck's Ode to a Tin Roof Down on the Obion, Where the ground rounds down tow'rd the bottom And tucked between the Indian moundsA cut glass jewel tucked between the twin tittiesA dirty brown clapboard house Stands under a rusty tin roof. Groaning and popping with age and temperature change, This tin roof shelters generations of
Redneck-Farmer-Warriors-Celtic-Confederate-Ghosts. Fiddles and fox hunt'n, drinking and dancing we sing. A shield, whose rusty-blood patches Tell of battles with fierce elements, Groaning and popping resisting changes. When the Mighty Right Arm hurls heavenly hammers or Stabs with a fiery two-edged and crooked sword, We rush under the shield and listen as its Murderously sharp corners cut screams out of the Warring air, And Nature's clear and crystal life-giving blood Drips from the metal to make a worn, muddy path Under a tin roof, when it storms. And the stars and the moon shine upon the backside of clouds That press a watery mist against the thin tinsel surface, This rust-bloody and battered top of our world And it just rains. And we drink form a jar and we dance and we sing, And my right arm strums a guitar, While a Mighty Right Arm beats the drum: The thin tinsel surface of a tin roof In the rain. And a crow-haired girl with muddy eyes Eyes me tow'rd the other room, Where generations of salty sweaty skin Have breathed the sweet perfume of love and bloody birth. Through pleasure and pain we came and we come, While the heavy hissing of gentle rain
Falls on the armour of the farmer's metal roof. And a crow-haired girl, with sleep in her eyes, Lies in the curl of my right arm And sighs beneath the rafters, After the kissing's done. And as the gray daylight glistens Down on the Obion, Generations just listen To the thunder Under a tin roof in the rain. Jack Fuqua
Great Uncle - Lesley Patterson
50
Panic Disorder This is how it feels: A great thesaurus opens and stretches its pages out before you ... As your mind heaves and falls against the front cover in breathless anticipation, number 264. GO is fired directly into your brain, hurtling you into number 860. FEAR as the book slams shut. Trapped inside, words ticking off time, your thoughts become a sprinter, racing numerically up one page and down another. You search for number 265. CALM, or number 67 1. ESCAPE, but stumble over number 828. DESPAIR, falling helplessly into all of its crippling synonyms. Number 498. REASON leaps from the book and waves number 375. SENSIBILITY above you like a finish line banner, taunting you because pages ago you dashed right past the only word that could have helped you stop the clock and beat the thesaurus: Number 1. REALITY. Dee Vinson
Alive In Your Grave You left it all out for me and I had no choice but to push it all together and put it in a box where I swim in the scent of you left in your clothes, your books, your poetry I'm alive in your grave, moving backwards through your past finding out things you never wanted to know and I can see what you always saw in me but now I'm caught up in you too much to see anything else except what I feel through the stars wrapped around my ankles with a piece of you at every point
I have not let you go and every night I return to this cemetery of lives that have yet to be touched by you.
Barbara Kern
Stick Pin Holes and Boyish Dreams The barefoot boys of Wallace Avenue Enjoy fishing with stick pin poles and yarn. The fish they catch were lost by men in boots. A boot, a jug of mud, a lure-decked hat They yell and scream and dance with pure delight Their stream-hidden fish will be food for all Paul Jones and Sam would kill and clean their prize Joey will build a fire with oak and pine No match would he need just dry twigs and leaves "Come on Dan, reel that monster in; pull, man." SNAP, SPLASH, SWISH, THUD, life's cruel, the fish was gone. "The tail was huge, it had to be a whale!" "Its mouth would hold a big softball, easy!" Stick poles hang on their tan, shirtless shoulders Magpie moments and plopping of bare feet The fading, sun-dappled path that leads home Listens quietly to dreams and tales they spin.
Marilyn Shoaf
Silver City -Matthew Button
Night Fishing Beneath the creamy saturated moon, amidst the cricket chorus as they croon, a lonely jon-boat glides among the reeds. To navigate, a lantern flame proceeds. Inside, the solitary occupant casts enticing golden barbs to catch every last bewhiskered, slimy, sharp-finned, tasty cat to bubble soon in jacuzzi of liquid fat. While eyeless nightcrawlers plow the moistened soil, inside his styrofoam cup they writhe and coil. Tonight Dan sits without a precious bite this fisherman who stands three feet in height. And though for thirty years he's fished this bay the big one always seems to get away. A panicked splashing suddenly begins. A screaming voice, distinctly feminine emanates from near the ebony shore. Dan quickly reels his line and starts to oar. With flailing arms and shrieking, gasping breath the woman frightens schools, in throes of death. Dan stands as he approaches, knocking o'er his tackle box and dropping the oar, before capsizing, plunging, 'neath the plane of wet because his feet get tangled in the net. He surfaces nearby her with arm of cerulean blue cementing frozen corpse like super-glue. He tows her stagnant form onto the bank. He can't let go, begins to feel a yank. Illuminating beam of light above from underside a spinning disc, thereof is reeling in today's robust fresh catch. It draws the twain into a looped hatch. In opaque, metal tank he flops around detaching from the dame to whom he's bound. As lights arise, he checks her form, silicon. A label on her thumb reads "made in Taiwan." He rushes to the door that now slams shut and scary feelings sink into his gut.
He sits within the tank through twilight hours and welcomes others as the vessel scours New Mexico, Siberia, Belize Osaka, Wake, and snowy Vale with skis. And finally through lucid portal pane past glowing stars the earth begins to wane. In deepest recess, silent outer space they finally meet the captor alien race. Above, inside a floating kettle drum mauve-skinned spiny anteaters observe and hum, congratulating, shaking hands, they snap some pictures. Smile! Away they sit and yap. Our hero and his inauspicious mates all sit below and soon bemoan their fates. Through ceiling vents a fuchsia gas escapes and paralyzes them. Like ripened grapes they're plucked and separated, classified by size and shape, and measured tall and wide. They're carried into massive holding bins and listen as the cleaning now begins. The whirring sound ensures a razor sharp enough to take the skin off a carp. No anesthesia interrupts the job of turning humans into shish-kebab. Awaiting death in line the fisherman shuts his eyes and prays to God again. When suddenly the speeding ship breaks hard and screeching sirens wake the dozing guard. A gilded emissary boards the ship inspecting every creature's fishing slip and eyeing the captive bins, investigates dimensions of the game, both heights and weights The fisherman he grabs, examines, twice from head to toe, his measurements precise With pompous glare he spots the captain, Quines, producing evidence, he gloats and fines. And quotes the rigid laws of zodiac "He's way too short; you have to throw him back."
Michael Smith
This Ain't About You Anthony never thought this moment would come, when he'd be this alone. His father had seen the mortar of the prison walls, and his uncles had heard the slide and clang of the barred cage. He'd seen one uncle touch his mother's hand through the Plexiglas of the visitors room, tears rolling down her face; later Anthony saw her sneak him dope in a cellophane bag.
A restless sleep, now and then, lets Anthony rest. His father is gray around the beard, and scars run the length of his jaw. The scars are what's left of his life, a life of wine, knives and enemies. Anthony is dreaming of a world where his Daddy lives, his Ma is there too, but he never speaks to her in this place, in this "heaven"; he speaks to her only in the playback of his memories. "Your momma's very proud of you, Anthony." "Is she?" His voice is sullen and grufSfrom smoke, but not cigarette smoke. He runs a young, strong hand over grainy eyes. His head hurts from the night before, a night of blunt bumt in a water bong. He irnagines the pain in his brainbubbles, like water gurgles in the bong. He thinks of his lips on the gold, metal mouthpiece; marijuana bums, nestled in the pipe bowl; white smoke rolls up the thick, glass cylinder toward his mouth. His Daddy says, "Yeah,she loves what you are': They 're in a house, the house of Anthony's younger days, a brick, two-room place with an oak cabinet T Y and a dingy orange, paisley couch. He remembers the small garden out back, and the way it frosted on winter mornings, while his momma fed him in the kitchen. Walking across the living room, his father hands him a beer; a Budweiser-the company his father used to work for in St. Louis, that is before he left Anthony and his mother: "How you doin', " Anthony?" "My head's killin ' me. " He rubs his temples with thick fingertips, trim fingernails against his smooth, hairless head. He rolls over the starched, long wrinkles of the sheets. The spring in the mattress creaks as he pulls his knees toward his face; his body con-
stricts. Adifferent kind of dream this time, a memory; it's an early Monday morning before school.
"Momma, why won't they leave me alone?" His mother is in a long, flower-patterned apron, making flu& pancakes, laying them in white, hot syrup. He's thin, and he's young; she's young, but getting older; concern has drawn lines across her thin, fine black brow. His father left them last week. " ...fo r the Navy," his mother said, a cry, a gurgling sound under her voice, as she closed the door to her bedroom, locking him out. Anthony slices into the bumpy, syrupy cakes with a sawing motion, hisfork holding them, the soft blade of his knife carving them out. "Turn the other cheek, baby. The Lord will take care of it." "The Lord ain't in the seventh grade," he mutters, feeling a little sour like the milk that washes down his food; he swallows a piece of pancake and reaches for the glass of milk. Anthony knows she's seen his friends, Rawlee and Tylel; smoking on the corner: He's skipping more school, just hanging with Rawlee at the 8ball shooting cue and trying to act like a man: head up, back straight, cuss words loud and clear; tapping his pool cue on the wooden floor; moving his hips to the jukebox in the corner: "Make me a promise, baby." "Sure Momma." Anthony's eyes glaze like his momma's, like hers when she looks to Jesus each Sunday. His adam's apple bounces, swallowing milk, under a dark covering of skin, like hers when she sings to Jesus in the kitchen, at church. There's a a thin streak of milk on Anthony's upper lip; he wipes it away with his long-sleeve shirt. "Don't let them put out that fire in your heart, baby." Her left hand splayed on her chest, and the other one holds his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "Sure momma, whatever you say." Under his eyelids, Anthony's eyes roll as he turns over again. This time he turns toward the wall, to the mortar between the cinder blocks, to its cratered skin. His breathing is regular, rising, and expanding his wide chest.
He drinks from the harsh, cold beer that his father has handed him. "Why motherfucker?" Anthony isn't facing his father; he's facing the floor; his hands are clasped together: "Why, what son? "
"Why did you leave?" " I had to, son. " "What the fuck do you mean- you had to?" "You watch your tone with me, boy. " "Shit nigger; you're lucky I don't put a fuckin' hole in your body. " Anthony jabs at him with his bent index and middle finger; aimed liked a pistol at his father's head, but Anthony doesn't stand up. " I had to, I couldn't stand the thought of your momma watchin'me bein' carted off like that. " His father taps his own chest as he speaks. "Whatever;motherfucker ... whatever:" Anthony looks to the floor: Anthony wakes up shivering in the cell. They turned out the lights five hours ago. Damn, he thinks, I hate this shit. He feels around on the table, next to the bed, for his smokes. The cigarette's red ember glows, showing the pictures Anthony has taped to the walls-small pictures of friends and larger pictures of his family. There's a picture of Anthony with Mike Tyson taped crooked to the wall. Tyson really liked Anthony's music, the songs he mixed. He said, "It drives me." That's the story Anthony tells people when they see it, the picture of Mike and him under the arch in St. Louis. He feels bad for being proud of it, of the picture, of being with Tyson. In the end, he knows all Tyson's hype and glory's all bullshit. Every time he looks at the picture, he thinks, that nigga did it. He raped that girl, the one he went to the Pen for; he says he didn't, but he did. He said the bitch deserved it, "She was a Goddamn tease," he said. Anthony inhales smoke from his cigarette. From the light, he sees red-tinted nephews and nieces, ones he misses. Pealing the tape that holds it down, he pulls on a picture, holding it close to his face, feeling it vibrate from his breath. They all live in a new house, the one that he bought with the money from the business he was in and the albums he sold. There's Jerome, Jason (the one with the buggin' eyes), Andrea and LaSenna. It's an almost black and white photo, the color tinting silver, all fucked up, but Anthony likes its finish 'cause it shows off the children's deep, dark skin against the white house behind them. It's summertime, and you can see the sheets flapping on the line behind the house to the left. There's an old dog at Jeremy's, the oldest one's, feet; its tongue is hanging out from the heat; its fur is a mangy, dotted brown. The children are all smiling and waving; they all know who they're taking the picture for. A quirky smile tugs at the left side of Andrea's face (the girl with shiny dark hair, her white summer dress the color of dandelions; strings from the white bows, tied in her hair, run the length of her face, down passed her shoulders) her right hand is raised in a limp wave.
If I could go back, Anthony thinks. He spits into the silver metal, cold-water sink, and grabs the sides of the sink, stringy veins boiling under the skrn of his arms and neck. Anthony thinks of the night they reached a thousand sells, and he partied with Rawlee and Rawlee's woman, Angela. She had a tight body; it hinted of a sensual life and sexual depth. Curves, Rawlee said, like heaven, my brotha, if it had a highway-fast and smooth, my brotha, fast and smoooth. Rawlee and him laughed together, laughed hard and drank like fish, staying off the blow. They drank whiskey, like their fathers had, out of brandy glasses. They bought diamond necklaces, laying them flush on their women's dark skin, kissing their lips as they did. Their rag-topped cars rolled through the neon strips, friends calling their names, rubber squealing when the stoplights changed from red to green. The hit was to be a walk-by, simple enough; it was no longer about money, but about the night RICHARDS had met up with Anthony. Anthony wanted to be alone when he did it. If the shit was gonna come down, he wanted it all on his shoulders. And the shit's gonna come down, a lot like rain, Anthony thought. So, he told no one, not even Rawlee, who was out looking for him, as he tapped into a line and dialed 91 1 from a house on RICHARDS' beat; he let T's girl, Jeannette, do the talking. Sitting on the toilet, Anthony drags on his cigarette, thinking; he listens to the jail, to the smacks and thumps and a guard yelling, "Get up, Nigger," down the block. RICHARDS musta known it was comin' sooner or later, Anthony thinks, he musta known. There were two cops that walked up to the front door investigating the supposed "domestic dispute." Both white, both pigs, Anthony thought, as he walked toward them with his 9-millimeter glinting at his side. He wore a long, black trenchcoat; just like a gangsta would do, he thought this in his head. The women in the house screamed, as quick bursts of red and white flares lit the end of his 9-mil. It took four shells from the clip to drop them both; neither one had time to react, much less pull and shoot. RICHARDS' body twitched as Anthony stood over him, RICHARDS' leg bent at the knee, lying awkwardly, disjointed under him. The porch light eclipsed the left side of the officer's open-jawed face, his forehead creased and his eyes closed. Anthony spit on him, because that's the drama he'd played over and over again in his head He put another bullet in RICHARDS' head.
"That's right bitch, you eat that shit." And he put another bullet in lim, the pistol jolting the bones in his fingers, and the muscles in his forearm. And Anthony walked away, toward the railroad tracks, the trains screaming in the distance, red and blue lights swishing along buildings ;hat miss windows like teeth. Anthony ditched the gun with T. He held his breath as he took a long drink from the Hennessey bottle that was stashed under his seat; he wiped his lips with his sleeve. Anthony didn't go home; he went to Rawlee's. "Why'd you do it man?" That was Rawlee's reaction. "I had to, bitch. Nigga fucked with me." "Anthony, Man, they gonna burn you." "I got paid, mothafucka, that's why I did it, and if you don't step off, I'm gonna put a hole in your body, too." "They're gonna bust ya ass for this shit." "No they ain't, and even if they do, you think I give I fuck, Nigga? Motherfucker had it comin'." Rawlee left to stay with his sick mother that night, and Angela stayed with Anthony. The dim living room, the walls draped in silk, red tapestries, is where Anthony and Angela had drinks of wine. When Anthony got up to leave, Angela touched him, like most women do, on his chest. He watched her fingernails long and red, her soft hands running over his black skin, over the black outline of the Moon Goddess, Coyolxauhqui, tattooed above his left tit. He walked away from her hand, but she followed him. When they neared the kitchen, she caught him with her hand and then with her lips. She tasted good, like cinnamon, as she rhythmically stroked her tongue on the inside of his top, then bottom lip. He found himself in a frenzy, his arms lifting her, taking her to the bedroom. Anthony thinks of Angela's warm body, and its silky-smooth tapestry, and the way she smelled, like backyard flowers, a rich, naturally raw, powerful smell. He pulls the pillow up tighter against his head, wanting not to yell. The memory he had, while he was sleeping next to Angela, comes back to him. After a nightmare, his mother telling him he can sleep in his parents' bed. He liked the times when his father was there, when he was really young. He crawled up in between them, like a hot dog on a bun, he thought this as a child. He remembered this every so often, but only when he lay next to a woman for the first time. Anthony woke up with the cold melt of a smooth pistol's nose jab-
bing in his right nostril. "Get your ass up, nigga. It's mournin' time." Rawlee held the gun up toAnthonyls right nostril as Anthony crawled to the foot of the bed, placing both knees on the ground. "It's only a bitch mothafucka, put the gun down." "Don't call me that, nigga." "You're such a pussy, Rawlee." Anthony pushes at the gun with his hand. " Put the gun down, mothafucka ... Damn nigga, she came on to me." "You lyin' motherfucker." Rawlee pushes the gun a little farther up Anthony's nose. The sun outside, to Anthony's right, is bright. Anthony can feel the blood rushing under his skin, his heart pounding. Angela kneels up on the bed and starts screaming. "Shut up bitch," said Rawlee, still looking at Anthony. Neither Anthony nor Rawlee watch as Angela edges closer to the closet. "I'm gonna fuckin' gank ya ass Anthony." Angela screams. Rawlee turns toward Angela, and in a split silence Anthony sees Rawlee, as a young boy, chasing him around the old house he visits in his dream, telling him he's "it." Angela leveled two shots at Rawlee's head. Anthony sobs into the dark, listening to its eclipse.
R.L. Hibbit
Chronic Rich old widow coughs diamonds in coffers jewel in a coffin Cold rain brings arthritis stiff arms full of bursitis damn cough damn bronchitis need an appointment get some ointment for this ailment feel pain eye strain migraine coming on soft bed backache found photographs heartbreak ache phonograph fugue battle fatigue ladies league soul possession heart's obsession mind depression regretted malevolence prayed for benevolence renewed reverence met resistance done penance sad circumstance Earthbound Hellbent Heavensent
Kathryn Graham 65
Watch Me -Mitchell Bradley
66
Kitchen The spice jars are all empty, So there is no flavor. Cupboards bare But for dust and cobwebs, and silence. One stained cup on the table Next to her empty hand. The radio crackles with remembrance, A hollow sound in her heart like wilting. The lights blink with pity, The lights are threatening to go out All over. The spice jars are all empty, A little taste of flavor Lingers on the back of her tongue Like a kiss; forgotten. The dishes lie misplaced all over, As if she has forgotten how to care.
Tonya Basinger
The Masque of Red Death - Joe Welsh
68