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IS THE

WORST OF A L L E V IL S for it

PROLONGS THE TORMENT

OF MAN.


University of Kansas 2009 Kiosk 41 Art & Literature Magazine Kingston Printing & Design Inc.

Prepress: File furnished in InDesign CS3 Software

900 copies of Kiosk 41 were printed on Carnival Vellum Soft White 70# with the cover in Synergy Felt Toffee 90# Paper, Printing, and Binding was published at Kingston Printing & Design Inc. Typefaces Used (Styles of): Leitura, ITC New Baskerville, Volta T, Buttermilk & Helvetica Neue.


DE S I GN STAFF

HARSCH

KRISTA

WHITNEY

TIPPETT

JARRED


Poetry Overanalyzed by elsa connolly We circled up, the cultured vultures, to survey the dead thing before us and we snapped our beaks near its blind eyes, our talons scraping slowly against the flesh one by one, polite in our patience of one another. We cocked our heads to see death from a different angle, but really it was all the same when the organs were revealed just as it was with the dead things that were now only bones bleached and dry from being picked at over and over by generations of cultured vultures. Excited and wild we tore at the muscle tendons and showed each other how the dead thing used to move and what it thought when it breathed in ink. Every one of us was hoping to expose the heart. And each took away pieces the whole thing was too big to carry away. We keep them in jars on our beside tables and on our desks to inspire us in times of need. Some of us consumed the pieces to regurgitate and consume over again. Now I wish we hadn’t. A mess is all I see anymore. Mutilated metaphors, severed symbolism, appetizing allusion to decay. Not the soft, almost warm body it once was. I would have liked to sit beside it a little longer, and maybe to stroke its side gently and feel its ribs beneath my wing tips. A carcass torn to shreds is a vulgar thing to admire Even for the curious cultured vultures like ourselves.


Richinda

Brower red means luck

two fingered ring for the left hand cast sterling silver, flocking, NuGold


+ I abandon myself into your hands;do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you: I am ready for all, I accept all.


I've had this mustard on my shirt for three days.

Dan

fucking child safety

acrylic

+


+ Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

Megan

Dejmal time to be tough

self-portrait


Mother Sun

by anna langley I am rousted by my master just before dawn. It seems today he chose to pull a switch from the tree, the message is understood. It’s time for work. I look around, still not remembering where I am. I feel the hard mud floor beneath my still swollen hands. I lift myself off the dirty sheet that is supposed to be my bed. I remember where

I am now—far from home.

I head outside, freezing. I eat my breakfast as we head out to work, a measly, cold biscuit. I only have a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. I wrap the dirty sheet around myself, trying to stay warm. Even the nature surrounding us isn’t up yet. I hear the wind rustling through the sleeping trees, the breaking waves telling us to go back and let it sleep some more.

I would love to honor these requests, but my master will not let us go back. It’s time for work. I grab hold of the canoe, still warm from last night’s ventures. We pull the wet wood back into the water, the nets taunting me with the day’s work still ahead of us. I don’t want to go out on the water, I want to go home. I look up at the boy next to me, Kofi. I see myself in his eyes, the tired, silent pain. Neither of us know why we’re here. Mr. Obrenu said it’s because our parents gave us to him. That can’t be true. I remember I was on my way to see my father. My mother said I would see him in three days. That was six months ago, a week after my twelfth birthday. We don’t talk to each other when we are working. Mr. Obrenu does not allow it, but we often give each other nods, just to say we’re not alone.


The cold water upon my legs wakes me up from any sleep I continue to carry with me. The nets lay upon the seats in the canoe. We push off and I climb in. Mr. Obrenu sits in the back of the canoe, guiding where we go for the day. Kofi and I sit in the middle of the canoe and drop nets down into the water. I try not to tangle the nets. If I do, Mr. Obrenu punishes me. Last time he struck me with the paddle on the head. I have a scar from it. The cold water splashes me in the face as the nets are dropped. This is the majority of the work for the morning. We leave them with a piece of Styrofoam marking where they areand go and drop more nets. I try to paddle, but I can’t seem to form a rhythm. It’s hard for me to keep up with the other kids, so a lot of times I end up wanting to cry. I wish I could do what I am supposed to do. I can tell Mr. Obrenu doesn’t like me. We paddle around this dark, abysmal watery wasteland. I don’t see an end in sight. Net after net is dropped into the water, trapping the other hopeless creatures. I feel sorry for them. Like me, there is no hope. They cannot return home where their families are, where they can breathe. They are stuck in this other world. There is no hope here. They will never

see their families again.

After we dropped the last net, we return to the first one. I can see the sun creeping over the mountainous horizon. I feel the morning dew forming on the tree leaves, the waves breaking on the shore no longer telling us to go back to bed, but instead greeting us for the new day. But for me, it is not a new day. It is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. Mr. Obrenu tells me to begin to pull up the net. Fearfully, I grip the net and begin to tremble. I see Mr. Obrenu’s fist begin to clench the wet paddle draped over his muscular thighs. I know I am going to be in trouble if I mess this up. I begin to pull up the net, one hand over the other. Slowly, it begins to rise. The water cascades over the tiny threads that form this death trap. Ripples begin to form in the cold water as tiny creatures start to appear out of their former sanctuary. They writhe in fear, not knowing what is happening to them


The net does not follow my commands. I pull harder. Nothing. I look up at Mr. Obrenu. I point at the net, showing that it is stuck on something, probably snagged on a branch under the water. His hand begins to rise, followed by the strong, humongous arm. I shrug away, afraid he will beat me. His bicep blocks out the new sun for a moment and for a second I feel the rocking of the canoe and my body go cold. I see the beating I will surely receive. Instead, his hand is pointing to the water. Without any words exchanged, I know now that I have to confront my huge fear: diving into the water, untangling the net from the obstruction below and, hopefully, resurface.

Sometimes when boys dive into the water, they themselves become one of the fish; tangled and unable to resur face, in turn, drowning to death. I hope that does not happen to me. I take off my t-shirt and underwear. I do not want them to become soaked. Preparing to dive in, I face my fear. I lift my hands over my head and launch my freezing body into the even colder water. Everything is suddenly silent around me. I follow the slimy net down to the dark, silent bottom. I feel the problem—it is snagged on a stump. I grasp the strands with my tiny fingers and finagle the strands loose. I make sure to keep my feet back, so that I do not become another victim to this definite danger. Suddenly, the net goes slack and I feel that I have succeeded this time. I rush to the surface, gasping for air. As soon as I break the surface, I feel my lungs rejuvenated and the silence disappears. I give Mr. Obrenu a nod and hop back in the canoe. We pull up six more nets that day, but Kofi does not get off as easily today as I do. He dropped a paddle into the water. When this happened, Mr. Obrenu’s eyes became those of a dead animal; emotionless. He raised his own paddle as Kofi stared at him like an animal that has accepted his fate. The paddle came down onto Kofi’s head with a thud. I watched as blood creeped out of his skull and followed the curve of his oblong head. He turned around slowly, trying not to cry, jumped in the water after slowly removing his clothes and retrieved his paddle.

I felt sorry for him.

The next morning, we get up as usual. It is still as dark as when I went to bed and I gauge Mr. Obrenu’s mood by how we are woken up. Yesterday was a good day; today will be bad- we get no breakfast. I greet the trees, the water. They are always dependable. I never know what punishments I will receive for reasons I am not sure of, but I can always count on the spirits around me.


Again, we push the still moist canoe into the cold water and begin another day. Not too far into the day, the net becomes stuck on something underwater again. Mr. Obrenu forces me to jump in and fix it. I undress, drop my clothes on the stilldamp wood of the canoe and jump in. I look around, hovering next to the canoe and see the sun rays glistening off the cold water. My legs and arms take on a life of their own and swim towards this beautiful light. It hides behind clouds as if taunting me with its presence. Mr. Obrenu yells at me to return, but I don’t care. I imagine him scurrying to turn around the canoe and retrieve me, striking Kofi a few times for not moving quickly enough. But I swim on. I imagine this source of life is my mother and nothing there can hurt me. The water surrounds my nose, my eyes and I allow it. I permit the refreshing sensation to carry me from my master home to where I belong. I feel the seaweed under me as I pass by and believe it is my mother urging me home; home to my sisters the trees, my brothers the mountains, my father the clouds. Home where I belong; the wind. I come to in the canoe. My arms have been paddling without my command. The wood of the paddle is slowly callusing my soft hands and it hurts with every stroke. The image of the sun stays in my head and I realize what we have to do: we have to

leave.

It was a long day. Mr. Obrenu did not let us off easy tonight. We barely had anything to eat all day and we did twice as many loads as usual. My entire body was screaming. Kofi and I go to bed that night, hungry as usual. We hear Mr. Obrenu in the next hut over moving around, getting settled, until finally he was quiet. We lay there for awhile; our hearts pounding out of our chests is the only noise we hear. I stand up, but my legs almost give out. I walk out of the hut, every sense is heightened. The grass on my feet tickles a little bit more, the mosquitoes a little bit louder, the wind, a little bit stronger. I hold onto our mud hut, the last piece of my reality about to slip away. I let go and pull him onto his feet. That night, Kofi and I laid down together trying to stay warm in the night’s cold. “We should not have to take this. We should run away, try and find our parents. Go home. I miss my mom.” I lay there for awhile, next to Kofi, staring at the mud ceiling and thinking of my family. I tried to remember the curve of my mother’s face, the cheeky smile of my little sister, the strength of my brother. I’m slowly forgetting.


“That would be nice.” “Let’s do it tonight,” I concluded, trying to not only convince him, but also myself. “I don’t know. It seems risky.” “When he goes to sleep, we will slip out and run to the village, it is only a little ways away. There is always a bus that goes to the next village over.” He knew it was true; he just had to admit it. “What have we got to lose? If we’re caught, we still end up right back here. If not, we wind up home with our families where we belong.” “Ok, I guess. I’m with you.” “Good.” We push each other forward, towards the unknown. Heading for the dirt road, we are both silent; praying to the spirits to bring us to safety, to our families. I beg them

to keep Mr. Obrenu asleep, at least for a little while. Once our feet find the dirt road, We take off running. I can’t say we know where we are going, but at least it is away from here. I know there is a village in this direction, but it looks different at night. The trees seem a little scarier in the dark; the chirping insects a little more daunting. I grab Kofi’s handand we run together. We are responsible for keeping one A deep rumbling seems to be moving toward us from farther down the road. I don’t know of an animal that makes that sound. Hearing music, I realize it’s a truck. With every power in me, I grab Kofi’s collar and drag him and myself into the nearest bush. It comes closer. The men fire off a couple rounds into the air as they drive down the road. Kofi trembles beneath my hand. I can tell he is scared. So am I. They are

another moving forward.


closer now and seem to be slowing down. I can no longer breathe. I feel that any sound would be loud enough for them to hear. I put my hand over Kofi’s mouth and he begins to cry, his warm tears wetting my hand, but I don’t let go. Otherwise we will surely die. The car stops right in front of the bush we are crouched behind. Kofi’s muscles turn to rocks and he tries to struggle free, to run away. I move my body on top of his and press him to the cool ground. A man gets out of the car. I see his army boots move towards the front of the car as I watch beneath it. He slows down and stops by the blinding headlight. I hear the crack of the lighter and the glowing flame as he lights his cigarette. He takes a drag and I smell the sweet tobacco. He takes a couple strides forward and heads to the side of the road, not ten feet down from us. I hear his belt buckle rattle. By now, Kofi is on the verge of screaming and I squeeze his mouth shut, pleading him with my body to keep it together. I hear a trickle and realize he pulled over to pee. He takes a drag as he relieves himself and I almost smile. He has no idea. Soon, the man finishes his cigarette, throws it to the ground and grinds it into the tar. Leaping back into the car he drives off, having no clue. As soon as we know he is long gone, we stand up and dust off the grass from our clothing. Kofi wipes the tears and dirt from his face with his already dirty sleeve. “You OK?” I ask, concerned if he will be able to keep it together.

“Yeah, I’m OK. I was really worried we were dead.” “Me, too. We better get going if we want to make it in time.” We continue down the dark road, hoping that doesn’t happen again. I imagine walking down the road to my mother. Opening the door, I run into her arms and she cries as she presses me to her. The rest of my family joins the reunion, everyone crying. My brother has turned into a man, my sister a young woman. I am both sad and proud at the same time.

Everyone is safe, yet I have missed out on so

much.


Returning to Kofi, I feel tears forming in my eyes and I urge them away. Not now. The rest of the night we barely talk. Every sound is something that may kill us and something could always be lurking behind the nearest bush. Wind rustles the leaves and I jump; afraid of what else it could be. Kofi mumbles to himself. It is a good thing we are too far from the camp, or else he probably would have turned back by now. “I don’t think it is much farther, you?” As I ask, knowing daybreak is only a few hours away. As soon as I ask, outlines of huts appear ahead of us; I smell the traces of food. We both look at each other and take off at a run. When we reach the village, I head straight for the remnants of that evening’s feast. I scrape the pot with my fingers, shoving the morsels right into my mouth. Glancing over at Kofi, I can tell he is as excited as I am.

I hear the pitter patter of small feet heading towards us.

I lift my head and see a little girl peeking around the corner of her hut; this hut. What is she doing up so late? I lift my food-covered hand and wave at her. It’s nice to see a friendly face. She laughs and runs off, her black curls bouncing behind her. Not too concerned, I return to my much-needed meal. Once we have finished claiming our fill, we look around for a place to sleep. It’s been almost twentyfour hours since we have slept. I spot a nice place in the trees nearby, somewhere inconspicuous. We head over and make camp, laying down leaves and branches. I cozy up next to a tree, finally able to relax. I close my eyes and don’t remember falling asleep. In my dream, I hear the sound of an engine barreling down towards me, much like the one we heard tonight. I become scared and hurry to wake Kofi curled up next to me. I jolt awake, but realize the engine noise hasn’t stopped. It is real and it is here. Men jump out holding guns and machetes.


Mothers press their children to their breasts, afraid for them and their families. They stomp into hut after hut looking for something. Somebody. Us. It’s then that I realize what had happened. Thatlittle girl must have told her parents about us. Mr. Obrenu must havebeen told about two boys found in a nearby village and asked whether or not he was missing any boys. I shake Kofi awake and bring my finger to my lips, keeping him quiet. I point towards the trees behind us and we crawl on our bellies to the only covering offered to us. The sun has risen which does not help. I would like to stay as concealed as possible. I can’t risk getting caught.

Kofi begins to whisper behind me, but at least he is keeping up. We run down an embankment and continue to run alongside the village, wanting to reach the bus. Kofi is panting behind me, dragging his feet. I can’t let us get caught. I hear hollering behind us, machetes striking branches. The sun gives my muscles energy, the will to continue. I will run until my lungs are on fire, until my legs cannot take another step. The hollering becomes closer. Kofi begins to cry. I look at him, tears streaking down his face, mixing with the dirt from the previous night. From the side of my vision, I see extra shadows gaining behind us. A phantom arm is raised with a machete, a gun is cocked. The arm wielding the machete is raised and is brought down, Kofi the first in line for its anger.

I hope this is another dream.


+

The tighter you squeeze, the less you have.


Sun Young flow

sterling silver keumboo foil vitreous enamel


Run from anything that stimulates youthful lust.

+

Sean i knew this guy once and his name was anubis ink pen


pinky ink pen


+

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.


+

A pint of sweat will save a gallon of blood.


telegram

- • •-•• • --• •-• •- --

by loren cressler

writing to inform you STOP father encountered STOP extreme savagery in remote region of southern Indian STOP in his mind he lay bleeding three hours as flatfaced locals stood chewing straw and tobacco and spitting and watching and not caring or knowing but just because they couldn’t see the bleeding STOP doesn’t make it unhappen nothing can prepare a man for the emptiness of a world with nothing but sunshine so heavy it piles on the skin like a jacket of sun-denim and nothing but blank denizens devoid of care for anything but the weather


[untitled ]

by alan brandsted


There are things that I see in my room that are not mine


Austin

Pulliam twenty-seven


Tchaikovsky’s

Orchestra, you enchantress, I cannot bear you any longer. I hereby disavow your clergy And all their gilt embellishment And all their nimble dogma, Seduce me though you may.

I don’t know how I came to this country Where gentlemen die symphonically In the space between lips and reed. In each mountain dreams a dwarf enslaved to a single note; An entire race in ostination.

by peter longofono


the are things THAT I SEE

IN MY ROOM th a t a r e n o t MINE.


Bailey

Hoffman cells acrylic


Commentary

Dental Care on

by alyson fuller

He pulls the paper ring off the napkin, unrolls it, and inspects the silverware. Crusty orange on one prong. Then Walt Thompson drags a finger along the ketchup bottle whose greasy glass body called him in the hovering lamplight. This light is what he refers to as “nothing light” in chapter five of his latest best-selling memoir, God Is Like Our Imaginary Friend From First Grade: “When I turn on the light in my dining room, I note the way the body of Christ looks—my Wonder Bread sacrament in the throes of nothing light abomination.” Walt has an unbound copy in his blazer pocket and fishes for it a moment before realizing that he is sitting alone in a torn vinyl booth at Karlton’s Kitchen™. In the bustling restaurant only the highest notes transcend the haze. A baby crying, a girl laughing, three young boys fighting.

“Mr. Thompson. Good Evening,” Paul Patterson says eagerly, as his elastic little body casts a shadow over Walt. Walt waves a gesture for him to sit down, using that same hand to dig or to scratch his eyebrow. Paul’s knee bumps the table causing the coffee to leap out of its mug. It drips off the table onto Walt’s jeans in an all too familiar pattern. “God. I’m sorry. That is the third time I’ve spilt coffee today, if you’d believe that,” he wipes it with his roll of silverware.

“I’d believe that,” says Walt.


“So, I have a few highlighted passages I’d like to cover before drilling you with the essay portion of the interview,” he smiles with his mouth open and glances at Walt. “huh, huh?” he jabs. He’s reported for Coastal Times for three years. His tone is washed out. Walt questions Coastal Times for having sent Paul Patterson and tries to find the afore mentioned sentence in his memoir. “In chapter nineteen you comment on God’s presence in your morning toiletries. You wrote, ‘My toothbrush clambered to the floor because it shocked my hand and became sensationalized by the power of Christ. Sparkling blue Crest, like the waters of Jordan, splattered my leg and I knew then the pain of the Lord.’ Can you explain that?” Paul asks. He looks up from his clipboard of scribbled pages to transcribe the reply, unaware that he is in the wake of Walt’s gaze. A young couple plops into the booth behind him.

“I don’t know how to detail that emotion. It’s as plain as day,” Walt says. “Not only do you relate the Jordan River to toothpaste, but you claim your toothbrush knew the pain of the Lord,” says Paul. “It’s a paradox, Paul.” “Paradox?”

“Human beings are always trying to find truth in the flesh. People think they can know Christianity through a cross charm, a Mary nightlight, a big bowl of that chili St. Joseph’s serves at potlucks. Even in this restaurant people think they can feel spirituality. The answer is not in this booth.” “Then where is it?” Paul asks. “You ever hear that saying ‘what you’re looking for will find you when you stop looking’?” Across the room a busboy drops a glass that shatters on the tile floor. “When we stop over-analyzing every second of every day, questioning the future and the faces of every person around us, that’s when the Rapture will happen.” “You’re an atheist, aren’t you?”

The End


+ Willowy sprouts of newborn baby hair on their heads.


Bailey

Hoffman dolls oil on canvas


ShunShih HUMAN

sterling silver & yellow cubic zirconia


+ He dined in, and then he ate out.


IF YOU LIVE to be

One-Hundred I HOPE TO LIVE TO BE 100 minus one day so I never

HAVE TO LIVE WITHOUT

you.


There are many kinds of leaves decorating many kinds of skies coming from many kinds of trunks that hold the hearts only on the left side, not right. of many kinds of girls and boys and goats. Both sides love good pasta dishes and often wonder if lampposts and hillsides are similar.   And sometimes there aren’t many girls standing on the left side of a is tall with insects and moonbeams. The hill beneath a quiet lamp’s bleating light-pulses into night frights of moon is insignificant to such feet feeling the bleak thoughts beating at the tips of her hair. The moon is insignificant. soft soil or gravel and worms but feeling so always. if the wine lows the right color through the glass. And sometimes much near Heat that skies aren’t really it. that not many of a girl, more often than sometimes. sometimes bending   toward Always like trees grow, she loves the color of wine. rubbing at Wanting the heat to get warm with breaths the caps of her knees and the shadows among her ankles as she stands needed from speaking. but sometimes on the left of a hill wanting the color she feels to be red. Wanting it there Aren’t many girls on the left tuft of a to be red as much as it is teal in the rain beneath porches anywhere hillside and company of voices from breaths on porches, the left becomes an after-glory at such times, tossed at the of heated lungs is impossible as the moon keepsakes in cedar chests nestled in dusty sunlight shines on such tufts of her bright hair on somewhere else near away. the side, wanting something to the left of perfect not perfect or right. And the   girl forgets her hair in the color of wine wanting some heat Sometimes there aren’t many girls there except all. from the lush surrounding air whining of olive grass-smells   and cicadas or violas. but sometimes there Aren’t many girls But we want a one girl and she doesn’t stand upright so her hair becomes important because such a head holds it maybe because the left won’t be steady and the grass imperfectly near to her ears and reeks of fire truck wheels at the tips whooshing like dreams in nighttime in moonlight. The moon is insignificant.   It’s about the crease in her side leaning leaf-like to the left of what it’s wanting because the right side of the hill is over there somewhere and what’s near is the color of wine and mosquitoes, a kind of percussion cutting bumps wherever uncontrolled and bumps aren’t right, as she rests on the left of the hill chin up at nothing outside. And her nails are brittle with wine not being water but it’s the moon that’s insignificant, so spaced out by air Unheated by voices that prattle cotton thin in the wind wanting Egypt to stuff all the distance between. like big words making by alexis smith tongues sore. Sometimes one girl just being one with two feet listens on the left of a hill for some noise louder than wine to fill her nostrils and make her forehead buzz with something else.   on only the left. so full of the left that the moon is insignificant is less than a backdrop in something so left that the ground lifts up and bundles in a clump so pulsing with leaf sounds that it must be left of what’s right in the colors of wine draping the side of a girl on the side of a hill and who’s to claim what is left under such a moon.


+ It takes such a long time to grow young.


Megan

Dejmal yellow #2 self-portrait


by sarah gregory Outside, the restless water beckons her.  She stirs, wakes, rises. She is careful not to touch him. Her footsteps whisper from the hotel room to the lobby to the beach below.

Just a mindless rehearsal of muscle memory. I was thinking of the silent car ride, his loosening hand, the stiffness of sheets. What was he thinking of? It wasn’t me.

Despite the feeble daylight, the sands shine today. She approaches the shore, and the shining separates into dozens of slick bodies, tide-forsaken bodies of jellyfish. Rejected by both sand and sea, they lie in limbo. Inching bare feet toward a left-behind, she kneels to inspect. Childishly mesmerized, she sees right through its outer layer into contents that prove to be equally transparent. It drapes helplessly over the sand. Sunlight toys with its tightening skin, throws a terrible rainbow across it.

Forced beauty. His seems so easy. After last night’s events, I just needed to shower clean. But he always looks so disappointed with the unenhanced version of me.  I try not to let him see me without my face on.

She is careful not to touch it. It is fading but still has enough strength to sting. Though it cannot save itself, it will lash out at anyone else trying to help. It prefers to exist quietly, suffer stubbornly, die lonely.

Do they know their doom? Do they accept it? Do they fight it? Do they care enough to try?

She stands at the shoreline. The horizon is blurry, the water forever. Waves ebb and flow. Sand grinds between her toes. In this moment, she forgets whether it is the sea coming to greet her, or if it is instead her leaning to join it.

He’s still up there, sleeping off poisons of last night. He’ll eventually wake fresh, renewed, ready to move on. But I would…if I could…stay. Be here. Be always with the ocean.

She lies down waterside, finding peace among the jellyfish, and waits for the second-chance tide.


IT PREFERS

TO EXIST quietly,

SU F FE R STUBBO RNLY, die lonely.


+ love never dies a natural death


the

text your Evening Mood of

by kurt phillips

Her legs yawn like innocent Y (?) Her mouth perched like an Owl “O” sings in nocturnal octaves on the balcony of the night Her neck, subtle U holds the rare letters of her face her w’s x’s y’s z’s Her breasts bounce like busy 3 lying on its curves Her hips parenthesize V and the univers quivers Eyebrows like sharp M rising falling-Mountain Meteors Teeth like lover E’s kissing peak like stars from under an evening of lips eclipsing suns of tongue Her eyes like desperate couplet cs explain her body’s sonnet cat er pillar ing the stanza’s of my heart Her words jumping like girlish hymns from her organ mouth praise E!O!A!I! and End in poetic Z poised like the snake that charmed Eve. Our bodies hold hands and another like criminal three t s on a hill praying for trinity Waiting for ETERNITY


I traded in danger for distance and now I ride the train back and forth, O’Hare to Howard, Skokie to Dan Ryan. My fingers are less busy. Often I think back to those summer days where home still carried that sweet stench of fruits drying on the window ledge. At night I lay my head near the window and let the sound of the train soothe me to sleep, a far calm whirring and clanking reminds me of home every time I hear it.


+ He wore his innocence like a comfortable old coat.

myself

I promised that never again

lonely would I be

by amanda schwartz


human

+ A good woman is worth, if she were sold, the fairest crown that's made of purest gold

ShunShih


ShunShih

blossom

gold & brass


surprise! pen & ink


Cat Coquillette deer mummy pen & ink


Paper feet under my

by alexis smith paper under my feet through states and oceans and air braced by bridges or wings or maybe singing trains– quick feet on ground moving not moving, holding still on ground speeding flat moans of smoking singers grey in the night like trains through to your neck, hard in the back ball note bone hitting like horse whinnies and then feeling loose as a scarf in thin wing colored water color flat as a piece of paper white little ankles and feet fine papery thin and blushing peach or light near paper by my nose smelling of paper salted space near paper near


floreo stuffing pen & ink


KIOSK, KU’s only student run art & literature magazine, is not possible without the support & gracious funds from the Student Senate, a grant from Coca-Cola & donation from the Design Department. Amongst the chaos of the creation, we have appreciated the inspiration, guidance & pick-me-ups from the following individuals & organizations: English Department, Andrea Wertzberger, Senior Studio Space, Carla Swoyer, Diana Rhodes, Laura Rottinghaus, Dame Judi Dench, Jesus Christo, proveyors of above & below, parenthood planners, shuttlers of pizza, flashes of masculinity, Adobe and Apple, parental units, Diet Coke, AutoTune, Daddy Andy, stiff martinis, Flickr, Charles Wilkin & you. we wouldn’t be here without you & we appreciate you for it.


L I T STAFF

EMYLISA

GRAY

ERIC

WINDHAM

RYAN



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